fire, trying to form some excuse to keep Prue from going to school
with her. How could she take her to-day of all days; for the girls to
look at her, and whisper to each other, and ask her questions, and to
study critically her dress, and to touch her hair, and pity her and kiss
her! And she would be sure to open the round gold locket she wore upon a
tiny gold chain about her neck and tell them it was "my papa who died in
California."
She was very proud of showing "my papa."
What excuse could she make to the child? It was not storming, and she did
not have a cold, and her heart did seem so set on it. The last thing
after she came upstairs last night she had opened the inside blinds to
look out to see if it were snowing. And she had charged Deborah to have
the fire kindled early so that she would not be late at breakfast.
She must go herself. She could concoct no reason for remaining at home
herself; her throat had been a trifle sore last night, but not even the
memory of it could bring it back this morning.
Deborah had a cough, if she should be taken ill--but there was the fire
crackling in the airtight in confirmation of Deborah's ability to be
about the house; or if Prue--but the child was never ill. Her cheeks were
burning last night, but that was with the excitement of the anticipation.
If somebody should come! But who? She had not stayed at home for Morris,
and Linnet would not come early enough to keep them at home, that is if
she ought to remain at home for Linnet.
What could happen? She could not make anything happen? She could not tell
the child the naked truth, the horrible truth. And she could not tell her
a lie. And she could not break her heart by saying that she did not want
her to go. Oh, if Miss Prudence were only at home to decide! But would
she tell _her_ the reason? If she did not take Prue she must tell Miss
Prudence the whole story. She would rather go home and never go to school
any more than to do that. Oh, why must things happen all together? Prue
would soon be awake and asking if it were storming. She had let her take
it for granted last night; she could not think of anything to say. Once
she had said in aggrieved voice:
"I think you might be glad, Marjorie."
But was it not all selfishness, after all? She was arranging to give Prue
a disappointment merely to spare herself. The child would not understand
anything. But then, would Aunt Prue want her to go? She must do what Miss
Prudence would like; that would decide it all.
Oh, dear! Marjorie was a big girl, too big for any nonsense, but there
were unmistakable tears on her cheeks, and she turned away from sleeping
Prue and covered her face with both hands. And then, beside this, Morris
was gone and she had not been kind to him. "Good-bye, Marjorie--_dear_"
the words smote her while they gave her a feeling of something to be very
happy about. There did seem to be a good many things to cry about this
morning.
"Marjorie, are you awake?" whispered a soft voice, while little fingers
were in her hair and tickling her ear.
Marjorie did not want to be awake.
"_Marjorie_," with an appeal in the voice.
Then the tears had to be brushed away, and she turned and put both arms
around the white soft bundle and rubbed her cheek against her hair.
"Oh, _do_ you think it's storming?"
"No."
"You will have to curl my hair."
"Yes."
"And mustn't we get up? Shan't we be late?"
"Listen a minute; I want to tell you something."
"Is it something _dreadful?_ Your voice sounds so."
"No not dreadful one bit. But it is a disappointment for a little girl I
know."
"Oh, is it _me?_" clinging to her.
"Yes, it is you."
"Is it about going to school?" she asked with a quick little sob.
"Yes."
"_Can't_ I go, Marjorie?"
"Not to-day, darling."
"Oh, dear!" she moaned. "I did want to so."
"I know it, and I'm so sorry. I am more sorry than you are. I was so
sorry that I could not talk about it last night."
"Can't I know the reason?" she asked patiently.
"The reason is this: Aunt Prue would not let you go. She would not let
you go if she knew about something that happened in school yesterday."
"Was it something so bad?"
"It was something very uncomfortable; something that made me very
unhappy, and if you were old enough to understand you would not want to
go. You wouldn't go for anything."
"Then what makes you go?" asked Prue quickly.
"Because I have to."
"Will it hurt you to-day?"
"Yes."
"Then I wouldn't go. Tell Aunt Prue; she won't make you go."
"I don't want to tell her; it would make her cry."
"Then don't tell her. I'll stay home then--if I have to. But I want to
go. I can stand it if you can."
Marjorie laughed at her resignation and resolution and rolling her over
pushed her gently out down to the carpet. Perhaps it would be better
to stay home if there were something so dreadful at school, and Deborah
might let her make molasses candy.
"Won't you please stay home with me and make molasses candy, or
peppermint drops?"
"We'll do it after school! won't that do? And you can stay with Deborah
in the kitchen, and she'll tell you stories."
"Her stories are sad," said Prue, mournfully.
"Ask her to tell you a funny one, then."
"I don't believe she knows any. She told me yesterday about her little
boy who didn't want to go to school one day and she was washing and
said he might stay home because he coaxed so hard. And she went to find
him on the wharf and nobody could tell her where he was. And she went
down close to the water and looked in and he was there with his face up
and a stick in his hand and he was dead in the water and she saw him."
"Is that true?" asked Marjorie, in surprise.
"Yes, true every word. And then her husband died and she came to live
with Aunt Prue's father and mother ever so long ago. And she cried and
it was sad."
"But I know she knows some funny stories. She will tell you about Aunt
Prue when she was little."
"She has told me. And about my papa. He used to like to have muffins for
tea."
"Oh, I know! Now I know! I'll take you to Lizzie Harrowgate's to stay
until I come from school. You will like that. There is a baby there
and a little girl four years old. Do you want to go?"
"If I can't go to school, I do," in a resigned voice.
"And you must not speak of school; remember, Prue, do not say that you
wanted to go, or that I wouldn't take you; do not speak of school at
all."
"No, I will not," promised Prue; "and when that thing doesn't happen any
more you will take me?"
XIX.
A STORY THAT WAS NOT VERY SAD.
"Children have neither past nor future; and, what scarcely ever happens
to us, they enjoy the present."--_Bruyére._
Prue was watching at the window with Minnie Harrowgate, and was joyfully
ready to go home to see Aunt Prue when Marjorie and Lizzie Harrowgate
appeared.
Standing a few moments near the parlor register, while Prue ran to put on
her wraps, Marjorie's eye would wander to the Holland plate on the
bracket. She walked home under a depression that was not all caused by
the dread of meeting Miss Prudence. They found Miss Prudence on the
stairs, coming down with a tray of dishes.
"O, Aunt Prue! Aunt Prue!" was Prue's exclamation. "I didn't go to
school, I went to Mrs. Harrowgate's instead. Marjorie said I must,
because something dreadful happened in school and I never could go until
it never happened again. But I've had a splendid time, and I want to go
again."
Miss Prudence bent over to kiss her, and gave her the tray to take into
the kitchen.
"You may stay with Deborah, dear, till I call you."
Marjorie dropped her shawl-strap of books on the carpet of the hall and
stood at the hat-stand hanging up her cloak and hat. Miss Prudence
had kissed her, but they had not looked into each other's eyes.
Was it possible that Miss Prudence suspected? Marjorie asked herself as
she took off her rubbers. She suffered her to pass into the front parlor,
and waited alone in the hall until she could gather courage to follow
her. But the courage did not come, she trembled and choked, and the slow
tears rolled over her cheeks.
"Marjorie!"
Miss Prudence was at her side.
"O, Miss Prudence! O, dear Aunt Prue, I don't want to tell you," she
burst out; "they said things about her father and about you, and I can't
tell you."
Miss Prudence's arm was about her, and she was gently drawn into the
parlor; not to sit down, for Miss Prudence began slowly to walk up and
down the long length of the room, keeping Marjorie at her side. They
paused an instant before the mirror, between the windows in the front
parlor, and both glanced in: a slight figure in gray, for she had put off
her mourning at last, with a pale, calm face, and a plump little creature
in brown, with a flushed face and full eyes--the girl growing up, and the
girl grown up.
For fully fifteen minutes they paced slowly and in silence up and down
the soft carpet. Miss Prudence knew when they stood upon the very spot
where Prue's father--not Prue's father then--had bidden her that lifetime
long farewell. God had blessed her and forgiven him. Was it such a very
sad story then?
Miss Prudence dropped into a chair as if her strength were spent, and
Marjorie knelt beside her and laid her head on the arm of her chair.
"It is true, Marjorie."
"I know it. Master McCosh heard it and he said it was true."
"It will make a difference, a great difference. I shall take Prue away. I
must write to John to-night."
"I'm so glad you have him, Aunt Prue. I'm so glad you and Prue have him."
Miss Prudence knew now, herself: never before had she known how glad she
was to have him; how glad she had been to have him all her life. She
would tell him that, to-night, also. She was not the woman to withhold a
joy that belonged to another.
Marjorie did not raise her head, and therefore did not catch the first
flash of the new life that John Holmes would see when he looked into
them.
"He is so good, Aunt Prue," Marjorie went on. "_He_ is a Christian when
he speaks to a dog."
"Don't you want to go upstairs and see Morris' mother? She was excited a
little, and I promised her that she should not come down-stairs
to-night."
"But I don't know her," said Marjorie rising.
"I think you do. And she knows you. She has come here to learn how good
God is, and I want you to help me show it to her."
"I don't know how."
"Be your sweet, bright self, and sing all over the house all the
comforting hymns you know."
"Will she like that?"
"She likes nothing so well. I sung her to sleep last night."
"I wish mother could talk to her."
"Marjorie! you have said it. Your mother is the one. I will send her to
your mother in the spring. Morris and I will pay her board, and she
shall keep close to your happy mother as long as they are both willing."
"Will Morris let you help pay her board?"
"Morris cannot help himself. He never resists me. Now go upstairs and
kiss her, and tell her you are her boy's twin-sister."
Before the light tap on her door Mrs. Kemlo heard, and her heart was
stirred as she heard it, the pleading, hopeful, trusting strains of
"Jesus, lover of my soul."
Moving about in her own chamber, with her door open, Marjorie sang it all
before she crossed the hall and gave her light tap on Mrs. Kemlo's door.
When Marjorie saw the face--the sorrowful, delicate face, and listened to
the refined accent and pretty choice of words, she knew that Morris Kemlo
was a gentleman because his mother was a lady.
Prue wandered around the kitchen, looking at things and asking questions.
Deborah was never cross to Prue.
It was a sunny kitchen in the afternoon, the windows faced west and south
and Deborah's plants throve. Miss Prudence had taken great pleasure in
making Deborah's living room a room for body and spirit to keep strong
in. Old Deborah said there was not another room in the house like the
kitchen; "and to think that Miss Prudence should put a lounge there for
my old bones to rest on."
Prue liked the kitchen because of the plants. It was very funny to see
such tiny sweet alyssum, such dwarfs of geranium, such a little bit of
heliotrope, and only one calla among those small leaves.
"Just wait till you go to California with us, Deborah," she remarked this
afternoon. "I'll show you flowers."
"I'm too old to travel, Miss Prue."
"No, you are not. I shall take you when I go. I can wait on Morris'
mother, can't I? Marjorie said she and I were to help you if she came."
"Miss Marjorie is good help."
"So am I," said Prue, hopping into the dining-room and amusing herself by
stepping from one green pattern in the carpet to another green one, and
then from one red to another red one, and then, as her summons did not
come, from a green to a red and a red to a green, and still Aunt Prue did
not call her. Then she went back to Deborah, who was making lemon jelly,
at one of the kitchen tables, in a great yellow bowl. She told Prue that
some of it was to go to a lady in consumption, and some to a little boy
who had a hump on his back. Prue said that she would take it to the
little boy, because she had never seen a hump on a boy's back; she had
seen it on camels in a picture.
Still Aunt Prue did not come for her, and she counted thirty-five bells
on the arbutilon, and four buds on the monthly rose, and pulled off three
drooping daisies that Deborah had not attended to, and then listened, and
"Prue! Prue!" did not come.
Aunt Prue and Marjorie must be talking "secrets."
"Deborah," standing beside her and looking seriously up into the kindly,
wrinkled face, "I wish you knew some secrets."
"La! child, I know too many."
"Will you tell me one. Just one. I never heard a secret in my life.
Marjorie knows one, and she's telling Aunt Prue now."
"Secrets are not for little girls."
"I would never, never tell," promised Prue, coaxingly.
"Not even me!" cried Marjorie behind her. "Now come upstairs with me and
see Morris' mother. Aunt Prue is not ready for you yet awhile."
Mrs. Kemlo's chamber was the guest chamber; many among the poor and
suffering whom Miss Prudence had delighted to honor had "warmed both
hands before the fire of life" in that luxurious chamber.
Everything in the room had been among her father's wedding presents to
herself--the rosewood furniture, the lace curtains, the rare engravings,
the carpet that was at once perfect to the tread and to the eye, the
ornaments everywhere: everything excepting the narrow gilt frame over the
dressing bureau, enclosing on a gray ground, painted in black, crimson,
and gold the words: "I HAVE SEEN THY TEARS." Miss Prudence had placed it
there especially for Mrs. Kemlo.
Deborah had never been alone in the house in the years when her mistress
was making a home for herself elsewhere.
Over the mantel hung an exquisite engraving of the thorn-crowned head of
Christ. The eyes that had wept so many hopeless tears were fixed upon
it as Marjorie and Prue entered the chamber.
"This is Miss Prudence's little girl Prue," was Marjorie's introduction.
Prue kissed her and stood at her side waiting for her to speak.
"That is the Lord," Prue said, at last, breaking the silence after
Marjorie had left them; "our dear Lord."
Mrs. Kemlo kept her eyes upon it, but made no response.
"What makes him look so sorry, Morris' mother?"
"Because he is grieving for our sins."
"I thought the thorns hurt his head."
"Not so much as our sins pierced his heart."
"I'm sorry if I have hurt him. What made our sins hurt him so?"
"His great love to us."
"Nobody's sins ever hurt me so."
"You do not love anybody well enough."
The spirit of peace was brooding, at last, over the worn face. Morris had
left her with his heart at rest, for the pain on lip and brow began to
pass away in the first hour of Miss Prudence's presence.
Prue was summoned after what to her seemed endless waiting, and, nestling
in Aunt Prue's lap, with her head on her shoulder and her hand in hers,
she sat still in a content that would not stir itself by one word.
"Little Prue, I want to tell you a story."
"Oh, good!" cried Prue, nestling closer to express her appreciation.
"What kind of stories do you like best?"
"Not sad ones. Don't let anybody die."
"This story is about a boy. He was like other boys, he was bright and
quick and eager to get on in the world. He loved his mother and his
brother and sister, and he worked for them on the farm at home. And then
he came to the city and did so well that all his friends were proud of
him; everybody liked him and admired him. He was large and fine looking
and a gentleman. People thought he was rich, for he soon had a handsome
house and drove fine horses. He had a lovely wife, but she died and left
him all alone. He always went to church and gave money to the church; but
he never said that he was a Christian. I think he trusted in himself,
people trusted him so much that he began to trust himself. They let him
have their money to take care of; they were sure he would take good care
of it and give it safe back, and he was sure, too. And he did take good
care of it, and they were satisfied. He was generous and kind and loving.
But he was so sure that he was strong that he did not ask God to keep him
strong, and God let him become weaker and weaker, until temptation became
too great for him and he took this money and spent it for himself; this
money that belonged to other people. And some belonged to widows who had
no husbands to take care of them, and to children who had no fathers, and
to people who had worked hard to save money for their children and to
take care of themselves in their old age; but he took it and spent it
trying to make more money for himself, and instead of making more money
always he lost their money that he took away from them. He meant to give
their money back, he did not mean to steal from any one, but he took what
was not his own and lost it and the people had to suffer, for he had no
money to pay them with."
"That is sad," said Prue.
"Yes, it was very sad, for he had done a dreadful thing and sinned
against God. Do you think he ought to be punished?"
"Yes, if he took poor people's money and little children's money and
could not give it back."
"So people thought, and he was punished: he was sent to prison."
"To _prison_! Oh, that was dreadful."
"And he had to stay there for years and work hard, with other wicked
men."
"Wasn't he sorry?"
"He was very sorry. It almost killed him. He would gladly have worked to
give the money back but he could not earn so much. He saw how foolish
and wicked he had been to think himself so strong and trustworthy and
good when he was so weak. And when he saw how wicked he was he fell down
before God and asked God to forgive him. His life was spoiled, he could
not be happy in this world; but, as God forgave him, he could begin
again and be honest and trustworthy, and be happy in Heaven because he
was a great sinner and Christ had died for him."
"Did his sins _hurt_ Christ?" Prue asked.
"Yes."
"I'm sorry he hurt Christ," said Prue sorrowfully.
"He was sorry, too."
"Is that all?"
"Yes, he died, and we hope he is in Heaven tonight, praising God for
saving sinners."
"I don't think that is such a sad story. It would be sad if God never did
forgive him. It was bad to be in prison, but he got out and wasn't wicked
any more. Did you ever see him, Aunt Prue?"
"Yes, dear, many times."
"Did you love him?"
"I loved him better than I loved anybody, and Uncle John loved him."
"Was he ever in this room?"
"Yes. He has been many times in this chair in which you and I are
sitting; he used to love to hear me play on that piano; and we used to
walk in the garden together, and he called me 'Prue' and not Aunt Prue,
as you do."
"Aunt Prue!" the child's voice was frightened. "I know who your story is
about."
"Your dear papa!"
"Yes, my dear papa!"
"And aren't you glad he is safe through it all, and God his forgiven
him?"
"Yes, I'm glad; but I'm sorry he was in that prison."
"He was happy with you, afterward, you know. He had your mamma and she
loved him, and then he had you and you loved him."
"But I'm sorry."
"So am I, darling, and so is Uncle John; we are all sorry, but we are
glad now because it is all over and he cannot sin any more or suffer any
more. I wanted to tell you while you were little, so that somebody would
not tell you when you grow up. When you think about him, thank God that
he forgave him,--that is the happy part of it."
"Why didn't papa tell me?"
"He knew I would tell you some day, if you had to know. I would rather
tell you than have any one else in the world tell you."
"I won't tell anybody, ever. I don't want people to know my papa was in a
prison. I asked him once what a prison was like and he would not tell
me much."
She kept her head on Miss Prudence's shoulder and rubbed her fingers over
Miss Prudence's hand.
There were no tears in her eyes, Miss Prudence's quiet, hopeful voice
had kept the tears from coming. Some day she would understand it, but
to-night it was a story that was not very sad, because he had got out of
the prison and God had forgiven him. It would never come as a shock to
her; Miss Prudence had saved her that.
XX.
"HEIRS TOGETHER."
"Oh, for a mind more clear to see,
A hand to work more earnestly,
For every good intent."--_Phebe Cary_.
"Aunt Prue," began Marjorie, "I can't help thinking about beauty."
"I don't see why you should, child, when there are so many beautiful
things for you to think about."
It was the morning after Prue had heard the story of her father; it was
Saturday morning and she was in the kitchen "helping Deborah bake."
Mrs. Kemlo was resting in a steamer chair near the register in the back
parlor, resting and listening; the listening was in itself a rest. It was
a rest not to speak unless she pleased; it was a rest to listen to the
low tones of cultured voices, to catch bits of bright talk about things
that brought her out of herself; it was a rest, above all, to dwell in a
home where God was in the midst; it was a rest to be free from the care
of herself. Was Miss Prudence taking care of her? Was not God taking care
of her through the love of Miss Prudence?
Marjorie was busy about her weekly mending, sitting at one of the front
windows. It was pleasant to sit there and see the sleighs pass and hear
the bells jingle; it was pleasant to look over towards the church and the
parsonage; and pleasantest of all to bring her eyes into Miss Prudence's
face and work basket and the work in her lap for Prue.
"But I mean--faces," acknowledged Marjorie. "I mean faces--too. I don't
see why, of all the beautiful things God has made, faces should be
ignored. The human face, with the love of God in it, is more glorious
than any painting, more glorious than any view of mountain, lake, or
river."
"I don't believe I know what beauty is."
"You know what you think it is."
"Yes; Prue is beautiful to me, and you are, and Linnet, and mother,--you
see how confused I am. The girls think so much of it. One of them hurts
her feet with three and a half shoes when she ought to wear larger. And
another laces so tight! And another thinks so much of being slight and
slender that she will not dress warmly enough in the street; she always
looks cold and she has a cough, too. And another said she would rather
have tubercles on her lungs than sores on her face! We had a talk about
personal beauty yesterday and one girl said she would rather have it than
anything else in the world. But _do_ you think so much depends upon
beauty?"
"How much?"
"Why, ever so much? Friends, and being loved, and marriage."
"Did you ever see a homely girl with plenty of friends? And are wives
always beautiful?"
"Why, no."
"One of the greatest favorites I know is a middle-aged lady,--a maiden
lady,--not only with a plain face, but with a defect in the upper lip.
She is loved; her company is sought. She is not rich; she has only an
ordinary position--she is a saleswoman down town. She is not educated.
Some of your school girl friends are very fond of her. She is attractive,
and you look at her and wonder why; but you hear her speak, and you
wonder no longer. She always has something bright to say. I do not know
of another attraction that she has, beside her willingness to help
everybody."
"And she's neither young nor pretty."
"No; she is what you girls call an old maid."
Marjorie was mending the elbow of her brown school dress; she wore that
dress in all weathers every day, and on rainy Sundays. Some of the
girls said that she did not care enough about dress. She forgot that she
wore the same dress every day until one of the dressy little things in
the primary class reminded her of the fact. And then she laughed.
"In the Bible stories Sarah and Rebekah and Esther and Abigail are spoken
of as being beautiful."
"Does their fortune depend upon their beautiful faces?"
"Didn't Esther's?"