I.

_HARD AT WORK._

"NELLIE, will you come down to the beach now?"

"No!" with as much shortness and sharpness as the little word of two

letters could well convey.

"Why not?"

"Oh! because I can't. Don't bother me."

And, laying down the pencil with which she had been writing, Nellie

Ransom pushed back the hair from her flushed, heated face, drew a long,

weary sigh, took up the Bible which lay at her elbow, and, turning

over the leaf, ran her finger slowly and carefully down the page before

her.

Carrie stood with one elbow upon the corner of the table at which her

sister sat, her chin resting in her palm as she discontentedly watched

Nellie, while with the other hand she swung back and forth by one

string the broad straw hat she was accustomed to wear when playing out

of doors.

"I think you might," she said presently. "Mamma says I can't go if you

don't, and I want to go so."

"I can't help it," said Nellie, still without taking her eyes from her

Bible. "I wish you'd stop shaking the table so."

"How soon will you come?" persisted Carrie, taking her elbow from the

table.

"When I'm ready, and not before," snapped Nellie. "I wish you'd let me

alone."

Carrie began to cry.

"It's too bad," she whimpered. "Mamma says, if I go at all, I must go

early, so as to be back before sundown, 'cause my cold is so bad.

There won't be any time for me to play."

Nellie made no answer, but, having found what she wanted in her Bible,

began to write again, copying from the page of the Holy Book before her.

Presently Carrie, forgetting her caution, tossed down her hat, and

pettishly plumped both elbows upon the table, muttering,--

"I think you're real mean."

"Stop shaking the table, or I won't go at all," said Nellie, in a loud,

irritable tone. "Ask mamma to let Ruth take you."

"She can't spare Ruth, she says. The baby is fretful, and she don't

feel well enough to take care of it herself; and I think you might

go with me. I haven't been to the beach for four days, because I was

sick," pleaded Carrie, wiping the tears from her eyes.

"Well, I'm too busy to go now. You'll have to wait until I'm ready,"

said Nellie. "I'll come by and by."

"By and by will leave hardly any time," said Carrie, with a wistful

glance out upon the lawn, where the shadows were already growing long.

No answer; only the rustle of Nellie's sheet of paper as she turned it

over.

Carrie wandered restlessly about the room for a moment or two; then,

coming back to the table, began idly to turn over some loose papers

which lay at Nellie's right hand.

Nellie snatched them from her.

"Now, look here," she said, "if you don't go away and let me and my

things alone, I won't go to the beach at all. You hinder me all the

time, and I won't be so bothered."

"Cross, hateful thing!" said Carrie, passionately. "I don't b'lieve you

mean to go at all. I wish I had a better sister than you."

Nellie turned once more to the Bible, but deigned no answer to this

outburst.

Carrie looked back from the door, which she had reached on her way from

the room, and said in a tone one shade less furious than her last,--

"You're always poking over your Bible now, but it don't seem to teach

you to be kind. You grow crosser and crosser every day; and you're not

one bit like you used to be."

"Carrie!" called Mrs. Ransom's gentle voice from the next room; and

Carrie vanished, leaving Nellie, as she had said she wished to be,

alone.

Did her work go smoothly after that?

Not very, at least for a few moments. Perhaps mamma had heard all that

had passed, and Nellie did not feel quite satisfied that she should

have done so. What had she said to Carrie? She could hardly recollect

herself, so divided had been her attention between her little sister

and the task before her; but she was quite certain that she had been

"cross," and spoken to Carrie in an unkind manner, apart from her

refusal to accompany the child, who, she well knew, had been confined

to the house for the last few days, and deprived of her usual play and

exercise in the open air.

But then Carrie might just as well have waited patiently a few

moments till she was ready to go, and not bothered her so. She would

go presently when she had looked out three--well, no--five--six more

verses, and written them out; and once more she took up the Bible.

But the words before her eyes mingled themselves with those which were

sounding in her ears.

"Not like she used to be! Crosser and crosser every day!"

Ah! none knew this better than Nellie herself, and yet she strove, or

thought she did, against the growing evil.

Well, there was no use thinking about it now. She would finish the task

she had set herself, call Carrie, make it up with her, and go to the

beach.

And once more she was absorbed in her work, in spite of aching head

and burning cheeks,--so absorbed that she did not heed how time was

passing, did not heed that the six verses had grown into ten, until, as

she was searching for the eleventh, the last golden rays of the sun

fell across her paper, and, looking up quickly, she saw that he was

just sinking in the far west. Too late for Carrie to go out now! The

poor child had lost her afternoon stroll. Oh, she was so sorry! How

could she forget?

Hastily shutting the Bible and pushing it from her, she gathered up her

papers, thrust them into her writing-desk, and turned the key, ran into

the hall for her hat, and went in search of Carrie.

Where was she? She had not heard the child's voice since she left her

in such a temper, nor had she heard Daisy's. Probably the two little

sisters had found some other way of amusing themselves, and Carrie

would have forgotten her disappointment. Well, she would be sure to

give her a good play on the beach to-morrow.

Where could the children be? For, as Nellie thought this to herself,

she was looking in all the places where they were usually to be found,

but they were nowhere to be seen. She called in vain about house and

garden; no childish voice answered.

"I suppose Carrie is provoked with me, and won't speak to me, and won't

let Daisy," she said to herself. "Well, I'm sure I don't care."

But she did care, though she would not acknowledge it to herself;

and she sat down upon the upper step of the porch, and watched the

last rosy sunset tints fading out of the soft clouds overhead, with

a restless, discontented feeling at her heart. The stillness and

the beauty of the scene did not seem to bring peace and rest to her

troubled little soul.

And why was it troubled?

Because for days past--nay, for weeks past--Nellie had been conscious

of an increasing ill-humor and irritability,--"crosser and crosser

every day,"--yes, that was it; but why was it? She did not know, she

could not help it; she was sure she tried hard enough; and every night

and morning, when she said her prayers and asked not to be "led into

temptation," she always thought particularly of the temptation to be

cross, for that seemed what she had to struggle with in these days.

That, and one other thing.

Nellie tried to put that other ugly failing out of sight, would not

believe that she was guilty of it; and yet it would come before her

sometimes, as it did now; and as she thought of little kindnesses,

even little duties unperformed and neglected, she wondered if she were

really growing selfish.

She should so hate to be selfish.

And yet--and yet--people were always asking her to do favors at such

inconvenient times, when she was so busy; and somehow she was always

busy now. There was so much she wanted to do; so much to accomplish

this summer, before she returned to the city and to school; and she did

not like to be interrupted when she was reading or studying. It was so

hard to put her mind to it again, and she was sure it was right to try

to improve herself all she could.

The click of the gate-latch roused her from her troublesome thoughts;

and, looking around, she saw her mother crossing the lawn, Carrie

holding her hand and walking quietly by her side, Daisy jumping and

skipping before them.

Daisy was always skipping and jumping. What a happy, merry little thing

she was! never still one moment, except when she was asleep, and not

always so very still then, little roll-about that she was!

But where had they all been?

The toys the children had with them soon answered this question, for

Daisy was pulling a wagon which had been filled with stones and shells.

The most part of these, however, lay scattered here and there along the

way home; for Daisy's prancings and caperings--she was supposed to be a

pony just now--had jolted them out of the wagon and shed them broadcast

on the path.

Still the few that were left at the bottom of the wagon told whence

they had come; and the tiny spade and pail full of shells which Carrie

held told the same story.

But how tired and languid mamma looked! how wearily she walked across

the lawn!

Nellie ran down to meet her.

"Why, mamma!" she exclaimed. "Have you been down to the beach?"

"Yes, Nellie."

"But, mamma, you look so tired. Didn't you know that was too long a

walk for you?"

Nellie, a child grave and wise for her years, always, or almost always,

showed a tender, thoughtful care for her mother; and it was sometimes

really droll to see how she checked or advised her against any

imprudence, even gently reproved, as in the present case, when the deed

was done.

"You ought not to do it, mamma, you really ought not."

"I had promised Carrie that she should go this afternoon," said Mrs.

Ransom, "and I could not bear that she should be disappointed after

being shut up in the house for four days."

"Mamma," said Carrie, "I'm sure I'd rather have stayed home than had

you make yourself too tired. I didn't know it was too far for you. I

really didn't. Oh, I'm so sorry you said you'd take me! Will it make

you ill again?"

"No, dear. I think not. I do not believe it will hurt me, though I do

feel rather tired," said Mrs. Ransom, smiling cheerfully down into the

little troubled face which looked up so penitently into her own.

Self-reproached, humbled and repentant, Nellie could find no words to

say what she would, or rather the choking feeling in her throat stifled

her voice; and she could only walk silently by her mother's side until

they reached the piazza, where Mrs. Ransom sank wearily into a chair,

giving her hat and parasol into the hands of the eager little Carrie,

who seemed to feel as if she could not do enough to make her mother

comfortable after the sacrifice she had made for her; and Daisy, who

always thought she must do what Carrie did, followed her example.

Carrie brought a footstool, Daisy immediately ran for another, and

nothing would do but mamma must put one foot on each. Carrie brought

a cushion to put behind her, and Daisy, vanishing into the library,

presently reappeared, rolling along with a sofa pillow in each hand,

and was quite grieved when she found that mamma could not well make

use of all three. Then Carrie bringing a fan, and fanning mamma, Daisy

must do the same, and scratched mamma's nose, and banged her head, and

thumped her cheek with the enormous Japanese affair which would alone

serve her purpose; to all of which mamma submitted with the meekest

resignation, only kissing the dear little, blundering nurse, whenever

such mishaps occurred, and saying,--

"Not quite so hard, darling."

And meanwhile Nellie, with that horrid lump in her throat, could do

nothing but stand leaning against the piazza railing, wishing--oh, so

much!--that she had gone with Carrie when she asked her, and so spared

mamma all this fatigue. Mamma had uttered no word of reproach; she knew

that none was needed just now, although she feared that under the same

temptation Nellie would do the same thing again.

But what greater reproach could there be than that pale face and

languid voice, and the knowledge that but for her selfishness--yes,

selfishness, Nellie could not shut her eyes to it--mamma need not have

gone to the beach.

And she knew that it was necessary and right that her mother should

be shielded from all possible fatigue, trouble, and anxiety; she knew

that they had all come to Newport this summer because the doctor had

recommended that air as best for her, and that papa had taken this

small but pretty cottage at a rather inconvenient expense, so that she

might be quite comfortable, have all her family about her, and gain

all the benefit possible. Every one was so anxious and careful about

her, as there was need to be; and she had improved so much the last

fortnight in this lovely air, and under such loving care.

And now! She had been the first one to cause her any fatigue or

risk,--she who had meant to be such a good and thoughtful young nurse.

To be sure, she had never dreamed that mamma would take Carrie to the

beach, but still it was all her fault. Oh dear! oh dear!

Carrie and Daisy chattered away to one another and to their mother,

while the latter sat silently resting in her easy-chair, thinking more

of Nellie than of them, thinking anxiously too.

Suddenly a choking sob broke in upon the children's prattle,--a sob

that would have its way, half stifled though it was.

"Nellie, dear!" said Mrs. Ransom. "Come here, my child,"--as Nellie

turned to run away.

Nellie came with her hands over her face.

"Don't feel so badly, dear. I am not so very tired, and I do not think

it will hurt me," said Mrs. Ransom. "I thought I was stronger than it

seems I am; but another time we will both be more careful, hey?"

And she drew away Nellie's hand, and tenderly kissed her hot, wet cheek.

Nellie went down upon one of the pair of stools occupied by her

mother's feet, somewhat to Daisy's disgust, who only forgave her by

reason of the distress she saw her in, and buried her face on her knee.

She was never a child of many words, and just now they failed her

altogether; but her mother needed none.

"What did Nellie do? Did she hurt herself?" asked the wondering Daisy.

"No," said Carrie. "She hasn't hurt herself, but she"--Carrie's

explanations were not apt to prove balm to a wounded spirit, and her

mother checked her by uplifted finger and a warning shake of her head,

taking up the word herself.

"No," she said to Daisy. "Nellie is troubled about something, but we

won't talk about it now."

"Yes, we'll never mind, won't we?" said Daisy. "But I'll fan her to

make her feel better."

And, suiting the action to the word, she slipped down from her perch

beside her mother, and began to labor vigorously about Nellie's head

and shoulders with her ponderous instrument.

Somehow this struck Nellie as funny, and even in the midst of her

penitent distress she was obliged to give a low laugh; a nervous little

laugh it was, too, as her mother noticed.

"She's 'most better now," said Daisy, in a loud whisper, and with a

confidential nod at mamma. "I fought I'd cure her up. This is a very

nice fan when people don't feel well, or feel sorry," she added, as she

paused for a moment, with an admiring look at the article in question;

"it makes such a lot of wind."

And she returned desperately to her work, bringing down the fan with a

whack on Nellie's head, and then apologizing with--

"Oh! I didn't mean to give you that little tap, Nellie; it will waggle

about so in my hands."

Nellie laughed again, she really could not help it, though she felt

ashamed of herself for doing so; and now she raised her head, wiped

her eyes, and smiled at Daisy; the little one fully believing that her

attentions had brought about this pleasing result.

Perhaps they had.

But although cheerfulness was for the time restored, poor Nellie's

troubles had not yet come to an end for that evening.

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