THE ARRIVAL.
"Your sister is to be here at ten o'clock, and you must be ready to
receive her," said Mrs. Maxwell to Lucy, a few days after the
occurrences related in the last chapter.
"Shall I put on my white frock?" asked Lucy.
"Nonsense! child," was the reply; "isn't your sister to see you every
day, from morning to night, in whatever you happen to have on? Go,
get a clean apron, and make your hair smooth, that is all the
dressing that little girls need."
This idea did not suit Lucy, for she was very anxious that her sister
should love her, and she thought if she were prettily dressed at
first, she would be more likely to do so. As she looked in the glass
while arranging her hair, she thought she never had seemed quite so
ugly. The fact was, she was beginning to have a fretful expression,
which was spoiling her face. Lucy had never heard that scowls must
in time become wrinkles. She was not at all pleased with her simple
appearance, but there seemed no way for her to wear any ornament, not
even a hair ribbon, for her soft light curls were cut so closely,
that they could only lie like her waxen doll's, in golden rings about
her head.
Lucy was fond of dress, and she would have liked to wear jewellery to
school, as many of the scholars did, but Mrs. Maxwell never allowed
it. The little girl had a bracelet of her mother's hair, and this
she, one morning, clasped on her arm under her apron, to be worn on
the outside after she reached school, where Mrs. Maxwell could not
see it. As she stopped on the road to change it, there came a sudden
pang into her heart--she was deceiving, and with the gift of her dead
mother; perhaps that dear mother could see her now, she thought; and
hastily putting down her sleeve, she hurried to school.
Though the bracelet was not displayed, and no one around her knew
that she wore it, she felt guilty and unhappy until it was restored
to the box in which it was usually kept. The remembrance of that day
checked her this morning, as she was about to place on her slender
finger a ring which had been her mother's, and in her child-like
dress, she went down to wait for her sister.
She found Harty at the front window, but by no means in a fit
condition to give Rosa a welcome, for his face had not been washed
since breakfast, and his dark curls were, as usual, in wild confusion.
"Here comes Miss Prim!" he shouted, as Lucy entered, "as neat as a
new pin. For my part, I don't intend to dress up for Rosa; she'll
have to see me this way, and she may as well get used to it at once.
I do wish she'd come, I am tired of waiting; the clock struck ten
five minutes ago. Hurrah! there's the carriage!" he cried, and was
out of the room in an instant.
Lucy longed to follow, but she seemed fastened to her chair; there
she sat, looking anxiously out of the window, as the carriage entered
the yard and drove up to the door.
Her father got out first, and then gave his hand to a tall, slender
girl, who sprang with one leap to the stops, and was locked in
Harty's rough embrace.
"But where is little Lucy?" she asked, when Harty had ceased to
smother her with kisses.
The voice was kind and cheerful, and Lucy stepped forward, hanging
her head, and timidly putting out her hand.
Rosa overlooked the little hand, and clasped the bashful child
tenderly in her arms.
Tears came in Lucy's eyes, she could not tell why--not because she
was unhappy, for she felt sure she should love her sister.
"God bless you, my children!" said Dr. Vale, "may you be happy
together. Rosa, you must be a second mother to our little one.
Lucy, show your sister her room; I must leave you now; I must not
neglect my patients, even to enjoy seeing my children once more
together." So saying, he drove from the door.
Rosa's room had no gloomy associations to her, for she had not been
at home at the time of her mother's death, and she only remembered it
as the spot where she had enjoyed much sweet conversation with that
dear mother, now, she trusted, a saint in heaven.
As her eyes fell on the truthful picture of that lost friend, they
were dimmed by natural tears, which were soon wiped away, for why
should she weep for one whose pure spirit was at rest?
Rosa was a Christian; not that she never did wrong, but it was her
chief wish to do right. She had just been confirmed, and felt most
anxious to do something to serve the Saviour, whose follower she had
professed herself to be. When she received her father's letter
recalling her home, she found it hard to obey, for she had been so
long at her uncle's, that it was a severe trial to leave his family
circle, and to lose his advice, which she knew she should so much
need, to keep her true to the promises which she had now taken upon
herself. Mr. Gillette, with gentle firmness, pointed out to his
niece that it was her plain duty to return unhesitatingly to her
father's house.
"You wish, dear Rosa," he said, "to be a true follower of the
Saviour, and to do something for His cause. Go home to your brother
and sister, strive by example and kind advice to lead their young
hearts to Him who will repay all their love. But be careful, my
child, while you are striving for the good of others, not to neglect
your own character. Be yourself all that you wish to make them!"
Rosa had returned with a true desire to be of service to Lucy and
Harty, and she had many plans for their welfare. Just now she longed
to be alone for a few moments, that she might thank her Heavenly
Father for His protecting care during the journey, and ask His
blessing on her new home.
Her first impulse was to send the children away, but she checked it,
and made them quite happy by allowing them to assist her in
unpacking. Lucy handled everything very carefully, but Harty made
Rosa tremble, by his way of tumbling over her collars and ribbons.
At last, all was unpacked but the little box of books, which Harty
insisted on opening himself. "Run, get my hatchet," he said to Lucy,
who willingly brought it.
"This is too small to work with," said the eager boy, after a few
moments' exertion, "get me the large hatchet, Lucy."
Lucy again obeyed; but her brother spoke not a word of thanks when
she came back, breathless with running. This rudeness did not escape
Rosa, although she hoped it was only occasioned by her brother's
anxiety to oblige her, and was not his usual manner.
The obstinate nails at last came out, and all the party sat down on
the floor, and began taking out the books. Harty looked at the
titles one after the other, and threw them aside with disappointment;
at length he said, impatiently, "Are they all as sober as sermons? I
should think you were going to be a parson, Rosa."
"Not exactly!" said she, with a merry laugh, "but you must not be
surprised if I preach a little sometimes. Then you don't like my
books; I am sorry for that, but I hope we shall have a great deal of
pleasure in reading them together, by-and-by."
"Not I," answered Harty; "I like stories about shipwrecks and great
soldiers, and strange and wonderful things."
"Then here is a book which ought to please you," said Rosa, laying
her hands on the beautiful Bible which had been Mr. Gillette's
parting gift. "Do you not love to read it?"
Harty hung his head, and answered, "There are no nice stories in the
Bible."
"No nice stories in the Bible!" said Rosa. She turned the leaves
rapidly, and began to read the story of Gideon. At first, Harty
looked very indifferent; but she read in a clear voice, and animated
manner, and by degrees he dropped the books which lay on his lap, and
leaned his head on his hands, in rapt attention. When she came to
the attack on the camp of the Midianites, he was ready to join the
shout, "The sword of the Lord and of Gideon!"
"Where is it? where is it?" asked Harty, when Rosa had finished, "I
want to look at it myself."
She pointed to the place, and promised to find him many more
interesting stories, that they could read together.
Lucy meanwhile had crept close to Rosa's side, and laid her hand upon
her lap. "And there is something to interest you, too, Lucy," said
Rosa: "here is the Prodigal Son, let me read it to you."
"Do! do! sister Rosa," said both of the children. She needed no
urging, and read the short and beautiful parable with real feeling.
Harty felt touched, he knew not why, but with an effort to look
unconcerned, he asked, abruptly, "What does it mean, Rosa?"
"It teaches us many sweet lessons, dear Harty," answered Rosa; "I
cannot well explain them all to you, but I know that it is to make us
understand that God loves us as the father loved his wandering son.
Did you notice that he knew the Prodigal when he was afar off, and
ran to meet him? So God sees when we wish to do right, though nobody
about us may guess it, and He is ready to welcome us to His love. Is
it not strange that the Holy God should love us so tenderly?"
Harty looked wearied, and did not reply. Lucy tried to speak, but
she was almost weeping, and her lips would not move.
"Come, we must not talk any more," said Rosa, cheerfully. "See how
the things are all lying about. Harty, can you take the box away for
me?"
He started off, with a sense of relief, and Rosa was left alone with
her little sister. She kissed the child gently, and said, "You must
tell me, some time, why those tears come so quickly; I want to know
all that troubles you, and be your friend."
Lucy only replied by placing her hand in that of her sister. Harty
now returned, and they all went to work busily, and soon arranged the
books on the shelves of the bookcase.
"Come, Rosa," said Harty, "I want to show you my room, and to take
you down in the orchard;" and he seized her rather forcibly by the
hand.
The room was still in confusion, and Rosa would have preferred to
stay and see her things nicely put away, but she contented herself
with closing one or two of the drawers, and then followed her eager
brother. Lucy silently went with them, keeping close to her sister's
side, now and then looking half-lovingly, half-wistfully, into Rosa's
cheerful face.
Harty's room was a curiosity shop, filled with all kinds of odd
things that he had gathered together. Mrs. Maxwell and he had been
for a long time at war about the birds' nests, nuts, shells, stones,
&c., that he was constantly bringing to the house, and leaving about
to her great annoyance. On several occasions she threw away his
carefully collected treasures, and at last, the young gentleman, in
great displeasure, went to his father and asked, "if he might not be
allowed, at least in his own room, to keep anything valuable that he
found in his walks." His father consented, and after that his room
became a perfect museum. Stuffed birds, squirrel-skins, and crooked
sticks were ranged on his mantel-piece, in a kind of order, and the
chest of drawers was covered with similar specimens.
From time to time, Mrs. Maxwell came herself to dust among them,
though Harty was sure to complain after such visits that his
treasures had been greatly injured. On this particular morning Mrs.
Maxwell had been thoroughly dusting, on account of the expected
arrival, and as Harty entered the room he darted from Rosa, and
carefully taking from the shelf some twigs, with bits of spiders' web
attached to thorn, he angrily exclaimed, "Old Maxwell has been here,
I know! I wish she would let my things alone! the hateful thing!
See here, Rosa, this was a beautiful web, as perfect as it could be;
I brought it only yesterday morning, when it was all strung with
dew-drops, and now look at it! Isn't it enough to make any one
angry?"
Rosa looked sorrowfully at her brother, and made no reply for a
moment; at length she answered: "Dear Harty, you can find another
spider's web; but angry words once spoken can never be taken back.
Won't you show me what you have here, and forget your trouble?"
The hasty boy was soon engaged in explaining what all the
queer-looking things were, and why he valued them. In some of them
Rosa was much interested: she had never seen a titmouse's nest
before, and as she took the curious home in her hand, she thought of
the kind Heavenly Father who had taught those little creatures to
build it with such skill, and had watched the nestlings from the time
they left the shell, until they flew lightly away on their fluttering
wings.
"What can you be thinking about?" said Harty, as she looked earnestly
at the pretty thing.
"Pleasant thoughts," said Rosa, smiling, as she took from his hand a
huge beetle.
Lucy wondered to see her sister take what seemed to her such a
frightful thing so calmly in her hand. "There now! I like that!"
shouted Harty, "she handles it like a boy. There's Lucy, she screams
if I put such a thing near her, if it has been dead a month. Isn't
she a goose?"
Lucy looked anxiously at Rosa, fearing she would say something unkind.
"Oh! yes, she is a little goose," was the reply, "but such a dear
little goose, that I am sure I shall love her very much. We must
teach her not to be afraid of trifles."
The timid child clasped Rosa's hand more closely, and inwardly
resolved to try to please her sister in everything. She even touched
with the tip of her finger a snake-skin from which she had always
shrunk before, as she heard Harty and Rosa admiring it, while they
handled it freely.
Some of the specimens which Harty seemed to think very precious were
uninteresting to Rosa, and some were even disgusting; but she looked
at all, and tried to discover the beauties which Harty so eagerly
pointed out.
Her uncle had taught her that politeness is a Christian duty, and to
be always shown, even to nearest relatives, and to those younger than
ourselves.
Harty was delighted, and slapped Rosa on the back in token of his
pleasure. "You are a glorious girl!" said Harty; "why, if that had
been Lucy, she would have cried, and said I always hurt her."
"You forget," said Rosa, "that Lucy is a delicate little girl; you
cannot play with her as you would with a boy. You must take care of
her, as the knights of old guarded their ladye-love, and handle her
as carefully as you would a bird's nest."
At this Harty laughed, and Lucy smiled.
"Now for the orchard," cried Harty; and away he ran, pulling the
girls so rapidly along that they could hardly keep from falling down
stairs.
A pleasant place was that orchard; the grass was fresh and short, and
some of the branches of the old trees bent almost to the ground.
Under these Harty had placed wooden seats, and there it was his
delight to study. Very little studying he accomplished, though, for
his eye wandered at one moment to a ripe apple on the topmost bough,
and the next to a curious insect that was creeping on the trunk near
him.
Rosa placed herself on the rustic seat, and looked upward through the
waving branches to the clear blue sky above, and a half smile came
over her face, that Harty did not understand. He did not guess that
the sweet scene was filling the heart of his sister with love to the
great Creator. Nor did Lucy understand her any better; but the
expression on her sister's countenance made her warm with love
towards her.
Harty soon grew restless, and engaged his companions for a race.
Away they flew over the soft grass, and Rosa was the first to reach
the fence, which had been agreed upon as the goal; Lucy came next,
while Harty, puffing and panting, brought up the rear.
"I declare that was not fair," he began; "we did not start together."
"Never mind," said Rosa; "we girls ought to be the fastest runners,
for that is all we can do in danger. Girls run, while boys must
stand and defend themselves and their sisters."
This view of the case suited Harty, and reconciled him to his defeat;
and they continued chatting amicably in the orchard and piazza until
the bell rang for them to prepare for dinner. As they entered the
house, Mrs. Maxwell met them, and looking sternly at Rosa, she said,
"I hoped you were going to set a good example, Miss Rosa, to these
careless children, but there I found your room all in confusion,
while you were out running races. Your father has reckoned without
his host, if he looks to you to make them particular."
Rosa knew that it had cost her an effort to leave the room in that
condition, and that she had done so to please her brother. She did
not defend herself, however, for she now saw that it would have been
better to make him wait a few moments. Hastening up stairs, she soon
found a place for everything, and put everything in its place, and as
she did so, she resolved not to let her anxiety to win the affection
of her brother and sister lead her astray.
Dr. Vale looked very happy, when he sat down to dinner with his
family about him. He was pleased with Rosa's easy, cheerful manner,
and delighted to see Lucy's face lighted with smiles, and Harty doing
his best to act the gentleman. And acting it was, for anything like
politeness was far from being habitual with him.
When they rose from the table, Dr. Vale led his eldest daughter to
her room, and entering it, closed the door. The doctor walked
towards the portrait, and gazed at it a few moments in silence, then,
turning to Rosa, he said, with some emotion, "You do not, I fear,
remember your mother distinctly, my child. I have had this life-like
image of your mother placed where it will be ever near you, that it
may remind you of the part that you must act to the dear children.
May God bless and assist you in your task: pray earnestly to Him to
watch over you and guide you, and you cannot fail. And now, dearest,
never think me cold nor stern, when I am silent. My professional
cares often weigh so heavily upon me that I notice but little what is
passing around me; but nothing can so absorb my mind as to make me
indifferent to the welfare of my children. Come to me with all that
troubles you, and you shall find a father's heart, though perhaps a
faltering tongue."
The doctor pressed his daughter to his bosom, kissed her forehead,
and left the room. As soon as he had gone, Rosa fell on her knees to
implore the God of all good to strengthen her for the great task that
was before her, and to enable her to make herself such an example as
the children might safely follow.