MOUSEY MAKES A FRIEND
WHEN Mousey awoke the following morning she found the weather had
cleared, and the sun was shining brightly in a sky of cloudless blue.
Jumping out of bed she proceeded to dress; then, after pulling up the
blind, and opening the window to admit the fresh spring air, she said
her prayers and read a few verses from her Bible, as she was
accustomed to do. She lingered for a few minutes to look at the
beautiful hills in the distance, which were now bathed in bright
sunshine; after which she went downstairs into the parlour, where she
found John Monday and Maria, who was laying the cloth for breakfast.
"Good-morning," said the little girl, glancing, with a smile, from one
to the other.
They returned her greeting, Maria adding pleasantly—
"Why, you look as fresh as a daisy this morning. Did you sleep well?"
"Yes, thank you," Mousey answered. "I went to sleep the minute after
I was in bed, and I never woke up till about half an hour ago. I was
afraid I was late."
"Master has breakfast at eight," Maria responded; "it's ten minutes
to that, so you are in plenty of time."
"You'd hear enough about it if you did happen to be late," John Monday
remarked. "Mr. Harding likes everyone to be punctual. He'll be down
himself at the tick of eight o'clock, you'll see. You haven't known
him long, have you?"
"No. I saw him for the first time on the day when mother was buried,"
Mousey replied.
"What did you think of him?" he asked curiously.
Mousey hesitated in confusion, but Maria came to her assistance
by reproving the lad for putting such a question.
"There's no harm in it," he said in an aggrieved tone. "I know what
I thought when I saw him go off in his old suit of black that's green
with age, and that tall hat of his that no one else in the town would
wear. I thought he looked a real old miser, and so he did!"
"Hush!" cried Maria, glancing anxiously towards the doorway; "you know
how softly he treads. Don't you let him overhear you! You mustn't pay
any attention to what John says," she continued, turning to Mousey;
"he lets his tongue run away with him. Ah, here comes master!"
She slipped out of the room, and a few seconds later Mr. Harding
entered. He nodded to John Monday, who civilly wished him
good-morning, and then turned his attention to Mousey.
"Well, little maid, and how is it with you?" he questioned.
She coloured beneath his keen scrutiny, but replied that she was very
well, and hoped he was, too. He sat down at the table with his eyes
fixed on the clock on the mantelshelf; and in the course of a few
minutes Maria re-entered, bearing three basins of porridge on a tray.
The old man motioned to the young people to take their seat which they
accordingly did, and Maria placed a basin of porridge before each.
Mr. Harding and John Monday commenced eating at once, but Mousey
waited to silently say the grace which the others apparently omitted.
"Why don't you begin your breakfast?" Mr. Harding asked, with a touch
of severity in his tone. "Don't you like porridge, eh? It's wholesome
food, and not to be despised, let me tell you, miss!"
"Oh, yes, yes!" Mousey cried, growing suddenly crimson and seizing her
spoon in great haste. "I—I was only saying grace, Cousin Robert."
John Monday began to laugh, but ceased abruptly as his master turned
upon him with a frown.
"What are you making that noise for, eh?" Mr. Harding demanded,
his small eyes sparkling angrily. "Because you're ungrateful yourself
for the good things provided for you is no reason why others
should be."
The lad looked so abashed that Mousey's heart was touched at the
sight.
"Oh, please don't be angry with him, Cousin Robert," she pleaded.
"I—I don't think he meant to be rude."
"Well, well, get on with your breakfast, child," Mr. Harding answered
in more pacific tones; "and do you mind your manners another time,
Monday, or you and I shall fall out."
The meal was finished with thick bread and butter and weak tea, but
Mousey found the porridge so satisfying that she wanted nothing else.
She was glad when Mr. Harding rose from the table and told his
assistant to take down the shutters and open the shop door.
When Maria came in to clear away the breakfast-things the old man
requested her to find some employment about the house for Mousey.
"I intend sending the child to school after Easter," he said,
"but till then she can help you, Maria. I suppose you can dust a room,
can't you, Mousey?"
"Oh, yes, Cousin Robert," the little girl replied eagerly. "And I can
light fires, and clean boots, and knives and forks, and trim lamps."
Mr. Harding nodded approvingly, and remarked—
"I am glad your mother brought you up to be useful. Be a good girl,
and you'll do."
So Mousey spent the day with Maria, the time passing happily enough.
She found the pale-faced woman very ready to listen to her chatter,
and told her all about her mother's illness and death.
"So you dreaded the thought of coming here?" Maria said, after Mousey
had given her a lengthy account of Aunt Eliza, Uncle Dick, and the
cousins, and explained how she had hoped to make her home with them.
"Yes," Mousey acknowledged, "I did not want to come, but Aunt Eliza
thought I ought. It's dreadful to be poor, isn't it?"
"I think it is sometimes; but there are worse things than poverty
to be met with in this world."
"Mother was poor," Mousey said musingly, "but we were happy, although
she had to work hard; and the lodgers were often dreadfully
particular. Have you lived long with Cousin Robert, Maria?"
"A good while," Maria replied; "nigh upon twenty years. I never cared
for changing places, or I don't think I should have stayed here longer
than the first month—after that, I got accustomed to it."
"Got accustomed to it?" Mousey repeated questioningly.
"To the place, I mean, and to master's ways. His ways wouldn't suit
everyone."
Mousey longed to inquire what his ways were like, but refrained from
doing so, fearing, if she asked, Maria would consider her very
curious.
"I don't think I like John Monday much," she said a little later;
"it wasn't nice of him to speak of Cousin Robert as he did this
morning. Of course, I know what a miser is—a mean person who loves
money better than anything else. John called Cousin Robert a miser.
And at breakfast he laughed because I said grace."
"Did master laugh too?" Maria asked quickly.
"Oh, no! He was very angry with John Monday."
"Was he? Ah, well, you know folks are not all brought up alike, and
you must not be surprised if master and John are different to the
people you've been accustomed to—people like your mother, and aunt,
and that good uncle you've been telling me about. Master's whole heart
is in his business, and he thinks of little else. He's not religious."
"Doesn't he go to church?" Mousey asked.
"No, nor to chapel, nor to any place of worship; at least, he never
has since I've known him. He spends his Sunday—there! you'll see for
yourself!"
"But doesn't he feel lonely without God for his friend?"
"That I can't say. I don't suppose he ever gives God a second thought.
There, now, don't look so serious! I only told you because I thought
I'd better warn you not to speak about religion to master. He doesn't
like to hear about it."
Mousey's heart was filled with dismay, for she had never before
contemplated a life lived apart from God. Maria saw she was
distressed, and tried to comfort her.
"Master has his good points," she said consolingly, "and if he's not
religious himself, he doesn't interfere with the religion of other
people. I dare say he'll let you go to church with me on Sunday
evenings. I don't go mornings because there's the housework to do."
"Oh, Maria," cried the little girl earnestly, "I do not think I shall
ever be happy in this miserable place!"
"Nonsense!" Maria responded briskly; "you'll soon grow accustomed
to it, and one of these days, I dare say, you'll see it was all for
the best your coming here. Can't you believe that God sent you?"
Maria put a kindly arm around Mousey and kissed her gently. That kiss
was the seal of a friendship which was to deepen and strengthen in the
days to come.