LITTLE PHILIP.
THERE never was a greater contrast than that presented by the two
sisters in their mode of government. Entering the school-room of each,
you could not detect the least difference in the order of the scholars,
but while the result appeared the same, the methods were very different.
Ruth said "silence" or "looked silence," as the children expressed it,
and there was silence. She spake and it was done, for the children well
knew that she would have no disobedience. She was never unkind, and she
loved children, though she seldom showed them her love; so if you had
asked her scholars if they loved their teacher, they probably would
have said they thought her nice and kind, for she did not whip, and she
tied up their cut fingers.
It did not look dignified, some people thought, and they were sure Miss
Agnes had no control over her scholars, as they saw her surrounded by
them every day on her way to and from school. It was such an honor to
carry her lunch basket, such delight to be first to meet her and have a
place at her side. O, how they loved her! "She was the very nicest
teacher that ever lived." And many even resolved not to study too hard
for fear they should be promoted and have to leave her. Then when the
time came for them to leave, such tears were shed at parting, that Agnes
determined not to allow herself to be so loved in the future, and
succeeded for a day or two; but it was strange, she did not know how it
came, there was always the same ending.
Ruth assured her she would get over all that in time; but love was as
necessary to Agnes as sunshine is to flowers, and among these little
ones the pent up fountain found an outlet.
Ruth kept her love away, deep hidden from sight, when it became so
intense that it was almost painful; in the other nature it kept bubbling
up and running over whenever it found a heart that would receive it.
Agnes delighted in teaching, but Ruth, while just as faithful, taught
because it was the best thing she could do, rather than from choice. But
the duty was irksome, and often she longed to throw the book from her
and give the scholars their dismissal. When such feelings possessed her,
she "did penance," as she said, by giving special attention to the
lessons, "for it would not do to have the children suffer from her
whims."
One day there came to her school a little deformed boy, about eight
years old. He had been brought there by one of the scholars, and when
Ruth entered the school-room she did not notice him, but proceeded with
the opening exercises. She had taught the children to repeat with her
alternate verses of Scripture, and this morning selected the
twenty-third Psalm. After she had repeated the first verse, the scholars
took up the second. But there was one voice, clear and distinct, above
all the others. Glancing round, she saw a pale face, whose large,
earnest eyes, bent full upon her, touched her strangely. Slightly
averting her head, she went on where the children left off, but still
there was the fixed look. It was not a stare or look of curiosity, such
as a new scholar might show, but penetrating as though the child had
passed through deep experiences, maturing the intellect while the body
was dwarfed and feeble. At the close of the exercises, a little girl
taking him by the hand, led him up to the desk, and introduced him as a
new scholar.
"What is his name?" inquired Ruth.
"I'll tell her; mother said I should be a man and speak out. My name is
Philip Driscoe," and here the thin tiny hand was slipped in Ruth's. How
very thin and white it was, like a baby's hand. As it lay for a moment
in Ruth's the fingers closed over it, and stooping down she kissed the
child. "I like you, you are good, like mother," and drawing closer he
laid his other hand over hers by way of caress.
A sudden impulse seized her to take him in her arms, but the children
were there, looking on understandingly. Holding both hands she bent
smilingly down, but in an instant her eyes were full of tears. She was
thinking of Guy. What if he had been thus afflicted? A thrill of
gladness followed the pain occasioned by the thought, and collecting
herself she took the child over to a seat in the middle of the room,
promising him a book in a little while.
"And a slate and pencil to make pictures?"
"Yes, can you draw pictures?"
"O, elegant ones; mother says I'll make real ones when I am a man, if I
don't die."
Ruth could not tell what to make of herself that day, or for many days
after, she was so drawn toward that little face. "Now if it had been
Agnes, it would have been quite natural."
But the truth was, wherever there was suffering or weakness of any kind,
her heart threw off its casing, and she felt that she could do anything
to shield or comfort. When the call came for strength or sympathy, she
could give it unhesitatingly, but when there was only ordinary occasion,
she made no response.
[Illustration: Decoration]