_THE STUMBLING BLOCK._
FOR two or three days Fanny was pretty sick, and did not sit up at all.
She was really frightened about herself, was sure she had some dreadful
disease, and was very angry at the old doctor from the village for
saying there was nothing serious the matter.
"I guess you don't know how badly I feel," said Fanny.
"I guess I have seen other little girls who had made themselves sick
by eating too much of grandma's nice cakes and pies," said the doctor,
smiling. "A little medicine and a few days of toast and gruel will make
you all right again, and then you must be more careful. If you eat so
many sweet things, you will get the dyspepsia, and then I cannot cure
you."
Fanny said no more, for she did not like the allusion to her having
eaten too much, and she was afraid of his asking inconvenient questions.
She was better in a few days, but it was a whole week before she was
able to go out of the house. During this time she was in a manner
forced to think a little, for she could not read all the time, and
her grandma was very busy helping Oney in the dairy, so Fanny was
left to herself for some hours of every day. As she looked back over
the time she had been at her grandmother's, she was not pleased with
herself. She was conscious that, so far from making the impression
she had intended, she had not made herself respected by anybody. Her
grandmother had threatened to punish her, and, as she confessed, not
without reason. Willy showed himself a better scholar than herself,
and had been surprised at her ignorance, and Sarah Leyman, so far
from being impressed with her superiority, had declared that Fanny
was no better than she was, for all her schooling. All this was very
disagreeable, and made Fanny very angry at herself and everybody else
as she remembered it.
Then again, Fanny's conscience was aroused. She realized for the first
time in her life what a naughty girl she had always been, and she
wondered, with a shudder, what would have become of her if she had
died. It was all true. She was not one bit better than Sarah Layman.
"But I am going to be better," said Fanny to herself. "I mean to read
my Bible and say my prayers and attend to the sermon and learn my
Sunday-school lessons. Grandma says that Willy is a real Christian. It
is a pity if I can't be as good as that little poorhouse boy."
This was not exactly a Christian spirit, but Fanny did not think of
that. She was as good as her word, however. She read three chapters in
the Bible every day, said all the prayers she could think of, and felt
very good indeed.
She went to church and Sunday-school and to the meeting at the
schoolhouse, and was so sober and attentive that her grandmother was
much pleased with her, and told her so. This set up Fanny still more in
her own conceit, and she was wonderfully well satisfied with herself.
"Fanny, do you Want to take a walk this afternoon?" asked her
grandmother one day when Fanny was quite well again. "It is very cool
and pleasant after the rain."
"Yes, grandma," replied Fanny; "I should like it very much."
"Then there are two people suited," said Mrs. Lilly, smiling. "I want
you to carry this basket down to old Mrs. Merrill, and you may stop at
the post-office and see if the papers have come. Put on your broad hat,
and don't walk to fast."
"May I play in the grove a little while when I come back?" asked Fanny.
"Yes, if you like, only don't stay too long or lose your papers."
Fanny, set out on her errand feeling very well pleased. She went first
to Mrs. Merrill's and left her basket of eggs and other good things.
"Dear, dear, how good your grandma is to think of me!" said the old
lady, much gratified. "And what a nice little girl you are to do
errands! I suppose you are Alvin's eldest girl, ain't you?"
"Yes, ma'am," answered Fanny.
"You look like your aunt Eunice," said Mrs. Merrill. "I mean as she did
at your age."
"I never knew that I had an Aunt Eunice," said Fanny.
"Oh, she died long before you were born, my dear. She was only sixteen
when she died—just the age of my Mary Jane. I remember as if it was
yesterday when we had our first Sunday-school in the village. Eunice
and my Mary Jane and Sally Leyman and Mrs. Cassell's eldest girl—her
name was Eugenia—they were all in one class, and the next year they all
joined the church the same Sunday. But Sally was the only one who lived
to be over thirty."
"Was Aunt Eunice pretty?" asked Fanny.
"Why, no, not so very—not what folks call handsome nowadays, but she
was so sweet in all her ways that nobody ever thought of her looks
after the first five minutes. I don't think I ever saw a better girl
than Eunice Lilly—such a consistent Christian, and yet nothing gloomy
about her, always ready to help on any fun there was no harm in, but as
firm as a rock when any one tried to make her join in what wasn't just
right. You will try to be like her, won't you?"
"Yes, ma'am, I mean to try."
"That's right. Here's your basket; and thank you very much, and your
grandma too."
"I mean to be just like Aunt Eunice," thought Fanny as she walked up
the quiet street. "I mean to be so good that everybody will love me and
praise me, just as they did her, and I mean to set a good example to
Harry and Nelly, and make everybody look up to me. I mean to be very
good indeed, and perhaps somebody will write my life some day."
Fanny's musings were interrupted by hearing her own name called. She
looked up and saw Mrs. Cassell leaning out of her carriage.
"Isn't this Miss Fanny Lilly?" asked Mrs. Cassell, politely.
"Yes, ma'am," answered Fanny.
"I have some books that I wish to send to your grandmother," said Mrs.
Cassell. "I intended to drive up and bring them myself, but I find I
shall be engaged to-morrow. If you will get into the carriage and ride
over to our house, I will give you the books, and Hiram shall bring you
down to the village again."
Fanny got into the carriage, and a few minutes brought her to Mrs.
Cassell's house. It was a beautiful old mansion built of dark red
bricks with trimmings of white marble, which is very abundant in that
part of the country. It stood a long way back from the road, and there
were many noble old trees about it. Everything about the house and
grounds was in perfect order, and Fanny thought she had never seen a
prettier place in her life.
"I must ask you to come in and wait a few minutes," said Mrs. Cassell.
"Annie shall take you to see the kittens and Guinea pigs and the rest
of her pets. Annie, where are you?"
"Here, grandma," answered a pleasant voice, and a little girl came out
of the next room. She was much younger than Fanny, being only about
seven years old. She was a blue-eyed, fair-haired, delicate-looking
child, and was very prettily dressed in a pink frock and white apron.
Fanny peeped through the half-opened door, and saw that the room out of
which Annie had come was a large library.
"This is Miss Fanny Lilly, my dear," said Mrs. Cassell; "Miss Fanny,
this is my granddaughter, Annie Mercer, from Detroit, who is come to
spend the summer with me."
Annie came forward, like a well-bred little girl, to speak to Fanny.
But Fanny, like many other girls who are bold in the wrong place, was
also shy in the wrong place, and made but a poor and awkward return.
"You may take Fanny to see the kittens and Guinea pigs, Annie, while T
do up the parcels," said Mrs. Cassell, kindly. "I suppose you have done
all your lessons?"
"Oh yes, grandma, and my sewing too," answered Annie. "I hemmed a yard
on my cap border, and Aunt Emma said it was very nicely done. I have
been helping Uncle Hugh cut the leaves of the new books. Come, Fanny."
"Do you like Guinea pigs?" asked Annie as she led the way along the
verandah at the back of the house.
"I don't know; I don't like pigs, anyway," answered Fanny.
Annie laughed.
"Oh, they are not real pigs, you know," said she. "They are little
wee things, and Uncle Hugh says they are more like rabbits than pigs.
See, here they are. I have to keep them shut up, away from old puss;
he would soon eat them. But he don't know any better, you know," added
Annie, apologizing for pussy. "He thinks they are some kind of mice."
Fanny looked down into the box, and saw half a dozen little creatures
about as large as young rabbits, spotted with black, brown, and yellow.
All of them that were not eating were asleep, and all that were not
asleep were eating, after the custom of Guinea pigs.
"Are they not pretty?" said Annie. "Old Mrs. Willson gave them to me. I
had only these two at first; all the rest are young ones."
Fanny did not care much for pets, and she was mortified at the mistake
she had made. But she looked at the Guinea pigs and said they were very
pretty.
"After all, they are stupid little things; you may pet and feed them
ever so long, and they never seem to care for anything but eating,"
said Annie. "But I don't suppose they are to blame for not knowing any
more."
"What will you do with them when you go home?" asked Fanny.
"I mean to take one pair home with me for a little lame boy who lives
near our house, and give the others away. I will give you a pair if you
like. Don't take them if you don't want them," she added, seeing that
Fanny hesitated; "I shall not be offended a bit."
"I guess I won't take them, then," said Fanny, "though I am much
obliged to you all the same. I am afraid I should forget to feed them,
or something."
By this time Fanny began to feel at her ease, and, as usual, she began
to ask questions.
"Do you learn lessons every day?"
"Yes; every day but Sunday."
"Who hears you say them?"
"Aunt Emma, generally, and sometimes Uncle Hugh. I used to go to school
when I was at home, but they do not think I am well enough now, and I
am glad of it, because I like doing my lessons with Aunt Emma."
"Where do you live when you are at home?" asked Fanny.
"In Detroit, in Michigan. Oh, it is a long way from here. We were two
or three days coming, and only think, Fanny! I had a beautiful doll,
all dressed in a travelling suit, and with a little morocco bag and
all, and I let a girl play with it on the cars, and she stole it when I
was asleep. Wasn't it a shame? But she hadn't any mother, I know, and
perhaps she didn't know any better."
By the time Mrs. Cassell called Fanny to take the books, the two girls
had become very good friends. When they went back to the parlour, Mr.
Brandon came out of the library with two or three pretty-looking books
in his hand.
"Are you fond of reading, Miss Fanny?" he asked, pleasantly.
"Yes, sir—some kinds," answered Fanny, doubtfully.
"'Some kinds' means stories, I suppose?" said Mr. Brandon, smiling.
"I believe one of my Sunday-school boys—Willy Beaubien—lives at your
house, does he not?"
"Yes, sir."
"I should like to have you carry him this book, if you will be so kind;
and here is one you will perhaps like to read yourself. Tell Willy he
shall have another when he has finished this."
"I wonder if Mr. Brandon knows that Willy is only grandma's hired boy,"
thought Fanny. But she did not say anything, and the carriage being
ready, she took her leave.
"Hiram had better take you home, I think," said Mrs. Cassell. "It is
a long walk, and up hill all the way. Drive to the entrance of Mrs.
Lilly's lane, Hiram."
Hiram obeyed, and left Fanny at the gate of the lane. Annie would have
thanked him for such a service, but Fanny never thought of doing so.
She had never been taught to be polite to servants, and she considered
them as a being much below herself in the social scale.
As she walked along, she was startled to hear somebody say, in a
laughing tone, "What a great lady, to be sure! She feels too fine to
speak to common folks."
Fanny turned round in a hurry.
The next minute Sarah Leyman jumped over the fence almost as lightly as
a deer, and walked along by her side.
"Where have you been, all so grand?" she asked.
"Nothing so very grand," replied Fanny, in a superior tone. "I dare say
it seems so to you, but I have often been in much finer carriages than
Mrs. Cassell's."
"Oh 'dear'!" said Sarah, mimicking Fanny's tone. "How wonderful we are,
to be sure! I wonder we can condescend to speak to anybody, much less
to a common person like poor Sarah Layman. But never mind. Let's go
into the grove and have a good time. What books have you got?"
"I am not going to play with you any more, Sarah," said Fanny, in what
she intended for a very impressive and dignified tone. "I don't want to
quarrel with you, and I am very sorry for you, but I am going to be a
Christian, and, of course, I can't have anything more to do with you."
"Well, I declare!" said Sarah, and then she burst into a ringing fit
of laughter. "What next? I should like to know how long since you felt
so?"
Fanny felt very much vexed, but she answered, in the same tone, "Since
I was sick. I was very low indeed, and the doctor thought I was dying
for ever so long—"
"That's a big one to begin with," interrupted Sarah. "I asked the
doctor about you myself, and he said that there was nothing more the
matter than that you had eaten too much, and that you would be about
again directly."
"I don't believe it!" exclaimed Fanny, though she knew that Dr. Perkins
had told her the very same thing. "Where did you see him, I should like
to know?"
"I saw him go up to your house, and I waited for him at the gate and
asked him what was the matter. You see I thought about you, Fanny,
though you don't mean to play with me any more."
Sarah said these words with an expression of real feeling, and then,
suddenly changing her tone, she added, "By the way, as you have
made up your mind to be a Christian, I suppose you began by telling
your grandmother all about your helping to eat the stolen pie and
gingerbread, didn't you?"
"Of course not," replied Fanny, trying to keep up her tone of dignity
and reserve, but feeling all the time that she was making a signal
failure. "I didn't want to tell of you, Sarah, though I don't mean to
have anything more to do—with you," Fanny was going to conclude, but
she changed it into "such doings."
"Oh, you needn't mind 'me'," said Sarah. "I wouldn't have you go on
telling lies and deceiving your grandmother for anything. Come to think
of it, I believe I will be a good girl and a Christian myself, and then
I suppose we can play together again. But you can't be a Christian
without confessing your sins, you know, Fanny. I dare say Mrs. Lilly
is blaming somebody else for the pie all this time. Come, let us go
together and tell her all about it directly." And Sarah quickened her
steps in the direction of the farm-house.
Fanny looked at her to see if she were in fun, but she appeared quite
serious and determined.
"You are not in earnest?" said Fanny, in rather a scared tone.
"Yes, I am in earnest. Come, why don't you walk faster? You can tell
what I did, and I can tell what you did, or we can each tell of
ourselves. I guess that will be the best way, after all."
"But I can't—I dare not!" exclaimed Fanny, stopping short. "Oh, Sarah,
do come back!"
"Well, what now?" asked Sarah, turning and coming back, for she was
already some steps in advance. "What's the matter?"
"You won't tell grandma, will you?" asked Fanny, trembling.
"Why, of course," replied Sarah, coolly. "That's the way to begin, by
confessing our sins. When old Mrs. Burt joined the church last winter,
she went to Mrs. Hoyt's and told her that she had cheated her out of
three dollars by putting water in the milk she sold her, and paid her
back the money. Mrs. Hoyt said that was the right way to begin, and she
gave the money to the missionary collection. Besides, I dare say Mrs.
Lilly is suspecting some one else all the time."
Fanny knew that this was true, for she had heard her grandmother say
she thought the pie must have been taken by one of Mr. Wye's children.
"But—but I can't," she stammered. "I am afraid. I don't know what she
would do to me."
"Didn't she ask you anything about it?" asked Sarah.
"Yes, of course she did."
"And you told her all sorts of lies, I suppose, and mean to stick to
them; and yet you call yourself a Christian, and think you are too good
to play with me!" said Sarah, in a tone of contempt. "Well, I don't
care; I mean to tell her, anyhow."
Fanny sat down on a stone and burst into tears.
Sarah stood by her in silence a minute or two.
"So you don't want me to tell?" said she.
Fanny only sobbed.
"You will make your head ache with crying, and, besides, your grandma
will ask you what was the matter," said Sarah, presently. "Come, Fanny,
let's make a bargain. Don't you put on any airs to me and I won't tell
of you. But just as sure as you act again as you did just now, I will
go to Mrs. Lilly and tell her all about the pie and your running away.
I don't mind it when people are really good, like Mrs. Lilly and Aunt
Sally, but I do hate hypocrites. Come, will you agree to that?"
"I suppose I shall have to," said Fanny, rather sullenly.
"Well, then, kiss and be friends. And now tell me where you have been
this afternoon."
"I can't stay now, Sarah, indeed I can't," said Fanny, rising. "I have
been gone too long already, but I will tell you all about it another
time," she added, seeing Sarah's face darken—"to-morrow, perhaps."
"Well, come up to the spring to-morrow afternoon. And, Fanny, I wish
you would lend me a story-book. You have got ever so many, haven't you?"
"Yes, I brought a whole boxful, and Mr. Brandon lent me this one
to-day."
"Let me see it," said Sarah, taking it from her hand and turning over
the pages. "It looks nice; I would as soon have this as any."
Fanny felt very much vexed, but she dared not say a word.
"On the whole, I will let you read it first," continued Sarah,
returning the book. "There! Run along, and be sure you come to the
spring to-morrow, or I shall come down to the house and ask for you."