A PLACE FOR EVERY ONE
"Every one has a right place," thinks Betty, when her morning's work is
done. "Yes, that sounds true enough, but how am I to manage in our
house? I wish Captain had explained more about it.
"Now, let me think--what is my right place? It is my place to be loving
and thoughtful, to strive to help every one, that's what Grannie would
say. Well, I am trying to do that. 'It is _not_ your place to judge your
mother,' so said my dear Captain. Of course, it is not. I know that, and
yet I suppose that is just what I was doing when I spoke so impatiently
about her. Mother's place? Have I ever given mother her right place?
Have I ever been really loving, really thoughtful for her, really
obedient?
"But, then, mother has such old-fashioned notions, and such unpunctual
ways, and--no, I _won't_ go on; I mustn't think these thoughts--this
isn't giving mother her true place, this isn't keeping to the spirit of
Captain's words!
"How sweet Captain is! Her big brown eyes are as clear and kind as
Grannie's, and her voice is just the nicest I have ever heard. How I
should love to be like her, to make all that difference when I went into
a miserable house! Poor Mrs. Smith looked quite bright; and such a
change in the children! If I could be an Officer, now, and go about
making people happy, how delightful that would be!"
Then, with a new and true humility that is only just beginning to make
itself felt in her heart, she adds:--
"Ah! but I'm not good enough. I'm too impatient, too irritable. No, no,
I haven't learnt yet to be a good Soldier--why, I haven't learnt yet how
to make _one_ home happy. I must learn to serve with patience. I must
conquer myself; then, perhaps, in the days to come, the Lord will open
the way to me, and I, too, may go into sad homes as a messenger of peace
and love."
"Betty!" Mother's voice, calling querulously from the first-floor
landing. Betty runs upstairs. Mother has a shawl round her shoulders,
and looks very gloomy and upset.
"Betty, can't you keep the children quiet? My head aches dreadfully, but
it's quite useless to try and get any sleep with Jennie and Pollie
stamping about just over one's head. I sent them up to the attic to be
out of the way, and they've done nothing but quarrel ever
since--tiresome little good-for-nothings!"
"Oh, of course, they must come down at once, mother. Shall I send them
out for a walk?"
"No, indeed, they're so dreadfully rough, throwing stones and shouting
themselves hoarse like a couple of street boys. I don't know what I've
done, I'm sure, to have such troublesome children."
Betty fetches her two younger sisters down from the attic, and sends
them out to play in the small garden-yard at the back of the house. She
has a great deal of difficulty, for they are both so headstrong and
unruly that they will hardly obey at all. At last she persuades them to
settle down to a game of horses, and goes back.
But five minutes have barely elapsed when mother's voice is heard
again.
"Betty, what are those children doing? I declare their noise is making
me quite ill!"
Dismal shrieks from the back of the house confirm her words. Betty flies
to a window and looks out.
Pollie, screaming with terror, is flying from Jennie, who, with face
distorted with passion, is darting after her--flourishing a big stick,
and yelling like a mad girl.
Betty's heart sinks at the sight. How shameful, how humiliating that her
sisters should behave like this! How untaught and untrained they are!
She runs out breathlessly. She seizes Jennie by the arm. Jennie kicks
and screams furiously.
"I will whip her, I will! She's a bad, wicked girl. She said she would
stand still if I would let go of her arm, and then she ran away!"
"'Cos she was going to put a big strap in my mouth, and drive me about,"
sobs Pollie, "and I won't have it, I won't!" and, relying on Betty's
protection, she strikes at her sister in her turn.
[Illustration: Pollie flying from Jennie.]
"Pollie! Jennie! Oh, how can you behave so badly? You rude, naughty
girls! Why, you're every bit as bad as the rough boys who play in the
street. Aren't you ashamed to behave so wickedly? Don't you know that
the Lord is very sorry when He sees little girls selfish, and rude, and
passionate? You know quite well that poor mother's head is bad, and yet
you make all this noise! Why don't you try to play quietly together?"
"Nothing to play at," answers Jennie, sulkily. "I'm tired of games; and,
besides, games are silly."
"Then take your knitting, or hem one of the new dusters."
"Shan't; it's holiday time, and I don't mean to do any work. If Pollie
wasn't so silly I could play with her all right--screaming and making
all that fuss about nothing."
"Well, if you can't keep quiet, I shall have to put you to bed--now
remember."
But to herself Betty thinks, "Now, what would be the right thing to do
for them? Teach them better, I suppose; teach them to be kind and
gentle, teach them to be unselfish, to think less of themselves and more
of others."
The thought is still with her when she returns to her household duties.
Suddenly a happy idea strikes her.
"Ah! I remember how Grannie told me that when she was a girl she used
to invite a number of her little school-friends to her cottage on
half-holidays; each girl brought a small piece of work with her, a tiny
petticoat to sew, a sock to knit, or what not; and they would sew and
chat away happily for hours, fancying themselves a real sewing society.
"The work was not for themselves--Oh, no! Twice every year all the
little garments were collected and given to the poorer children of the
village. Now, if these rough, headstrong sisters of mine would only do
that! Is there nothing to make them follow dear Grannie's example?"
All the rest of that day Betty is thinking over her plan, and at night,
ere she goes to rest, she lays the whole matter before the Lord in very
earnest prayer. She is beginning to understand something at last of the
real strength, and comfort, and light, which follows all heart-felt
prayer.
Next morning she awakes with the determination strong within her of
commencing that very day to win her little sisters to better things.
The children's summer holidays are just beginning; now is the time to
interest them, to teach and help them; to put higher thoughts into
their minds, to give their hands unselfish work to do.
It is a hot afternoon, Jennie and Pollie have been playing together
aimlessly, breaking out now and again into noisy bursts of passion. They
are too tired to play any more now, and hot and sulky besides.
Betty calls them to her.
"Jennie, Pollie, I want to talk to you about a new way of spending your
holiday afternoons; a really beautiful way. Come into the garden, and
I'll tell you all about it."
The "garden" is only a back-yard, with one dusty tree leaning over the
paling, and a few unhappy-looking flowers. How different from Grannie's
garden, with its masses of sweet-scented, old-fashioned blossoms; its
pure air and clear sunlight!
Well, well, Betty must not think of that just now. At any rate, the air
is fresher here than in the house.
"Is it a new kind of game? Oh, Betty, do make haste and tell us!"
"Listen, girls. Hundreds and hundreds of years ago there lived a dear,
good woman--a _very_ good woman."
"What was her name?" demands Pollie.
"Dorcas. She lived in a little town by the seaside, in a country far
away. Now in this town were many poor widows, who could not afford to
buy clothes enough to keep them warm; and when Dorcas saw this she set
to work, and cut out nice coats, and stitched away, and I daresay she
called her neighbours in to help her, and very soon those poor widows
had new garments all round. How grateful, how delighted they were! They
couldn't say enough to show their thanks."
"How do you know? Aren't you just making it up, Betty?"
"No, indeed; we read about Dorcas, and the poor widows, and their coats,
in the Bible itself. Now, why don't you two girls invite two or three of
your school friends in one afternoon, and pretend to be Dorcas and her
neighbours? I'll be Dorcas, if you like, and we'll make little garments
for poor widows and fatherless children, and chat together, just as
Dorcas and her friends did, hundreds and hundreds of years ago."
"Who'll be the widows?" asked Jennie, much interested.
"Oh, real widows and orphans; just like those Dorcas worked for. Then,
perhaps, we could have tea out of doors, and I'll mix some of those nice
buns which Grannie showed me how to make. We would drink our tea out of
mugs, because, in the days when Dorcas lived, no one had cups and
saucers."
"Oh, that would be lovely!" cry the girls. "Who shall we ask to come,
Betty?" adds Jennie alone.
"Anyone you like--that is, any nice girl."
"Millie and Ida Davis are both nice as nice. Then there's Flo----"
"We mustn't have too many at first. Suppose we each invite one friend? I
choose Minnie White for mine."
"Oh, Minnie White's always so prim and proper; just because she's an
Army girl; not a bit of fun in her."
"You're quite wrong, Jennie. Minnie is as full of real fun as she can
be. She doesn't like rough ways, and senseless jokes; but I only wish
you looked one-half as happy as she does! Well, dears, choose the best
and most unselfish girls you know; this is to be a very special kind of
meeting, you see."
"Oh, of course; _we_ don't want any nasty, horrid girls like Kitty and
Lena!"
"Now, Jennie, do you think that Dorcas would _ever_ have been put in the
Bible, if she had talked like that about her friends? Why, girls,
you'll spoil the whole thing if you don't try to be like her! You're
going to copy her, aren't you?"
"Course we are!" assents Pollie.
Betty mixes the cakes that very evening. She is not a good cook--does
not like cooking, in fact; but somehow she is feeling very happy.
"The cakes must be as nice as I can make them. Ah! I must be sure to
take a peep to-night into that book of father's, about God's brave
Soldiers, in the far-off days when Dorcas really lived; then I shall be
able to talk about it all to the girls to-morrow and interest them.
"If I could only help Jennie and Pollie to understand; if I could really
bring them nearer to the Lord; Oh, what a happy, what a truly blessed
thing that would be!"
The next afternoon is hot again, but there is shade in the dingy garden.
A semicircle of chairs has been arranged, and Jennie and Pollie, looking
unusually clean and tidy, with sweet-faced Minnie White, and Millie and
Ida Davis, are industriously stitching away. It is a critical moment,
for "Dorcas," that is, Betty, has just left them alone.
"What horrid clumsy stitches you are putting in that handkerchief,
Pollie," cries Jennie.
"They're quite as good as yours!" snaps Pollie.
"They're not!"
"They are! I'm sure they are!"
"Oh, dear, please don't!" pleads little Minnie White. "Jennie's stitches
are the best, but then Pollie's are quite as good for her age. And we
must all be very loving and kind, mustn't we? or we shouldn't be the
least bit like Dorcas and her friends."
Wise Betty to include little Minnie in her first back-yard meeting!
"Oh, look, here's Betty, I mean Dorcas, with the tea! How good the cakes
smell--how thirsty I am! Oh, isn't it just lovely to have it out here?"
cry the girls.
And Jennie and Pollie clap their hands too, and are as happy as the
rest.