GIVING AND RECEIVING.
KATHIE had begged, instead of having anything grand herself, that she
might be allowed to play Santa Claus. To be sure, there were gifts to
the Morrisons, to Lucy and Annie Gardiner, and several of her olden
schoolmates, but that was not quite it.
"I mean the highways and byways," she said to her mother; "some of the
poor people who really have no Christmas."
They made out quite a list,--three or four widows with little children,
some old women, and several homes in which there was sickness. Aunt Ruth
fashioned some garments,--Kathie buying the material out of her
Fortunatus's purse; two or three good warm shawls had been provided, and
different packages of provisions, some positive luxuries. They stood in
a great pile at the lower end of the hall, all ready for distribution.
"If you were not too tired--" Kathie said, after supper.
"I am not utterly worn out," and Uncle Robert smiled a little. "What is
it?"
"I wish you and I could go out with the gifts, instead of Mr. Morrison."
"Why not, to be sure?" reading the wistful glance in the soft eyes.
"It would be so delightful. And as we are not to have our Christmas
until to-morrow--"
"Bundle up then, for it is pretty sharp out. I will go and order the
horses."
It was so easy to ride around and dispense benefits that Kathie almost
wondered if there was any real merit in it.
"My little girl," Uncle Robert said, "you must not begin to think that
there can be no religion without sacrifice. God gives us all things
richly to enjoy, and it would be ungrateful if we did not accept the
good, the joy."
All things. As they hurried softly on, the roads being covered with a
light fall of snow, she drank in the beauty around her,--a glimmer of
silvery moonlight flooding the open spaces, the shadowy thickets of
evergreens, whose crisp clustering spines were stirred dreamily with the
slow wind, making a dim and heavenly music, as if even now it might lead
kings and shepherds to the place where the Christ Child had been born,
the myriad of stars overhead in that blue, spacious vault, and the
heaven above it all. And thinking of the distant plains of Judæa brought
her to the plains nearer home,--the broad fields of Virginia dotted with
its camps and tents, and bristling with forts. Thousands of men were
there, keeping Christmas eve, and among them Mr. Meredith. How many
beside him saw the star and came to worship the Saviour!
She felt the living Presence in the awe of this hush and beauty. Her
child's soul was hovering on the point of girlhood, to open into
something rare and precious, perhaps, having greater opportunities than
many others. She was not so fearful or doubting as she had been an hour
ago, for it seemed to her now that she had only to go forward.
They paused first at a little tumble-down cottage. There were seven
people housed in it,--the old folks, Mrs. Maybin, whose husband had gone
to the war, and four children. Mrs. Maybin went out washing and
house-cleaning. Jane, the eldest daughter, thirteen, worked in the
paper-mill.
Uncle Robert looked at the label by moonlight. "I'll just put it down on
the door-step and knock," he said. "You hold the ponies."
The knock made Kathie's own heart beat. Uncle Robert ran back to the
carriage, which stood in the shade of a great black-walnut tree.
Kathie leaned over. Jane Maybin came to the door, lamp in hand, and
looked around wonderingly. Then, spying the great bundle, she cried,
loudly, "O mother, come here, quick!"
The ponies wore no bells to-night, so they drove off noiselessly, a
peculiar smile illuminating Kathie's face. If the Maybins thought their
good fortune rained down from heaven, so much the better. The child was
always a little shy of her good deeds, a rare and exquisite humility
being one of her virtues. And though any little act of ingratitude
touched her to the quick, she never went about seeking praise.
A dozen homes made glad by unexpected gifts, and three times that number
of hearts. In several instances they had difficult work to escape
detection, but that added to the fun and interest of it, Kathie
declared; and she came home in a bright, beautiful glow, her cheeks
glowing with a winter-rose tint, and her pretty mouth smiling in a more
regal scarlet than the holly berries nodding their wise little heads
above picture-frames.
Aunt Ruth kissed her quietly. It seemed as if she understood the steps
in the new life which the child was taking, and knew by experience that
silent ways were sometimes the most pleasant.
Of all Kathie's Christmas remembrances--and even Dr. Markham sent her a
beautiful gift--there was one so unexpected and so touching that it
brought the tears to her eyes. She was running through the hall just
before church-time, when the door-bell rang; the Alstons did not
consider it necessary that Hannah should always be summoned from her
duties to attend the call, so Kathie opened the door.
A stout, country-looking lad, just merging into awkward young-manhood,
with a great shock of curly, chestnut-colored hair, and a very wide
mouth, stood with a parcel in his hand.
"I want to see Miss Kathie Alston," he said, blushing as red as a
peony.
"I am the person," she answered, simply.
He stared in surprise, opening his mouth until there seemed nothing but
two rows of white, strong teeth.
"Miss--Kathie--Alston?" in a kind of astonished deliberation.
"Yes."
"I was to give this to you. She," nodding to some imaginary person,
"told me to be sure to put it into your hands for fear. She thought
you'd like it."
"Who is _she_?" and Kathie could not forbear smiling.
"She writ a letter so's you'd know. That's all she said, only to ask if
you were well; but you look jest like--a picter."
The compliment was so honest and so involuntary that Kathie bowed, her
bright face flushing.
He ran down the steps and sprang into a common country sleigh, driving
off in a great hurry.
There was a letter attached to the parcel. She tore off the wrapping of
the package first, however, and found that it had been done up with
great care. Inside of all, the largest and most beautiful lichen she
had ever seen,--a perfect bracket in itself. The rings of coloring were
exquisite. The soft woody browns, the bright sienna, the silvery drab
and pink, like the inside of a sea-shell. The vegetation was so rank
that it resembled the pile of velvet.
Like a flash a consciousness came over her, and although she heard Aunt
Ruth's voice, she could not resist the desire to look at her letter.
A coarse, irregular hand, with several erasures and blotted words, but
the name at the bottom--Sarah Ann Strong--made it all plain. The Sary
Ann of the Soldiers' Fair. Kathie's heart gave a great bound.
"Come!" exclaimed Uncle Robert; "are you ready?"
There was no time for explanations. She laid the letter and parcel in
her drawer in the great bookcase, thrust her ungloved hands into her
muff, and ran out to Aunt Ruth, who stood on the step, waiting to be
assisted into the carriage.
"Was it some more Christmas?" asked Uncle Robert, "or is it a secret?"
"It is no secret, but a very odd circumstance, and has quite a story
connected with it. I think I will wait until we get home," she
continued, slowly, remembering how short the distance was to church, and
that a break in the narrative would spoil it.
But she had very hard work to keep her mind from wandering during the
service, she wondered so what Sarah had to say, and how she came to
remember the simple talk about the brackets. And was Sarah having a
bright Christmas?
Afterward she told her small audience, beginning with the unlucky
remarks about the purple bonnet. Uncle Robert admired the lichen very
much, and Aunt Ruth declared that she had never seen its equal.
Then came Sarah's letter. What pains and trouble and copying it had cost
the poor girl Kathie would never know.
"To Miss Kathie Alston," it began. "I take my pen in hand to let you
know that"--here were two or three words crossed out--"I want to send
you a cristmas present. I haint forgot about the fair, and how good you
was to me, I made some straw frames and they're real hansum, and I put
the picture you give me in one and it hangs up in the parlor, and I've
got some brackets, but Jim found this splendid one, and I want to send
it to you for cristmas, for I don't think you have forgotten all about
me. I've been going to school a little this winter again, for Martha is
big enough to help mother and i only stay home to wash. I always
remember how beautiful you talked and my teacher says its grammar which
I'm studying, but I cant make head nor tail of it, but he told me never
to say this ere, and I don't any more, but I never could be such a lady
as you are. I spose you've got beautiful long curls yet. I do love curls
so and my hair's straight as a stick. Mother says i must tell you if you
ever come to Middleville to stop and see us, we live on the back road,
Jotham Strong, and we'll all be glad to see you. I hope you'll like the
bracket, and I wish you merry cristmas a thousand times. Jim went to
town one day and found out who you was--he seen you the night of the
fair too. Excuse all mistakes. I aint had much chance for schooling, but
I'm going to try now. I spose you are a lady and very rich, and don't
have to do housework, but you're real sweet and not stuck up, and so
you'll forgive the boldness of my writing this poor letter.
"Yours respectfully,
"SARAH ANN STRONG."
Kathie had been leaning her arm on Uncle Robert's knee as she read
aloud.
"Not such a bad letter," he said. "I have known some quite stylish
ladies 'who didn't have to do housework' to make worse mistakes than
this girl, who evidently has had very little chance. And then country
people do not always understand the advantages of education."
"I wanted to ask her that evening not to say 'this 'ere,' or 'that 'ere'
so much, but I was afraid of wounding her feelings. I thought there was
something nice about her, and her mother was very generous in buying.
But to think that she should have remembered me all this while--"
"'A cup of cold water,'" repeated Aunt Ruth, softly.
"It was such a very little thing."
"One of the steps."
Yes. It was the little things, the steps, that filled the long, long
path. A warm glow suffused Kathie's face. She was thinking far back,--an
age ago it appeared, yet it was only two years,--that her mother had
said the fairies were not all dead. If Puck and Peas-blossom and Cobweb
and Titania no longer danced in cool, green hollows, to the music of
lily bells, there were Faith and Love and Earnest Endeavor, and many
another, to run to and fro with sweet messages and pleasant deeds.
"I am very glad and thankful that you were polite and entertaining,"
Uncle Robert remarked, presently. "We never know what a kind word or a
little pains, rightly taken, may do. It is the grand secret of a useful
life,--sowing the seed."
"I must answer her letter, and express my thanks. But O, isn't it funny
that she thinks me such a great lady!"
"Suppose we should drive out to see her on some Saturday? Where is
Middleville?"
"North of here," returned Aunt Ruth, "in a little sort of hollow between
the mountains, about seven or eight miles, I should think."
"How delightful it would be!" exclaimed Kathie.
"We will try it some day. I am very fond of plain, social country
people, whose manners may be unpolished, but whose lives are earnest and
honest nevertheless. We cannot all be moss-roses, with a fine enclosing
grace," said Uncle Robert.
Kathie read her letter over again to herself, feeling quite sure that
Sarah had made some improvement since the evening of the Fair.
"Do you want to put the lichen up in your room?" asked Uncle Robert.
"Not particularly,--why?"
"It is such a rare and beautiful specimen that I feel inclined to
confiscate it for the library."
"I will give it up with pleasure," answered Kathie, readily, "since it
remains mine all the same."
The Alstons had a quiet Christmas dinner by themselves. Uncle Robert
gave the last touches to the tree, and just at dusk the small people who
had been invited began to flock thither. Kathie had not asked any of her
new friends or the older girls. She possessed by nature that simple
tact, so essential to fine and true womanhood, of observing the
distinctions of society without appearing to notice the different
position of individuals.
Ethel Morrison came with the rest. She was beginning to feel quite at
home in the great house, and yielded to Kathie's peculiar influence,
which was becoming a kind of fascination, a power that might have proved
a dangerous gift but for her exceeding truth and simplicity.
The tree was very brilliant and beautiful. If the gifts were not so
expensive, they appeared to be just what every one wanted. Kathie was
delighted with the compliment to her discernment.
Charlie Darrell made his appearance quite late in the evening, with Dick
Grayson. The tapers were just burning their last.
"Farewell to thee, O Christmas tree!" sang Dick. "Was Santa Claus good
to you, Miss Kathie?"
"Very generous indeed."
"But O, didn't you miss Rob?"
Kathie had to tell them about Uncle Robert's visit. "And then, you know,
I wasn't home last year"--in answer to their question.
"True. There was a gay time here at Cedarwood. When Rob sets out, he is
about as funny as any boy I know. Don't you suppose he is just aching to
be at home?"
"I expect to get off next year," said Dick, "to Yale. But I shall be
dreadfully homesick at first."
"So should I," responded Charlie; "but Rob is such a jolly,
happy-go-lucky fellow."
"Has he been in any scrapes yet, Miss Kathie?"
"Not that I have heard," said Kathie, laughing.
A group around the piano were clamoring for Kathie to play. She had
promised them some carols.
Dick and Charlie joined. A happy time they had, singing everything they
knew. Kathie had become a very fair musician already.
While the little ones were hunting up their wraps, Kathie lingered a
moment beside Charlie.
"How is Miss Jessie to-night?" she asked.
"Quite well." Then, looking into her eyes, "You have heard--"
"About Mr. Meredith? yes."
"It is too bad,--isn't it? And he has had a substitute in the war. I
think he ought to have come back."
Kathie was silent. How much duty did a man or a woman owe to these great
life questions? And was there not something grander and finer in this
last act of heroism than many people were capable of? If she could have
chosen for him, like Charlie, she would have desired his return; but if
every wife and every mother felt so about their soldiers?
She kissed Ethel with a peculiar sympathy when she bade her good night.
Mr. Morrison was well and satisfied with the new life,--liked it,
indeed.
For the next fortnight it seemed to Kathie that nothing
happened,--school life and home life, and she a little pendulum
vibrating between the two, waiting for some hour to strike.
She answered Sarah's letter, and promised that she and her uncle would
drive up when there came a pleasant Saturday with the roads in
comfortable order.
There had been quite an accession to the school on the first of January.
Mrs. Wilder had twenty-one pupils now. Mr. Lawrence came in to give them
lessons in music, French, and penmanship. Kathie felt quite small, there
were so many young ladies.
Several new families had moved into Brookside the preceding summer, and
the Alstons' acquaintance had slowly widened among the better class.
Kathie remembered how grand she had once considered Miss Jessie, and now
she was really beyond that herself.
At twelve the girls had fifteen minutes' intermission. Sometimes they
took a little run through the long covered walk, but oftener gathered
around the stove or visited at one another's desks. There was always a
vein of school-girlish gossip on dress, or amusements, or parties, or
perhaps the books they were reading. This generally took in the circle
just above Kathie, yet she used occasionally to listen, and it always
brought a thought of Ada to her mind.
She sat puzzling over some French verbs one rainy day, while Emma
brought out her cathedral that she was doing in India-ink. The talk from
the group before them floated to their hearing. It was styles and
trimming, velvet and laces that were "real," and gloves with two
buttons.
Emma glanced up with an odd smile. Kathie, seeing it, smiled too.
"Let us take a turn in the walk," Emma said.
She was so much taller that she put her arm around Kathie with an odd,
elder-sisterly feeling.
"They seem never to get tired of it," she began. "I wonder if there
isn't something better to this life than the clothes one wears?"
"Yes," Kathie answered, in a slow, clear tone, though she shrank a
little from giving her opinion. She had a shy desire to escape these
small responsibilities, yet the consciousness of "bearing witness"
always brought her back.
"What is it?"
The blunt question startled her, and a faint color stole into her face.
"I watch you sometimes when I suppose you are not dreaming of it. We
have been sitting here together for three months, we were at the
Fair,--and there is something different about you from what I find in
most girls. I wonder if it is your taste or your nature."
"We are none of us alike," said Kathie, with a peculiar half-smile.
"It is not that specific difference which we all have. You appear to be
thinking of others, you never answer crossly, you often give up your own
ease and comfort, and there is a little light in your eyes as if
something out of your soul was shining through them. And all this talk
about dressing and what one is going to do by and by never touches you
at all. I suppose you could have everything you want! Lottie Thorne says
your uncle idolizes you, and--he is rich, I know."
"I have all that is necessary, and many luxuries," Kathie answered,
slowly.
"But what makes you--what keeps you in such a heaven of content? O, I
can't explain what I mean! I wonder if you have religion, Kathie
Alston."
Do her best, Kathie could not keep the tears out of her eyes. What was
there to cry about? But somehow she felt so strange and shy, and full of
tender pain.
"I think we ought all to try," she answered, with a sweet seriousness in
her voice. "Even if we cannot take but one step--"
"I wish I knew _what_ it was!"
Kathie's heart was in her throat. She only understood part of the steps
herself. How could she direct another? So they took two or three turns
in silence, then the bell rang.
"There! I had so much to say, and maybe I shall never feel in the mood
again. About dress, too. Some of it troubles me sadly."
She stooped suddenly and kissed Kathie on the forehead, gave her hand a
sudden, earnest pressure, and then was her olden grave self.
And Kathie wondered a little if she had not shirked a duty! It seemed
now as if it would be very easy to say, "I have enlisted in that greater
army of the Lord, and will do what service I can." Why had it been so
hard a moment ago? Had she been challenged at the outpost and found
without a countersign?