in daily attendance. The inflammation first attacked Lizzy's
throat--descended and lingered along the bronchial tubes, and finally
fixed itself upon her lungs. From this dangerous place it was not
dislodged, as an acute disease, until certain constitutional
predispositions had been aroused into activity. In fact, the latent
seeds of that fatal disease, known as consumption, were at this time
vivified. Dormant they might have lain for years--perhaps through
life--if all exciting causes had been shunned. Alas! the principle of
vitality was now awakened.
Slowly, very slowly, did strength return to the body of Miss Walton. Not
until the spring opened was she permitted to go forth into the open air.
Then her pale cheek, and slow, feeble steps, showed too plainly the
fearful shock her system had received.
A week or two after his remonstrance with his niece about her thin
shoes, Mr. Walton returned home. Several letters received by him during
the winter advised him of the state of Lizzy's health. In the spring her
mother wrote to him--
"Lizzy is much better. The warm weather, I trust, will completely
restore her."
But the old gentleman knew better. He had been a deeply interested party
in a case like her's before. He _knew_ that summer, with its warm and
fragrant airs, would not bring back the bloom to her cheeks. In July
came another epistle.
"The hot weather is so debilitating for Lizzy, that I am about taking
her to the sea-shore."
Uncle Thomas sighed as he read this, permitted the letter to droop from
before his eyes, and sat for some time gazing upon vacancy. Far back his
thoughts had wandered, and before the eyes of his mind was the frail,
fading form of a beloved sister, who had, years before, left her place
and her mission upon the earth, and passed up higher.
"The doctor says that I must go South with Lizzy," wrote Mrs. Walton
early in December, "and spend the winter. We leave for Charleston next
Tuesday, and may pass over to Havana."
Uncle Thomas sighed as before, and then became lost in a sad reverie. He
had been to Havana with both of his sisters. The warm South had been of
use to them. It prolonged, but did not save their lives.
And so the months passed on--the seasons came and went--but health,
alas! returned not to the veins of the lovely girl.
It was an autumn day, nearly two years after that fatal cold, taken in
consequence of wearing thin shoes, that Mr. Walton received a letter
sealed with a black seal.
"As I feared," he murmured, in a low, sad voice, gazing
half-abstractedly upon the missive. He knew too well its contents. "Dear
child! I saw this from the beginning."
And the old man's eyes became dim with moisture.
He had not erred in his conjecture. Lizzy Walton was dead.
THE UNRULY MEMBER.
"In trouble again, I find! Ah, Flora! That restless little tongue of
yours is a sad transgressor. Why will you not learn to be more careful?
Why do you not place a guard upon your lips, as well as upon your
actions?"
"So I do, aunt, when I think myself in the company of tattlers and
mischief-makers."
"I do not think Mary Lee either a tattler or a mischief-maker," replied
the aunt gravely.
"Then why did she run off to Ellen Gray, and tell her what I had said?"
"She might have done so from far different motives than those you are
inclined to attribute to her," said Mrs. Marion, the aunt of Flora Mere.
"And from my knowledge of her character, I feel very sure that her
conduct in this has been governed by a strict regard to right
principles."
"But what possible end could she have had in view in repeating to Ellen
my thoughtlessly spoken words? It could do her no good."
"There she is at the door now," Mrs. Marion replied, glancing out of the
window. "We will ask the question direct, as soon as Betty has admitted
her."
The blood mounted to Flora's cheeks as her aunt said this, and her own
eyes caught a glimpse of the young lady whose conduct she had been so
strongly condemning. The aunt and her niece sat silent until Mary Lee
entered.
Here we will take the opportunity to mention the cause of the unpleasant
state of affairs between Flora and her young friend. On the day before,
while in company with Mary Lee, and one or two other of her
acquaintances, she very thoughtlessly and not exactly in the right
spirit, repeated some remarks she had heard about Ellen Gray that
reflected upon her rather unfavourably. Mary Lee at once attempted to
vindicate her friend, but Flora maintained that the allegations were
certainly true, for she had them from an undoubted source. Mary asked
that source, but she declined mentioning it, on the ground that she did
not wish to violate the confidence reposed in her by the individual who
related the facts she had repeated.
"It would, perhaps, be better not to mention any thing of this kind,"
said Mary Lee, "unless the author be given, and full liberty, at the
same time, to make the most free inquiries as to the truth of what is
alleged."
"And get up to your ears in hot water," returned Flora, tossing her
head.
"Even that would be better than to let any one suffer from an untrue
statement."
"Ah! But suppose it should be true?"
"Let the guilt rest upon the right head--where it ought to rest. But
save the innocent from unjust allegations. That is my doctrine."
"A very good doctrine, no doubt," Flora returned; "if you can act it
out."
Here the subject was dropped. On the next morning, Mary Lee called in to
see her young friend Ellen Gray. After conversing for a short time she
said--
"I heard, yesterday, Ellen, that at Mrs. Harvey's party, you acted
towards Mr. Evelyn with much discourtesy of manner, besides actually
telling an untruth."
"I am unconscious of having done either the one or the other of these,"
Ellen replied, in a quiet tone.
"I believed you innocent," said Mary, with a brightening countenance.
"But what ground is there for the idle, ill-natured gossip that has got
on the wind?"
"Not much, if any. I declined dancing with Evelyn, as I had a perfect
right to do."
"Did you tell him you were engaged for the next cotillion?"
"No, certainly not, for I had no engagement then."
"It is said that when he asked you to dance, you excused yourself on the
plea that you were already engaged."
"Who says this?"
"Flora Mere."
"How does she know?"
"That I cannot tell. She declined giving her authority."
"Then, of course, I must believe her the author of the fabrication."
"No--that does not certainly follow. I do not believe Flora would be
guilty of such a thing. But, like too many, she is ready to believe
another capable of doing almost any thing that may happen to be alleged.
And like the same class of persons, too ready to repeat what she has
heard, no matter how injuriously it may affect the subject of the
allegation--while a false principle of honour prevents the open
declaration of the source from which the information has been derived."
"Be that as it may, I shall see Flora Mere at once, and ask her for the
authority upon which the statement rests."
"It was to give you an opportunity of doing this, that I have come and
freely told what I heard."
"Thank you, Mary. I wish all the world were as frank and as
conscientious as you are. I shall, of course, mention from whom I
derived my information."
"You are at perfect liberty to do so. I try never to say or do any thing
that requires concealment."
It was, perhaps, an hour afterward, that Flora Mere was surprised by a
visit from Ellen Gray. She had an instinctive consciousness of the cause
of this visit, which made the blood mount to her face, as she took the
hand of her friend. She was not long in doubt.
"Flora," said Ellen, a few minutes after she had entered. "Mary Lee came
in to see me this morning, and mentioned that you had made statements
about me which are not true--as that I refused to dance with Mr. Evelyn
under the plea of a prior engagement, when, in fact, no such engagement
existed."
"I think Mary Lee had very little to do!" Flora returned petulantly, the
colour deepening on her face and brow, "to tattle about what she hears
in company."
"But reflect," said Ellen, mildly, "that the charge against me was one
of falsehood--no light charge--and that Mary had every reason to believe
me incapable of uttering what was not true. And further, remember, that
you declined giving your informant, so as to place it in her power to
ascertain upon what basis the statement rested. Reverse the case.
Suppose I had heard that you had done some wrong act; and, instead of
carefully satisfying myself whether it were really so or not, were to
begin circulating the story wherever I went. Would you not deem her a
true friend, who, instead of joining in the general condemnation, were
to come to you and put into your power to vindicate your character?
Certainly you would. Just in the relation which that true friend would,
under the imagined circumstances, stand to you, now stands Mary Lee to
me. She has put into my power to arrest a report which I find is
circulating to my injury. It is true that I declined dancing with Mr.
Evelyn. But it is not true that I stated to him that I was engaged. I
was not engaged, and to have said that I was, would have been to have
told a deliberate falsehood. May I, then, ask you from what source you
derived your information?"
Flora cast her eyes upon the floor, and sat silent for some time. Her
pride struggled hard with her sense of justice. At length she said,
looking up, and breathing heavily--
"I would rather not mention my informant, Ellen. It will only make
difficulty. You will go to her, and then there will be trouble. I think
you had better let the matter rest where it is. I do not, now, believe
what I heard. The person who told me, was, no doubt, mistaken."
"But, Flora, that would not be right. You have already repeated what you
heard so publicly, that it is possible at least fifty persons now
believe me guilty of having spoken an untruth. You should have reflected
beforehand. Now it is too late to let the matter drop. My character is
at stake, and I am bound to vindicate it. This I shall have to do in
such a manner as to fully clear myself from the charge. The consequence
will be, as you may at once perceive, that upon you will rest the burden
of having originated a false charge against me. Then, if not now, you
will feel it your duty to give the name of your friend. This, you had
much better do at once. No doubt she has been led into a mistake by a
too hasty judgment of my acts, but half understood. She may have
observed Mr. Evelyn ask me to dance, and have naturally inferred that I
declined on the ground of a previous engagement. This being in her mind,
she may have too hastily concluded, when she soon afterwards saw me
accept another offer, that I had not spoken the truth at the time I
refused to dance with Evelyn. All this can easily be explained, and the
matter put to rest."
Flora hesitated for a short time, and then said--
"It was Araminta Thomas who told me."
"Thank you for this information. Will you now go with me to see
Araminta?"
"I would rather not," Flora returned.
"I think it would be better for you to do so, Flora," urged Ellen. But
she could not be persuaded.
"I must then go alone," said Ellen, rising and bidding Flora good
morning.
In a little while she was at the house of Araminta Thomas. Ellen entered
at once upon the business of her visit, by stating what she had heard.
Araminta looked confused, but denied saying that Ellen had actually
told Evelyn she was engaged for the next cotillion.
"Then what did you say?" mildly asked Ellen.
"I said," replied Araminta, "that I saw you decline Evelyn's offer for
your hand."
"But did not say that I told him I was engaged?"
"_Not positively_; I only _inferred_, as was natural, that you declined
on that ground."
"Was your communication to Flora mere inferential?"
"It was."
"But she says you told her that you heard me say I was engaged."
"In that she is mistaken. I inferred that your refusal to dance was for
the reason stated. But I did not _know_ that it was, and, therefore only
gave my own impression."
"Which Flora has taken for the truth, and so repeated."
"On my authority?"
"Yes. After having been pressed by me very closely."
"In that she was wrong. But I suppose I was as wrong in giving an
impression which might not be a true one, as she has been in giving my
impressions as actual facts, and making me responsible for them. But
will you, as matters have taken this serious and unexpected turn, give
me the exact truth. I will then, so far as in my power lies, endeavour
to correct what I have done."
"Most cheerfully. You know as well as I do, that Evelyn has not acted in
some things with that honour and integrity that becomes a gentleman?"
"I do."
"It was on this ground that I declined. He asked me if I was engaged in
the next set? I said no. He then proffered his hand, which I declined.
In a little while after, and while sitting beside you, a gentleman
wished to have me as a partner. I accepted his invitation. This is the
simple truth."
"And so it seems," said Araminta with a sober face, "that while you were
rebuking vice, and standing up with dignified, virtuous firmness in the
cause of our sex, I was misjudging you. And not only that, was so far
influenced by an improper spirit as to impart to others my wrong
impressions to your injury. Alas! poor, weak human nature! I feel
rebuked and humbled. More for what I thought than for what I said, for
out of the heart proceedeth evil thoughts. If I had not had something
wrong here, I would not have been so ready to misjudge you. But all that
I can do to repair the wrong, I am ready to do."
"All I ask is, that you correct Flora, and take some little care, that,
where she has imparted a wrong impression, the true one is given in its
place."
"That I will do with all my heart," Araminta replied. "I will see Flora
this very hour."
"Do so, and you shall have not only my thanks, but my esteem and love.
We are all liable to do wrong. But to confess and repair the wrong we
have done, as far as we can, is noble. In so doing, power is given us to
conquer in all the temptations that may assail us."
As soon as Ellen had retired, Araminta went out and called upon Flora.
She found her troubled and mortified at the turn matters had taken. She
tried to excuse herself for what she had done, and insisted, at first,
that Araminta had actually stated all she had said of Ellen Gray's
conduct. But this point she soon had to give up. Araminta was too
positive, and her own memory a little too clear on the subject. In fact,
when the whole truth came fully to the light, it was very apparent, that
if there were any falsehood in the matter, she was the most guilty.
Certain it was, that Ellen Gray was innocent, in every particular, of
the charge that had been made against her.
Mrs. Marion knew nothing of all this, until the day after Ellen Gray had
called upon Flora. Then her niece, whose troubled looks had not escaped
her notice, gave a relation of what had occurred. It was in reply to
this that the opening remarks of our story were made. When Mary Lee came
in, as the reader has seen, Flora received her coldly. Mrs. Marion, on
the contrary, welcomed her with genuine cordiality.
"I am glad to see you, Mary," she said--"and particularly at this time.
It seems there has been a misunderstanding among you young ladies, and
that Flora is not altogether pleased with the part you have taken."
"It is to see her in regard to that very matter that I am here this
morning," Mary said. "I know she blames me for having told Ellen Lee
what I did. But in that I acted conscientiously. I did to another as I
would have another do to me. I acted towards Ellen as I would act
towards Flora, were I to hear any one making statements that were
calculated to injure her. The result, I think, should satisfy Flora that
I was right in doing what I have done. Ellen, it now appears, was
entirely innocent of the charge made against her--as I knew she must be.
Araminta Thomas, to whom the report has been traced, regrets extremely,
that upon her hasty inferences, so serious a matter has grown up. She
acknowledged that she only _inferred_ that Ellen told an untruth. Flora
took this inference for a direct assertion, and thence came the charge
of falsehood against Ellen Gray. Has not, then, the result proved that
the course I took was the only right one? Does it not show that I would
have been guilty of a great wrong, if, to save the feelings of any one,
I had left an innocent person to bear the imputation of wrong?"
"It certainly does, Mary. And Flora cannot but see it in the same
light."
"And she will, surely, forgive me the pain I have occasioned her,"
resumed Mary, "seeing that I had no selfish end to gain in what I did,
but was moved only by the desire to vindicate injured innocence."
This appeal softened Flora's feelings toward Mary Lee. She saw that she
was wrong, and that Mary was right. Mary had been governed by a
high-minded regard for right. Pride soon yielded.
"Mary," said she, taking her hand, while the tears came into her eyes,
"I confess that I have been wrong, and you right. I shall not soon
forget this lesson. Forgive the unkind thought I have had of you, and
say to Ellen, from me, that I do most sincerely regret the part I have
taken in this matter."
"Will I ever learn to be guarded in my remarks!" Flora said, to her
aunt, after Mary had left them. "This is the third time I have been
called to account for speaking of others, within the last few months."
"Never, I suppose," Mrs. Marion replied, "until you learn to guard your
thoughts as well as your words. If, like Mary Lee, you were less
disposed to give credence to every disparaging report circulated about
others, you would need no guard placed over your tongue. It is from the
abundance of the heart that the mouth speaketh. _A good man, out of the
good treasure of his heart, bringeth forth good things: and an evil man,
out of the evil treasure, bringeth forth evil things._ Try and keep this
in mind. If you are more ready to believe an evil than a good report of
others, be sure that all is not right with you, and more especially, if
you feel an inward pleasure in convicting them of wrong. A truly good
mind is always grieved at improper conduct in others, and ever seeks to
palliate, rather than to judge with severity. It gives but slow credence
to evil reports. Truly regard the good of all around you, and there will
be no need of placing a bridle on your tongue."
THE RICH AND THE POOR.
A hot and sultry summer had passed away, and autumn was verging on
toward its cooler months, with their long and quiet evenings.
Occasionally a colder day than usual made a fire in the grate necessary
and drew closer together the happy family of Mr. Barton in their evening
circle. It was pleasant to all, thus to feel the warm fire again, and to
see its deep glow reflected from loving faces.
"How good the fire feels!" said James, holding up his small hands to
receive its heat, and smiling as he looked upon it.
"I think I love the winter best after all," remarked William. "It is so
pleasant to sit round the fire, and feel its warmth upon our hands and
face. Home feels more like home. Don't you think so, father?"
"The change of season is always pleasant," replied Mr. Barton. "Have you
never noticed that, my son?"
"Oh yes! I always say, when spring comes, 'I am glad that it is spring.'
And in summer-time, when fruit and flowers are so plenty, I say, 'I am
glad it is summer.' And then I am glad again when the doors and windows
can be closed, and we can all gather around the fire as we do now in
autumn. In winter, when the snow begins to fall, I feel that it is
pleasant to see the light flakes flying about gayly in the air."
"But I always think then," said Mary, the gentle, loving-hearted Mary,
"of the poor children who have no warm clothing, nor good fires, as we
have. I wish, sometimes, that it were always warm, for their sakes."
"And yet, my dear, the Lord knows what is best," remarked Mr. Barton,
looking into Mary's sympathizing face. "The Bible says He is good to
all, and kind even to the unthankful."
"I know it does; and it also says, that He pitieth us even as a father
pitieth his children. But, I can't help thinking, sometimes, that there
is a great deal of suffering in the world."
"And so there is, Mary, a great deal of dreadful suffering, the reason
for which we sometimes find it very hard to understand. But one thing we
know, and this is, that it is all from man, and not from God; and that
God permits it for some good purpose--not to punish people; for the Lord
never punishes any one merely for the sake of punishment, but suffers
evil and sin to punish for the sake of reformation. You remember what I
read to you about the Divine Providence on last Sunday evening?"
"Yes, sir."
"What did I say the Divine Providence regarded?"
"Eternal ends," replied Mary.
"Do you remember what I then told you was meant by eternal ends?"
"Whatsoever had reference to man's salvation in heaven."
"Yes, that is what I said. A great many people believe that the Lord's
Providence, which is over us all, even to the smallest things, has
reference to our worldly well-doing. I remember when a boy, hearing a
man pray, regularly, in his family, every day, and a part of his prayer
always was, that the Lord would increase his basket and his store."
"What did he mean by that?" asked James, who was listening very
attentively to his father, and trying to understand all he said.
"Why, that the Lord would make him rich."
"Did the Lord make him rich?" asked Mary.
"No, my daughter, the Lord knew that to make him rich would be the worst
thing for him, for it might be the means of destroying his soul."
"Then it is best for some to be rich and some poor?" said William.
"Undoubtedly it is, or all would be rich in this world's goods, and have
every comfort and luxury that earth could afford them. For the goodness
of the Lord would seek to bless every one in good things for the body as
well as good things for the mind, if the former blessings could be given
without injury to the latter. But where they cannot, they are always
withheld."
"But all rich people are not good people," remarked William. "I think
they are, generally, more unfeeling and selfish than poor people. I have
often heard it said so; and that there was very little chance of rich
people's going to heaven."
"I know this is said, but it is a great mistake. Poor people are, as a
general thing, just as unfeeling and selfish as rich people, and stand
no better chance of heaven. So far as poverty or riches are concerned,
there is an overruling Providence regarding each, and this, as I before
remarked, looks to the salvation of souls in heaven."
"Then it isn't because one man is better than another, that he is
permitted to get rich, or has money left to him?"
"Not by any means, William," replied the father. "No man's state can be
judged of by his external condition: for the external condition that is
good for one, may be very bad for another. Ever bear this in mind, as
you pass through life, and learn, no matter in what external condition
the Lord places you, therewith to be content."