_POLLIE'S BATTLE-FIELD._
"YOU'LL have to go down to the stream, and bring up the biggest goose,
Poll," said her mother, wringing up a towel very hard, and throwing it
in the basket. "I can't think why you have not done it an hour ago!"
"I was busy," grumbled Pollie. "You told me to wash the teacups, and
sweep the kitchen, and make the beds, and clean the step, and peel the
potatoes—"
"So I did," said her mother vexedly; "and still there would have been
plenty of time if you hadn't idled away half your morning. I never did
see any one so provoking in my life!"
If there was one thing Pollie hated to do, it was catching and carrying
the struggling, cackling geese when her mother happened to sell any.
But even that unpleasant duty had not been the chief reason of her
delay that morning.
Her Sunday-school teacher had offered a prize for the greatest number
of texts found on a certain subject, and she had been searching for
them when she was upstairs making the rooms straight. Her conscience
told her that she was not doing right, but she had persuaded herself
that it could not be wrong to be reading her Bible.
She sauntered forth now very unwillingly, and made her way over the
stony path down to the brook.
Her teacher would be pleased, at any rate, she thought, even if her
mother was not. And her teacher was more important than mother. Miss
Loveday always spoke gently, and never seemed to have any difficulties.
She couldn't have rooms to sweep, or tiresome geese to catch.
Pollie had a long chase, and a hard struggle with the strong bird
before she turned homewards. And just as she was battling up the hill,
with the wind nearly blowing her down, and the geese making a hubbub
around her, who should cross her path but Miss Loveday herself, walking
slowly along.
"Why, Pollie!" she said.
Pollie held on to her charge and blushed crimson, thinking of her late
thoughts.
"I've done the texts, ma'am," she said, after a moment.
"Already?"
Polly hung her head, while Miss Loveday added, "I hope it was not
instead of some duty, little Pollie. Girls at home haven't much time
in the morning, and this is only Monday! To please Jesus, the 'right'
thing must come before the pleasant thing."
With a gentle smile she passed on, and Pollie pushed up the hill, and
at length stood before her mother, still holding on to her burden.
"The geese nearly tore me in pieces," she said ungraciously. "I wish
James would have caught it before he let them out this morning; he
might just as well!"
"What have you been doing upstairs, Pollie?" was her mother's greeting,
as she took the heavy bird from her.
No pity for the wind, no sympathy for her hard struggle and hot climb,
no thanks for her work, only sharp blame implied in the tone of her
mother's inquiry!
"I was making the beds, mother."
"You couldn't take an hour over two beds, and that's how long you were!"
Polly was silent. She did not wish to explain, and was only anxious to
get out of the way before any more questions should be asked.
"Where shall I put the goose, mother?"
"In the coop; your father's going to kill it when he comes home to
dinner. What was it you did while you were upstairs?"
"Something for Miss Loveday."
"Instead of your work? Then you will not go to class next Sunday."
Sharp and unalterable came the blow. Pollie knew that she had lost her
chance.
Full of passion, she slowly took the goose from her mother, and walked
out to the empty hen-coop. Then she went back again, and began to clean
the knives for dinner with a black frown on her face.
Miss Loveday never had such things as this to bear! Such hard, hard
things! She had all things smooth in her life, she was sure!
When she thought of Sunday, she felt as if she could not bear it. The
knives flew along the board, and the brickdust flew about the floor,
and still Pollie felt stunned with disappointment and anger.
"What's up?" said her father's voice in the doorway.
"Only Poll's doing things for her class, and neglecting her home," said
her mother's voice from the kitchen.
"I'm sorry for that," said her father gravely, "because Pollie will
have to let go the class, if so."
"That's what I told her," said her mother.
Pollie was going to speak, but her passion sealed her lips. She only
went on cleaning faster than ever.
Her mother went upstairs for a clean apron, and Pollie found herself
alone with her father, who was standing warming his hands at the fire.
"Mother's so hard on me, father," she said bitterly, from her position
at the knife-board.
There was no answer, and the girl came to the doorway.
"It is cruel to keep me away from the class, when I didn't mean to do
any harm."
"Your mother won't do anything cruel," answered her father. "If you
haven't done wrong, she'll not punish you. If you have, it's best to
find it out, Pollie, and not be let go on wrong."
"It can't be wrong to search for texts!"
"I don't know that! There's many a one that does a lot of God's 'work,'
and forgets to do His 'will.'"
Her mother came back at the moment, and Pollie retreated from the
doorway and fetched the knives, wiping them carefully and setting them
round table, that her father, at any rate, might see no fault in her
performance of that duty. She did not glance towards her mother, and
sat in silence for the rest of the dinner.
When it was over, she cleared the things into the scullery, and, as was
her habit, she shut the door and began to wash the dishes.
Her mother's voice rose and fell for a few minutes in the kitchen, and
then she heard her father go out, and all was still.
Pollie worked away perhaps all the faster that her spirit was so high,
and soon all was done, and she stood still, undecided as to what she
should employ herself upon for the rest of the afternoon.
She would have gone up to her texts, but this involved passing through
the kitchen, and she did not care to face her mother. Besides, what was
the use of doing them if she might not go to the class?
This thought made her almost frantic. She had promised Miss Loveday,
yes, promised; what could she do now? Slowly her hand was put out
towards the kitchen door, and softly she turned the knob, uncertain
what she should say to her mother when she got there, but, at any rate,
very certain that she should not ask her forgiveness.
The kitchen stood empty and bare. No mother, only a clean-swept hearth
and her mother's workbasket closed and orderly.
Pollie was too astonished to know what to do. Generally at this time
her mother sat there mending those everlasting stockings; and if she
were going out, every one knew it.
Pollie did not like to follow her mother upstairs, after her temper at
dinner, so she looked round for occupation, and seeing none that suited
her, she drew forth her knitting from the cupboard and tried to amuse
herself with that. She was even glad to hear her brother's step coming
up the path, and to know that she would not be alone any longer.
"Where's mother?" asked James on entering.
"I don't know. Come here, Jim, and hold something for me."
"What's that?"
"My wool. I've been waiting to get this tangle out this half-hour."
Jim did as he was asked, but added, "I expect mother's took sick!"
"What?" asked Pollie, putting down the skein.
"Took sick. She said her heart was bad before I went out after dinner."
Pollie looked pale and miserable.
"I wish you'd go up and see after her, Jim," she said presently.
"Why don't you?"
"Because I'd rather you did."
"Haven't you seen to her all the afternoon?" asked James, rather
severely, as he put the wool down.
Pollie shook her head. She opened the staircase door for him in
silence, and then came back to the fire.
How long his steps seemed going up, and then how long before they were
heard coming down again!
"She's bad, Poll," he announced abruptly, "and she don't want anything,
and you may go out if you like."
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