tried to save her, Ethel felt a real remorse, and walked silently
on, wondering how she could reward this kind creature who had served
her so well and was so anxious to get on in her hard, humble way.
The orders were all given now, the shopping nearly done, and
Mademoiselle Campan, the elderly French lady who boarded at their
Pension, was always ready to jaunt about and be useful; so why not
give Jane a holiday, and let her grub and study for the little while
left them in Paris? In a fortnight Uncle Sam was to pick up the
girls and take them home, while the Homers went to Rome for the
winter. It would be well to take Miss Bassett back in a good humor,
so that her report would please Mamma, and appease Papa if he were
angry at the amount of money spent by his extravagant little
daughter. Ethel saw now, as one always does when it is too late to
repair damages, many things left undone which she ought to have
done, and regretted living for herself instead of putting more
pleasure into the life of this good girl, whose future seemed so
uninviting to our young lady with her first season very near.
It was a kind plan, and gratified Jenny very much when it was
proposed and proved to her that no duty would be neglected if she
went about with the Homers and left her charge to the excellent lady
who enjoyed chiffons as much as Ethel did, and was glad to receive
pretty gifts in return for her services.
But alas for Ethel's good resolutions and Jenny's well-earned
holiday! Both came to nothing, for Ethel fell ill from too much
pastry, and had a sharp bilious attack which laid her up till the
uncle arrived.
Every one was very kind, and there was no danger; but the days were
long, the invalid very fretful, and the nurse very tired, before the
second week brought convalescence and a general cheering and
clearing up took place. Uncle Sam was amusing himself very
comfortably while he waited for his niece to be able to travel, and
the girls were beginning to pack by degrees, for the accumulation of
Ethel's purchases made her share a serious task.
“There! All are in now, and only the steamer trunk is left to pack
at the last moment,” said Jenny, folding her tired arms after a
protracted struggle with half a dozen new gowns, and a perplexing
medley of hats, boots, gloves, and perfumery. Two large trunks stood
in the ante-room ready to go; the third was now done, and nothing
remained but the small one and Jenny's shabby portmanteau.
“How nicely you have managed! I ought to have helped, only you
wouldn't let me and I should have spoilt my wrapper. Come and rest
and help me sort out this rubbish,” said Ethel, who would have been
dressed and out if the arrival of a new peignoir had not kept her in
to enjoy the lovely pink and blue thing, all lace and ribbon and
French taste.
“You will never get them into that box, dear,” answered Jenny,
gladly sitting down beside her on the sofa, which was strewn with
trinkets of all sorts, more or less damaged by careless handling,
and the vicissitudes of a wandering trunk.
“I don't believe they are worth fussing over. I'm tired of them, and
they look very mean and silly after seeing real jewels here. I'd
throw them away if I hadn't spent so much money on them,” said
Ethel, turning over the tarnished filigree, mock pearl, and
imitation coral necklaces, bracelets, and brooches that were
tumbling out of the frail boxes in which they came.
“They will look pretty to people at home who have not been seeing so
many as we have. I'll sew up the broken cases, and rub up the
silver, and string the beads, and make all as good as new, and you
will find plenty of girls at home glad to get them, I am sure,”
answered Jenny, rapidly bringing order out of chaos with those
skilful hands of hers.
Ethel leaned back and watched her silently for a few minutes. During
this last week our young lady had been thinking a good deal, and was
conscious of a strong desire to tell Jane Bassett how much she loved
and thanked her for all her patient and faithful care during the six
months now nearly over. But she was proud, and humility was hard to
learn; self-will was sweet, and to own one's self in the wrong a
most distasteful task. The penitent did not know how to begin, so
waited for an opportunity, and presently it came.
“Shall you be glad to get home, Jenny?” she asked in her most
caressing tone, as she hung her prettiest locket round her friend's
neck; for during this illness all formality and coolness had melted
away, and “Miss Bassett” was “Jenny dear” now.
“I shall be very, very glad to see my precious people again, and
tell them all about my splendid holiday; but I can't help wishing
that we were to stay till spring, now that we are here, and I have
no teaching, and may never get such another chance. I'm afraid it
seems ungrateful when I've had so much; but to go back without
seeing Rome is a trial, I confess,” answered honest Jane, rubbing
away at a very dull paste bandeau.
“So it is; but I don't mind so much, because I shall come again
by-and-by, and I mean to be better prepared to enjoy things properly
than I am now. I'll really study this winter, and not be such a
fool. Jenny, I've a plan in my head. I wonder if you'd like it? I
should immensely, and I'm going to propose it to Mamma the minute I
get home,” said Ethel, glad to seize this opening.
“What is it, deary?”
“Would you like to be my governess and teach me all you know,
quietly, at home this winter? I don't want to begin school again
just for languages and a few finishing things, and I really think
you would do more for me than any one else, because you know what I
need, and are so patient with your bad, ungrateful, saucy girl.
Could you? would you come?” and Ethel put her arms round Jenny's
neck with a little sob and a kiss that was far more precious to Jane
than the famous diamond necklace of Marie Antoinette, which she had
been reading about.
“I could and I would with all my heart, if you want me, darling! I
think we know and love each other now, and can be happy and helpful
together, and I'll come so gladly if your mother asks me,” answered
Jenny, quick to understand what underlay this sudden tenderness, and
glad to accept the atonement offered her for many trials which she
would never have told even to her own mother.
Ethel was her best self now, and her friend felt well rewarded for
the past by this promise of real love and mutual help in the future.
So they talked over the new plan in great spirits till Mrs. Homer
came to bring them their share of a packet of home letters just
arrived. She saw that something unusual was going on, but only
smiled, nodded, and went away saying,--
“I have good news in MY letters, and hope yours will make you
equally happy, girls.”
Silence reigned for a time, as they sat reading busily; then a
sudden exclamation from Ethel seemed to produce a strange effect
upon Jenny, for with a cry of joy she sprang up and danced all over
the room, waving her letter wildly as she cried out,--
“I'm to go! I'm to go! I can't believe it--but here it is! How
kind, how very kind, every one is to me!” and down she went upon her
own little bed to hide her face and laugh and cry till Ethel ran to
rejoice with her.
“Oh, Jenny, I'm so glad! You deserve it, and it's like Mrs. Homer to
make all smooth before she said a word. Let me read what Mamma
writes to you. Here's my letter; see how sweetly she speaks of you,
and how grateful they are for all you've done for me.”
The letters changed hands; and sitting side by side in an
affectionate bunch, the girls read the happy news that granted the
cherished wish of one and gave the other real unselfish pleasure in
another's happiness.
Jane was to go to Rome with the Homers for the winter, and perhaps
to Greece in the spring. A year of delight lay before her, offered
in such a friendly way, and with such words of commendation, thanks,
and welcome, that the girl's heart was full, and she felt that every
small sacrifice of feeling, every lonely hour, and distasteful duty
was richly repaid by this rare opportunity to enjoy still further
draughts of the wisdom, beauty, and poetry of the wonderful world
now open to her.
She flew off presently to try to thank her good friends, and came
back dragging a light new trunk, in which she nearly buried her
small self as she excitedly explained its appearance, while rattling
out the trays and displaying its many conveniences.
“That dear woman says I'm to send my presents home in the old one by
you, and take this to fill up in Rome. Think of it! A lovely new
French trunk, and Rome full of pictures, statues, St. Peter's, and
the Colosseum. It takes my breath away and makes my head spin.”
“So I see. It's a capital box, but it won't hold even St. Peter's,
dear; so you'd better calm down and pack your treasures. I'll help,”
cried Ethel, sweeping about in her gay gown, almost as wild as Jane,
who was quite upset by this sudden delicious change in her
prospects.
How happily she laid away in the old trunk the few gifts she had
ventured to buy, and those given her,--the glossy silk, the dainty
lace, the pretty crystals, the store of gloves, the flask of
cologne, the pictures and books, and last of all the sketches which
illustrated the journal kept so carefully for those at home.
“Now, when my letter is written and the check with all that is left
of my salary put in, I am done. There's room for more, and I wish
I'd got something else, now I feel so rich. But it is foolish to buy
gowns to pay duties on, when I don't know what the girls need. I
feel so rich now, I shall fly out and pick up some more little
pretties for the dears. They have so few, anything will be charming
to them,” said Jenny, proudly surveying her box, and looking about
for some foreign trifle with which to fill up the corners.
“Then let me put these in, and so be rid of them. I shall go to see
your people and tell them all about you, and explain how you came to
send so much rubbish.”
As she spoke Ethel slipped in several Swiss carvings, the best of
the trinkets, and a parcel of dainty Parisian ties and sashes which
would gladden the hearts of the poor, pretty girls, just beginning
to need such aids to their modest toilets. A big box of bonbons
completed her contribution, and left but one empty corner.
“I'll tuck in my old hat to keep all steady; the girls will like it
when they dress up, and I'm fond of it, because it recalls some of
my happiest days,” said Jenny, as she took up the well-worn hat and
began to dust it. A shower of grain dropped into her hand, for the
yellow wheat still kept its place and recalled the chat at
Schwalbach. Ethel glanced at her own hat with its faded artificial
flowers; and as her eye went from the small store of treasures so
carefully and happily gathered to the strew of almost useless finery
on her bed, she said soberly,--
“You were right, Jenny. My poppies are worthless, and my harvest a
very poor one. Your wheat fell in good ground, and you will glean a
whole stack before you go home. Well, I shall keep MY old hat to
remind me of you: and when I come again, I hope I shall have a wiser
head to put into a new one.”
LITTLE BUTTON-ROSE
“If you please, I've come,” said a small girl, as she walked into a
large room where three ladies sat at work.
One of the ladies was very thin, one very stout, and the youngest
very pretty. The eldest put on her glasses, the stout one dropped
her sewing, and the pretty one exclaimed,--
“Why, it must be little Rosamond!”
“Yes, I've come; the man is taking my trunk upstairs, and I've got a
letter for Cousin Penelope,” said the child, with the sweet
composure of one always sure of a welcome.
The stout lady held out her hand for the letter; but the little
girl, after a keen look at the three faces, went to the old lady,
who received her with a kiss, saying,--
“That's right; but how did you know, dear?”
“Oh, Papa said Cousin Penny is old, Cousin Henny fat, and Cousin
Cicely rather pretty; so I knew in one minute,” replied Rosamond, in
a tone of innocent satisfaction at her own cleverness, and quite
unconscious of the effect of her speech.
Miss Penelope hastily retired behind the letter. Miss Henrietta
frowned so heavily that the gold-rimmed eye-glasses flew off her
nose with a clash, and Cicely laughed outright, as she exclaimed,--
“I'm afraid we have got an enfant terrible among us, though I can't
complain of my share of the compliments.”
“I never expected to find Clara's child well mannered, and I see I
was quite right. Take your hat off, Rosamond, and sit down. It tires
Sister to lean on her in that way,” said Miss Henny in a severe
tone, with no offer of any warmer welcome.
Seeing that something was amiss, the child quietly obeyed, and
perching herself in an ancient arm-chair crossed her short legs,
folded her plump hands over the diminutive travelling-bag she
carried, and sat looking about the room with a pair of very large
blue eyes, quite unabashed, though rather pensive, as if the memory
of some tender parting were still fresh in her little heart.
While Miss Penny slowly reads the letter, Miss Henny works daisies
on a bit of canvas with pettish jerks of her silk, and Miss Cicely
leans in the sofa-corner, staring at the newcomer, we will briefly
introduce our small heroine. Her father was cousin to the elder
ladies, and being called suddenly across the water on business, took
his wife with him, leaving the little girl to the care of these
relatives, thinking her too young for so long a journey. Cicely, an
orphan niece who lived with the old ladies, was to have the care of
Rosy; and a summer in the quiet country town would do her good,
while change of scene would console her for this first separation
from her mother. How she fared remains to be seen; and we need only
add that the child had been well trained, made the companion of a
sweet and tender woman, and was very anxious to please the parents
whom she passionately loved, by keeping the promises she had made
them, and being “as brave as Papa, as patient and kind as dear
Mamma.”
“Well, what do you think of it, Missy?” asked Cicely, as the blue
eyes came back to her, after roving round the spacious,
old-fashioned, and rather gloomy room.
“It's a pretty large, dark place for a little girl to be all alone
in;” and there was a suspicious quiver in the childish voice, as
Rosy opened her bag to produce a very small handkerchief, evidently
feeling that she might have sudden need of it if some one did not
speak to her very soon.
“We keep it dark on account of Sister's eyes. When _I_ was a little
girl, it wasn't considered polite to say rude things about other
people's houses, especially if they were very handsome ones,” said
Miss Henny, with a stern glance over the eye-glasses at the young
offender, whose second remark was even more unfortunate than her
first.
“I didn't mean to be rude, but I MUST tell the truth. Little girls
like bright places. I'm sorry about Cousin Penny's eyes. I will read
to her; I do to Mamma, and she says it is very well for a child only
eight years old.”
The gentle answer and the full eyes seemed to calm Miss Henny's
wrath, for her size was her tender point, and the old house her
especial pride; so she dropped the awe-inspiring glasses, and said
more kindly,--
“There is a nice little room ready for you upstairs, and a garden to
play in. Cicely will hear you read every day, and I will teach you
to sew, for of course that MOST useful part of your education has
been neglected.”
“No, ma'am, I sew my four patches every day, and make little wee
stitches, and I can hem Papa's hank'chifs, and I was learning to
darn his socks with a big needle when--when they went away.”
Rosy paused with a sudden choke; but too proud to break down, she
only wiped two drops off her cheek with the long ends of her little
gray silk glove, set her lips, and remained mistress of herself,
privately planning to cry all she liked when she was safely in the
“nice little room” promised her.
Cicely, though a lazy, selfish young lady, was touched by the
child's pathetic face, and said in a friendly tone, as she patted
the couch where she lay,--
“Come here, dear, and sit by me, and tell me what kind of a kitten
you'd like best. I know of a sweet yellow one, and two grays. Our
Tabby is too old to play with you; so you will want a kitty, I'm
sure.”
“Oh yes, if I may!” and Rosy skipped to the new seat with a smile
which plainly proved that this sort of welcome was just what she
liked.
“Now, Cicely, why will you put such an idea into Rosamond's head
when you know we can't have kittens round the house for Sister to
stumble over, not to mention the mischief the horrid things always
do? Tabby is all the child needs, with her doll. Of course you have
a doll?” and Miss Henny asked the question as solemnly as if she had
said, “Have you a soul?”
“Oh yes, I have nine in my trunk, and two little ones in my bag, and
Mamma is going to send me a big, big one from London, as soon as she
gets there, to sleep with me and be my little comfort,” cried Rosy,
rapidly producing from her bag a tiny bride and groom, three
seed-cakes, a smelling-bottle, and a purse out of which fell a shower of
bright cents, also crumbs all over the immaculate carpet.
“Mercy on us, what a mess! Pick it all up, child, and don't unpack
any more in the parlor. One doll is quite enough for me,” said Miss
Henny, with a sigh of resignation as if asking patience to bear this
new calamity.
Rosy echoed the sigh as she crept about reclaiming her precious
pennies, and eating the crumbs as the only way of disposing of them.
“Never mind, it's only her way; the heat makes her a little cross,
you see,” whispered Cicely, bending down to hold the bag, into which
Rosy bundled her treasures in hot haste.
“I thought fat people were always pleasant. I'm glad YOU ain't fat,”
answered the little girl, in a tone which was perfectly audible.
What would have happened I tremble to think, if Miss Penny had not
finished the letter at that moment and handed it to her sister,
saying as she held out her arms to the child,--
“Now I know all about it, and you are to be my baby; so come and
give me some sweet kisses, darling.”
Down dropped the bag, and with a little sob of joy the child nestled
close to the kind old heart that welcomed her so tenderly at last.
“Papa calls me his button-rose, 'cause I'm so small and pink and
sweet, and thorny too sometimes,” she said, looking up brightly,
after a few moments of the fond and foolish cuddling all little
creatures love and need so much when they leave the nest, and miss
the brooding of motherly wings.
“We'll call you anything you like, darling; but Rosamond is a pretty
old name, and I'm fond of it, for it was your grandmamma's, and a
sweeter woman never lived,” said Miss Penny, stroking the fresh
cheeks, where the tears shone like dew on pink rose-leaves.
“I shall call you Chicken Little, because we have Henny and Penny;
and the girls and Tab downstairs can be Goosey-Loosey, Turkey-Lurkey,
and Cocky-Locky. I'll be Ducky-Lucky, and I'm sure Foxy-Loxy lives
next door,” said Cicely, laughing at her own wit, while Miss Henny
looked up, saying, with the first smile Rosy had seen,--
“That's true enough! and I hope Chicken Little will keep out of his
way, no matter if the sky does fall.”
“Who is it? A truly fox? I never saw one. Could I peep at him
sometimes?” cried the child, much interested at once.
“No, dear; it's only a neighbor of ours who has treated us badly, at
least we think so, and we don't speak, though we used to be good
friends some years ago. It's sad to live so, but we don't quite see
how to help it yet. We are ready to do our part; but Mr. Dover
should take the first step, as he was in the wrong.”
“Please tell about it. I have horrid quarrels with Mamie Parsons
sometimes, but we always kiss and make up, and feel all happy again.
Can't you, Cousin Penny?” asked the child, softly touching the
little white curls under the lace cap.
“Well, no, dear; grown people cannot settle differences in that
pretty way. We must wait till he apologizes, and then we shall
gladly be friends again. You see Mr. Dover was a missionary in India
for many years, and we were very intimate with his mother. Our
gardens join, and a gate in our fence led across their field to the
back street, and was most convenient when we wanted to walk by the
river or send the maids on errands in a hurry. The old lady was very
neighborly, and we were quite comfortable till Thomas came home and
made trouble. He'd lost his wife and children, poor man, and his
liver was out of order, and living among the heathen so long had
made him melancholy and queer; so he tried to amuse himself with
gardening and keeping hens.”
“I'm glad! I love flowers and biddies,” murmured Rosy, listening
with deep interest to this delightful mixture of quarrels and
heathen, sorrow, poultry, mysterious diseases, and gardens.
“He had no right to shut up our gate and forbid our crossing that
little field, and no GENTLEMAN would have DARED to do it after all
our kindness to his mother,” exclaimed Miss Henny, so suddenly and
violently that Rosamond nearly fell off the old lady's lap with the
start she gave.
“No, sister, I don't agree there. Mr. Thomas had a perfect RIGHT to
do as he liked with his own land; but I think we should have had no
trouble if you had been willing to sell him the corner of our garden
where the old summer-house is, for his hens,” began Miss Penny in a
mild tone.
“Sister! you know the tender memories connected with that bower, and
how terrible it would have been to ME to see it torn down, and noisy
fowls clucking and pecking where I and my poor Calvin once sat
together,” cried Miss Henny, trying to look sentimental, which was
an impossible feat for a stout lady in a flowery muslin gown, and a
fly-away cap full of blue ribbons, on a head once flaxen and now
gray.
“We won't discuss the point, Henrietta,” said the elder lady with
dignity; whereupon the other returned to the letter, bridling and
tossing her head in a way which caused Rosy to stare, and resolve to
imitate it when she played being a proud princess with her dolls.
“Well, dear, that was the beginning of the trouble,” continued Miss
Penny; “and now we don't speak, and the old lady misses us, I'm
sure, and I often long to run in and see her, and I'm so sorry you
can't enjoy the wonders of that house, for it's full of beautiful
and curious things, most instructive for children to observe. Mr.
Thomas has been a great traveller, and has a tiger skin in the
parlor so natural it's quite startling to behold; also spears, and
bows and arrows, and necklaces of shark's teeth, from the Cannibal
Islands, and the loveliest stuffed birds, my dear, all over the
place, and pretty shells and baskets, and ivory toys, and odd
dresses, and no end of wonderful treasures. Such a sad pity you
can't see them!” and Miss Penny looked quite distressed at the
child's loss.
“Oh, but I guess I will see 'em! Every one is good to me, and old
gentlemen like little girls. Papa says so, and HE always does what I
want when I say 'Please' with my wheedulin smile, as he calls it,”
said Rosy, giving them a sample of the most engaging sort.
“You funny little thing, do try it, and soften the heart of that
tiresome man! He has the finest roses in town and the most delicious
fruit, and we never get any, though he sends quantities everywhere
else. Such a fuss over an old ear-wiggy arbor! It is perfectly
provoking, when we might enjoy so much over there; and who knows
what might happen!”
As Cicely spoke, she smoothed her brown curls and glanced at the
mirror, quite conscious that a very pretty young lady of twenty was
wasting her sweetness in the great gloomy house, with two elderly
spinsters.
“I'll get some for you,” answered Rosy, with a nod of such calm
conviction of her own power, that Cicely laughed again, and proposed
that she should go at once and view the battle-field.
“Could I RUN in the garden? I'd love to, after riding so long,”
asked Rosy, eager to be off; for her active legs ached for exercise,
and the close, shady room oppressed her.
“Yes, dear; but don't get into mischief, or worry Tabby, or pick the
flowers. Of course you wouldn't touch green fruit, or climb trees,
or soil your little frock. I'll ring the bell for you to come in and
be dressed for tea when it is time.”
With these directions and a kiss, Miss Penny, as Cicely did not
stir, let the child out at the back door of the long hall, and
watched her walk demurely down the main path of the prim old garden,
where no child had played for years, and even the toads and fat
robins behaved in the most decorous manner.
“It's pretty dull, but it's better than the parlor with all the
staring pictures,” said Rosy to herself, after a voyage of discovery
had shown her the few charms of the place. The sight of a large
yellow cat reposing in the sun cheered her eyes at that moment, and
she hastened to scrape acquaintance with the stately animal; for the
snails were not social, and the toads stared even more fixedly at
her than the painted eyes of her respected ancestors.