LYING CURED.
TO return to Ellen. As soon as Joseph was taken ill, Mr. Saunders wrote
his sister-in-law, relating minutely the circumstances, and leaving it
with her to decide whether his daughter should return.
Dr. Collins peremptorily said, "No; let the child stay where she is.
Aunt Clarissa would do her more harm in a fortnight than the good she
would be likely to gain by being present at such a scene."
Ellen wrote her father very affectionate, sympathizing letters, begging
him to send her word when there was the least change for the worse.
Every morning she walked hastily to the office, her young heart heaving
with anxiety, lest she should learn that her dear little brother was
dead. She had begun to pray now, and with her whole soul, she begged
for a blessing on her brother,—that his sins might be forgiven, and he
prepared for heaven before his last change should come.
"Oh, how I wish Aunt Collins could have had the care of him!" she
exclaimed one morning, with a burst of tears, returning from the office
with the intelligence that the poor boy's life was fast drawing to a
close. "How can I endure to have him die so?"
"You must pray, and pray earnestly, dear cousin," replied Mary. "God
is both able and willing to bless the poor boy. His Spirit can work on
the heart of the dear sufferer even when, to those around him, he may
appear unconscious."
"I can't help thinking that I might have been taken. If I had died
before I came here, while I was so wicked, oh, it makes me shudder to
think what might have become of me!"
Mary put her arm tenderly about her cousin, and murmured, softly,—
"We ought to be thankful, dear, if anything leads us to review God's
dealings with us; and to call to mind his many mercies."
"Do you think, Mary, I shall ever be a Christian?" sighed Ellen, hiding
her face in her cousin's shoulder.
"Yes, darling; I think you have already begun to walk the strait and
narrow road. You love to pray; and I feel sure you have chosen Jesus as
your Saviour."
"But you know, Mary, how many things I do that are wrong every day. I
thought when I had become a Christian, that it would be so easy to do
right. I have such a quick temper, too, that I speak before I think."
Mary smiled encouragingly. "I think," she said, "you have governed
yourself bravely of late."
"No, I haven't! Only yesterday I was real downright angry with Margaret
when she wouldn't iron my white apron in season for me to wear it to
school. You know all our class had aprons alike with pockets, and all
braided the same pattern; and we had agreed to wear them together."
Ellen's face flushed as she recalled her disappointment. "Yes, I was
really angry, and felt like calling her a hateful, disobliging old
girl!"
"But, instead of that, you controlled yourself and returned good for
evil, by giving up a pleasant walk, to write a letter for her to her
aged mother in Ireland. Do you think you would have done that when you
first came here? Or, could you have done so now if the good Spirit had
not aided you?"
Ellen laughed through her tears, saying,—
"I think I should once have scratched her face for her; but, Mary, do
Christians ever feel angry? I never saw you, nor aunt, nor uncle vexed."
"You make me ashamed of my short-comings," said Mary, blushing. "I
think as you have acknowledged your fault so freely, I must step
into the confessional box, and say that I overheard your talk with
Margaret about the apron, and after you left, reproved her sharply for
disappointing you. I think she did very wrong; if I had known about it
in season, I would have ironed it for you. I have heard mother say that
I had naturally a passionate temper; but as I was taught to curb it
from my earliest infancy, it has become easy to do so. You deserve far
more credit than I do."
The tidings of Joseph's death came at last.
Mr. Saunders wrote his sister, who broke the sad intelligence to her
niece in as cautious a manner as possible. Though the event had been
expected for days, yet Ellen wept as if wholly unprepared for it.
"Is he happy now? Has he joined mother in heaven?" were questions ever
recurring for the next few days.
Mrs. Collins wept with her niece, begging her to leave her dear brother
where she had left herself,—in the hands of a merciful and forgiving
God.
"Remember, dear Ellen," she said, "that your mother was a Christian
woman, who early dedicated her son to his Saviour. What may those
prayers not have done for him even in the last moments of his life?"
This was the saddest hour Ellen had ever known,—warm and ardent in
her attachments to an extreme. Now that Joseph had gone, she tortured
herself with thinking how little she had ever labored for his best good.
"If I had done my duty, had been a truthful, obedient child," she would
exclaim, with a fresh burst of grief, "this dreadful sorrow would never
have come upon us! Now father has no son, and I have no brother."
"Except Frank," murmured Mary. "We have all adopted you, darling."
The impulsive girl put her arms around her cousin's neck, and embraced
her tenderly.
It was not, however, until Frank's return from school, that Ellen
regained her wonted cheerfulness.
Dr. Collins made a great pet of her; and the first time he saw her
smile in return to some sally of wit from his son, he said that a ton's
weight seemed lifted off his breast.
"I miss my birdie's merry songs," he said, tapping her cheek. "Now that
you are beginning to look like yourself, I shall hope to hear them
again."
Frank's presence had a cheering effect on the whole finally. He had
so much to relate about his school, and told his jokes in such a dry,
off-hand manner, that no one could help laughing.
There were times, however, when he and Ellen sat together in the bay
window, that he listened tearfully to her account of her brother,—how
bright and intelligent he was; how capable under Aunt Collins's care,
of becoming a useful man,—and showed her that with all his heart, he
sympathized in her sorrow.
"But, Ellen," he added, one night after she had related many events in
Joseph's early life, "you have a brother still. As long as I live, I
will take care of you."
"Thank you, dear Frank," she answered, warmly; "but you know father
will need me soon. I must go home and finish my education in the city."
"Then I wish you had never come at all!" he exclaimed, throwing her
hand petulantly from him. "I thought you would stay here always; your
father has Alice."
"And Uncle Collins has a wife and Mary and a passionate boy," Ellen
answered, laughing. "When I'm gone, you'll be sorry you treated my poor
hand so badly."
The youth gazed a moment in his cousin's face, then left the room
without speaking.
I do not mean to give the impression that Ellen had changed suddenly
from a passionate, deceitful child to a yielding, truthful one. She
still had many faults to overcome, some of which sorely tried the
patience of her good aunt: but the influences around her were all in
her favor, and she was trying to do right.
The suffering and mortification sue endured during the first weeks of
her residence with her aunt fixed indelibly on her mind the sin of
lying as well as the happiness resulting from perfect truthfulness.
More than all, Ellen, having learned by sad experience the weakness as
well as the sinfulness of her own heart, sought strength from above
to resist all temptation to do evil. Every day she witnessed in the
conduct of a schoolmate the sad consequences of lying, and was more
than ever resolved to guard carefully the door of her lips lest her
mouth should utter deceit.
Josey Maxwell was an only child, indulged in every wish that her
foolish little heart could form. At last her mother was taken sick and
died, leaving her daughter to the care of the old housekeeper. This
woman soon grew tired of her whims and caprices, and in the absence of
her father, sent her to school. There she was under restraint, which
soon grew so irksome that she resorted to every means to evade it.
With the most unblushing effrontery, she told falsehood after falsehood
to her teacher as an excuse for not learning her lessons. Sometimes
she had been suffering from severe headache, or her book was lost, or
the housekeeper wished her to go away on an errand, or a letter from
her father required an immediate answer. But on inquiring at home, the
teacher found not one of these excuses had any foundation in fact.
Then, in her reports, she could not be trusted; and so hardened was she
by her guilt that she scarcely seemed to feel any mortification when
a schoolmate was appointed over her to render a report in her place.
At last she was expelled from school, the teacher fearing her corrupt
example would have a bad effect on her associates.
A few days later, Ellen was walking slowly past Mr. Maxwell's handsome
house in the village, when Josey came out and greeted her in the
most cordial manner. The young girl was quite handsome, and, when so
disposed, could render herself very agreeable. She urged Ellen to go
in and see her, and our young friend, hoping to do her good, after a
moment's hesitation, complied.
An hour or two was passed in talking of the school and then Ellen came
frankly to the point of Josey's want of candor, begging her, by what
she had herself suffered, to turn from so wicked a habit, and try the
beauties of sincerity and truth.
At first, Josey looked very angry, but for reasons of her own, did not
wish to show it; and concealing her true feelings, urged her companion
to visit her often.
"I should like to," was the frank reply, "I thought I could influence
you to become good. If I had not been sent to a kind friend like Aunt
Collins, I don't know what would have become of me."
"Well," said Josey, "I'll promise to do as you wish me, if you will
grant me one favor. Don't tell anybody you have been to see me; or if
you do, don't say what we have talked about."
Ellen mused for a moment.
"I always tell aunt everything," she said; "and she'll wonder where
I've been. I'll promise not to tell unless I am asked; and certainly, I
need not say what our conversation has been."
They parted, our young heroine sanguine as to the reformation of her
former schoolmate.