It was a dull gray morning, and it had been raining all night. Jennie
was very unwilling to get up—it was a daily trial to her—but this
morning it seemed absolutely impossible, she could not keep her eyes
open; and yet, half dozing as she was, she was uncomfortably conscious
that she was doing wrong.
Seven sounded from the clock—half past—and then she heard Miss Lane
and the children descending. She lay still, idly watching the drops as
they fell against the panes, trying to make up her mind that she did
not care for the disapproval of her own conscience nor for the reproof
which she was quite sure awaited her from Miss Lane. In fact, she was
indifferent to everything but the dreamy, lazy delight of lying there
and hearing the dripping of the rain drops. Presently, her charming
reverie was rudely disturbed by Lillie, who rushed into the room with
the command from Miss Lane that she should come down immediately.
A disrespectful answer rose to Jennie’s lips as the blood rushed over
her face. A month ago she would have uttered it, disregarding the
consequences; but she had learned a little, a very little, of the
meaning of self-control, from her teacher’s words and example; so she
kept her lips closed.
“You’d better come,” continued Lillie, “Miss Lane’s going to show us
about the Christmas things as soon as breakfast is over.”
“I don’t care,” murmured Jennie, shutting her eyes slowly.
“Very well then;” and Lillie went down stairs, in a state of great
indignation, to report to Miss Lane.
“Jennie says she don’t care, and is going to sleep again,” she
exclaimed, not without a little triumph at her own superior goodness
in her tone, and waiting to hear her teacher’s comment upon such
unprecedented conduct. But Lillie was disappointed; neither frown nor
flush changed the fairness of her face.
“Very well,” she said, in a quiet voice, looking at the child steadily,
showing that she read her thought, and calling a blush of consciousness
and shame to her cheek.
About an hour afterwards, Jennie, coming down, found some bread and
butter and a glass of milk on the dining-room table for her. She rang
the bell impatiently, and Sallie presently appeared.
“Sallie, I want some muffins. Did you save any for me?”
Sallie closed the door carefully, and coming near her, said in a half
whisper,
“Miss Lane said you were to have only this; but I saved you some hot
muffins and a piece of steak. I’ll bring ’em in.”
And she did so accordingly.
“I suppose,” exclaimed Jennie, her face in a blaze, “I’ll eat what I
please in my own father’s house. If she thinks she’s mistress here,
she’ll see she’s mistaken. Dear me!”
“And that is what she _does_ think. I declare I never see anything so
imposed upon as you all are. You have to come and go at her beck. I
wouldn’t stand it,” answered Sallie.
“You must not speak so!” said Jennie, rebukingly, recalled somewhat to
her senses by the servant’s words; and Sallie retreated abashed.
Jennie buttered a muffin and put a piece of the steak upon her plate.
She was quite hungry; the steaming viand increased her appetite, but
could not quiet her thoughts.
“I am doing wrong, wrong, wrong,” kept floating in her mind. She leaned
her head on her hand. “I have made a bad beginning, the day will go
wrong. I hate to give up—but this is mean—and Miss Lane has never
done a harsh or unkind thing to me since she came here. It is deceitful
to take these things when she cannot see me. But then, what right has
she——” her face flushed for a moment, but strangely enough, these
words, “Submit yourselves to all your governors, teachers, spiritual
pastors and masters,” occurred to her at that instant, and all doubt as
to her duty in the matter was cleared away.
Pride still remained to be conquered.
“She need not think I am afraid of her, either, though she does think
her word is law. I would have this if I wanted it—but I know it is
wrong; it is not Miss Lane that I care for.”
She put away the tempting breakfast, and ate her bread and butter
quickly, and when Sallie came in, said shortly and with averted face,
“I did not eat those things because it was not right. I ought to have
been up in time. It was wicked in you to try to cheat Miss Lane,
though,”—seeing Sallie’s face of mortification—“I suppose you meant
to be kind to me.” And Jennie walked up to her own room, angry with
herself, Miss Lane, and Sallie, yet with an uncomfortable sense of
having been most deserving of blame.
Only the evening before she had promised herself that it should be
such a pleasant day. Miss Lane had intended to teach her and Lillie to
knit. They were each to make a pair of stockings for a poor little girl
in the village, and had looked forward with intense delight to the time
for commencing them.
This little child, Alice Ross, had lost her father; and her mother, who
was a poor woman in every way, having very delicate health, found it
difficult to keep her daughter and herself from starving, and worked
all day long with her sore heart to keep the wolf from the door.
Alice’s pale, sorrowful face was sad to see, and she came shivering
to Sunday school in her thin dress, with her little bare hands stiff
and red from the cold, and sat silent and dejected among the bright,
childish faces around her, and often wiping scalding tears from her
hollow cheeks.
Such a pitiful thing it was to see this little one, in the beginning
of life, bearing a burden so heavy for her weak shoulders, that the
children’s tender hearts ached for her, and they poured out their
compassion into the ears of their sympathizing friend.
“Papa has plenty of money,” said Rosie, “he might buy things for
Alice’s mamma.” And when “papa” came home, the eager sprites surrounded
him with designs upon his purse, and entreaties for charity to Mrs.
Ross.
“Well, I’ll give you money. I’ll help her. Miss Lane shall tell us what
she needs—on one condition.”
They were eager for the “condition;” of course, _they_ would do
anything.
“That you deny yourselves enough to pay me for what I give.”
“Of course; but what can we do without, papa? We have everything——”
They were rather disappointed for the moment that he had not given them
something _great_ to do—some extraordinary self-sacrifice to perform.
“We _must_ have dresses and shoes and stockings, and we can’t do
without cloaks, unless we stay in the house all the time—and that
would not be right, because we must go to church,” mused Rosie. It was
such a novelty to all, that they seemed in great glee, and Jennie began
to feel exceedingly virtuous immediately.
“We might sell our skates,” exclaimed Lillie, looking up brightly, but
Frank cried out against “taking away all their fun.”
“You must be willing to give up some ‘fun,’ Frank; but I want you to
keep your skates. Exercise is good and healthful,” said his papa.
“But if you don’t give up something you like, it will not be denying
yourself; don’t you see?”
Frank hung his head.
“I’ll tell you all, to-morrow morning, what you can do. You must say
good night now, and think about it seriously. Because God has been
very good to you, my dears, in giving you all you desire, you must be
willing to share with others, even at the sacrifice of some of your
pleasures. It is not good for us to have _all_ we wish, and I will see
how my little ones bear doing without some gratification for the sake
of doing good.”
And so they went to bed, full of curiosity, though without much
comprehending the real meaning of their father’s words. But when the
morning came, each child was about his chair at his early breakfast.
“What early birds you are! What brought you down stairs at such an
hour? Isn’t this the first time you have seen the sun rise this year?”
He glanced smilingly at Miss Lane, who appeared in the back ground,
looking over the glossy heads of Frank and brown Rosie.
“I must confess, _I_ was curious, too, and hearing the commotion, I
followed to learn the mystery.”
“Now, ‘brown Rosie,’ how much do you suppose you thought of it all last
night? The sand-man had arrived when you kissed me—did he wait till
you put your head on the pillow?”
“I _did_ think of it, papa,” said the little one, putting her head on
one side, like a bird; “and,” she continued in a low tone, so that only
her father could hear, “I asked God about it.”
“Bless you! my love,” he exclaimed, pressing the soft face close to him.
“We _can’t_ think what it can be,” cried Jennie, in much impatience.
“Oh, do, papa, tell us quickly.”
“Well, my dears,”—a profound silence reigned, four little hearts beat
quickly. “Last year your Christmas tree and the presents on it cost me
sixty dollars.” A shadow gathered over more than one face. “This is
such a sad time for so many, and we must do with less ourselves to help
them. If you are willing to do without your presents this year, Alice’s
mother shall have the money.”
Lillie sighed, Frank made a wry face, and Jennie could not quite help
the exclamation:
“Oh, my bracelet!” but little Rosie’s brown eyes remained quite bright,
and she stroked her father’s cheek contentedly.
“Well, my dears, what do you say?”
“Oh, papa, you could not think us so cruel; of course we are willing,”
the three cried in a breath. “We did not think of _that_, you know,
and so it can’t help being a disappointment just at first.”
“Anything would be better than that, papa,” ventured Frank. “It will be
so dull—and then, no Christmas presents. Why, who ever heard of such a
thing?”
“Little Alice, I dare say,” his father replied; “I imagine she has
never had a present in her life.”
Frank seemed amazed at the idea. His imagination had never fathomed the
depth of such misery.
“But,” continued his papa, “you can sell Robin, or your watch, or your
gun.”
“Oh, papa, Robin! And, you see, I’m so used to the watch—and my gun,
why, just think, I couldn’t stand seeing the ducks on the lake with
nothing to shoot at them.”
“Well, my boy, Alice has no stockings, and Mrs. Ross no wood—just
think of this room without a fire this morning!”
“I know it, it is all right, papa—I’m agreed!” cried Frank, abruptly,
leaving the room.
“Very well, then, here’s the purse. I’ll put it into Miss Lane’s
hands—she’ll be prudent. Are you satisfied, Kitten?” pulling Rosie’s
ears.
“Yes, papa, for I thought you might want Dolly, and you know I love
Dolly—that would have been sad.”
“I think we must manage a dolly for little Alice, too, Miss Lane,” said
Mr. Graham.
Rosie started a little anxiously. A look of perplexity puckered her
smooth forehead, and all day she moved about in an unusually thoughtful
manner. Towards evening, as Miss Lane was going to her own room to get
her bonnet and cloak, before setting out for Mrs. Ross’s dwelling, in
order to make inquiries into her necessities, she heard a little voice
talking in the nursery, and going to the door, peeped in. Rosie sat on
the floor, with her little bureau of doll’s clothing before her. She
had the precious plaything in her arm, and was soothing it with gentle
words.
“Now you must not cry, for I shall come to see you sometimes, and I
hope Alice will be good to you. But, you know, she never had a dolly,
nor a present in all her life—just think how dreadful, and her papa’s
gone, and they have no wood to make a fire: so you must comfort Alice,
for she must be very unhappy. I am sure I love you very much, better
than anything I have, and that is the reason I give you away. You have
made me so happy that I think you’ll make Alice happy too, and then she
won’t cry when she comes to Sunday school any more. It makes me so sad
to see her.”
The tears were in Rosie’s eyes, her lip was quivering. Her sacrifice
was greater than that of all the rest. Miss Lane stole away on tip-toe,
much touched. When she was ready to go, a timid voice begged leave to
accompany her, and the little girl carried her treasure in silence to
the poor child, whose face lighted with such joy on seeing it, that
content came into Rosie’s face immediately; so that, though her voice
trembled, she smiled in begging Alice to “take good care of it,” and
trotted home briskly and happily.
It was the very next day that Lillie and Jennie were to begin the
stockings for Alice, and Lillie, knitting-needle in hand, was trying
patiently to follow Miss Lane’s directions about the beginning, while
Jennie sat sullenly looking out of the window, wishing she had no stain
on her conscience to make her ashamed of going into the parlor with the
rest.