“Jennie,” called a full, clear voice twice before there was any answer.
At the second summons Jennie slowly opened the door, and saw Miss
Lane waiting at the foot of the stairs. “Get your work-box, thimble,
and scissors, and come down stairs. I want you and Lillie to make a
knitting-bag before you begin the stockings.”
“Yes, I will,” answered Jennie, glad that the first trouble, the
meeting with her teacher, was over.
Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed. Miss Lane was about to despatch a
messenger for her, when the door opened, and a discontented, frowning
face appeared. The work-box was dashed upon the sofa, and Jennie
exclaimed angrily,
“I don’t want to sew—I have been hunting and hunting for my
scissors—somebody’s always meddling with my things—and now, when I
found those, I can’t find my thimble. I wish—” she cried, turning
passionately upon her sisters, “I wish you’d stay out of my room. You
have no business there—you know it.”
There was a sob in her voice. Lillie’s color rose violently, while
Rosie looked grieved and frightened. The former opened her lips to
retort, but at a sign from Miss Lane, restrained herself.
“Take your work-box and go up stairs, Jennie,” said Miss Lane, quietly.
The young girl started in a sort of amazement, and looked into her
teacher’s face. She had not the slightest intention of obeying her,
and felt in a whirl of anger at being ordered about so like a child;
but the clear, steady eye met hers unwaveringly, not the faintest
tinge of color dyed the smooth cheek. There was power there not to be
resisted—and before that quiet _will_ she bowed.
Taking her box in her hand, she obeyed, as a matter of course, and
went to her room again, in loneliness. She lay down on the bed and
sobbed. Oh! how everything darkened around her! How far off now lay the
beautiful, new life of which she had been dreaming! That fair, clean
white leaf which she had promised herself should have no stain, was
soiled already; and the sun was shining on a day begun without prayer,
without a thought of God, and the clouds of idleness, disobedience, and
anger, were rising to dim it all.
Only yesterday, everything had seemed so bright—only yesterday, Jennie
had resolved to give herself to God entirely, had felt a waking up to
work in His cause, and promised that at Easter she would be confirmed.
But now, how fearfully she had failed! It was always so! she could not
keep her resolutions, there was no use in trying—she knew it would
never be any better.
All her life long she would have that struggle about getting up in the
morning, and she so disliked that same dull, every-day work. If it
were only right to do just what one pleased! A wild, thrilling wish
filled her heart that it were so, and for an instant, the chains that
conscience and a sense of duty cast around her, seemed too galling to
be borne. Sad, discouraged, and restless, she tossed from side to side
of the bed, making herself more miserable by indulging in her sinful
thoughts.
Presently a hand touched her cheek, and Miss Lane said: “Come, Jennie,
get up; brush your hair, and I will help you to find your thimble—the
day is passing away.”
Mechanically she obeyed, bathing her face and hands, smoothing her
hair, and feeling more cheerful for the pleasant smile beaming upon her
all the time.
“When had you your thimble last?”
“Yesterday, I believe. I was braiding a little at papa’s slipper; but I
don’t know where I left my work.”
“Where were you working?”
“Let me see.” She paused to think a minute. “I was sitting on the
window-seat in the library. I must have left it there.”
“We’ll go down and look. Have you no place for keeping your things?”
“I have that basket for larger things, but that was not down stairs. It
takes so much time to run about, putting things away.”
“Do you think it would have taken as much as it has done to hunt the
thimble this morning?”
“I never thought of that! So it does,” exclaimed Jennie, flushing into
animation at the discovery.
“Besides,” continued Miss Lane, “did it never occur to you that it was
sinful to be careless, even in little things?”
The look of weariness returned to her face.
“Miss Lane, I _can’t_ do right, there is no use in trying! I do think
I’ll try, but it never lasts.”
“May-be, you think you can do it without help, my dear?”
“I did not think of praying about such a little thing,” she answered,
in a low tone, her face flushing.
“Little things make great things, my dear. Our lives are made up
of little things. Constant, little vexations are harder to bear in
patience than some great grief. If we want God’s help in our life, we
must ask it for little things, because great things may happen only
once in a life-time, and the little trials are of hourly occurrence.
Which was harder to bear—giving up your Christmas tree, or the
vexation about your thimble?”
“About the thimble,” answered Jennie immediately.
In the mean time they had reached the library. On the floor lay a
beautifully bound and illustrated copy of Percy’s “Reliques”, with the
print of Tan’s paws on its open leaves; and among tangled braids and
silk lay the torn, soiled, half-finished slipper. Miss Lane gathered
all up in silence, and continued the search for the thimble without a
word.
“You see,” said Jennie, thoughtfully, standing in the middle of the
room, with her head on one side, “I was sewing here, and I was in
great haste to get done. Rosie came in and wanted me to read her ‘The
Children in the Wood.’ So I got up there to reach the book—you see,
there is just where it was on the shelf—and then, I don’t remember
anything more about the thimble. I did not sew again, and when it was
too dark to read I forgot all about the slippers and book, too—because
you were playing a favorite piece in the parlor.”
“I wonder what your papa would say to those mud stains on his
‘Reliques?’ You must have left the book on the floor, and Tan trod on
it. If it were my book, I should not value it after it had been so
defaced.”
“Oh!” answered Jennie, carelessly, “he can easily get another one.”
“You can buy more material for the slippers, and another thimble, too;
but don’t you know that the money for those things would buy Mrs. Ross
a cloak, or pay for the splitting of all her winter’s wood? The book
must have been an expensive one, and your thimble was gold.”
“I never thought of it in that light,” said Jennie, slowly. “Then I
suppose we ought to be careful, even if we have everything we want.”
“Certainly, we have to account for the way in which we spend or waste
money, as well as time.”
Jennie looked up in dismay.
“Oh! Miss Lane, what an array there will be against us at the time of
reckoning. So many things I have done wrong, though the day is not half
done!”
“You began wrong in the first place!”
“I know it, and I meant to do all right. I don’t believe there is much
use in trying;” and she sat down despondently.
“I have not seen you try yet. You yield at the slightest temptation.”
The tears sprang to Jennie’s eyes; she seemed much grieved.
“You are not to have the victory without a battle, my child; not to
wear the crown unless you have run for it. And it seems to me that you
make resolutions in a fit of enthusiasm, thinking _that_ the only thing
to be done, whereas it is only the beginning. Have you really tried not
to be careless? Have you really prayed for God to help you to conquer
that fault?”
“No,” she answered slowly, “it never seemed so serious before. I did
not think of its being a sin.”
“Don’t you see it now?”
“Yes, but you must show me. I don’t know how to begin. I wish I had
some rules to follow that I dare not break.”
“You have a rule. God’s laws must not be broken wilfully. I cannot give
you rules more binding.”
“Well, I should like to be as careful and as neat as you are; but how
am I to learn?”
“Put your things in order, and keep them so. There is nothing easier.
Then you never have any hunting to do—and thus your temper is not
excited so often. I suppose we might as well give up the search for the
thimble, it does not come to light. I have no doubt that Tan chewed it
up. I’ll go up to your room and help you put your things in order, so
that you may make a beginning. Come.”
“I am so sorry about the thimble. Do you know, it is almost the last
thing mamma gave me of her own? I dropped her ring in the orchard, and
Frank trod on her pearl pin. I had it in my scarf, and left it on the
hall table one day. Tan pulled it on the floor, and Frank crushed it
with his boot. And now the thimble has gone. Lillie has all her things
safe, and Mrs. Hill keeps Rosie’s for her. Oh, I’m _so_ sorry!”
“Well, there is no use in regretting it now—or rather—I hope it will
do you good. I thought you loved your mamma.”
“Oh, Miss Lane!”
“Well, my dear, you do not seem to care for anything she has given you.
I should think you would cherish everything she has touched. It shocks
me to think of your allowing her gifts to lie about the floor.”
Jennie’s tears flowed fast as they walked up stairs together.
“This is the way I keep my drawers,” said Miss Lane, opening one after
another, and exhibiting piles of neatly folded handkerchiefs, snowy
collars and cuffs, stockings rolled up compactly, and dainty garments
with sprigs of lavender between.
“Oh, how beautiful! It is a pleasure to look at them. Mine are so
different,” cried Jennie, as she looked.
“Here is my work-basket. Here are the cases for my thimble, for my
spools, and for my scissors. Here is my needle-book, too, and in this
bag are silks wound upon ivory winders. I keep this long silk bag with
the shallow basket in the bottom for my knitting, and I must tell you
that I never lose anything. Shall we go now into your room awhile and
make an examination?”
“I am ashamed that you should see my things. I always _stuff_ them in.
It takes so long to put them away particularly.”
“We agreed a little while ago that time was saved by being careful,
you know. I think you must confess that most of your morning has been
wasted in hunting what would not have taken you twenty minutes to put
away properly.”
In the top drawer of Jennie’s bureau were a comb and brush, one shoe
and a slipper, a Prayer-book, several pairs of gloves, a heap of
stockings, one dumb-bell, a pair of _graces_, and a half eaten apple.
In the second, among a pile of incongruous articles, was an overturned
work-basket, with all the silks and cotton in a snarl, and, one by one,
Miss Lane placed various pieces of unfinished work on a chair by her
side. The first was a slipper partly embroidered.
“I began that for papa’s birthday, but I did not like the pattern—so I
bought the others,” explained Jennie, as it came to light.
“Those were mats for mamma’s cologne bottles: but I lost my crochet
needle, and could not finish them,” she continued, as a crimson
worsted mat, minus the border, appeared.
“That was a purse I was knitting for Mrs. Hill: but just look at the
silk—it is one knot; so I had to give it up.
“That was a drawing I promised to do for Dr. Sprague; but I got
so tired of all that shading—and I don’t care to finish that
embroidery—it is out of fashion, you know.
“That is a story I commenced; but I spilt ink on the last pages, and it
soaked through the bottom of my drawer, and stained my white dress till
it is totally ruined. Here it is. I can never wear it again. Wasn’t it
provoking?”
After much work the drawers were reduced to order, the gloves matched,
excepting two which remained unmated, the work-box righted, and all
soiled, rumpled articles removed. Jennie surveyed the whole with much
pleasure, and felt as if nothing could induce her to allow chaos to
prevail again.
“All you have to do now, Jennie, is to remember that, after using a
thing, you must put it into the place from which you took it, and
then it is always there.” Touching the pile of things on the chair,
she continued: “Here you have a lesson. I don’t know that I need say
anything. You see all that begun and never ended. Is your life to be
incomplete, full of plans given up almost as soon as formed,—like
that, with all the threads broken, tangled—no harmony in it—no use
in it—no work in it? Are you going to fritter away all your energy in
devotion to an object for an hour or a day, only to lay it aside after
the first novelty has passed, and a new interest takes its place? Are
you going to fade away from the world without having done anything in
it? Did you ever finish one thing?”
Jennie could think of nothing—not one thing. Drawing, music, French,
German, Italian, all sorts of fancy work, visiting the poor, being
constant in her attendance at church, zealous in good works, had
all been tried successively, and dropped before anything had been
accomplished, any habit formed, so that Jennie, with excellent
opportunities, was really not so well-informed as many girls of her age.
In her desultory reading, she had gathered a mixture of facts and
fiction, till her brain was in as much confusion as her bureau. She
could not converse five minutes in French without a mistake, though she
could skim over a French story and manage to get the substance of its
contents in a very short time indeed. Though passionately devoted to
music she could scarcely play a single piece through correctly. When
the drudgery came, Jennie’s interest flagged. She exhibited much taste
and talent in drawing, but her lack of application had prevented her
from making any progress, and half-finished sketches littered her table
and writing desk.
Her teacher’s words awoke her thoughts. She saw herself as she was,
dreaming, impractical, useless, with her mind undisciplined, full of
weeds like a neglected garden, which, no matter how beautiful in the
beginning, cannot thrive without care and cultivation. She recalled
her mother’s many warnings against this her besetting sin, which she
had allowed to pass unheeded, because it had never been shown to her
clearly before; but there lay the proofs of her folly and wrong-doing,
and on her soul were wrecks of broken promises and resolutions, duties
forgotten, prayers hurriedly said or omitted altogether.
A great fear and dread possessed her. Must it always be so? And at the
great Day, must she be weighed in the balances and found wanting? Oh,
if she could but change it all! But she _had_ tried again and again.
This trying was like the rest; her enthusiasm died away and she gave
it up. Miss Lane said nothing—she was putting the unfinished articles
into a large empty basket. At last Jennie broke the silence.
“Miss Lane, I am going; to try again. Will you help me? Please make
rules for me. Please tell me what I am to do.”
“First, you must expect to do nothing without God’s help: for that you
must ask: to ask it, you must rise earlier, so as to have the time.
Never begin the day without prayer: your life, without that, is like
a boat rudderless upon the broad ocean. Never do anything upon which
you cannot ask God’s blessing. Finish what you undertake, no matter how
great your disgust may be before it is ended. And do but _one_ thing at
a time.”
“I will try. Then I shall finish Alice’s stockings and burn all these
things so as to begin anew.”
“No, Jennie, you must not burn them: you surely cannot meditate such a
sinful waste.”
“But, Miss Lane,” she exclaimed, comprehending with a flash of dismay
her teacher’s meaning, “you cannot expect me to finish all those
things now. Why, I hate the sight of them. I could never untangle that
silk, and the worsted is all to wind. I have another pair of slippers,
too, down stairs—those that Tan tore: and I promised Dr. Sprague the
drawing a year ago—I should be ashamed to give it to him now.”
“It is time you were telling the truth about it, Jennie. You
promised—did you not?”
“Yes.”
“There has been nothing to prevent your doing it, excepting your
distaste for finishing your work, has there?”
“No.”
“Then, my dear, it seems to me, there is but one thing to be done; you
want to bring a clear conscience into your new life. Can’t you see your
duty plainly in this case?”
“Yes, I do. Well,—” with a grimace, “I suppose it must be done. Oh,
dear, it is not going to be easy at all! I shall be glad to get that
Bristol board out of my sight—it is a torture every time I see it.”
“I think you are old enough to know that it would be wrong to finish
any one of these things in such haste as not to do it well, Jennie?”
“Yes,” she answered, alarmed at seeing how Miss Lane took it for
granted that all must be done. “But, indeed, I shall have no time for
Christmas things—and I did _so_ want to knit Alice’s stockings.”
“I know it is a great trial; but you must begin right; and the
lesson will have no effect if you get off so easily. I leave it to
yourself—you may do as you think best. I should not hesitate if it
were myself—the duty is so plain.”
Miss Lane walked out of the room, and Jennie, taking the basket on her
lap, sat down, to think intently. In a few minutes she rose, read the
morning lessons, said her prayers, and, going to the library, searched
perseveringly till she found her thimble. It was on the top shelf,
where she had left it in taking down the “Reliques.” Then setting
herself to work at her drawing, she became so interested that the
dinner-bell startled her quite unpleasantly, and she saw with a thrill
that much towards beginning her new life had been done.