“I am glad you have come, Clara,” said Mrs. Gray, as her little daughter
entered the room, on her return from an errand to a neighboring shop; “I
began to fear you would be too late. Where are the buttons?”
“The buttons!” exclaimed Clara. “Oh, mother, I forgot to buy them!”
“Forgot to buy them, Clara; how is that possible, when you went to the
shop for the very purpose of getting them? I gave you no other errand.”
“I know that, mother; but you gave me leave to buy the worsted to work
the slippers for father, for which I have been saving my money so long.
I met Anna Lee, and we were so busy talking together, and selecting the
prettiest shades of worsted, that I quite forgot the buttons. I will go
back again, mother.”
“No, Clara, it will be too late; your father is now eating his dinner,
and he expects the coach in a few minutes. I should have but just time
to sew the buttons on his coat, if I had them now. If he had not been so
suddenly called from home, his clothes would have been in readiness. I
have exerted myself all the morning to put every thing in proper order
for his journey, and all is now ready excepting his overcoat, which
needs new buttons very much.”
Clara looked sorry and ashamed, and just then her father entered the
room, saying,—
“Is my coat nearly ready? I think the coach will be here in five
minutes.”
“I am sorry to say that Clara forgot the buttons,” replied his wife,
“and there is no time to send her again to the shop.”
“Oh, no!” said Mr. Gray, “I must wear the coat as it is. I should be
gone before she could reach the shop. It is not pleasant to think that
my little daughter’s forgetfulness obliges me to wear a shabby coat; but
do not trouble yourself about it. I will get a tailor to repair it at
the town where we stop for the night.”
A few minutes passed, and the coach rattled to the door. Mr. Gray
hastily bade his wife an affectionate farewell, and stooping to kiss
Clara he said, “My daughter must remember that forgetfulness is, often,
only another name for selfishness.”
In another minute he had taken his place in the coach, the door was
closed, the driver sprang to his seat, and they whirled away as fast as
the four stout horses could carry them.
Clara stood at the door until the coach was out of sight, and then
slowly and sadly returned to the parlor, and seated herself by her
mother.
“I am very sorry I forgot the buttons,” she said; “but what did father
mean by saying that forgetfulness is only another name for selfishness?
I did not mean to forget, mother; I was willing to go for them. Selfish
people are unwilling to do any thing to help others.”
“There are many kinds of selfishness, Clara, and forgetfulness is
certainly one kind. You have a bad habit of excusing many acts of
thoughtlessness and carelessness by saying, ‘I forgot.’ Now can you tell
me why you forgot to buy the buttons?”
“Because I was so engaged in selecting the worsteds and in admiring the
pretty colors, mother.”
“And was not that selfish, Clara? You did not forget your own errand,
but you allowed it to engross your mind so entirely, that you forgot the
real object for which you were sent to the shop. If you loved to be of
use to me, as well as you love to please yourself, you would have
remembered what I sent you for, and purchased that before you attended
to your own wants.”
“I will try to do better another time, mother,” replied Clara, “and in
this case I believe I was a little selfish; but I do not believe that
forgetfulness is always selfishness.”
“Not always, perhaps; but very often,” said Mrs. Gray. “If we love our
neighbor as ourselves, we shall remember his desires as well as we do
our own. It is a poor excuse for any fault to say, ‘I forgot to do
right.’ Now, tie on your bonnet, Clara, and we will take a short walk
this fine afternoon.”
“Oh, thank you, mother! I love to walk with you; and will you tell me
where father has gone, and all about it, as you said you would do when
you were at leisure.”
“I will,” replied her mother. “We will take the pleasant retired path
which leads through the woods, and when we reach our favorite seat we
will rest ourselves, and talk about your father’s journey.”
Clara always found a walk with her mother instructive as well as
delightful; for Mrs. Gray allowed nothing to escape her observation, but
made even the most trifling objects the means of conveying pleasant and
useful information. A simple flower, or blade of grass, often served to
impress upon Clara’s mind the wisdom and beauty which is visible in all
the works of the Lord; and the music of the birds never fell unheeded
upon her ear, but elevated her affections to her Heavenly Father,
without whom not even a sparrow falleth to the ground. From her earliest
childhood her mother had endeavored to give her habits of observation,
and had taught her to regard nothing which the Lord has made as too
trifling to be instructive and useful, if examined with proper
attention.
“Anna Lee has collected specimens of a great many different kinds of
leaves, mother,” said Clara, as she plucked a large oak leaf from a tree
which they were passing, and admired its deep green and smooth glossy
surface. “She has a very large book quite full, and yet she tells me
that she has never been able to find two leaves exactly alike.”
“She will never find two leaves alike, Clara. There are no two things in
creation that are exactly alike.”
“Why, mother, how can you know?” exclaimed Clara, in surprise. “There
may be two things alike which you have never seen.”
“No, Clara, this cannot be. The Lord is infinite, and therefore there is
an infinite variety in all things that He has made. There is not given
any thing the same as another, and neither can be given to eternity.”
“Not even two blades of grass, mother?” asked Clara.
“No, Clara,” replied her mother, smiling. “When you are older you will
understand this better, but it will always fill your mind with wonder
and admiration. At present, it is sufficient for you to recollect what I
have said,—that the Lord is infinite, and that therefore, there is an
infinite variety in all things. To impress this upon your mind, you may
compare as many things as you please, and you will soon find that
although they will frequently look alike, yet by careful observation you
will always find some slight shades of difference.”
“Yes, mother, I will try,” said Clara, “and I think I should like to
collect a book of leaves like Anna’s, if you are willing, mother.”
“I have no objection, Clara; and, if you like, I will give you a short
lesson to learn in a little book which I have on Botany, and then you
will know the names of the different forms of leaves, and I will show
you how to arrange them properly in your book.”
“Oh, thank you, mother! I shall like that very much. And now here we are
at our mossy seat, and I shall hear where father has gone, and why he
looked so grave when he read that letter this morning.”
“Yes, you shall now hear all about it,” replied Mrs. Gray. “I was
pleased to observe that you tried to suppress your curiosity this
morning, and when your father requested you to leave the room, as he
wished to talk with me alone, that you obeyed readily and without asking
any questions. The letter was from your aunt Catharine. She tells us
that her husband’s health is evidently declining, and the physicians
strongly recommend a milder climate. They also think that a voyage at
sea might be useful to him. He will leave home for Italy in a few days,
and your aunt has decided to accompany him.”
“And is little Ellen going with them, mother?” asked Clara, who was
listening with eager attention.
“No, my dear,” replied Mrs. Gray; “your aunt thinks that she could not
devote herself so entirely to her husband if little Ellen was with her,
and she has therefore decided to leave her behind, although it is a
great trial to part with her. She would like to have Ellen remain with
us during their absence, and this was the principal subject of the
letter to your father.”
“And shall you let her come, mother?” exclaimed Clara. “Oh, do say yes!
I shall be so delighted to have a little sister like Ellen to play with.
I will help you take care of her all the time.”
“Her nurse will come with her,” replied Mrs. Gray, smiling at Clara’s
eagerness. “Your father has now gone to visit your uncle and aunt, and
it is quite probable that little Ellen and her nurse will return with
him.”
“How glad I am,” said Clara; “I hope aunt will remain in Italy a long
time. I do not mean that I hope uncle Henry’s health will oblige them to
stay, but I should love to have him get better, and conclude to travel
for two or three years, and leave Ellen with us.”
“There is no probability of their doing this, Clara. If your uncle
should recover, they will return next summer; and though we may have
become much attached to your little cousin, and grieve to part with her,
I trust we shall not be so selfish as to wish to prolong her separation
from her parents.”
“I can teach her a great deal before they come home,” said Clara. “She
is nearly two years old now. I might teach her to read before she is
three.”
“We will first teach her to talk,” replied her mother; “but we will not
teach her to say, ‘I forgot!’”
“No, mother, I will not teach her to say that. I will teach her all that
I can that is good, but nothing that is evil.”
“A very good resolution, Clara. And now we will return home, for the air
is rather too cool.”
Before I tell my young readers about Mr. Gray’s return with little
Ellen, I must introduce them more particularly to Clara; although, from
what I have already said concerning her, they may have formed a good
idea of her character, and have justly concluded that she is very much
like themselves, sometimes trying to do what is right, and suffering
herself to be led by the good spirits around her, and at other times
somewhat selfish and thoughtless, allowing evil spirits to lead her in
the wrong path.
Clara was nearly eleven years old. She was generally obedient to her
parents and teachers, kind to her playmates, diligent in her studies,
and orderly and industrious in her habits. Still she had some faults.
Although obliging in her disposition, and desirous to be useful to those
around her, she frequently entirely disregarded their wishes through
mere thoughtlessness and inattention. Like most children, she was fond
of play, and sometimes allowed her amusements to make her forget to
perform her duties.
She was unwilling to believe that this forgetfulness was one form of
selfishness; for Clara, like many other persons, believed herself free
from this evil, because she was glad to share whatever she had with
those who needed it, and was even willing to give up her own pleasure
for the sake of being useful to others. I have known her to decline an
invitation to a pleasant little party, because her mother was not quite
well, and needed her attention; and yet, perhaps, in the course of that
same afternoon, she would become so much interested in some book, or
favorite amusement, that she would quite forget the object for which she
remained at home, and entirely neglect to attend to her mother.
I will relate an instance of Clara’s thoughtlessness, and you will then
see that she sometimes gave great trouble to herself and to others,
although she very seldom intended to do wrong;—she only _forgot to do
right_.
Very near to Mr. Gray’s there lived a good old woman, whom the children
in the neighborhood called aunt Molly. She lived in a small cottage,
with a neat little garden in front, containing a few flowers and
vegetables, and one large apple-tree. Aunt Molly was quite lame, and
always used a crutch in walking. She had one son, about eighteen years
of age, who lived with her, and took care of her. During the day he was
obliged to be from home to attend to his work, but he took good care to
bring wood, and water, and every thing that he thought his mother could
want, before he left her; and with the help of her crutch she was able
to move about quite briskly, and her little cottage was always in the
neatest order. Every child in the neighborhood loved to visit aunt
Molly, for she had a kind word for each of them, and often a pleasant
story to tell, or a gift of a rosy-cheeked apple or a pretty flower.
One bright afternoon in October, Clara asked her mother’s leave to pass
an hour or two at the cottage. Mrs. Gray readily consented, and
requested her to take a glass of grape jelly, which she had just been
making, to the old lady.
“I love to carry aunt Molly a little present, because she is always so
much pleased,” said Clara; and, tying on her bonnet, she bade her mother
good afternoon, and taking the glass in her hand, soon reached the
cottage, where she found aunt Molly comfortably seated in her large
arm-chair, with her knitting-work in her hands, and her crutch lying by
her side. She was, as Clara expected, much pleased with the jelly, and
said it was the best she had tasted for many years. Clara sat by her
side for half an hour, chatting away very happily, and then aunt Molly
requested her to read aloud to her for a little while, as her eyes were
failing, and she often found it difficult to see to read herself. Clara
readily complied, for she was glad to be of use, and another half hour
passed away very pleasantly.
“Now,” said aunt Molly, “you must go to the garden, and find a nice
apple for yourself. In a few days my son will gather them all, but I
have none in the house to-day. You will probably find some good ones on
the ground, or perhaps you can reach the lower branches of the tree.”
So Clara ran to the apple-tree, and looked around upon the grass beneath
it for a nice apple. There were some pretty good ones, but they did not
suit her exactly, for high up above her head she saw those that were
much larger and fairer.
“There is a beauty!” she exclaimed; “I can almost reach it. I wish I had
a stick. I will run and borrow aunt Molly’s crutch, and knock it down.”
Aunt Molly was quite willing to lend her crutch, but she charged Clara
to bring it back directly, as it was nearly time for her to put by her
knitting and prepare tea.
“Oh, yes, I will come right back!” said Clara, “and I will set the
table, and hang on the tea-kettle, and help you get tea.”
While Clara was endeavoring to knock the apple from the tree, she saw
two of her schoolmates running along a lane not far from the cottage;
they were talking very merrily, and seemed to be much pleased about
something. Clara threw down the crutch and ran after them. They stopped
when they heard her call to them, and told her that they were going to
the grove to see a new swing which their brother had just put up.
“Can every one swing in it who wishes to?” asked Clara.
“Certainly,” replied Susan Allen, one of the little girls. “My brother
said it was for the accommodation of all the children in the
neighborhood. Come with us, and we will have a fine swing.”
In her eagerness to try the new swing, Clara quite forgot aunt Molly’s
crutch, which she had left under the apple-tree, and ran hastily along
with the other girls until they reached a small grove of willow-trees at
the end of the lane. Here they found a fine large swing, and enjoyed
their play so much that the time passed very quickly. It was nearly an
hour since Clara had left the apple-tree, when she suddenly sprung from
the swing, exclaiming,—
“Oh, dear, I forgot aunt Molly’s crutch! I am so sorry,” and she run as
fast as she could toward the cottage.
Poor aunt Molly, after waiting fifteen or twenty minutes for Clara to
return with the crutch, began to fear that some accident had befallen
her, and thought she would try to get to the door and look out into the
garden. She succeeded in doing this, by taking hold of the chairs and
other furniture. She saw her crutch lying under the tree, but nothing
was to be seen of Clara. She called as loudly as she could, but no one
answered. Becoming still more alarmed, aunt Molly endeavored to get down
the steps which led into the garden, hoping to be able to reach her
crutch.
“If I can only get my crutch,” she said to herself, “I will go to the
next house, and ask them to look for the poor child, for I know not what
has become of her.”
But, unfortunately, the old lady, having nothing to take hold of, lost
her balance and fell to the ground. The steps were high, and she was a
good deal bruised by the fall, and her lameness entirely prevented her
from rising, or helping herself in any way.
Providentially, however, her son returned at an earlier hour than usual.
He was much shocked at finding his mother in such a condition, and
carefully raising her from the ground, he helped her into the cottage,
and laid her upon the bed. He was then preparing to attend to the
bruises upon her face and arm, which were beginning to look very badly,
but his mother begged him to leave her and look for Clara, for she felt
exceedingly anxious concerning her. Just at this moment Clara ran
hastily into the room, with the crutch in her hand, which she had found
under the tree where she left it. She felt very sad at finding aunt
Molly so much injured through her forgetfulness and neglect. The kind
old lady did not reproach her, but she begged her to try to grow more
thoughtful and considerate.
Clara went immediately to her mother, and told her of what she had done,
and Mrs. Gray hastened to the cottage with some liniment and other
things which were useful for bruises and sprains.
It was several weeks before aunt Molly was able to sit in her chair and
knit again, for her arm was so badly sprained by the fall that it was a
long time before she could use it. Clara went every day to the cottage
to assist her, and gladly gave up many of her hours for play that she
might have leisure to attend to aunt Molly’s wants, without neglecting
her studies and other duties. This lesson appeared to make so deep an
impression upon her mind, that her mother hoped it would quite cure her
fault; but after a short time had passed away, Clara was nearly as
heedless as she was before. When bad habits are once acquired it is
difficult to overcome them, and many sad lessons are often necessary
before we sincerely endeavor to remove the evil.
* * * * *
A few days after Mr. Gray had left home, his wife received a letter from
him naming the day that he should probably return, and requesting to
have a room prepared for Ellen and her nurse, as they would accompany
him.
Clara was quite overjoyed, and begged her mother to allow her a holiday,
that she might collect every thing that could please her little cousin
from her old stores of playthings, some of which had long been laid
aside. Mrs. Gray consented, and gave her leave to use the lower shelves
of a closet in the room which Ellen was to occupy, for a baby-house. To
this closet, therefore, Clara brought all her treasures, and spent
several hours very happily in making new dresses for the dolls, and in
arranging the different apartments of a house upon the shelves. At
length the parlor, kitchen, and sleeping-rooms were all in proper order;
the dolls were suitably dressed, and placed in their respective places;
one or two were quietly seated in the parlor, another was standing by a
washtub in the kitchen, and another might be seen in the neatly made bed
in the upper room. Mrs. Gray was then summoned to look at the
baby-house. She admired the neatness with which every thing was
arranged, but warned Clara not to be disappointed if she found Ellen too
young to understand and appreciate it.
“Why, mother,” exclaimed Clara, “even very little babies like
playthings.”
“Certainly,” replied her mother, “but they like to play with them in
their own way. Ellen will, I doubt not, be much pleased with the
baby-house, but she will not know how to arrange things in an orderly
manner, as you do. For instance, you have placed the clothes for your
dolls very neatly in the drawers of the little bureau. Now, it is quite
probable that Ellen will be delighted with the bureau, but she will not
be willing to allow the clothes to remain in the drawers. Every drawer
will be taken out, and the clothes unfolded; the bureau will be turned
upside down, and perhaps a block-house built with the drawers.”
“Oh, mother,” said Clara, “that will not do at all! I will show Ellen
how to play properly.”
“You can let her see how you use the playthings, and she will soon begin
to imitate you; but do not interfere with her plays too much. It is
better to let little children play in their own way, as much as we can,
without allowing them to injure themselves or others. The Lord keeps
good spirits constantly near to them, and in every innocent amusement
they are endeavoring to impart those remains of goodness and truth which
will enable them to be useful and happy as they grow older.”
“I will remember this, mother, and I will try to be patient, even if
little Ellen pulls my pretty bed to pieces, and puts the ladies into the
kitchen, and Susy, the girl who does my work, into the parlor.”
“She will probably do these and many other strange things,” replied Mrs.
Gray; “but you must always try, when playing with little children, to
play entirely for their amusement. Do not attempt to have things in your
own way, but devote yourself to making them happy.”
“And now all is ready,” said Clara, “and how I wish to-morrow evening
was here.”
“Never wish away time, my dear Clara, but endeavor to improve every
moment as it flies. When we are busily engaged in our duties and
pleasures, time always passes quickly.”
Clara followed her mother’s advice, and attended diligently to her
studies during the forenoon of the following day. The afternoon was
devoted to reading, sewing, and walking. The hours soon passed away, and
the coach containing the travellers drove to the door before Clara had
begun to watch for its appearance.
For two or three days little Ellen was too much grieved, by the
separation from her father and mother, to show much affection for the
new friends around her; but she soon forgot her troubles, and appeared
perfectly contented and happy. She was a sweet-looking, happy child, and
no one could look in her innocent face without loving her dearly.
Clara devoted every leisure moment to her. The baby-house was at first
in constant disorder, but very soon Ellen would try to arrange the
playthings as she saw Clara do, and if she did not succeed in putting
them in their proper places, she would run to her cousin, and pull her
by the frock, saying, “Come, Tara, come.” When all the things were in
order, she would clap her little hands, and say, “Pretty, pretty! Ellen
happy now.” This pleased Clara very much, and she sometimes told her
mother that she loved Ellen more and more every day.
“I can teach her many things,” she said, “but there are some things
which she teaches me. I never thought so much about the Lord, and
heaven, and the angels, as I have done since Ellen has lived with us. I
love to think how the angels watch over her, and try to teach her what
is good and true. Sometimes when my lessons trouble me, and I feel idle
and cross, if little Ellen comes into the room all these evil feelings
go away, and I resolve to be good and happy. I think she brings the
angels with her, and this makes me feel better.”
“You must remember that the Lord keeps angels near to you as well as to
Ellen, Clara,” replied Mrs. Gray. “The evil spirits are suffered to have
more power over you than over her, because you are older, and have
learned to distinguish between good and evil. You can easily tell
whether the thoughts which come into your mind are right or wrong, and
you know that the Lord will always enable you to remove the evil
spirits, and suffer the angels to draw near to you, if you sincerely
desire it.”
“Yes, mother, I know this; but sometimes I think I should love to be a
little child like Ellen, and then I should not so often feel tempted to
do wrong. How sweet she looks when she is asleep. When I look at her
then, mother, I always feel like praying to the Lord. My heart seems to
be raised to Him.”
“It is a good feeling, my dear, child,” said Mrs. Gray, kissing Clara
affectionately. “The angels are indeed near to you when your heart is
thus raised to your Heavenly Father, and He will always hear your
prayer, and strengthen you to walk in the path of goodness and truth.”
Several months had passed since the commencement of our story, and in
many respects Clara had considerably improved. “I forgot” was an
expression less frequently used than formerly; but still her old habits
of heedless forgetfulness were often troublesome, and she was frequently
mortified to find that her friends feared to trust her in any important
matter, lest she should neglect to perform her duty.
“Why will you never allow Ellen to walk alone with me, Margaret?”
inquired Clara of the faithful woman who had charge of her little
cousin; “I am sure I am old enough to take good care of her, and she
loves me almost as well as she does you.”
“You are very kind to her, and she loves you very much, Miss Clara,”
replied Margaret; “but I should fear to trust her in the street with
you, because you are sometimes a little thoughtless, and some accident
might happen to her. When your aunt parted from the dear child, she
begged me, with tears in her eyes, to watch over her night and day, and
I shall faithfully try to keep the promise I then made.”
“But, Margaret,” urged Clara, “what accident could happen to Ellen if I
took her to walk up and down the street, and kept hold of her hand all
the way. I would not leave her an instant.”
“You might forget her,” said Margaret, hesitatingly, for she did not
wish to grieve Clara. “Some of your schoolmates might call to you, or
something else might take your attention.”
“You ought not to say so,” replied Clara, looking a little offended. “I
know I forget things sometimes, but they are almost always trifling
matters, such as errands, or some other little thing. I could not forget
Ellen. Could I, mother?” she continued, appealing to her mother, who was
sitting in the next room, and had heard the conversation..
“I think Margaret is right, Clara,” replied Mrs. Gray. “While we see you
so forgetful of little duties, it would not be proper to intrust you
with any thing important. I think you have improved in this respect
lately, but you are still very thoughtless, and do not make so much
effort to correct the fault as I could wish.”
Clara did not look very pleasant while her mother was speaking.
“I do not think I am any more forgetful than other people,” she said.
“Every one forgets sometimes.”
“You speak improperly, Clara,” said her mother. “You are not in a good,
humble state,—willing to acknowledge your faults and try to remove
them.”
Clara made no reply, and soon left the room. She felt grieved and
displeased that her little cousin could not be intrusted to her care,
and she felt disposed to charge her mother and Margaret with unkindness,
rather than to blame herself for deserving the mortification.
Not many days after the above conversation, Clara and Ellen were playing
in the sitting-room, while Mrs. Gray and Margaret were busily engaged in
one of the upper rooms, quilting a bed-spread. There was no fire in the
room where the children were, and it appeared perfectly safe to leave
them together for an hour or two.
Clara was keeping house, and she frequently sent Ellen to different
parts of the room to purchase such articles as she supposed herself to
need. Sometimes she was ordered to go to the grocer’s for tea and sugar,
sometimes to the market for meat and vegetables. Ellen would run
cheerfully to the place pointed out, pick up a bit of paper or any thing
else that she could find, and return with it to Clara. I suppose you
have all seen children playing in this manner.
“You must have a market-basket, Ellen,” said Clara. “I know where there
is one that will do nicely. It belongs to me, but I never used it, so
mother put it up on the upper shelf in this closet. I will take it
down.”
Thus saying, Clara opened the door of the closet, and stepped upon a
chair that she might reach the basket. There were several other things
upon the shelf, and amongst others a box of small papers, neatly folded
up and carefully labelled. When Clara took her basket down she upset
this box, and some of the papers fell to the floor. She picked them up
and put them in their place; but after she had shut the door, she saw
that one little parcel had fallen upon the table near to the closet.
“Never mind,” thought Clara, “I will put it back directly, as soon as I
have fixed the basket for Ellen.”
They continued their play, and an hour passed very happily. Clara had
forgotten all about the paper, which still lay upon the table. She was
showing Ellen the pictures in a large and valuable book of her father’s,
when Margaret looked in at the door, and inquired if they wanted any
thing.
“Nothing at all, I thank you, Margaret,” replied Clara; “you may quilt
another hour, if you like. We are having a fine time.”
Margaret gave them each a cake, and returned to her work.
While they were eating their cake, Clara saw a little girl, of whom
Ellen was very fond, driving her hoop back and forth in front of the
house.
“Oh, there is Mary!” she exclaimed; “look, Ellen, how fast she drives
her hoop! I wish I could take you out there.”
Ellen knocked upon the window, and called “Mamy, Mamy!” but Mary did not
hear.
“I will run to the door and call her,” said Clara, “and then she will
come and see Ellen. Will you sit still while I am gone?”
Ellen sat down very quietly, and folded her hands, as she always did
when asked to wait for any one, and Clara ran to the door to call Mary.
Mary was an obedient, thoughtful child, and she told Clara that she
could not come without her mother’s leave, but if she would wait a
moment, she would ask her.
The house where Mary lived was next door to Mr. Gray’s, so Clara
promised to wait while she asked her mother.
“Be as quick as you can, Mary,” she said, “for I left Ellen alone.”
Mary ran into the house, but returned directly, saying, “I cannot come
now, Clara, because mother wants me to take care of the baby. But just
look at this beautiful present that my aunt sent me last evening,” and
she showed Clara a pretty little work-box, and, touching a spring, it
commenced playing a lively tune. “How pretty!” exclaimed Clara, “I never
saw a musical work-box before;” and she stood still listening to the
music until the sounds died away, and the box was as silent as any other
work-box.
“Oh, make it play once more, Mary!” said Clara; and Mary again touched
the spring, and it played another tune even prettier than the first.
Clara would still have begged for another, for the music and the pretty
box had banished every thing else from her mind; but her more thoughtful
companion reminded her that Ellen was alone, and that she must go to her
mother.
“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Clara, “I forgot all about Ellen; I hope she has
not cried for me. Perhaps she opened the door and went up stairs. She
goes up alone sometimes. Good-bye, Mary,” and she ran back to the
sitting-room.
Ellen had left the seat where Clara had placed her, and was standing by
the table, with the little parcel which had been left there in her hand.