A ZEALOUS LITTLE MISSIONARY
Strange as it may seem, neither child felt any ill effects from that
midnight escapade, but the next morning they awoke as chipper and gay as
if there were no such thing as after-Christmas feelings. They even
forgot the lonely vigil in the stable in their dismay at the discovery
that Lorene had slept all night with Cherry instead of returning to
their room as she had promised to do. An after-breakfast summons to the
President's study brought their pranks vividly to mind again, however,
and with considerable trepidation they saw the heavy door close behind
them, shutting them in alone with the grave-eyed man, for they stood
much in awe of the learned Doctor when that stern look replaced the
usual bluff kindliness of his face.
The conference was exceedingly brief and to the point, judging from the
sober, wilted little culprits who pattered up the stairway a few minutes
later and silently sought the flag room. Henderson and the girls were
consumed with curiosity to know the result of the interview, and their
amazement knew no bounds when the disgraced duet vanished within their
quiet retreat and turned the key in the lock. After waiting in vain
fifteen minutes for them to reappear Lorene crossed the hall and knocked
timidly at the closed door. There was no answer. She tried again, this
time with more vim, but with no better success. Then she called, but not
a sound from within greeted her straining ear. Cherry and Hope each took
a turn, and Henderson pounded his fists sore without receiving a single
word of reply from the prisoners.
"I believe they have climbed out of the window," he cried at last in
exasperation.
"No, they promised grandpa not to. I guess maybe they've been sent to
bed," said Cherry, inwardly thankful that she had not been in the latest
scrapes.
Neither was right. But after a time, tiring of their efforts to get some
sign from the culprits, the quartette in the hall dispersed to amuse
themselves in some more entertaining manner. No sooner had their
footsteps died away on the stairs, and Peace was convinced in her own
mind that they had really gone for good, than a change came over her.
She was sitting erect in a stiff-backed chair in one corner of the room,
while her companion in misery sat huddled in the opposite corner,
staring at the fresco of flags above her head. Both looked dreadfully
woe-begone, and as if the tears were very near the surface, for
punishment sat heavily upon these two light-hearted spirits,
particularly as such severe measures did not seem necessary or just to
them in view of the smallness of their sin. However, when the racket
outside their door finally fell away into silence, Peace suddenly gave a
little jump of inspiration, twisted her feet about the legs of her
chair, and began a slow, laborious hitching process across the red rug
toward the tiny dresser. Reaching this goal, she jerked open a drawer,
rummaged out paper and pencil and began a furious scratching.
Allee watched with fascinated eyes, but true to her promise to the
President in the den below, she never said a word, though she was nearly
bursting with curiosity and it was so hard to keep still. After a few
moments of rapid scribbling on a page of vivid pink stationery, the
brown-eyed plotter again commenced her queer march across the room until
she had reached the door, unlocked it, and after a hard struggle managed
to pin the slip to the outside panel. Then with a sigh of mingled relief
at having accomplished her object and resignation at her unjust fate,
she closed the door once more, and wriggled back to her place opposite
Allee, never so much as looking at the eager face questioning hers so
mutely.
Again silence reigned in the pretty room, and both girls fell to
wondering what the other members of the household were doing. Suppose
Cherry had taken Lorene down to the pond to skate. That was what Peace
herself had been planning on ever since she had looked into the small
dark face of the child who was only six weeks and two days younger than
she was. Suppose Hope had gone with Henderson to coast on the hill. He
had promised Allee the first ride just the night before. Suppose Jud
should choose this morning to take the girls sleighing as he had said he
would do when the first heavy snow fell.
It had stormed all night and the deep mantle of white lay tempting and
inviting in the bright winter sunshine. Oh, dear, what a queer world it
seemed! Some people were in trouble all the time and some were never
bothered with scrapes and punishments. There was Hope. Why was it Hope
never did such outlandish things to cause anxiety and dismay to those
around her? Hope never even _thought_ of the freakish pranks that were
constantly getting Peace into trouble.
What was it grandma was always quoting? "Thoughtfulness seeks never to
add to another's burdens, never to make extra work or care, but always
to lighten loads." She said it was because Hope was always thinking of
beautiful things that made folks love to have her near; that it was the
mischievous thoughts which cause the misery of the world. She said--what
did she say? The brown eyes winked slower and slower, the brown head
bent lower and lower. Peace was asleep.
An hour passed,--two. The luncheon bell tinkled, the family gathered
about the table for the mid-day meal, but the chairs on either side of
the President's place were vacant. Glances of inquiry flashed from face
to face. Were the children to be kept in their room all day?
"Where are Peace and Allee?" asked the Doctor, very much surprised at
their absence.
"I haven't seen them since you sent them upstairs this morning,"
answered Mrs. Campbell, who had been occupied all the forenoon writing a
paper for the Home Missionary Society which was to meet at the parsonage
that afternoon.
A guilty flush overspread the President's fine face, and forgetting to
excuse himself from the table, he abruptly pushed back his chair and
strode from the room, muttering remorsefully, "I deserve to be licked!
That was three hours ago and I promised to call them in an hour." He
returned shortly alone, looking very foolish, and holding in his hand a
square of brilliant pink.
"What is it?" asked his wife, surprised at the look on his face. "Where
are the little folks?"
"Asleep. They looked so worn out that I put them on the bed and left
them to have their nap out. This is what I found on the door."
He dropped the slip of paper into her hands as he resumed his seat, and
she read in tipsy, scrawling letters Peace's poster: "It won't do enny
good to raket or holler to us. We can't talk for an hour. If you want to
ask queshuns go to grandpa he is boss of this roost."
She smiled a little tremulously as she passed the pathetic scribble to
Henderson, sitting at her right, but he, being a boy, saw only the funny
side of the situation, and let out a lusty howl of joy as he read aloud
the words with much gusto to his delighted audience.
When the laughter had subsided somewhat, the President asked ruefully,
"How can I make my peace with them? I sent them to their room for an
hour and promptly forgot all about the affair."
"I'll take them to the Missionary Meeting with me this afternoon,"
suggested Mrs. Campbell, "and you can come for us with the sleigh. Peace
has begged to go over ever since she has been here. It seems that Mrs.
Strong is an enthusiastic missionary worker, and Peace's greatest
ambition is to be like her Saint Elspeth."
"So she can find another St. John and marry him," giggled Faith.
"Yes. I guess it is hard to decide which one of her saints she thinks
the most of," Mrs. Campbell agreed; "but I am so glad she has chosen
such a beautiful couple to pattern her own ideals after. Their
friendship will do much for our little--" she intended to say
"mischief-maker," but this white-haired woman with her mother instincts
seemed to understand that Peace's mischief was never done for mischief's
sake, so she changed the word to "sunshine-maker."
Thus it happened that when the brown eyes and the blue unclosed after
their long nap, they looked up into the dear face of their
grandmother-by-adoption, and saw by her tender smile that their
punishment was ended. They were surprised to find how long they had
slept, but the delight at being allowed to attend a grown-up missionary
meeting, as Allee called it, overshadowed whatever resentment they might
have felt at having been forgotten for so long a time, and they danced
away through the snow beside Mrs. Campbell as happy and carefree as the
little birds which they had fed yesterday.
The meeting was not as exciting as Peace had been led to expect from
Mrs. Strong's enthusiastic recitals regarding missionary work, but some
of the words spoken by the different ladies sank very deeply into the
children's fertile brains, and both were so silent on the homeward
journey behind the flying horses that finally Mrs. Campbell ventured to
ask, "Are you tired, girlies? Was the meeting a disappointment to you?"
"Oh, no," Peace hastened to assure her. "_I_ liked it lots, and Allee
likes the same things I do, don't you, Allee? The women were pretty slow
about doing things--they talked so long each time before they could make
up their minds about anything. But it's int'resting to know that at
last they decided to send some barrels to the poor ministers in the
little places who don't get enough to live on. 'Twould have been better
if they had done it before Christmas, though, so's the children wouldn't
have thought Santa Claus had forgotten them. Do--do you think like Mrs.
McGowan--that if we have two coats and someone else hasn't any, we ought
to give away one of ours? That's what she said, isn't it?"
"Yes, that is what she said," Mrs. Campbell agreed; "and in a large
measure I believe her doctrine, too. If we have more than we need and
there are others less fortunate, I think we ought to share our
blessings. But it takes a lot of good sense and tact to do this
judicially."
"I think so, too," answered Peace with such a peculiar thrill in her
voice that the President, at whose side she was sitting, turned and
looked quizzically at the rapt face. "I don't b'lieve in talking a lot
about giving and then when it comes to really _doing_ it, to give just
the left-over things that ain't any good to us any longer, and wouldn't
be to anyone else, either."
"Why, what do you mean, child?" the woman asked, taken by surprise at
such quaint observations from the fly-away little maid, whose serious
thoughts were regarded as jokes even by her own family.
"Well, there was Mrs. Waddler in Parker. She always talked so big that
folks who didn't know her thought she must have millions of money; but
when she came to giving, it was usu'ly skim milk or some of her
husband's worn-out pants."
Here the President exploded, but at the same instant the horses turned
in at the driveway; and in scrambling down from the sleigh Peace forgot
to press her argument any further. Nor did the older folks remember it
again for some days. Then Mrs. Campbell entered the doctor's study one
afternoon with a deep frown on her forehead, and a little note in her
hand.
At the sound of her voice, the busy man paused in his writing and
glanced up hastily, asking, "What seems to be the difficulty?"
"This letter. I don't understand it. Mrs. Scofield writes a note of
regrets because I found it impossible to be with them at the last
missionary meeting, and closes by thanking me for my generous donation.
Now, it happens that just before Christmas, I carefully went through all
the closets of the house, sorted out and hunted up all the good,
half-worn clothing that we could spare, and sent it to the Danbury
Hospital for distribution among their poor families; so I simply had
nothing of value to add to the barrels intended for the frontier
ministers--"
"Why didn't you buy something?"
"I did; or, rather, I thought the poor preacher might find the money
more acceptable than anything I could purchase, so I selected the family
of Brother Bennet of Idaho, and sent him a check. I mailed it to him
direct, not wanting to run the risk of the barrel being delayed or
destroyed. I also neglected to inform the ladies of what I had done; so
I am sure they know nothing about it, for it is yet too early to hear
from Mr. Bennet himself."
"Maybe it is a case of a little bird's having told the story," laughed
the doctor, taking up his pen to resume his writing, and his wife, still
musing over the strange occurrence, went away to receive a caller who
had just been announced.
An hour later she returned to the study looking more perplexed than when
she had left him before, and the President banteringly asked, "Haven't
you found out yet about that generous donation?"
"Yes, Donald. Mrs. Haynes has just told me the whole story. It was not
my donation at all."
"Ah, the worthy ladies just got mixed in their thanks--"
"Not at all! It was Peace's work, and naturally they thought I had
authorized it. That little rascal picked up about half her wardrobe, her
Christmas doll, several games and story books, and goodness knows what
all, and took them over to Mrs. Scofield's house to be packed in the
missionary barrels. Not only that, she persuaded Allee to do the same
with her treasures."
"The little sinner!" ejaculated the startled President. "Without saying
a word to anyone about her intentions?"
"She never consulted _me_."
"Nor me. Well, we must just send her back after them, and make her
understand she must ask us when she wants to dispose of her belongings."
"That is just the trouble. The barrels have already gone."
"You don't say so! The monkey! Send Peace to me when she comes in, Dora.
We must curb these philanthropic tendencies in their infancy and direct
them in the right channels. There is the making of a wonderful woman in
that small body."
"With the right training."
"Yes. God grant that we may be able to give her the right training."
Peace came radiantly in response to the message, dancing lightly down
the hall as a hummingbird might flutter along, and the mere sight of her
merry face as it popped through the study doorway was like a sudden
shaft of sunlight in the great room. The President had determined to
meet her gravely, even sternly, and show her that her uncalled-for
generosity had displeased them, but in spite of himself, his eyes
softened as they rested upon the sweet, round face upturned for a kiss,
and he gently drew her into his lap before telling her why he had sent
for her.
"Why, yes, grandpa," she readily confessed. "I did give away some of my
clothes and other things, and so did Allee, 'cause the children of the
ministers on the frontier need them so much more than we do. Why, we're
rich now and can have anything we want! You said so yourself, you know.
We couldn't give the things we didn't want ourselves, grandpa, 'cause
that wouldn't be a _sacrilege_; and the pretty lady who talked at the
missionary meeting that day said it was the _sacrileges_ we made in this
world that put stars in our crowns in the next world."
"Sacrifice, dear, not sacrilege."
"Is it? Well, I knew it was some kind of a sack. I want lots of stars in
my crown when I get to heaven. Just think how terrible you'd feel
s'posing when St. Peter let you inside the Gates, he handed you just a
plain, blank crown. Mercy! I know I'd bawl my eyes out even if it does
say there aren't any tears in heaven. So I picked out the things I liked
the very best of all I got on Christmas--that is, most of them were. I
don't care much for dolls, so that wasn't any sacri-_fice_ for me; but
Allee likes them awfully much yet, and it was a big sacri-_fice_ for her
to let hers go. But I sent my dear, beautiful plaid dress that I thought
was the prettiest of the bunch, though I let Allee keep the one she
liked best, seeing she cried so hard about Queen Helen. She didn't seem
to enjoy thinking about the big star she'll get in its place, so I told
her I thought likely you or grandma would give her even a prettier doll
for her birthday, which isn't very far off now. I sent the book which
tells all about the way little children in other lands spend Christmas
day, but it was pretty hard work to give that one up. I pulled it out of
the heap three times, and fin'ly had to run like wild up to Mrs.
Scofield's house with it, so's I wouldn't take it out and put it on the
shelf to stay."
"But why did you take so many things?" asked the Doctor lamely.
"There are five children in the family we sent our stuff to, and three
of them are girls. There are six girls in our family, and when we lived
all alone in the little brown house with just ragged, faded dresses to
wear and only plain things to eat, holidays and all, we'd have been
tickled to death if someone had given us such pretty things all for our
very own. Oh, wouldn't it have made _you_ happy if you had been a little
girl?"
The great, brown eyes shone with such a glorified light and the small,
round face looked so blissfully happy that the Doctor's lecture was
wholly forgotten, and for a long time he held the little form close in
his arms while his mind went backward over the long years to the time
when he was a homeless orphan and Hi Allen--Hi Greenfield--had shared
his treasures with him. They made a beautiful picture sitting there in
the gathering dusk, the white head bending low over the riotous brown
curls, the strong hands intertwined with the supple, childish fingers;
and so completely had she captured the great heart of the man that when
at length he set her on the floor and sent her away with a kiss, he
spoke no chiding word. And Peace skipped off well content with the
results of her first missionary efforts.
A few days later she danced into the house one afternoon from school,
wet from head to foot with a damp, clinging snow which was falling, and
at sight of her, Mrs. Campbell threw up her hands and exclaimed, "Peace,
my child, what have you been doing?"
"Ted and Evelyn Smiley and Allee and me and some others had a snow-ball
battle."
"That is expressly forbidden by the school board--" began the gentle
little grandmother reprovingly.
"Oh, we didn't battle with the school board, grandma! We waited until we
reached Evelyn's house and had it in their back yard. The snow is just
right for dandy balls."
"I should think as much. Come here!"
Peace obeyed, glancing hastily at her feet as she guiltily remembered a
certain pair of new shoes which she was wearing and saw the sharp, black
eyes fixed searchingly upon them.
"Peace Greenfield, what have you on your feet?"
"Shoes."
"Your new strapped shoes--slippers--for summer wear?"
Peace nodded.
"After I told you not to wear them until warmer weather!"
"You didn't say that, grandma," Peace expostulated. "You said as long as
I had any others, you guessed I had better put these away for party wear
until it got warmer."
As a rule, Peace's excuses rather amused the mistress of the house, but
this time she looked sternly at the little culprit, and briefly
commanded, "Go to your room and put on your other shoes immediately."
"I haven't got any others."
"No others? What do you mean?"
"I--I--gave mine all away."
"To whom did you give them?" asked the President, who had entered the
room unnoticed.
"To a little girl I met on the hill yesterday. Her toes were sticking
through hers and she looked dreadfully cold, and kept stamping her feet
to keep them from freezing."
The President swallowed a lump in his throat.
"She did not need _two_ pair to keep her feet warm, did she?"
"She was twins."
"Wh-at?"
Peace jumped. "Well, she said she had a sister just her same age at
home, who hadn't any shoes at all."
He took her by the hand, led her to her room, and after seeing that the
wet shoes and stockings were replaced with dry ones, he lectured her
kindly about giving away her belongings in such a promiscuous manner
without first consulting her elders. And having won her promise for
future good behavior, he went down town to purchase new shoes for the
shoeless culprit, satisfied that Peace would remember his words of
caution, and that they should not again be disturbed by the too generous
acts of this zealous little home missionary.
And Peace did remember for a long time, but one day when the two younger
children had been left alone with the servants, temptation again invaded
this little Garden of Eden, and the brown-haired Eve yielded.
It was late in the afternoon and Peace and Allee were standing by the
window watching the sinking sun, when a ragged, stooped, old man trailed
down the quiet street with a battered, wheezy, old hand-organ strapped
to his back and a wizened, wistful-eyed, peaked-faced child at his
heels. Seeing the two bright faces in the window and concluding that
money was plentiful in that home, the vagabond slipped the organ from
its supports, and began grinding out a discordant tune from the
protesting instrument, sending the ragged, weary, little girl to the
door with her tin cup for contributions.
Peace saw her approaching, and opened the door before she had a chance
to ring the bell, surprising the tiny ragamuffin so completely that she
could only stand and mutely hold out her appealing dipper, having
forgotten entirely the words she had been taught to speak on such
occasions.
"You're cold," said Peace, a great pity surging through her breast as
she saw the swollen, purple hands trying to hide under ragged sleeves of
a pitifully thin coat.
"Ver' col'," repeated the beggar, finding her tongue.
"And hungry?"
"Not'ing to eat today."
Peace made a sudden dive at the dirty, unkempt creature, jerked her into
the warm hall, and calling over her shoulder to the organ-grinder on the
walk, "Go on playing, old man, she'll be back pretty soon!" she slammed
the door shut, pushed the child into a chair by the glowing grate, and
turned to Allee with the command, "Go ask Gussie for something to eat.
Tell her a lunch in a bag will do. She's always good to beggars."
"No beggar," remonstrated the little foreigner. "Earn money. Some days
much. Little this day. It so col'."
"Is that all the coat you have?" Peace demanded, eyeing the scant attire
with horrified eyes.
"All," answered the child simply, and she sighed heavily.
"I've got two. You can have one of mine," cried Peace, forgetting
wisdom, discretion, everything, in her great pity for this hapless bit
of humanity.
"You mean it? No, you fool," was the disconcerting reply.
"I'm not a fool!"
"No, no, not a fool. You jus' fool,--joke. You no mean it."
"I do, too! Wait a minute till I get it, and see if it fits. You're
thinner'n me, but you're about as tall."
She rushed eagerly up the stairway, and soon returned with the pretty,
brown coat which she had found on her bed Christmas morning. Into this
she bundled the surprised beggar child, pleased to think it fitted so
well, and explained rapidly, "I got two new coats for Christmas. Grandma
said the red one was for best, so I kept that one, but you can have
this. Keep it on outside your old rag. It will be just that much warmer,
and tonight is awfully cold. Here's a pair of mittens, too. Wear 'em;
they're nice and warm."
Thrusting Allee's bag of lunch into the blue-mittened hands, Peace
opened the door and let the newly-cloaked figure run down the walk to
the impatient man stamping back and forth in the street. They watched
him minutely examining the child's new treasures, but they could not see
the avaricious gleam in his ugly eyes, nor did they dream that the
precious brown coat would be stripped off the shivering little form just
as soon as they were out of sight around the corner, and bartered for
whiskey at the nearest saloon.
So happy was Peace in thinking of this other child's happiness that she
never once thought of her promise made to her grandfather until she saw
Jud drive up the avenue and help the rest of the family out of the big
sleigh. At sight of the erect figure striding up the walk with the
gentle little grandmother on one arm and sister Gail on the other, she
suddenly remembered that he had told her when she gave away her shoes
that she must ask permission before disposing of her belongings, or he
should be compelled to use drastic measures. "Brass-stick" measures, she
called it, and visions of a certain brass rule on the desk in the
library rose before her in a most disquieting fashion as she recalled
that impressive interview.
"Don't tell him what you have done," whispered a little evil voice in
her ear.
"Tell him at once," commanded her conscience; and acting upon the
impulse of the moment, she flew into the old gentleman's arms almost
before he had crossed the threshold and panted out, "I 'xpect you'll be
_compendled_ to use your _brass-stick_ measures on me this time sure. I
guv away my coat!"
"You did what?" he cried, pushing her from him that he might look into
her face.
"Gave, I mean. I gave away my brown coat."
"Peace!"
The sorrowful tone of his voice cut her to the heart, but she flew to
her own defense with oddly distorted words, "I couldn't help it,
grandpa! She was so ragged and cold. S'posing _you_ had to go around
begging hand-organs for a squeaky old penny, without anything to eat on
your back or vittles to wear. Wouldn't _you_ like to have someone with
two coats give you one?"
"Very likely I should, my child. I am not blaming you for the unselfish
feeling which prompted you to give away your coat to one more
unfortunate than yourself, but you are not yet old enough to know how to
give wisely. You will do more harm than good by such giving. No doubt
your little brown coat is in the pawn-shop by this time."
"But grandpa, she was in _rags_!"
"Yes, and that is the way that brute of a man will keep her. Do you
suppose he would get any money for his playing if he sent around a
well-dressed child to collect the pennies? No, indeed! That is why he
makes her wear rags. He will sell or pawn your coat for liquor, and
neither you nor the beggar child will have it to wear."
"But I have my red one."
"You can't wear that to school."
"Why not?"
"It is not suitable."
"Then you'll get me another."
"No, Peace."
"You won't?" Her grieved surprise almost unmanned him.
"No."
"But you've got plenty of money!"
"I will not have it long if you are going to give it all away."
"You bought me some more shoes."
"Yes."
"That took money."
"Yes."
"I--I thought you'd give us anything we wanted."
"I have tried to, dear."
"But I shall want another coat."
He shook his head. "You deliberately gave away the one you had without
asking permission. I can't supply you with new clothes continually if
that is what you intend to do with them."
"Then how will I go to school any more?"
"You must wear the coat you had when you came here to live."
"So you hung onto that old gray Parker coat, did you?" she said
bitterly.
"Yes, and now you will have to wear it until spring comes."
She was silent a moment, then shrugged her shoulders and airily
retorted, "I s'pose you know! But, anyway, it was worth giving the new
coat away just to see how glad the Dago was to get it."
It was the President's turn to look surprised, and for an instant he was
at a loss to know what to say; then he took her hand and led her away to
the study, with the grave command, "Come, Peace, I think we will have to
see this out by ourselves."
She caught her breath sharply, but never having questioned his authority
since the days of the little brown house were over, she obediently
followed him into the dim library and heard the door click behind them.
As the gas flared up when he touched a match to the jet, she looked
apprehensively about the room, and shuddered as she saw the brass ruler
lying on top of a pile of papers on the desk. He even picked it up and
toyed with it for a moment, and she thought her hour of reckoning had
surely come. And it had, but not in the way she expected.
Dropping the ruler at length, he abruptly ordered, "Sit down in my lap,
Peace."
Usually he lifted her to that throne of honor himself, but this time he
made no effort to help her, and when she was seated with her face lifted
expectantly toward his, he disengaged the warm arms from about his neck
and turned her around on his knee until she was looking at the desk
straight in front of them. Then he picked up a book and began reading
silently.
Peace was plainly puzzled, for each time she turned her head to look at
him, he gently but firmly wheeled her about and went on reading. At last
she could be patient no longer, and with an angry little hop, she
demanded, "What's the fuss about, grandpa? What are you going to do?"
Without looking up from his book he laid one finger on his lips and
remained silent.
"Can't I talk?"
It was a terrible punishment for Peace to keep still, and knowing this,
just the faintest glimmer of a smile twitched at his lips, but he merely
nodded gravely.
"Aren't you going to say anything?"
Gravely he shook his head.
Peace stared at the chandelier, then surreptitiously stole a peep at the
face behind her. A big hand turned the curly head gently from him.
She studied the green walls with their delicate frescoing, then
cautiously leaned back against the President's broadcloth vest. Firmly
he righted her. Dismay took possession of her. This was the worst
punishment that ever had befallen her,--that ever could.
She gulped down the big lump which was growing in her throat, and
counted the books on the highest shelf around the wall.
Fifty--sixty--seventy--her heart burst, and with a wail of anguish she
kicked the book out of the President's hand and clutched him about the
neck with a grip that nearly choked him, as she sobbed, "Oh, grandpa,
I'll never, never, _never_ forget again! I'll be the most un-missionary
person you ever knew,--yes, I'll be a reg'lar heathen if you'll just
speak to me! I didn't think I was being bad in trying to help others--"
"My precious darling! I don't want you to be a heathen," he cried,
straining her to his heart. "I want you to be the best and most
enthusiastic little missionary it is possible for you to be, but in
order to be a good missionary, one must first learn obedience, and
cultivate good judgment. I wouldn't for all the world have my little
girl grow up a stingy, miserly woman. I am proud of the sweet, generous,
unselfish spirit which prompts you to try to make the burdens of others
lighter, but you are too little a girl yet to know how and where to give
money and clothes and such things so they will do good and not harm."
"I see now what you mean, grandpa. I thought when I gave my coat to the
little hand-organ beggar that she would keep it and use it. I never
s'posed her father wouldn't let her have it, and now when he takes it
away from her she will be sorrier'n she would have been if she had never
had it."
"Yes, dear; and the money the old fellow gets from selling it will
undoubtedly be spent for drink, or something equally as bad for him.
Just out of curiosity, I traced the shoes you gave to the child on the
hill not long ago, and I found that she had not told you the truth at
all. She had no twin sister, nor did she even need the shoes herself."
"Is--is--there no one that really is hungry and cold and needs things?"
gulped the unhappy child after a long pause of serious thought.
"Oh, yes, my dear! Thousands and thousands of them," he sighed
sorrowfully; "and I am deeply thankful that my little girlie wants to
make the old world happier. But after all, dear, the greatest need of
this world of ours is love. It is not the _money_ we give away which
counts; it is the _love_ we have for other people. I remember well a
little couplet your great-grandmother was fond of quoting--and she
practiced it every day of her life, too,--
'Give, if thou canst, an alms; if not, afford
Instead of that, a sweet and gentle word.'
"She had little of this world's goods to give away, but she was one of
the greatest sunshine missionaries I ever knew. My, how every one loved
her. And her son, Hi, was just like her--one of the biggest-hearted,
most lovable people God ever created. He was certainly a power for good
during his life, but his only riches were a great love for his fellowmen
and his warm, sunny smile."
Again a deep silence fell over the room, for Peace, cuddled in the
strong man's arms, with the tears still glistening on the long, curved
lashes, was thinking as she had never thought before. Suddenly the
dinner bell pealed out its summons, and as the President stirred in his
chair, the child lifted her head from his shoulder, and looking squarely
into the strong, kindly face, she said simply, "I'm going to be like
them and you, so's folks will love me, too. And I'm not going to give
away any more coats or shoes without you say I can, until I am big
enough to grow some sense. I'm just going to smile and talk."
He did not laugh at her quaint phrasing of her intentions, but
tightening his clasp upon the small body nestling within the circle of
his arms, he quoted,
"'Work a little, sing a little,
Whistle and be gay;
Read a little, play a little,
Busy every day.
Talk a little, laugh a little,
Don't forget to pray;
Be a bit of merry sunshine
All the blessed way.'"