"Yes," he said, inviting her to a seat by his side.
He then proceeded to give an account of his interview with Dr.
Landreth, stating that he strongly advised him to wind up his business,
or make some sort of arrangement for leaving it for a year or more,
and join a party preparing to go to California; the journey across the
plains he thought would prove the very thing for him; nothing else so
likely to restore his shattered health.
"And I have been thinking," added Rupert, "that it might be the very
best thing for Don if you, father and mother, would consent to let him
go with me, in case I follow Charlie's advice. He seems to me as ill
mentally as I am physically, and we would be mutual helpers.
"I have no idea that we should make our fortunes at gold-digging, but I
doubt if the boy will ever be content till he has tried his hand at it.
But let his dreams be dispelled, and he will be ready to settle down at
home."
"If he ever gets home again," remarked the father. "It may be that you
are right though, Rupert, and your mother and I will take the matter
into consideration."
"Yes, sir, in regard to us both, I hope; I want your advice as to my
own course; it will go far to help me decide what I ought to do."
Both parents looked gratified, while Miss Stanhope remarked, "You are
quite right in that, Rupert; you could not have wiser counsellors than
they, and certainly none so deeply interested in your welfare; nor will
you, or any one, ever lose by honoring parents."
"I am very fortunate in having parents worthy of all honor, Aunt
Wealthy," he said, with an affectionate glance from one to the other.
"Mother, dear, do not look so sad," perceiving that her eyes were full
of tears; "I cannot think of going, if it is to be at the risk of
breaking your heart."
"No, my heart will not break," she said in a determinately cheerful
tone; "the promise is sure, 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.'
And it will be better to part with you for a time than forever in this
life," she added with a tremble in her voice. "Also I should be more
willing to see two of my boys go together than any one of them alone."
"Then if I go, you will consent to Don's accompanying me?"
"Yes."
"And you, father?"
"I feel just as your mother does about it," was Mr. Keith's reply.
"But if Don should not wish to go?" suggested Miss Stanhope, in a tone
of inquiry.
"Oh, no fear of that, auntie," laughed Annis; "he's been crazy to go
ever since the first news of the gold, and you can't scare him out of
it either; the more you talk of Indians, bears, and wolves, and all
other dangers, the more he wants to try it. He says life in this little
slow town is altogether too tame to suit a fellow of spirit."
"Better suited to the humdrum class represented by his father and older
brother, I presume," said Rupert, with a good-humored smile.
As Don stepped in at Wallace Ormsby's gate, Zillah opened the front
door, ran out, and hastily caught up little Stuart, who was digging in
the sand, and carried him struggling and screaming into the house.
"It's too cold for you to be out; mamma can't let you; mamma told
you not to go out," she was saying as Don followed her into the
sitting-room.
"I will doe out! Ope de door!" screamed the child; "me wants pay in de
sand."
"No, you can't go out any more to-night," replied the mother, giving
him a hug and kiss. "Oh, he's mamma's darling! there never was such a
boy in all the world! there never was! Mamma loves him ever so much."
Meanwhile the child was struggling with all his baby might to get away
from her, kicking, striking, screaming at the top of his voice, "I will
doe out! _I will! I will!_ Shan't 'tay in de house!"
"Oh, now, be a dear good boy," entreated Zillah; "he's mamma's own pet,
the dearest, sweetest boy in the world; mamma thinks there never was
such a boy!"
"I should hope not, if that's the way he carries on," remarked Don,
seating himself and regarding his nephew with a look of disgust and
disapproval. "I think he's spoiling for a spanking, and if he were my
child he'd get it."
Zillah flushed hotly. "Men and boys have no patience with children,"
she said. "There, Stuart, stop crying, and mamma will get you
something good."
"No; ope door; me want doe out; me _will_ doe out!" screamed the child.
"Oh, now, do be good; do stop crying, and mamma will get you some
candy," said Zillah, in her most coaxing tones.
"Tanny, mamma?" asked the child, the screams suddenly ceasing, and
smiles breaking through the tears.
"Yes," Zillah said, drying his eyes and kissing him fondly, then rising
with him in her arms and going to a cupboard.
But the size of the piece she offered did not suit the ideas of the
young tyrant; he refused to accept it, and bursting into screams again
demanded a bigger one.
"Take this in one hand, and you shall have a bigger piece in the
other," said the over-indulgent mamma, and peace being restored she sat
down with him on her lap, and began talking with Don.
"Where's Wallace?" the latter presently inquired.
"He went down-town again after tea, but said he wouldn't be gone very
long. Do you want to see him particularly?"
"I would like a talk with him," Don said, with a sigh. "I wish he
would try to get father and mother to consent to my joining the party
that are going to California."
"O Don, how can you suggest such a thing now when they are feeling so
sad over poor Fan?" exclaimed Zillah, tears starting to her eyes.
"Don't think me hard-hearted or wanting in love for them," Don returned
with feeling; "but the truth is I don't know how to endure life here
now that Fan's gone. I miss her at every turn. I think it would be
different in a new place where I had not been accustomed to her sweet
society." His words were almost inaudible from emotion as he concluded.
"I know," Zillah said in trembling tones; "we all miss her sadly, but I
suppose it must be harder, perhaps, for you than any of the rest. Still
you will soon grow in a measure used to it, no doubt. I have always
heard that time assuages the bitterness of grief."
"I can't believe it, I don't believe it!" he cried impatiently; "at
least I am sure it will not be so in my case for years, unless I can
get away into new scenes that will help me to forgetfulness."
At that instant Stuart, who had got down from his mother's lap to play
about the room, tripped and fell to the floor, striking his head
against a chair.
He set up a loud scream, and Zillah ran to the rescue, picking him up
with a cry of "Oh, poor darling, mamma is so sorry! oh, it is just
dreadful how many falls he gets! But there, never mind; it was a
naughty chair that hurt my baby so. We'll give it a good whipping,"
striking it with her hand several times as she spoke.
Stuart ceased screaming to pound the chair energetically with his tiny
doubled-up fist, then consented to be bribed into quiet with another
piece of candy.
Zillah sat down again with him on her lap, and presently he dropped
asleep there.
"He ought to be in bed," remarked Don.
"Yes; but he didn't want to go, and I do so hate to have a battle with
him."
"I rather think it will have to come to that sooner or later," said
Don, "and I should think the longer you put it off the harder it will
be. I've been at Milly's a good deal the last few weeks, besides
watching her when she was at home with us, and I think she could give
you some valuable hints about managing a child."
"It is a vast deal easier to talk than to act, I can tell you, Don,"
was Zillah's half-offended retort.
"I dare say; but people can act as well as talk; father and mother
did with us--we always had to obey, and that without being petted and
wheedled into it--and Milly does too."
"I think it's a great deal better to coax than to beat them," Zillah
said half angrily.
"Circumstances alter cases," said Don. "I don't think it's just the
thing to pet and fondle a child, and tell him he's 'a darling; there
never was such a boy,' and all that, when he's kicking up a row just
because he isn't allowed to do exactly as he pleases. Percy began that
very behavior the other evening when he had to go into the house before
he considered it quite time."
"Well, what did Milly do with him?" inquired Zillah, with some
curiosity.
"She first told him firmly and quietly that he must stop screaming on
the instant, or she would shut him into a room by himself till he was
ready to be good; and as she always keeps her word, not threatening
over and over again before she acts, as some people do, he did stop
promptly; then she took him on her lap and amused him with stories and
rhymes a little while, when she carried him off to bed.
"She's always gentle with him, but firm as a rock; as regular as
clock-work too; he's put to bed when the hour comes, and left there to
go to sleep by himself, and he does it without a whimper."
"I suppose that's the orthodox way," said Zillah, "but I can't bear to
force Stuart to bed when he cries to stay up. The sweet darling, I do
love him so!" bending down to kiss the round rosy cheek.
"I've no doubt you do," said Don; "but I remember to have heard mother
say it was but a poor selfish kind of love that couldn't bear the pain
of controlling a child for its own good, but would rather let it become
so wilful and ill-behaved as to be a torment to itself and everybody
else. Ah, here comes Wallace," he added, glancing from the window.
"Then I'll leave you to have your talk with him while I put this boy to
bed," returned Zillah, rising and leaving the room.
Wallace was no sooner seated than Don made known his errand.
Wallace looked grave. "I don't like the idea, Don," he said. "I wish
you could be persuaded to give it up. If you should be unsuccessful,
of which there are ten chances to one, it would involve the loss of
some of the best years of your life."
"One must take a risk in anything one tries," interrupted Don,
impatiently.
"True," replied Wallace, "but in this more than in many others."
"'Nothing venture, nothing have,'" muttered Don.
"I thought you were to go to college in the fall," remarked Wallace.
"That has been father's plan for me, but as I have no fancy for a
profession, I think a college course would be almost time thrown
away--money too. Ru has proposed to make a druggist of me, but that
isn't to my fancy either."
"I wish you would go in with Ru, if you are determined not to take
a collegiate education. I can see that he, poor fellow, is sadly
overworked, and to have a brother in with him--one whom he could
trust--would doubtless prove a great relief."
"Ru hasn't seemed well of late," assented Don in a reflective tone,
"but I was laying it all to--to grief. Wallace, the house isn't what it
used to be. I've thought I couldn't stand it. I've been a selfish dog,
but I'll try to forget self and think of other people. Good-evening. I
promised mother I'd be back soon," he added, as he rose and took his
departure.
His heart was filled with grief and disappointment; he crossed the
street slowly, with head bent and eyes on the ground, battling
earnestly with himself, striving to put aside his own inclinations for
the sake of others.
He found the family still gathered in the sitting-room, Dr. Landreth
and Mildred with them.
As he entered the doctor was saying to Rupert, "I have been considering
your objections to my plans for you, and think I can see a way out of
the difficulty in regard to leaving your business."
"What is that?" Rupert asked, and Don, aroused to eager interest,
dropped into a chair and listened for the doctor's explanation with
bated breath. "Could it be that Rupert was going from home? and if so,
where? and what difference might it make in his own plans?"
"Simply this," returned Dr. Landreth, with his genial smile, "that I
will take charge of it and carry it on for you, if that arrangement
seems to you entirely satisfactory."
"A most generous offer, Charlie!" exclaimed Rupert, flushing with
surprise and gratitude, "but would it not interfere with your
professional duties?"
"No; not necessarily. I should merely take the oversight, keeping the
good clerk you have, and getting another equally competent--the two to
do the work between them."
"Many thanks," said Rupert, grasping his brother-in-law's hand; "you
have removed my greatest difficulty. I begin to think I can follow out
your prescriptions, if"--and he turned smilingly to Don--"if Don is as
ready to sacrifice himself for my sake."
"I hope so, Ru; what is it?" the boy asked, a trifle huskily, for his
momentary gleam of hope died out at the question.
It shone out with tenfold brilliancy at his brother's reply. "Charlie
thinks I am in danger of permanent loss of health unless I give up
my business for a time, and have an entire change of scene; so he
advises me to join the party about starting for California. He thinks
the journey across the plains just the thing for me. But I ought to
have some friend--say a brother--with me; so it may depend upon your
willingness to go."
"My willingness?" interrupted Don eagerly; "I'd be delighted, Ru, and
do the very best for you that I know how."
The mother was regarding them with glistening eyes, her lips quivering
with emotion.
"And let him give you the care and oversight an elder brother should?"
asked the father gravely.
"Yes, if he doesn't try to exert more than his rightful share of
authority," returned Don, a slight reluctance perceptible in his tone.
"On that condition your mother and I consent to your going," Mr. Keith
said, "though, my boy, it will be hard indeed for us to part with you
our youngest son."
Don saw the tears in his mother's eyes, noted that his father's tones
were not quite steady, and his heart went out in love to both. "I will
never, never do anything to cause them shame or grief on my account,"
was the firm resolve he whispered to himself.
There was necessity for speedy decision, and it was arrived at within
twenty-four hours. The young men were to go. The allotted time was
short for needed preparation, particularly that which fell to the
mother's share; but her three remaining daughters and Miss Stanhope
coming to her assistance, and all working with a will, the thing was
done well and in season; nothing forgotten, nothing overlooked that
could add to the comfort of the loved travellers.
And it was well for all that matters were so hurried, leaving no
leisure for sad forebodings or unavailing regrets.
The parting was a hard one, almost harder, the mother thought, than the
last she had been called to pass through; for while her beloved Fan was
safe from all sin, and sorrow, and suffering, these dear ones were to
be exposed to many dangers and temptations.
But she bore up wonderfully as she bade them adieu and watched the
slow-moving train out of sight; they were not going beyond the reach of
prayer; they would still be under the protecting care of Him who has
said, "Behold, I am with thee, and will keep thee in all places whither
thou goest, and will bring thee again into this land; for I will not
leave thee, until I have done that which I have spoken to thee of."
"Wherever they might be, He would cover their defenceless heads with
the shadow of His wing."
Annis's tears fell much longer and faster than her mother's; the letter
she wrote to Elsie, giving a graphic account of the preparations and
departure, was all blistered with them, even more so than the one
telling of Fan's last hours.
"I am the only child left at home now," she wrote. "That was what
mother said when we got back from seeing the long train of wagons, with
their ox-teams, starting on that long, dangerous journey. She took me
in her arms, and cried over me for a few minutes; then she wiped away
her tears, and kissed me over and over, saying, 'But we won't murmur,
darling, or make ourselves unhappy about it; for they are all in God's
good keeping, and one day, I trust, we shall all meet in that better
land where partings are unknown.'
"And I have great reason to be thankful that Mildred and Zillah are so
near us; it is almost as if they were still at home."
The letter wound up with an earnest request to Elsie that she would
pray daily for the safe return of Rupert and Don.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Chapter Ninth.
"A child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame."--Prov. 29:15.
May had come again, waking the flowers with her sunny skies and balmy
breath, and our friends at Pleasant Plains spent much of their time
in their gardens. Delighting in each other's society they were often
together, now in Mr. Keith's grounds, now in Dr. Landreth's, and anon
in Wallace Ormsby's.
Mrs. Keith missed her sons, who had always relieved her of the heavy
part of the work of cultivating the flowers she so loved, but their
place was filled, so far as that was concerned, by a hired gardener,
and she found herself better able to endure the absence of Rupert
and Don out of doors than in, especially when her daughters and baby
grandsons were her companions.
Mildred took great pleasure in the laying out and improvement of the
comparatively extensive grounds about her new home, and husband,
mother, aunt, and sisters entered heartily into her plans, helping with
advice and suggestions, sometimes followed, sometimes not, but always
appreciated as evidence of their affectionate interests.
As for her husband, she and all her doings were altogether perfect in
his eyes. She was queen of his small realm, and could do no wrong; she
excelled every other woman as wife, mother, and housekeeper; her taste
was beyond criticism, and whatever she desired must be done.
He was nearly as great a paragon in her eyes, except as regarded
the training of their child, to whom he would have shown unlimited
indulgence, if she could have seen it without remonstrance. That she
could not, knowing how ruinous it would be; but her disapproval was
never manifested before Percy. She would not have him know or suspect
that his parents differed in regard to his training.
And, indeed, it was only when she and Charlie were quite alone that she
addressed him on the subject; never then in an unkind, fault-finding
way, but with gentle persuasion and arguments drawn from observation
and the teachings of Scripture.
Loving the child with an affection even deeper and tenderer than his,
she was yet much more disposed to curb and restrain where she saw it to
be for his good; her sense of parental responsibility was far stronger
than the father's, and while he looked upon Percy as, for the present
at least, scarcely more than a pretty pet and plaything, she regarded
the child as a sacred trust, a little immortal whose welfare for time
and eternity might depend largely upon her faithfulness in right
training and teaching.
"My dear Milly, he is so young, such a mere baby," the doctor would
sometimes say, "that it can't do him much harm to get his own way
for a while; it will be time enough a year or two hence to begin his
education."
"A very great mistake," Mildred would answer gravely; "I have had a
good deal to do with young children, and am convinced that a child's
education begins as soon as it knows its mother's voice and can note
the changing expression of her countenance. And, Charlie, it is far
easier to learn than to unlearn; if we let our child acquire bad habits
at the start it will be a far more difficult task to break them up and
substitute good ones, than to train him to such in the very beginning."
Zillah was quite as devoted a wife and competent a housekeeper as her
older sister, but not so wise and faithful a mother. No child was more
comfortably or tastefully clad than hers, or had more tender caresses
lavished upon it; she meant also to take proper care of his bodily
health, and was quite resolved in the long run to train him up in the
way he should go; she wanted him to grow up a good man and a strong and
healthy one, but in the mean time was often weakly indulgent, to the
damage of both his physical and moral natures.
The two sisters, taking work and babies along, were spending a sociable
afternoon with their mother.
The little boys, playing about the room, met with an occasional mishap.
Percy tripped on the carpet and fell, striking his head against the leg
of the table.
He burst into a cry, and Annis, running to pick him up, exclaimed, "Oh,
the poor little dear! that did hurt him, I know."
But Mildred, taking him from her, said in a sprightly tone, "Oh, he's
mother's soldier boy; he isn't going to cry for a trifle. But what
a blow the table got! poor table!" and she bent down and stroked and
patted it pityingly.
Percy stopped crying to echo her words and imitate her action. "Percy
didn't doe to hurt oo," he went on; "Percy tiss the p'ace and mate it
well," suiting the action to the word.
Then his mother having dried his eyes and given him a kiss, he went
back to his play.
Zillah had watched the little scene with interest.
"Is that the way you do?" she said to Mildred. "Don told me that was
your way, and I believe, as he says, it is better than mine."
"What is yours?" asked Mildred, resuming the sewing she had dropped on
Percy's fall.
"Oh, I've always made a fuss over my boy's hurts, pitied him, and
blamed the chair, or table, or whatever he had struck against, for
hurting him, and have pretended to punish it, just to take his
attention from his hurt and so stop his crying."
"Are you not afraid of teaching him to be selfish and revengeful?"
Mildred asked, with a look of grave concern.
"I never thought of that, and am afraid it may," said Zillah frankly.
"I shall not do so any more."
Annis was laying herself out for the entertainment of her little
nephews. Presently she came with a request. "The boys want me to take
them out to the garden to play horse. May I?"
"I have no objection to Percy's going," said Mildred; "the fresh air
will be very good for him, I think, as well as the exercise."
"But I don't want Stuart to go," Zillah said; "he has a bad cold, and
ought to be kept in the house. Slip away from him if you can, Annis,
for if he sees you and Percy start out he'll scream himself sick. Or if
not himself, other people," she added with a laugh.
"I'll do my best, but you will have to engage his attention for a
while," said Annis.
"Yes. Stuart, come here; mamma wants to speak to you."
"No; me's doin' out; p'ay horse wis Percy," the child returned, with a
scowl and a shake of his little shoulders.
Zillah put down her sewing, rose, and went to him. "Come with mamma,
pet," she said in coaxing tones, stooping down to caress and fondle
him. "Don't you want to go out to the kitchen and see what Celestia Ann
is doing?"
"No, me _don't_; me's doin' out-doors to p'ay horse wis Percy," shouted
the child defiantly, quite seeing through the artifice.
Zillah began to grow impatient. "No, you are not," she said
peremptorily; "you cannot play out of doors at all to-day, because you
have a bad cold, and it would make you sick."
"I will! I _will_! I _will_!" screamed the child, stamping his foot
at her and clenching his tiny fist. "Ope de door dis minute, naughty
mamma. I _will_ doe out p'ay horse."
There was something comical in his baby rage, and unfortunately Zillah
could not refrain from laughing, though the other ladies looked on in
grave concern.
Her mirth had not a happy effect upon the little rebel. Bursting from
her grasp, he ran toward the door just closing on Annis and Percy,
screaming at the top of his voice, "Let me doe wis you, Annis! Ope de
door," pounding on it with his fists, then taking hold of the knob and
trying to turn it for himself.
"You bad boy, I'm ashamed of you," Zillah said, taking his hand, which
he instantly snatched away; "stop this screaming, or I'll take you
home."
"No; sha'n't doe home. Me's doin' out p'ay horse wis Percy."
"I do believe he's the most persistent child I ever saw or that
ever was made!" Zillah exclaimed with angry impatience, apparently
addressing the company in general. "I wonder if it would hurt him to go
out for a little while if I wrap him up well. Do you think it would,
mother?"
"Perhaps not physically, Zillah," Mrs. Keith answered, with look and
tone of grave disapproval, "but morally it certainly would have a very
bad effect; you have told him positively that he shall not go out to
play to-day, and if you break your word how can you expect him ever to
esteem his mother a perfectly truthful woman?"
"You make a very serious matter of it, mother," Zillah said, reddening.
"It is a very serious thing, my dear daughter," Mrs. Keith answered, in
her own sweet, gentle way, and with a look of loving sympathy.
She would have said more, but Stuart at that instant renewed the
screams he had ceased for a moment, upon perceiving symptoms of
relenting on his mother's part.
But Zillah now felt that for very shame she must remain firm. She
tried the old plan of coaxing and wheedling--offered picture-books,
stories, candy--but nothing would do except the forbidden pleasure,
and at length, losing all patience, she took him into another room and
gave him the punishment Don would have liked to prescribe on a former
occasion. Then she cried over him while he sobbed himself to sleep in
her arms.
Having laid him on a bed, covered him carefully, and left a tender kiss
on his cheek, she went back to the sitting-room where the others were.
Sitting down by her mother's side she took up her sewing, and tried to
go on with it, but her hands trembled and tears dimmed her sight. She
dropped the work to wipe them away.
"O mother," she said in quivering tones, "what shall I do with that
child? I can never bring him up right, as you have brought up all
yours."
"It is a great work, dear, to train up a child in the way he should
go," Mrs. Keith answered in sympathizing tones; "and the wisest of us
may well ask, 'Who is sufficient for these things?' yet rejoice and
take courage in the assurance that 'our sufficiency is of God.' Do not
forget His gracious promise, 'If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of
God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall
be given him.'
"Whatever success I may have had in bringing up my children aright has
been given me in answer to prayer and in fulfilment of that promise."
"I love him so dearly I can hardly bear to refuse him anything," sighed
Zillah, wiping her eyes and resuming her work.
"I hope, daughter, that you love him well enough to give yourself the
pain of refusing him hurtful indulgences," was her mother's grave
response. "It often requires deeper, truer love to deny than to grant,
to punish than to let slip; but 'a child left to himself bringeth his
mother to shame.'"
"Yes, mother, I know that is Bible truth, and I do not intend to leave
mine to himself. I do really earnestly desire to bring him up for God
and heaven, faulty as my training has been, I fear, thus far. But he is
so young yet; it seems so hard to discipline such a mere baby."
"I know it does, my dear child--I have not forgotten my own
experience--but I assure you you will spare much suffering to both him
and yourself by beginning early the lesson that parental authority is
to be respected, and prompt and cheerful obedience rendered.
"Be very gentle with him, giving your directions in the form of
requests rather than commands, unless it becomes necessary to order
him. I think children should be treated with consideration and
politeness as well as grown people; it is the best way to teach them to
be polite and considerate toward others."
"It was your way of teaching us, mother," remarked Mildred, with an
affectionate, smiling glance into her mother's sweet, placid face.
"And a very effectual one it has proved in their case," remarked Miss
Stanhope.
"I think it has," said Mrs. Keith; then went on: "There is another
thing, my two dear daughters, that I wish to impress upon you: it
is the paramount importance of always keeping your word with your
children. Try not to make hasty promises or threats, which you may
regret having to carry out; but having once passed your word, let
nothing induce you to be false to it.
"I need scarcely urge upon you the importance of being always entirely
truthful with them, since you know how severely the Scriptures condemn
any, even the slightest, departure from truth."
"I should hope not, indeed, mother," said Zillah. "I know I have
not always been firm with my boy, have sometimes let him gain his
wishes--which I have at first denied--by persistent fretting and
crying, and have often too coaxed when I ought to have demanded
obedience; but I have never tried to secure his obedience by deceiving
or telling him what was not true."
"It is surprising what very lax ideas many persons--yes, even
some who profess to be Christians--have in regard to that thing,"
remarked Miss Stanhope. "Shrinking from the exertion or the pain of
enforcing obedience by legitimate means, they resort to subterfuge,
prevarication, or even downright falsehood.
"I have heard a mother say to her refractory or crying child, 'If you
don't come into the house now a big black bear will catch you;' or, 'If
you don't stop that screaming a dog will come and bite you.'
"Besides that, they will utter threats they have not the remotest
intention of carrying out, a fact which the little ones are not slow to
discover and act upon."
At this point the conversation was interrupted by a call from two
neighbors. It was of unfashionable length, and the talk ran principally
upon housekeeping, children, and servants.
One of the callers, an elderly lady, had several little anecdotes to
tell of the smart sayings and doings of her grandchildren; one of them
so aptly illustrating Miss Stanhope's recent remarks that Mildred
and Zillah could not refrain from a furtive exchange of significant
glances. This was the narrative that drew them forth.
"Two of my grandchildren were staying at our house last week--Mary
Bronson, my son's daughter--she's ten years old--and Tommy Linn, my
oldest daughter's child, he's about five, and has a great notion of
being a man; he's out of petticoats now, and you couldn't punish him
worse than by making him put them on again.
"Well, the second night he was with us I was in a quandary. His
night-gown had been hung out to air, and a shower had come up and made
it soaking wet, for you see nobody had thought to bring it in, and his
mother had sent only one.
"When Tommy saw the condition it was in he spoke right up:
'Grandmother, don't you give me a girl's night-gown, 'cause I sha'n't
wear it. I want to have a man's.'
"'Yes,' I said, 'so you shall. Mary, you go and get one of his Uncle
Sam's for him.' Then I whispered to her, 'Bring one of yours.'
"So she brought it, and as I shook it out Tommy looked at it very
suspiciously. 'Is that a man's?' he says.
"'Yes,' says I, 'it's one of your Uncle Sam's.' So he let me put it on
him, and went off to sleep as quiet and contented as could be."
"But do you think it was right?" asked Miss Stanhope in a tone of
gentle remonstrance. "It was not the truth you told the child."
"No," acknowledged Mrs. Bronson reluctantly, "but what is a body to
do? You have to manage children somehow, and if I hadn't deceived him,
there'd have been a regular battle. What would you have done in my
place?"
"Anything, I hope, rather than tell an untruth to one child and give a
lesson in falsehood and deception to the other. Excuse an old woman's
plain speaking, but how can you ever tell that little Mary that lying
is a great sin--a sin that must cost the loss of the soul if unrepented
of and unforsaken? or how blame her if she, at some future day, puts
your lesson in practice to deceive you, perchance in some matter of
vital importance to you or herself?"
There was silence in the room for some moments, while Mrs. Bronson sat
looking extremely uncomfortable; then she said, with an attempt to
speak lightly, "You make a very serious matter of it, Miss Stanhope."
"It _is_ a serious matter," returned Aunt Wealthy, "as I am sure you
will acknowledge upon thoughtful consideration. I am sorry to cause you
mental disquiet, but 'faithful are the wounds of a friend,' the wise
man says."
"That is true, and I dare say you are right. I shall think over what
you have been saying," Mrs. Bronson returned, rising to take leave.
"What do you think of it all?" she asked her companion as they left the
house.
"I'm afraid the old lady was right, Sarah, though I own I never
thought of it in that light before--telling fibs to children to keep
them from misbehaving, I mean. I've done it occasionally myself, but I
don't think I ever shall again. As she said, how can we expect them to
speak the truth if we are not always careful to do it ourselves?"
"Annis," Mildred called to her sister, "please bring Percy in now; it
is growing too late for him to be out."
"He doesn't want to come," was the answer; "can't he stay out a little
longer?"
"No; the sun is near setting, and the air is growing quite cold,"
Mildred answered, running down into the garden and taking her little
boy by the hand. "Come, son, we must go in now, for mamma does not want
her dear baby to get sick."
"No; won't get sick," he asserted in the most positive manner. "P'ease,
mamma, let Percy tay wee 'ittle bit longer."
"No, darling; but if it is a good day to-morrow you shall have a nice
long play and a drive in the carriage with papa and mamma, beside."
She was leading him gently on toward the house while she spoke. The
child did not resist, but he set up a loud wail.
"My little boy must not be naughty," Mildred said, in a gently
reproving tone.
Still the crying continued, and indeed increased in violence as she led
him over the threshold into the hall. There she stopped, and stooping
down to take off his out-door garments, "Percy," she said firmly, "you
must stop this noise at once. Mamma is very sorry her little boy is
so naughty. Now be good, and we will go into the parlor to see dear
grandma and the rest, and you may get up on a chair by the window and
watch for grandpa, and papa, and Uncle Wallace to come to supper.
They'll be coming pretty soon, and then we will have our supper, and
after that Percy shall go to his nice little bed."
Being of a pleasant disposition, and having already learned by
experience that nothing was ever gained from his mother by fretting,
crying, or teasing, the little fellow presently ceased his wailing,
allowed her to dry his eyes, gave her a kiss and a promise to be good,
and was so for the rest of his stay at his grandfather's.
Zillah had watched the little scene with interest, and had not failed
to note the fact that Don's report of Mildred's management was correct;
that she did not caress and fondle her child while he was misbehaving,
but treated him in a way to make it evident to him that his conduct was
displeasing to her.
At the tea-table there was again an illustration of the difference in
the training the two children were receiving. Percy was given only
plain, wholesome food suited to his infant years. Stuart, refusing to
be content with that, was permitted to eat cake, preserves, meat--in
fact, everything upon the table to which he chose to take a fancy.
"Is that the way you feed your child?" the doctor asked in a tone of
surprise quite unmingled with approval.
"Yes," replied Wallace carelessly, "he eats whatever we do; we let him
have anything on the table that he fancies. You don't think it the best
plan, I see."
"No; unless your object is to make an invalid of him."
"I couldn't bear to eat dainties without giving my child a share!"
exclaimed Zillah with some heat. "And it never hurts him."
"I think you are mistaken there," said the doctor; "that such
indulgence does not immediately result in violent illness is no proof
that it does no harm. I am afraid you will discover one day, when it is
too late, that very serious harm has been done. There is great danger
that his digestive organs will give way under the great strain put upon
them, and if you do not lose him, you will have him a sufferer for
life."
Zillah looked startled and alarmed, while Wallace, turning to her,
said, "If that's the case, little wife, we must promptly turn over a
new leaf with him. I'm afraid Charlie has the right of it; you know how
restless Stuart is often at night, and I dare say it's all owing to our
foolish habit of indulging him in eating rich and unwholesome food."
"I suppose so; I begin to think I am not fit to have a child," Zillah
said half impatiently, half sadly, "for my management so far seems to
have been all blunders."
"Live and learn, daughter," her father said cheerily; "don't be
disheartened, but set about correcting your mistakes as fast as
possible. I don't think," he added, patting Stuart's head, "that my
namesake grandson is quite ruined yet. Do you, Uncle Charlie?"
"Oh no, indeed!" replied the doctor; "he's a fine little fellow, and
I want him to have a chance to continue such, physically as well as
otherwise."
"It shall not be his father's fault if he doesn't," said Wallace.
"Nor his mother's," added Zillah. "Wallace, we would rather live on
very plain fare ourselves than have our boy injured with rich living,
wouldn't we?"
"Certainly; but perhaps that need not be the only alternative," he
answered, with a good-humored smile.
"I'm sure I don't want to have a battle with him at every meal," she
said disconsolately.
"Perhaps that may be avoided by sending him to his play before bringing
on objectionable dishes," said her husband.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Chapter Tenth.