“Patience, my lord! why, ’tis the soul of peace;
Of all the virtues ’tis the nearest kin to heaven.”
――DECKER.
When alone with Annis that evening Mildred said to her, “I had a talk
with Uncle Dinsmore to-day. You know we are all engaged to dine at
Roselands to-morrow, and he wants us――that is, my husband, you, and
me――to go prepared to stay at least a week.”
“O Milly, I don’t want to!” cried Annis. “Do you think I must? I wish
we didn’t have to go at all.”
“It is pleasanter here, especially so to you, I suppose, but consider,
dear, how very kind Uncle Dinsmore has always been to us, and how rude
and ungrateful it would seem to decline his invitation.”
“I’m willing to go for to-morrow, but what is to be done about my
lessons if I stay a whole week?”
“I spoke of that, and uncle said you should be brought over every day
for the lesson hours and taken back again. Won’t that do, little
lady?” Mildred asked, with playfully affectionate look and tone.
“Yes,” Annis said, her face brightening a little. “I don’t want to be,
or to seem ungrateful to anybody, and I think I can stand it in that
way for a week. And I’ll try to like the cousins there, though I’m
sure they’re not half so nice as these here.”
“No,” assented Mildred, “but you might travel the world over without
finding another such little girl as Elsie.”
“Yes, indeed, sister! I grow fonder of her every day, she’s so sweet
and bright, often merry and full of innocent fun, without a particle
of rudeness, so gentle and humble and unselfish. She doesn’t think
herself good at all, but I think she’s as nearly perfect as anybody
can be in this world.”
“And I quite agree with you,” said Mildred. “No wonder her father
doats on her as he does.”
“And she on him; but the way Enna sometimes treats her makes me angry.
I can hardly help telling Miss Enna she ought to be ashamed of
herself, and could almost scold Elsie for being so meek and patient.”
“Meekness and patience are very good things, little sister,” Mildred
said, with a slight smile; “I often wish I had more of them.”
“You needn’t then, you have quite enough, I think,” returned Annis.
“The Bible bids us ‘let patience have her perfect work,’ and it is
certainly a lack of the spirit of forgiveness that makes us irritable
and impatient under little annoyances, slights, and rudenesses,”
remarked Mildred; and opening her Bible at the seventh chapter of
Ecclesiastes, she read aloud, “And the patient in spirit is better
than the proud in spirit.”
“But, Milly, do you think it means we ought to put up with everything
and just let people trample on us?”
“No, I agree with Edmund Burke that ‘there is a limit at which
forbearance ceases to be a virtue.’ See here, Solomon says, ‘surely
oppression maketh a wise man mad.’ And,” turning to the New Testament,
“here in Acts we read that when the keeper of the prison said to Paul,
‘The magistrates have sent to let you go, now therefore depart and go
in peace,’ Paul’s answer was, ‘They have beaten us openly uncondemned,
being Romans, and have cast us into prison, and now do they thrust us
out privily? nay verily, but let them come themselves and fetch us
out.’”
“Yes,” said Annis meditatively, and as if thinking aloud, “I’ve an
idea he wouldn’t have put up with as much as Elsie does from Enna.”
“What is it Enna does that seems to you so unendurable?” asked
Mildred, with some curiosity.
“Oh, it isn’t so much what she does, or even says, as it is her
sneering, contemptuous tone and manner, as if Elsie were ever so much
younger and sillier than herself, when she is really older and a great
deal wiser. I spoke to Elsie about it one day, and she said she was
very glad Enna didn’t go any farther; because her papa had ordered her
to tell him if Enna abused her, and of course she must obey, and she
did dislike so very much to do it.”
Elsie seldom found much enjoyment in a visit to Roselands. Her Aunt
Adelaide was the only member of the family there between whom and
herself there was a strong mutual attachment, though Lora and Walter
were not unkind, and sometimes treated her even quite affectionately.
She and Annis were not in haste to be off from the Oaks on the day of
the dinner party, so did not ask to be excused from lessons in order
to accompany Rose and Mildred in the family carriage; they had their
morning walk together, Annis took her riding lesson, then the usual
time was spent in study and recitation.
After that they made their dinner toilets, and Elsie drove Annis over
in her own little phaeton, her father riding by its side all the way
to Roselands.
It was not strictly a family party; there were several gentlemen
guests beside Mr. Dinsmore and Dr. Landreth; among whom the children
were glad to see Mr. Travilla. His mother was there also, and not too
busy talking to the grown-up people to find time for a little chat
with her two young favorites.
They had each brought a bit of fancy work, and until dinner was
announced sat in the drawing-room, busy and demurely quiet, listening
with interest to the talk that was going on around them, but taking no
part in it unless a question or remark were addressed particularly to
them.
The moment Walter and Enna caught sight of the phaeton driving up the
avenue, they ran out to the veranda, and hardly waiting to greet their
brother and the little girls, asked eagerly to be allowed to take a
drive in it.
“It belongs to Elsie,” Mr. Dinsmore answered.
“Papa,” she said in an undertone, as he helped her out, “I am willing
if you are. But please tell them they are not to ill-use the ponies in
any way.”
“I shall ride alongside and see that they do not,” he said. “You and
Annis go in and say that I will be here in season for dinner.”
“Say, Horace; say, can I drive?” Walter was repeating impatiently.
“Yes, Elsie says you may.”
“Then I’m going too,” cried Enna, stepping in.
“No, En, you can’t go bareheaded and with nothing round you; and
there’s not time to wait for you to fix; and I’ll not have you,
because you’ll do nothing but scold and quarrel all the way.”
“No, she won’t, for I shall be close at hand to keep her in order,”
said Mr. Dinsmore, remounting his horse.
“And here comes Fanny with a hood and shawl for me,” said Enna, as a
servant-maid came hurrying out with the articles mentioned.
Walter, like the gentlemanly little fellow he was when not provoked
beyond endurance by Enna’s temper and wilfulness, helped the girl to
wrap the shawl about his sister’s shoulders, the hood was tied on, and
they were off; down the avenue and out into the road they went, the
ponies at a brisk trot, Mr. Dinsmore’s horse side-by-side with the
phaeton.
“What a splendid little turnout it is!” exclaimed Walter. “Wish I had
one like it.”
“You have a good pony,” said his brother, “and I should think would,
at least as a general thing, prefer riding to driving.”
“Horace, mayn’t I drive?” asked Enna in a whining tone.
“Perhaps Walter will resign the reins to you a part of the way,” Mr.
Dinsmore answered, “but we have not time to go very far.”
“You may drive to the end of the next field,” Walter said, giving her
the reins.
“Such a little bit of a way!” she grumbled, and would certainly have
held on to them when the designated spot was reached if Mr. Dinsmore
had not been so close at hand.
He seemed in a most amiable mood, conversing with the two children in
an affable and entertaining manner; but Enna knew he could be very
stern and authoritative on occasion. So a pout was the only evidence
of displeasure she ventured upon when Walter resumed the reins.
But no notice was taken of it by either brother, and presently Mr.
Dinsmore began talking of the expected festivities at the Oaks, and
gave them their invitation, adding, “You, Enna, will be very welcome
to come and stay the whole week if you can enjoy yourself and let
others do the same.”
“What do you mean by that?” she asked, snappishly.
“That you must be pleasant-tempered; not domineering over your little
mates, but willing to yield your wishes to theirs to a reasonable
extent; in a word, be polite and unselfish.”
“I shan’t go!”
“Very well; please yourself in that.”
“I’ll go, Horace, thank you,” Walter said. “I wouldn’t miss it for a
good deal.”
“I say it’s too bad,” Enna burst out, “that people are always calling
me selfish and ill-natured and domineering. I should think I’ve as
good a right to have my way as anybody else.”
“Not all the time,” returned Mr. Dinsmore. “And hardly at all when you
are a minority of one against a majority of half a dozen or more. But
I certainly did not say you were selfish and domineering.”
On their return they found themselves barely in time for dinner. The
party not being very large, the children were allowed to dine with the
older people, and Elsie, to her no small content, was seated between
her father and Mr. Travilla, Annis being on the latter gentleman’s
other side.
Both little girls were well waited upon and were quietly happy and
contented, saying next to nothing themselves, but enjoying the
conversation of their elders.
Walter, seated on the opposite side of the table, seemed in excellent
spirits.
“That’s a splendid little turnout of yours,” he said, looking across
at Elsie. “I tell you I enjoyed the drive, only it wasn’t half long
enough. But you’ll lend it to me again, won’t you?”
She smiled and nodded assent.
“I’m going to the Oaks to spend Christmas week, but Enna says she
isn’t,” he went on in a lowered voice, glancing in Enna’s direction.
Elsie’s eyes followed his, and she saw that Enna’s face was clouded
and angry. She was sorry, but made no remark about it.
After dinner Lora invited Elsie and Annis to her room to show them
some pretty things she was making as Christmas gifts for her father
and mother, and to talk about what she should wear to the party at
Pine Grove. She was quite surprised to hear that they were both
invited, still more that Elsie’s father had consented to let her go.
Then she wanted to know just how they were to be dressed.
Enna came in while they were on that subject, and exclaimed angrily
that it was too bad they should be invited and she not.
“You are too young,” said Lora, “and besides always contrive to make
yourself disagreeable wherever you go.”
Lora’s words were by no means as oil upon the troubled waters. Enna
flew into a violent passion and abused her sister and niece in turn.
Lora was “a mean, spiteful, hateful thing; Elsie not a bit better.”
“Why, Enna, what have I done?” Elsie asked in surprise, but with a
gentle patience and forbearance that ought to have disarmed her
accuser.
“You’ve done a great deal,” stormed Enna; “I believe you’re always
running to Horace with tales about me. And you’ve gone and got ahead
of me by inviting all the girls to the Oaks for Christmas, so that I
can’t have any of them here.”
“Now, Enna,” expostulated Lora, “there’s no use in talking so. You
know mamma has said she wouldn’t be bothered with a houseful of
company this Christmas, and we younger ones are all going away to
spend the holidays.”
“No, I’m not,” interrupted the irate Enna. “I’d rather a thousand
times stay at home than go to the old Oaks, to have Horace lecturing
and reproving, and Elsie running to him all the time with tales about
me.”
“O Enna!” Elsie exclaimed, blushing painfully. “I never tell anything
about you unless papa orders me, and then you know I can’t help it.”
“You could if you chose. I’d never tell tales for being ordered!”
returned Enna, with scornful look and tone.
“No,” remarked Lora, coolly, “but you are ready enough to do it
without. And you needn’t say another word about Elsie getting ahead of
you in sending out invitations, for you never thought of doing so till
you heard that she had; and besides, you are so unpopular with your
mates that they would find some excuse for not coming, if you did
invite them.”
Elsie was not sorry that at that moment a summons came for her from
her father.
She obeyed at once, Annis and Lora accompanying her to the
drawing-room, where they found she was wanted to play and sing; some
of the stranger guests having expressed a desire to hear her.
It was always a trial to her to play before strangers, but she sat
down to the piano, in obedience to her father’s direction, without
hesitation or excuse, and acquitted herself to his entire satisfaction
and apparently to that of all the guests.
She did not leave the drawing-room again, or have any more talk with
Enna, until it was time to prepare for the ride home.
It seemed lonely to go back without the cousins, and especially to
leave Annis behind. But as compensation she had her father and mother
all to herself for the whole evening, and was allowed to sit longer
than usual in her favorite seat upon his knee.
Annis was there again the next morning in good season to prepare her
lessons for the day, and the two met as joyfully as if the separation
had been for weeks.
After their recitations Annis had to have her new dress fitted, then
to take her riding lesson, before returning to Roselands.
Elsie saw her off, then went to her papa’s study, where he was busily
writing. She knew she was welcome there if she did nothing to disturb
him, so took a book and seated herself on the farther side of the
room.
Mr. Dinsmore was still at his writing-desk when a servant came in with
a visiting-card which he handed to his master, saying he had shown the
gentleman into the parlor.
“It is a business call,” Mr. Dinsmore said, glancing at the card.
“Just show him in here, John.”
Elsie had become so deeply interested in her book that she heard
nothing of this, nor was she aware of the entrance of the caller, who
was courteously received by Mr. Dinsmore and invited to take a chair
which John set for him near to that of his master.
The two then fell into earnest talk, and presently something said by
the stranger catching Elsie’s ear, withdrew her attention from the
book and fixed it upon him and the subject of his discourse.
He was pleading the cause of Home Missions, telling of the needs, the
labors, trials, and privations of those who were carrying the gospel
to the destitute regions of our own land, especially the far West and
Northwest. Money was needed for the support of the laborers now in the
field, and for others ready to go as soon as the necessary means
should be provided.
Elsie laid aside her book and softly drew near her father’s chair. He
had forgotten her presence and did not notice her approach, for he too
was deeply interested in what the stranger was saying; and when he
seemed to have concluded, responded at once with a liberal
contribution to the cause.
As he handed the gentleman his check, a little voice at his side said
softly, “Papa, may I give something too?”
“Ah, daughter, is it you? I had forgotten that you were here,” he
said, turning to her with a pleased smile. “Yes, you may if you wish,”
and he laid a blank check before her and put a pen in her hand.
“How much, papa?”
“I shall leave that to your decision.”
She considered a moment, filled up the check, signed, and gave it to
him. It was drawn for five hundred dollars.
Her look as her eyes met his was a little doubtful and timid. But he
said, “Very well,” smiling upon her and stroking her hair caressingly
as he spoke. Then turning to the stranger he introduced her. “This,
sir, is my little daughter, and she wishes to make a contribution of
her own to this good cause.”
The gentleman shook hands with her, regarding the sweet child face
with evident admiration and saying a few pleasant words, then glancing
at the check she had given him, uttered an exclamation of gratified
surprise.
“She is well able to give it and has my full consent,” Mr. Dinsmore
remarked in explanation, as the gentleman turned upon him an
inquiring, half-hesitating look; then as he rose to go, he hospitably
urged him to stay for dinner, and until the next day if he could.
He accepted the invitation to dine, thus giving them the opportunity
to learn still more of the cause he represented, but took leave very
soon after the conclusion of the meal.