Preparation.
“I WISH that to-morrow were any day but Sunday!” exclaimed Lucius.
“Just when one is setting about a long work, eager to measure and to
make, to cut and to clip, it is vexatious to have to stop in the middle
of business, to shove away knife, ruler, pencil, pasteboard, and all,
into a drawer for the next twenty-four hours!”
“Perhaps it would be better not to begin the work at all until Monday,”
mildly suggested his mother.
“O no, we’ve all the Saturday afternoon, let’s set to making our model
at once!” exclaimed Lucius.
“Please, please, don’t make us put off!” cried Dora and Elsie.
Mrs. Temple was a very indulgent mother, and was inclined to be all
the more so as every one of her children was either suffering from
whooping-cough or just recovering from its effects. Their mother felt
sorry at the necessity for shutting out her family from many of their
usual occupations and pleasures, and even from the privilege of going
to church. The lady did not, therefore, in the least press the subject
of delay, but offered, as soon as early dinner should be over, to go
and search in her drawers and boxes for such materials as she might
think suitable for the model of the Tabernacle, which her children
were so eager to make. The dinner-bell sounded while Mrs. Temple was
speaking, and the family went together to the room in which they took
all their meals, and gathered round the table which was spread with a
plentiful, though plain repast.
While the young Temples are engaged with their dinner, let me introduce
them a little more individually to my reader. There, at the bottom of
the table, is Lucius, a sunburnt, pleasant-looking schoolboy, with a
mass of brown, half-curly locks brushed back from his forehead. He
has quick eyes and restless hands, which are seldom perfectly still,
even if they have no better occupation than that of tying and untying
a morsel of string; but they are now busily plying a large knife and
fork, for Lucius is a skilful carver, and the joint of mutton is placed
before him, from which to help all the party.
The pale girl seated on the right of Lucius, with eyes weak and
reddened by the effect of her cough, is Agnes, the elder of the twins.
Her brow is furrowed, perhaps from the same cause, perhaps because she
is more irritable in temper than her brother and sisters. But Agnes
is a conscientious girl, one who thinks much of duty: and we may hope
that “prayer and pains,” which it has been well said can do anything,
will give her the mastery over faults against which she is trying to
struggle.
Opposite to Agnes sits Dora, who, though her twin, is not much like
her, being a good deal taller, prettier, and more animated than she.
Dora is a much greater favorite with Lucius and the younger girls
than the elder twin, from being gay, obliging, and clever. Agnes is
perfectly aware that such is the case, and has to pray and strive
against the sin of jealousy, which is too ready to creep into her heart
and poison all her enjoyments.
On either side of Mrs. Temple are her two younger daughters, Amy and
Elsie. The former, with soft brown eyes and long flaxen hair tied with
blue ribbons, is strikingly like her mother, who has, at least so
think her children, the sweetest face in the world. Amy has never been
known to quarrel or utter an angry word, and is always ready to give
help to any one who needs it. It is no wonder that so gentle a girl
is beloved. But Amy knows herself to be by no means faultless, and is
much, on her guard against the silly vanity which a mother’s watchful
eye has found out to be lurking in the mind of her dear little girl.
Elsie is a merry blue-eyed child, full of life and intelligence,
forward—rather too forward for her age. She has for six years held the
place of baby in the home of her widowed mother, and her family are
rather disposed to indulge her as if she were a baby still. She enters
with animation into the amusements of the elder children, and is by no
means disposed to be seen and not heard, as Lucius often laughingly
tells her that such little people should be.
The conversation during dinner was almost entirely on the subject of
the model, and flowed on pleasantly enough, except when interrupted by
coughing; but all the children were glad when meal-time was over, and
their mother, with Amy and Elsie skipping before her, went off to hunt
over her little stores for such materials as might be found useful.
Lucius employed the time of their absence in exploring the lumber-room
for tops of old boxes or other bits of wood that might, when fastened
together, do for the ground-frame of the model, into which the gilded
pillars might be fixed. Dora, with pencil and paper, busied herself
in trying to make an embroidery pattern, introducing the figures of
cherubim. Agnes, who was too weak for much exertion, and who took
less keen interest in the work than did her sisters, lay on the sofa
reading a book, until the return of Amy and Elsie, each of whom carried
some little treasure in her hands.
“Look, Agnes, look at these shining reels of gold and silver thread!”
exclaimed the youngest child with eager delight.
“Gold thread—ah! that’s just what I want!” cried Dora, throwing down
her pencil.
“And here is mamma’s book of gold leaf; there is a little gold sheet
between every one of the pages,” continued Elsie. “But oh! it is so
thin, so very thin, one dare not breathe near, or the gold would all
fly away!”
“I thought that gold was a very heavy metal,” observed Agnes, looking
up from her book.
“But it is beaten out into such extreme fineness that a bit of gold
no larger than a pea would gild all these,” said Lucius, who had just
entered the room with his arms full of pieces of wood.
“See, Agnes, what we have brought for you!” cried Amy. “Here is
a beautiful piece of blue merino for the outer curtains (the
badgers’-skin cover, you know), and blue silk with which to sew it; and
here is another piece of mohair for the goats’-skin cover, so you are
supplied directly with everything that you need; is not that nice?”
Agnes did not look so much delighted as her sister expected that she
would; perhaps because she was scarcely well enough to take much
pleasure in sewing; perhaps because she had still a lingering feeling
of mortification at not having been trusted with the embroidery part of
the work.
“I hope that you have brought me the fine linen for the beautiful inner
curtains, and the veil for the Holy of holies,” cried Dora.
“No, mamma cannot find any linen fine enough, unless she were to tear
up her handkerchiefs, and that would be a pity,” said Amy. “But mamma
has promised to buy some linen both for your curtains and for mine that
are, you know, to hang all round the open court of the Tabernacle.”
“It is very tiresome to have to stop at the beginning for want of fine
linen!” exclaimed Dora. “I hope that mamma will go out and buy us
plenty at once.”
“Ah! Dora, you know that mamma owned this morning that she felt very
tired,” said Amy, a little reproachfully; “and the shops are a good way
off; it is not as if we lived in the town.”
“Besides, it is raining,” observed Elsie, who was looking out of the
window.
“It is merely a little drizzle, that would not hurt a fly!” exclaimed
Dora. “Mamma never minds a few tiny drops when she puts on her
waterproof cloak.”
“Mamma never minds anything that has only to do with her own comfort,”
observed Amy.
“So there is more need that we should mind for her,” said Agnes.
“I’m sure that I wish that I could go to the shops myself without
troubling, any one!” exclaimed the impatient Dora. “If it were not
for this stupid, tiresome infection, I’d get Lucius to go with me this
minute, and would we not return laden with linen, pasteboard, and all
sorts of things! But mamma’s fear of setting other people coughing and
whooping makes her keep us shut up here in prison.”
“Mamma is quite right!” exclaimed Lucius. “I say so, though I hate more
than you do being boxed up here in the house.”
“Mamma is quite right,” re-echoed poor Agnes, as soon as she recovered
voice after another violent fit of coughing, which almost choked her.
“I should not like to give any one else such a dreadful complaint as
this.”
Mrs. Temple now entered the room, with several things in her hand. “I
have found a nice bit of red Turkey cloth,” said she, “so my little
Elsie will be able to set to work on her curtains at once.”
The child clapped her hands with pleasure, and then scampered off for
her little Tunbridge-ware work-box.
“I hope that you have found the linen too, mamma,” cried Dora; “I am
in a hurry for it, a _very great_ hurry,” she added, regardless of an
indignant look from Agnes, and a pleading one from Amy.
“I am sorry that I have no suitable linen,” replied the lady, “but I
intend to go out and buy some.”
“Not to-day, not now, it is raining; you are tired,” cried several
voices; that of Dora was, however, not heard amongst them.
“I have here some pasteboard, though not sufficient for our model,
and a bottle of strong gum which will be most useful,” said the lady,
placing on the table what she had brought; “but gilt paper will be
needed as well as gold leaf, and of it I have none; I must procure
that, and some more pasteboard for my dear boy.”
“And plenty of wire, cut into five-inch lengths for the pillars,” added
Lucius.
“And linen for Amy and me,” joined in Dora.
“But please buy nothing till Monday,” said Agnes; “the work can wait
quite well for a couple of days.”
“Yes, yes, do wait till Monday,” cried the other children; Dora again
being the only exception.
Dora’s selfishness was marring her offering, as Agnes’s pride had
blemished hers. How difficult it is even in the most innocent pleasure,
even in the most holy occupation, to keep away every stain of sin! Ever
since the sad time when evil entered the beautiful garden of Eden, and
Adam and Eve ate of the fruit which God had forbidden them to taste,
pride, selfishness, and unholiness have been natural to the human
heart. Even when we most earnestly try to do what we think good works,
how much we need to be on our guard lest sin creep in to spoil all!
Dora, though silent, showed so plainly by her looks her extreme
impatience to be supplied at once with the materials for which she
could have so easily waited that her gentle mother made up her mind to
gratify the wish of her daughter. Mrs. Temple put on her waterproof
cloak, and, tired as she was, went forth on a shopping expedition. It
vexed the children to see that the clouds grew darker and the shower
fell more heavily not long after their mother had quitted the house.
“If mamma catches cold or has pain in her face it is all Dora’s fault!”
exclaimed Lucius.
“It was so selfish—so silly not to wait,” observed Agnes; “just see how
the rain is pouring!”
“I love mamma as much as any of you do!” cried Dora, her heart swelling
with vexation, so that she could hardly refrain from tears.
“You love yourself better, that’s all,” remarked Lucius; and his words
were more true than polite.
Mrs. Temple returned home very much tired and rather wet,
notwithstanding her umbrella and waterproof cloak. And Dora was,
after all, disappointed of her wish to have the linen and begin her
embroidery work directly. Mrs. Temple had found it difficult to carry
home parcels when she had an umbrella to hold up on a windy day, and
had also feared that goods might get damp if taken through driving
rain. The wire, pasteboard, gold-paper, and linen were to be sent home
in the evening, and the longed-for parcel did not appear until it was
time for the twins to follow their younger sisters to bed.
[Illustration]