Ethel's trial

Ethel's Trial.
"Oh, yes, let me see them by all means!"

"Oh, yes, let me see them, by all means," said Ethel. "I never saw any little puppies."

Whereupon Mr. Begg led the way, and Ethel found herself behind the stall, admiring the three round little animated balls, and trying hard not to shrink from the polite attentions of their mother, a big collie, who was evidently much flattered at the compliments paid to her offspring, and returned them by licking Ethel's hands and face as she bent over the basket. At last she disengaged herself, and took her leave, promising to be at the school to meet the children the next Sunday.

"Well, brother, I have gained some new recruits for your school," said Ethel to Mr. Dalton, as she met him at the gate. "All the little Beggs, and all their cousins, the little Hagues: so I shall have to be there on purpose to meet them, whether you want me or not."

"You know perfectly well, miss, that I do want you. But what about the other school?"

"Oh, they can spare me as well as not; and it is time for some of the other girls—Mary Rose or Maggy Flemming—to take their turn in helping Mrs. Cummings. Not Anna, though; we must have her up at the 'Hill.' And I don't believe I shall be afraid of Lion any more, because Mr. Begg's big dog licked my face, and I never said a word, though I felt as if I was being swallowed. I dare say I shall end by liking dogs, after all."

"And June-bugs too, perhaps?"

"No, indeed—the stupid things!"

"But, Ethel, I thought the whole Begg tribe were Romanists. I am sure Mrs. Trim told me so."

"So they are; that is just the beauty of it," said Ethel. "I hope we shall get at the parents through the children, just as Mr. Verplank did at those McCormicks. They were all Romanists, and now they come regularly to church; and two of the girls are in the Bible-class."

"I see you enter into the real spirit of the thing," said Mr. Dalton. "Things look brighter to-day, do they not, Ethel?"

"They do, indeed; thanks to you," replied Ethel, with that sudden brightening of the face which made her look so wonderfully pretty.

"Thanks to the great Comforter of all," said her brother. "Ethel, when shall we take up our great subject again?"

"Please, Henry, I wish you would wait a little first," answered Ethel. "I am thinking of it all the time; but I would rather wait awhile—say till Christmas—before saying any more about the matter."

"Very well; I will agree to that. What are you going to do now?"

"Practise music till luncheon-time. Will you come and sing duets with me?"

At luncheon-time, Dr. Ray came in—an unusual circumstance, for he rarely ate lunch.

"What is going to happen?" asked his wife.

"Nothing very bad, I hope. Here, young lady, is a nest of June-bugs for you."

"A nest of June-bugs!" said Ethel, looking at the pretty morocco box which the doctor handed her. "Shall I open it?"

"Of course; what else is it for? Emily, I don't mind if I take a cup of tea, seeing you have it made."

Ethel opened her box, and discovered a pretty gold pin and sleeve-buttons, each set with a diamond beetle.

"Oh, how lovely!" she exclaimed, "Are they enamelled?"

"No; they are the real insects—first cousins to your friends the Melolonthites. I had the date put on them, you see."

"What a quaint fancy and what a pretty one!" said Ethel, examining the brilliant green-and-gold insects. "I shall think all the world of them, Matthew. Nobody else would have thought of such a thing."

"Well, I owed you some reparation for laughing at you; and I thought you would like them as mementos of your grand victory. I must be off again, though. Don't wait dinner for me if I am late, Emily."

The next Sunday found Ethel and Anna at the chapel, as the girls liked to call it, in good season. The room was more than half filled with children, and almost every one had some brother, or cousin, or friend who was "coming next Sunday." To Ethel were assigned the infants, as she had desired, including all the Beggs, and their cousins the Hagues: Anna had a nice class of girls from nine to twelve. Two other classes of younger girls were given to two moulders' wives, nice, motherly women, and Mr. Dalton himself took the large boys.

"Richard, you must just turn to and help," said he to Richard Trim.

"I was going into your class," said Richard, colouring.

"Yes; but we can't spare you to go into my class—not at present, at any rate. We want you to teach those boys in the corner."

"But I don't know enough to teach," objected Richard.

"You can teach what you know, and what you don't know you can learn."

"I can ask ma, to be sure," said Richard. "She knows a great deal about the Bible. Well, I don't want to shirk, Mr. Dalton, so I will take the class; at least until you can get somebody else."

"Very good. But why is your mother not here? I depended on her most of anybody."

"I wanted her to come, but she would not," said Richard. "She said she was too old, and, did not understand the new-fashioned ways of managing; and the young people would not want her."

"We don't intend to have any new-fashioned ways; and we do want her," returned Mr. Dalton. "I shall come and have a talk with her. Well, it seems the classes are all provided, for the present. Some of them are too large; but that can be rectified when we have more teachers. I must look out among the men for somebody to take another class of boys."

"Mr. Murdoch would be a good man," said one of the boys.

"Who is Mr. Murdoch?" asked Mr. Dalton.

"Why, don't you know him? Why, he's the boss-moulder," replied the boy, in a tone of great surprise, as if not knowing the boss-moulder argued one's self unknown.

"You know I have not lived here very long," said Mr. Dalton, excusing his ignorance of that great man. "Why do you think Mr. Murdoch would be a good man, David?"

"Oh, he knows lots about the Bible, and everything. They say he reads Latin and Greek; but I don't know about that. Anyhow, he is mighty pious, and won't let any of the men swear or use bad words in the shop; but he is real good, though."

"I can easily believe it," said Mr. Dalton, gravely. "Has he any children?"

"Oh, yes. Them two red-haired girls over there is his'n; and he has got a boy, but he don't live at home, now. He has gone in the country, on a farm."

"I must make his acquaintance," said Mr. Dalton. "Now we will go on with our lessons."

It is not my purpose to follow out particularly the history of the Iron Hill Mission, as it soon came to be called. The school grew and prospered. Mr. Murdoch was found out, and at once consented to take a class. He was a big, red-haired Scotchman, and Mr. Dalton ascertained that he really did understand, not only Latin and Greek, but also Hebrew, and was very curious about things in general, especially about the Eastern tongues. They fraternized at once.

"Ye see," said Mr. Murdoch, in explanation, "I began to be educated for a minister, at the University of Glasgow; but my father died, and my mither was left with a handful of lasses to put out in the world, and but little to do it with. I could have worked my own way through the University, you know, but then there were the lasses. So, as I had always a turn for working in iron and brass, like Tubal-Cain of old, and as a cousin of my own had a place in one of our great works, why I just left the University and took to the foundry. But I saw no reason why I should forget what I had learned, or why I should not learn more; so I kept my father's old books—he was a minister, and a well-learned man—and studied them whilst I had time."

"I see!" said Mr. Dalton. "I dare say you found your books a great comfort."

"Indeed and I did. There is wonderful comfort to be found in books, if you use them right. And so, Mr. Dalton, if you can lend me the books, I will take a look at the Syriac with much pleasure."

"I will not only lend you the books, but give you all the help in my power, if you need help," said Mr. Dalton. "It will keep me in practice. But in return, you must take my class of boys. You are the very man I want in the Sunday-school."

"I shall do it with much pleasure," said Mr. Murdoch, and so the matter was settled.

Mr. Murdoch soon gained unbounded influence over his class, who looked up to him with immense reverence and regard.

"Emily, have you seen a Syriac grammar lying about among your books?" asked Mr. Dalton, a few days after his conversation with the boss-moulder.

"I cannot say that I have noticed it," replied Emily, gravely: "but you know I have not much time for light and trifling reading, so I may have overlooked it."

"You might easily have done so, for it is unbound, and looks very much like a paper-covered novel," said Mr. Dalton. "I can't think what I have done with it. I want it to lend to Mr. Murdoch."

"Perhaps Ethel may know something about it. She takes a general charge of all the books in the house. I will ask her when she comes in. How much she has brightened up lately, has she not?"

"She has, indeed. I hope she has turned the corner of that crisis we were talking of the other day, and that she will now go on in a course of steady improvement."

"At the same time, to quote Matthew again, we must not be surprised or discouraged, if she has some drawbacks," remarked Emily, smiling.

"Of course not," said Mr. Dalton. "How old is Ethel? I always forget people's ages."

"Ethel is sixteen," replied Emily. "Don't you remember? She was born and mamma died the year you went abroad for the first time."

"Then in three years she will be nineteen," said Mr. Dalton, musingly.

"Yes, I suppose so. People generally grow old at about that rate, if they live: I know what you are thinking of, Henry," she added, more gravely: "but I hope you will not be hasty. I cannot think that there is in our timid little sister much of the stuff whereof martyrs are made."

"A missionary is not necessarily a martyr," said Mr. Dalton. "I do not consider myself one by any means. On the contrary, though I have had a good many unpleasant things to encounter, and have passed through some trying scenes, I think I have enjoyed life as much as I should have done in any situation whatever."

"Yes, but you are not Ethel," said Emily. "Consider how she has been brought up how she has been petted and indulged, and how she has always shrunk from anything in the least degree disagreeable or dangerous. When she first came here, she would scream if she saw a caterpillar, and alarm the whole house on the bare suspicion of a mouse."

"I know," said Mr. Dalton; "but Emily, have you not noticed a change in Ethel lately?"

"I have, certainly," replied Emily. "There was that affair at the chapel—nobody could have behaved better than she did on that occasion. Then she has lately taken the marketing upon herself, and she does it very nicely too. It was her own offer to undertake it. I asked her if she would not be afraid of the dogs, but she said she must learn not to mind such things. Yes, I do think she is making a great effort to improve; but yet—"

"Don't you think, Emily, that what Ethel needs most is a distinct, definite object in life—an object grand enough to overshadow and reduce to their true proportions all these small difficulties of hers?"

"Perhaps so. It is what everybody needs. But still, I cannot imagine Ethel made into an effective missionary. To be sure, I remember that Janet Beecher used to be as much afraid of cows and caterpillars as Ethel herself. However, there is time for a great many things to happen in three years, and perhaps Ethel may find an object nearer home than Persia."

"Still, I would not say anything to discourage her, Emily."

"Oh, not a word, of course. Indeed, I would do everything in my power to help her, if I thought her heart was really set upon the work."

"Wait and see," said her brother. "Here she comes. Little sister, have you seen anything of a Syriac grammar?"

"It is in my room—I was looking it over," said Ethel, blushing. "I will bring it to you directly."

"Any time to-day will do," said Mr. Dalton. "I have promised to lend it to Mr. Murdoch."

"Oh, dear!" said Ethel, in a tone of disappointment. "What does he want with it?"

"To study it, I suppose, my dear. I have another, however, which is much at your service; only I would not advise you to undertake the language alone. Whenever you are ready to begin, I will help you."

"Thank you. I should like it ever so much," said Ethel. "I will go and find the book directly."

As she left the room, Mr. Dalton and Emily exchanged glances, but said nothing.

CHAPTER XIII.

TREATING OF COOKING.

ETHEL was not satisfied with undertaking the marketing. She had always disliked going into the kitchen, so that she had never even acquired the art of clear-starching, preserving, and cake-baking, which most American young ladies, at least out of the great cities, learn to practise in great perfection. But she "did not like" to work about the stove, and put her hands into all sorts of things; and this had heretofore been a sufficient reason for her never learning to cook. Now, however, she was in a little danger of going to the opposite extreme, and doing things simply because they "were" disagreeable and distasteful. She had set herself to take up the cross daily, and she was in some danger of making crosses for herself, instead of being content with those which her Lord sent her; and those which he sends are always just the ones we need.

It was not altogether a motive of self-denial, however, which took Ethel into the kitchen on this particular day. She had been reading over that paper in her desk, to which she now frequently referred, and thinking whether she were doing all in her power to fit herself for the work she had undertaken.

"I cannot begin upon Syriac till vacation, because my present lessons take all my spare time. I don't know that I can do any more for my class than I am doing, unless we get the sewing-school started. Let me see. I can sew pretty well: Miss Carrington took care of that, so I have one thing to thank her for, at any rate. I think I can cut and make all my own underclothes, and I know how to use the machine. I rather think I could make a dress, if it had not too much trimming. I will try it on the next cheap dress I buy; or I might make over that pink cambric.

"But there is housework, especially cooking. I don't know the least thing about cooking. If I were set to boil potatoes, I should not know how long a time they would need; and I am sure I should not know how to bake a loaf of decent bread, if people were suffering. I wonder if Mrs. Jones would teach me. She is an excellent cook, and she is very good-natured. I mean to ask her. Emily will be away to-morrow, and it will be a good time to begin."

Great was Mrs. Jones's amazement when Ethel entered the kitchen next morning, and preferred an humble request to be allowed to take lessons in cooking. Mrs. Jones was the wife of Dr. Ray's man-servant, and an excellent woman in every way. She was an accomplished cook, and, like other great artists, she did not at all like being interfered with; but she had known Ethel from her babyhood, and was very fond of her.

"Bless your heart, my dear, what has put that into your head?" she asked.

"Why, you know, Mrs. Jones, everybody ought to know something of housework," said Ethel. "I have often heard you say that, yourself. You know I don't understand the least thing about cooking, and I might be so placed that the knowledge would be very desirable."

"That is true, dear. '"Can do" is easy to carry about,' my grandmother used to say. Ladies would often be a deal better off if they understood housework better, and so would the people that work for them. Well, now, I am going to make some pies, and you may as well begin upon them as upon anything else. It is surprising what pie-crust folks do make and eat—just like leather or pasteboard. No wonder it is called unhealthy. I don't suppose you ever 'touched' a bit of crust in all your born days."

"Never, except to eat it."

"Ah, well, there must be a first time to everything. But, my dear child, you want to put on an apron, and take off your rings and cuffs, the first thing. Never go into the kitchen to work without an apron."

"True; I forgot that. Well, now, what shall I do first? Remember, I don't know even the A B C of pie-crust, so I shall have to begin at the beginning."

Mrs. Jones proved a good teacher. She did not take it for granted that her pupil knew things which she had never heard of; or confuse her with too many directions at once. Ethel was content to be told, (which is not always the case with pupils,) and the pies were successfully accomplished and baked.

"Now, then, as the oven is just right, and we have the things about, suppose you make some batter-cakes for luncheon," suggested Mrs. Jones. "Mr. Henry likes them; and it will save me baking bread to-day."

The cakes were as successful as the pies, and Ethel was secretly delighted to see her brother help himself to a third and fourth, remarking, apologetically, that they were so light they hardly amounted to anything. She kept her own counsel, however, and magnanimously allowed Mrs. Jones to have all the praise of both cakes and pies.

Every day for the three weeks that Emily stayed away, did Ethel take a lesson in some branch of cooking. She was very successful in general.

"Well, you haven't spoiled anything yet," said Mrs. Jones, on the day that Emily was expected home.

Ethel, grown bold with her success, was proposing to Mrs. Jones that they should have something unusually good to welcome the travellers, and suggested, among other things, that marvellous compound—alas! almost unknown to the present generation—a transparent pudding; adding, rather doubtfully, "If you think I could make it."

"Well, you haven't spoiled anything yet," said Mrs. Jones; "and I don't see why you should spoil that, as long as you have me to show you. I will say for you, you are about the easiest person I ever tried to teach. That's one reason you have such good luck: you don't take anything for granted, and you ain't afraid of being told, as some young ladies are. When people have to find out everything by their own experience, why, of course, they make lots of mistakes."

"That is the advantage of not knowing anything at all, to begin with," said Ethel. "My French master always says that he would rather take a perfectly ignorant pupil than one who has been half taught."

"There is something in that," said Mrs. Jones. "Well, my dear, we will make the pudding, and some chocolate-cake, too, if you like. The doctor is very fond of chocolate-cake, and always eats it, though he says it is very unwholesome. Dear me, we all have our inconsistencies," added Mrs. Jones, in a tone of beneficent toleration for the infirmities of humanity; "and all doctors are full of notions about eating and drinking. Dr. Ray is no worse than the rest of them."

"I don't think he is as bad as some," remarked Ethel. "Dr. Millar will not let the children have anything but porridge for breakfast and supper. Emma can't bear it, and the poor little thing comes to school ready to faint away, sometimes."

"Humph," said Mrs. Jones, in a tone of immense contempt. "He likes good thing enough himself, I dare say."

"I should think he did," replied Ethel. "I never saw any man eat as he did the night the Club was held here. But, perhaps, he thinks plain living is better for the children."

"Plain living is one thing, and starvation is another," said Mrs. Jones. "I don't see why good things—in moderation, of course—should hurt children any more than grown folks. What is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander."

"But, perhaps, not always for the gosling," said Ethel, smiling.

"Well, maybe not always. Anyhow, it is real cruelty to force children to eat what they dislike. But my dear, what has set you so earnestly on learning to cook? You ain't thinking of getting married, are you?"

"Oh, dear, no," returned Ethel. "But, you know, brother Henry may need a housekeeper some time; and at any rate, I don't see that it can do any harm for me to understand housework."

Mrs. Jones set down the dish she was buttering, and looked at Ethel with an odd expression between reproof and affectionate pride.

"It's just come over me what you are after," said she. "I can see it all like a book. You are thinking of going with Mr. Henry, when he goes back to them heathen countries. Now don't say no, for I know better."

"Well, suppose I am," said Ethel, smiling, though she felt a little confused and annoyed, "is there anything wrong in that? Why should not I be a missionary as well as Miss Beecher?"

"There's nothing wrong in it, of course; only I can't bear the thought of it," replied Mrs. Jones. "You, that I nursed when you was a baby, going out to them outlandish places."

"But why not? Why should it be any worse for me than for Miss Beecher?"

"There is a sight of difference between you and Miss Beecher," said Mrs. Jones, rather indignantly. "Miss Beecher is a great deal older, for one thing."

"Yes, she is now, but she was not when she went out there. She was only twenty years and I shall be nineteen before it is time for Henry to return."

"And then, Miss Beecher was very differently situated," continued Mrs. Jones. "She would have had to work for a living anyhow, and she might just as well teach school there as here; but you will have enough to support you handsomely without doing anything at all."

"T don't see how that is any argument," said Ethel. "If Miss Beecher's only object had been to earn a living, she could have done it much more easily here than in Persia. She had the offer of an excellent situation at the very time she decided to go abroad. The more property I have, the better I can support myself; and do just so much more good."

"Folks can find good enough to do at home, if they have a mind to," said Mrs. Jones, rather stoutly.

"I know that very well. There is good to be done everywhere. I dare say the first apostles might have found good enough to do in Judea, without going into strange countries. But there are people enough, who cannot possibly go abroad, to do the work at home. There are fifty ladies, for example, who can and will teach Sunday-school classes here in Ironton, for one who will or can go to teach in India or Africa."

"That's true," said Mrs. Jones. "But when the Lord has given anybody as much as he has to you, it does seem as though he meant you should stay at home and enjoy it."

"I think, when the Lord gives anyone as much as he has me, he means that person should use what he gives for his service, and for the good of those who are not as well off," said Ethel, with animation. "He does not give us everything to use just for our own benefit and pleasure. I am sure you agree with me in that, dear Jonesy; because, unless you do, you would not deny yourself everything except necessary clothes, in order to help your poor niece and her children," added she, slyly. "Why don't you enjoy what you have, and leave them to take care of themselves?"

Mrs. Jones laughed. "Well, you've got me there, my dear, that's a fact. But then, doing for one's own flesh and blood seems different from doing for people in a far-away country, don't it?"

"It certainly does; and yet you know the Bible says, 'He hath made of one blood all nations that dwell on the earth.'"

"But, excuse me, my dear, do you think you are just the one to go on a mission?" asked Mrs. Jones, after a little silence. "Don't you think you are 'most too—too—?"

"Too silly and ignorant and cowardly, and all that," said Ethel, finishing the sentence for her. "Yes, indeed, I do; but you know, even if I go, I shall have three years to prepare myself; and I hope to overcome some of my faults by that time. I know how silly I have always been, and how selfish, too—afraid of everything, and unwilling to touch or do anything in the least disagreeable. I have lived a selfish and useless life so far," said Ethel, blushing; "but that is no reason I should keep on doing so. I am going to try and do differently."

"Now you are rather too hard on yourself," said Mrs. Jones; "though I won't deny but there was room for improvement. But have you really made up your mind to be a missionary?"

"I have made up my mind to fit myself for it, at any rate," said Ethel; "as for the going, that must be as Providence pleases. I see no reason why I should not learn everything that a missionary ought to know; and then I shall be ready to go or stay at home, as may seem best. Since we have said so much about it, I will tell you that I do very much wish to go back to Persia with Henry. I have been thinking about it a long time, but more than ever for the last three or four weeks. I have not said as much to any one else, and I don't want you to tell anybody at present. I tell you, because you can help me a great deal in learning the things that I want to know about housekeeping and work of all sorts; and you have always been so good to me, ever since I was born, that I am sure you will not fail me now. You will help me, won't you, dear Jonesy?"

Mrs. Jones wiped her eyes. "Indeed, my dear, you talk very sensible; and I am sure I will help you all I can. You knew I have always loved you dearly, ever since I took out of your dear good mother's arms, when you were only three days old. I should feel badly to have you go away among all them Turks and heathen, that's a fact. But then you seem to have a real call; and if you have, and it comes from the Lord, why, I am not the one to say a word against it; and I will help you every way I can."

Ethel put her arms round the kind old woman's neck, and kissed her. "I was sure you would," said she; "and now tell me what to do to this next. See how thick it is!"

"Dear me, yes; I forgot all about it!" exclaimed Mrs. Jones, recalled at once to present and earthly things. "It would have been spoiled in another minute. Take it off the fire directly."

"Why, how warm you look, dear!" said Emily, kissing her sister on her arrival. "Your cheeks are as red as roses!"

"I have been busy," replied Ethel, smiling. "I am so glad you have come. Dinner will be all ready by the time you have changed your dress."

"How have you fared since I have been gone?" asked Emily, after they were seated at the table. "Has Mrs. Jones taken good care of you?"

"Admirable!" replied Mr. Dalton. "Don't fancy that we have missed you in the least. We have lived on the fat of the land, I assure you."

"What beautiful bread!" said Dr. Ray. "I have not seen any like it since I went away. If I found a professorship in the new college, it shall be of cooking, and I will put Mrs. Jones in the chair."

Ethel blushed, and her face dimpled all over with smiles, in spite of her efforts to look perfectly unconscious; for it was she who had made the bread. The dinner was a decided success, and Ethel felt paid for her fatigue and the heat of the kitchen when she saw how the travellers enjoyed it.

"I declare it is worth while to go away for a fortnight, if one is to be so feasted on his return," said the doctor, helping himself to another piece of cake; and then, as Mrs. Jones entered the room, "Mrs. Jones, what injury have I ever done you, that you should lay such snares for my digestion as this cake and pudding?"

"As to that, you wasn't obliged to eat it, you know," replied Mrs. Jones, who always "spoke her mind" to everybody. "Besides, I didn't make either the cake or the pudding—it was Miss Ethel."

"Ethel!" exclaimed everybody at once.

"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Jones, enjoying the surprise. "She made the cake and the pudding and the bread, and the caper-sauce for the lamb; and she stuffed and baked the fish all herself. Didn't you, dear?"

"Why, not quite by myself," said Ethel: "you showed me how, you know."

"Anyhow, you did it all with your own hands," returned Mrs. Jones; "and it ain't everybody that knows enough to be told how."

"That is a very just remark of yours, Mrs. Jones," said Dr. Ray. "It is 'not' everybody, by a great deal, who knows enough to be told. But to think of the dear distinguishing herself in the cooking line! What put it into your little pate, my dear?"

"I wanted to learn how," replied Ethel, blushing and smiling, as usual; "and I thought it would be a good time to begin when there was nobody here but Henry."

"'Fiat experimentum in corpore vili;' which means, my dear, that you should always try experiments on persons of no consequence," said the doctor. "You don't look as though you had been poisoned, Henry."

"Indeed I have not," replied Mr. Dalton. "I have wondered what Ethel was so busy about all the morning, and what made her cheeks so red at dinner-time; but I never guessed the secret."

"But I hope you have not tired yourself," said Emily. "How is the pain in your side?"

"Better," said Ethel. "It has troubled me but once since you went away."

"But what put it into your head?" asked Emily.

"Why, I wanted to learn while I had a chance," replied Ethel. "It is a good thing to understand all sorts of work; and perhaps I may some time want to teach people to cook myself."

"That would be disinterested—to teach people to cook yourself!" said the doctor, gravely. "Do you, then, mean to go among the cannibals, some of these fine days?"

"Perhaps," replied Ethel, laughing. "There is no telling where one may go; and after all, one would always like to be properly armed, you know."

"Good," said the doctor. "You are learning to hold your own, I see. I shall have to take care how I tease you. Seriously, dear, I think this an excellent move of yours, and better for your health than all the medicine I could give you."

"I am glad to hear you say so, brother, because I want to keep on with my work," said Ethel. "I want to learn to do everything about house before—while I have a good opportunity."

Emily and Henry again exchanged glances, but neither spoke, and the conversation turned on other topics.

CHAPTER XIV.

SEWING-SCHOOL.

ETHEL'S hands were now very full of work. Her infant-class had increased beyond the capacity of the room which held it, though she had sent three classes into the large room—a change which was not accomplished without many tears and remonstrances on the part of the promoted infants. A sewing-school had also been started "on the Hill," the chief burden of which fell on Ethel and Anna. It began with Anna's class of girls. Mr. Dalton one evening showed his missionary magic-lantern to the children and parents, with a lecture descriptive of the pictures, and of places and people he had seen in his travels. Of course, all the children were greatly interested, and especially Anna's class. This interest was increased by Anna's borrowing Ethel's book of Eastern photographs to show them, and by her reading them a letter which Miss Beecher had written to the Bible-class, giving an account of the school-girls, and describing their delight at receiving the box of presents sent by the said Bible-class.

"I wish we could send them something from 'this' school," said Matty Brown, the youngest and brightest of the girls. "How nice it would be to get a letter all the way from Persia, wouldn't it?"

"I wish we could," said another. "Do you think we could manage it, Miss Burgers?"

"Perhaps we might," said Anna.

"I'm afraid we couldn't sew good enough to make anything worth while," said Mary Yeager. "I shouldn't want to send things so far unless they were 'nice,' you know."

"Don't you know how to sew, Mary?" asked Anna.

"No, ma'am—not very good," replied Mary.

"I can't, either," said Matty Brown. "Ma is going to teach me to use the sewing-machine, some day when she has time."

"You ought all to know how to sew," said Anna, who had been well taught that old-fashioned accomplishment, and was a proficient in the use of the needle. "You ought to know how to make and mend all your own clothes. Then you can work, not only for yourselves, but for those who are worse off than you are."

"I should like to know how to crochet and work worsted," said Jenny Millar. Jenny's father was rather better off than most of the fathers belonging to the class, and she was in no way inclined to make the worst of that circumstance. "I don't care about plain work."

"Crochet-work and working worsted are all very well in their places," said Anna; "but they are of very little consequence compared to plain sewing and knitting. Nobody ever went cold and ragged for want of worsted work, but a good many do both because they don't know the proper use of a sewing-needle. What would you say to a man who said he did not care to learn reading and writing—he wanted to learn Latin?"

The girls laughed, and Jenny looked rather affronted. "I don't expect to have to work for my living," she said, with a toss of her head. "My father is rich enough to make a lady of me: my mother says so."

"Your father's being rich will never of itself make a lady of you," said Anna. "Neither will the fact of your not working for a living. Riches and fine clothes have little to do with the matter. It takes a great deal more than these to make a lady."

"I am sure Mrs. Fowler is respected, and she works for a living," said Mary Yeager.

"So are a great many other women, who work hard all their lives," replied Anna. "Kindness and good habits and manners, and consideration for the feelings of those about her, make any woman respectable."

"I should like to learn to sew plain work real nicely," said little Christine Murdoch. "Mother often says she is so sorry she cannot teach us."

"Why cannot she teach you?" asked Anna.

"Oh, don't you know? She has a stiff arm," replied Christine.

And Elsie added, "She broke her arm on the ship coming to this country, and it wasn't set right; so, when it got well, the joint was spoiled. But she can do a many things, though she cannot sew," added Elsie, with pride. "Father says he wonders how she keeps everything about the house so nice as she does. Mother says she learned to sew in school; and she can do beautiful work—that is, she could do it in old times, when she had her arm."

"I wish we could have a sewing-school," said Christine.

"Oh, Miss Burgers, how nice it would be!" exclaimed Matty Brown. "Couldn't we have one, don't you suppose? We could come on Saturday afternoons, and you could teach us. I am sure every one would like it; wouldn't you, girls?"

Every one agreed that it would be "perfectly splendid," and one girl added that it would be "awful nice." "Awful" was an adjective and adverb of all-work upon Iron Hill. *

* "Awful," "splendid," and "you know" are common colloquial barbarisms.—EDITOR.

"Well, I will talk to my mother, and see what she says," said Anna, at last. "If she is willing to have me begin, I will see what can be done."

"Why, Miss Burgers, do 'you' have to mind your mother?" asked Mary Yeager, in a tone of great surprise. "A grown-up young lady like you."

"Certainly I mind my mother," replied Anna, not sorry for the odd question. "I mind my mother just as much now as I did when I was three years old."

"And do you ask her every time you want to go anywhere, just as 'we' have to?" continued Mary.

"Just the same, Mary. I never go anywhere or undertake anything of any importance, without asking my mother. I prefer to do it, because I love my mother, and would rather please her than any one in the world."

Mary was evidently much impressed with the idea that a grown-up young lady, who wore flounces, and a hat with a little bird in it, should mind her mother of her own accord; and Anna hoped the lesson would have a good effect.

The project of the sewing class was discussed through the week; and on Sunday, Anna told the girls that they might come the next Saturday, and bring their own work either sewing or knitting.

It was presently found that the school could not be confined to Anna's class. All Ethel's little girls immediately became wild upon the subject, and petitioned so earnestly to be allowed to come, that there was nothing for it but to say that she would see what could be done. Ethel went home, and talked the matter over with Emily.

"It would be an excellent thing for the children," said Emily; "excellent in every way. I have always regretted that the sewing-school at the Home was given up. One gains such a hold, not only on the girls, but on their mothers."

"The chief trouble seems to be to know what to set such little ones about," said Ethel. "Of course, they know nothing of sewing."

"Oh, you will need quantities of patchwork for them; that is the best for the infants," replied Emily. "It is easy and pleasant, and admits of a great many beginnings and leavings off; which are always desirable with young children. I will look over my own and Juliet's piece-trunks, and see what I can find; and I will baste up a quantity for you to begin upon. I only wish I could take hold and help you; but you know—or rather you 'don't' know, but you will soon find out—how much talking such a class involves; and the doctor will not let me use my throat at present."

"I suppose it will be a pretty noisy affair," said Ethel. "That is the worst of it."

"You must not let it be noisy," said Emily, decidedly. "You must begin with establishing strict order, and you must maintain it. Unless you do, your school will be nothing but a nuisance, and the children will be worse for it, instead of better."

Ethel looked a little doubtful. "I know it is so in Sunday-school," said she; "at least in the infant room; but I thought, perhaps the children would not come to the sewing-school if we were too strict with them."

"Then let them stay away," said Emily; "but there is no danger."

"You don't want to let them get the idea that they are doing you a favour by coming to school," said Mr. Dalton, who had entered in time to hear the discussion. "That is a very mischievous notion, and subversive of all good. Make them understand that you are doing them a great kindness and favour by teaching them, and that the continuance of the favour depends upon their good conduct, and they will think a great deal more of their privileges."

"Depend upon it, Henry is right," said Emily. "I remember very well the case of Kitty Fisher!"

"What was that?" asked Ethel.

"It happened when we had the large school at the Home," said Emily. "We had an average attendance of eighty children of the very roughest class—not at all equal in social standing to your Iron Hill pupils; but regular street children. For some little time we had had trouble in the class to which Kitty belonged. The teacher, Miss Edwards, was a gentle little thing, and her scholars walked over her, so that at last she became discouraged and stayed away, and Juliet took the class. The work was given out as usual.

"'I don't want to do that,' said Kitty Fisher, throwing down her work, which was a brown factory-garment. 'I want some white cloth, like that girl's over there!'

"'You must take the work that is given you, Kitty,' answered Juliet, in her quiet, polite way.

"Kitty evidently took the mild tone in which Juliet spoke for a sign of giving way. She was never more mistaken in her life. She gave the work a push, which threw it on the floor, and said, with a toss of her head, 'I sha'n't do that. If I can't have the work I want, I shall just go home—so!'

"In another moment, before she had time even to think of resistance, Kitty found herself put out in the yard, and the door shut in her face. Her bonnet was handed out to her, and she was told to go, and not to show herself again. We never had a more orderly or industrious school than that day. Kitty lingered about, and at recess attempted to come in with the others; but she was sternly repulsed, and departed crying.

"The next Saturday she came again, with a very humble petition, and she was allowed to come in and resume her place, on promising that she would try to be a good girl. She kept her word for that day, taking extraordinary pains with her work. Juliet was careful to praise her as much as she honestly could; and never was a lamb meeker or more quiet than Kitty. When school was out, she lingered around the door, as if she had something to say.

"'Well, Kitty, what is it?' asked Juliet, who was putting up the work. 'Do you want anything?'

"Kitty put up her face, and said, in a sort of scared half-whisper, 'Please, teacher, I want to kiss you.'

"Juliet said she was never more surprised in her life. 'She was not a very agreeable object,' said she; 'but I should have kissed her if she had been twenty times worse.'

"From that time we had no more trouble with Miss Kitty, or her class."

"But suppose she had not come back," said Ethel.

"Then we should have let her stay away," replied Emily. "It is not worth while to endanger the prosperity of the school for the sake of one scholar."

"How I do wish you could help us; you have so much experience!" sighed Ethel. "I am afraid we shall make a great many mistakes."

"I dare say you will make some mistakes,—that is to be expected," said Emily; "but you must remember that neither Juliet nor any of us had any experience when we began at the Home. Don't you remember the direction of the old French teacher? 'If you want to learn to speak, "speak!" If you wish to learn to write, "write!"' It is only by doing things that one learns to do them.

"That is Mrs. Jones's way of teaching," remarked Ethel. "When she taught me to make pie-crust, she made me do everything about it with my own hands, while she sat by and showed me what to do."

"Mrs. Jones has the correct theory and practice of teaching," said Mr. Dalton.

"Well, then, we will just go over and do the best we can," said Ethel; "and when we are puzzled, we will come and ask Emily what comes next."

"There is no particular danger of your making any very serious mistakes, unless you undertake too much at a time," remarked Emily. "When Mrs. Upjohn undertook to oversee our school, she thought the children might as well be learning something else while they were working, and she tried to teach them to repeat hymns and other things. The consequence was what was to be expected. The work was not half done, nor the hymns half learned."

"I thought we might, perhaps, have a little singing," said Ethel.

"There would be no harm in that, provided you took a separate time for it. Indeed, I think it would be a very good plan to stop work once or twice, and sing for five minutes or so."

"I want to learn all the best ways," said Ethel; "because—because I might, some time, have to manage some such thing by myself."

The sewing-school met the next Saturday, and behold, not one girl in the school was absent,—not even Jenny Millar, who, however, declared that she did not come to learn to sew. She wanted to learn how to work worsted, or some such thing.

"We cannot undertake that, at present," said Ethel. "If you all take pains, and behave very well, perhaps we may, by-and-by, teach you some pretty fancy-work as a reward, but not at present. Do you know how to make buttonholes, Jenny?"

No; Jenny did not know how to make buttonholes, nor how to stitch, and it soon appeared that she could not hem or fell neatly.

"You see, you have a great deal to learn before you come to fancy-work," said Anna, smiling. "Let me see how neatly you will do this hem; and when you learn that, we will teach you something else."

Jenny murmured and tossed her head, but finally concluded to stay, "just for once."

On the whole, the first day was a success. Ethel's infants were delighted with the patchwork, and succeeded as well as could be expected. Several of the girls wanted to learn to knit, and these were placed in a class by themselves,—Anna promising to try and find them a teacher as soon as possible.

"I believe I know just the person, if she will consent," said Ethel. "Old Mrs. Trim, Richard Trim's mother, I mean. I noticed, the day we called there, how very fast and skilfully she was knitting."

"What, that nice little old lady, who sits on the front seat in chapel?" asked Anna. "Oh, I should love to have her in the school. Where does she live? Can't we go and see her to-night? It is not late."

Ethel hesitated a moment. She remembered Widow Green's cow and the big dog; but she would not refuse. Her heart beat rather unpleasantly fast as they drew near the house, and she saw that old Lion was lying, as usual, directly across the gate, and looking, from his size, greatly "out of drawing" with the little cottage and garden.

"What an immense dog!" said Anna, who was not herself especially valiant where dogs were concerned. "Do you think he is gentle?"

"Oh, yes, I believe so," replied Ethel. "He seemed quiet enough the other day, where people were concerned, though he runs after cows in rather a startling manner. Come, old fellow," she added, making an heroic effort and speaking to the dog, who lay flapping his big tail against the broad sidewalk in a lazily polite manner—"Come, old fellow, get up, and let us come in, won't you?"

Lion executed a portentous yawn, which made Ethel feel as if she were going to be swallowed, and then rose to make way for them. He evidently thought himself obliged by civility to do the honours of the place in the absence of his master, for he accompanied them to the side door, (front doors on Iron Hill being only used at funerals or other great occasions,) and with divers nods of his head and wags of his tail, made them free of the premises.

The window was open, but Mrs. Trim was not to be seen, though they could hear her moving about up-stairs.

"How neat everything looks!" said Anna. "See what fine balsam-plants."

"Yes, they are larger than Emily's, though they were planted later," replied Ethel. "Those balsams are associated with my first visit to Iron Hill; and a wonderful goose I made of myself. I feel like calling myself names every time I think of it."

"What did you do?" asked Anna.

"I will tell you another time. Here comes Mrs. Trim."

Mrs. Trim received them with her usual chatty cordiality, and insisted on their sitting down to rest themselves, and drinking a glass of her ginger-beer. Ethel had never tasted ginger-beer in her life, but she found the cool, foamy beverage far from disagreeable, and was glad to show that she enjoyed it. Mrs. Trim was evidently very much flattered by the proposition that she should take the knitting class.

"But I rather guess you had better get some of your folks to look after it," said she. "Not but I should like to do it; but then, you see, there are folks about here who mightn't like it if you was to pass over them, and come to me for a teacher. It might make feeling, you see."

"It would be very foolish for any one to be displeased about such a thing as that," said Anna, rather warmly. "There is no question of passing people over. It is only as to who will make the best teacher for the class."

"That's all so," replied Mrs. Trim. "It is very foolish for folks to set themselves up one above another, and have notions about gentility, and all that; but, my dears, 'folks' is 'folks,' all the world over; and if you are going to do any good in the world, you must be content to work in it 'as it is,' and not as it ought to be."

"That is true," said Anna, "but we had quite set our hearts on having you in the sewing-school, Mrs. Trim."

"I am sure it is very good of you, dear; and, as I said, I should like it of all things; but really I don't think it's best. This chapel and mission's a-going to do all the good in the world up here, if it's only managed right; and I don't want to have the least thing happen to set folks against it. There's Millar's folks, now. Millar pretends he don't believe in anything, not even that he's got a soul to be saved; and his wife laughs at pious folks, and says they only pretend to believe the Bible, and all that. I never was so surprised in my life as I was when I heard that they had let their children go to Sunday-school."

"I found Jenny Millar was the most untaught girl in my class, though she was the best dressed," remarked Anna. "All the others knew something about the Bible and the history of our Lord but herself, and I was surprised at her ignorance. What you tell me, explains the matter, and I shall take special pains with her."

"Just so," said Mrs. Trim, earnestly. "Poor little dear, my heart has often ached for her when I have heard her father talking his nonsense before her. Well, Mrs. Millar said, last night, she believed she'd go to chapel Sunday evening, if it was only to hear those girls sing,—meaning you, my dears, I suppose. I couldn't help hoping that the truth might find its way to her heart, poor thing. Now, you see, if you were to set me to teaching her girl, she might not exactly like it, and so I think it Will be better if you can get some of your own friends to take the class."

"I see," said Anna. "I dare say you may be right, Mrs. Trim. How nice your garden looks!"

"Yes; Dick is awful proud of his garden," replied Mrs. Trim. "Some folks say he is silly to spend so much time on his flowers and things; but I don't think so. They help to make it pleasant for him; and when he comes from work, or when they have a holiday, as they do once in a while when the Works is out of order, instead of going to the saloon or the grocery, he goes to work weeding and trimming his vines and things. He thinks an awful sight of the flowers your sister sent him—especially the balsams; but he has put two or three of them in pots for a sick, bed-ridden girl, over there on the other corner. I wish you young ladies would go to see her, some day. It would be a real kindness, for she don't see many people, and she is a great sufferer."

"What is the matter with her?" asked Anna.

"She has got something on her leg," replied Mrs. Trim. "I don't know the nature of it, but it hurts her dreadfully at times. She is fond of reading, but her head is weak, and she can't read long at a time."

"If she likes flowers, I might bring you some for her," said Ethel.

"It would do her twice as much good if you was to go and see her yourself," replied Mrs. Trim. "The very sight of your pretty, nice dresses and hats would do her good,—she sees so few pretty things."

Ethel hesitated. She had, as we have seen, a great horror of severe illness, and especially of anything disgusting or frightful. But a minute's thought decided her.

"I will go, of course," said she. "I will try to come up early next week. Come, Anna, we must go, now. Good-night, Mrs. Trim. Good-night, old Lion," she added, patting the dog's head as he put it up to her. "You and I shall turn out good friends, after all."

CHAPTER XV.

AUNT DORINDA.

"WHAT a nice old lady she is!" said Anna, as they were walking homeward. "But does it not seem absurd for these people to be setting themselves up one above another, and thinking about gentility and social position."

"I don't know," replied Ethel. "Why is it more absurd for them than for anybody else?"

"I don't suppose it is more absurd; only it seems rather more comical, somehow: Miss Millar is the only very aspiring young lady in my class. She says her mother won't let her wash dishes, or do any such work, because she means to make a lady of her. She was greatly surprised when I told her that I washed the breakfast dishes every morning, and that a great many ladies always dusted their parlours themselves. I have liked her the least of any girl in the class; but I somehow feel attracted toward her, after what Mrs. Trim told us about her parents. Poor child, between her mother's gentility and her father's infidelity, she has not much chance for her life."

"I think the children of such parents are worse off than those whose parents are merely careless and thoughtless," remarked Ethel. "The two little boys seem to be good children, and sing their hymns with a special relish. But who shall we find to take our knitting class?"

"There is Mrs. Rose."

"She is the very one, if she can find time; but then she has so much to do as it is. It hardly seems fair to ask her to undertake anything else."

"She is more likely to find time than a great many people who are doing nothing," remarked Anna. "I remember very well something I once heard Mr. Verplank say to my father: 'When I want some extra piece of work done in the church or the Sunday-school, I never think of going to the people who have abundance of leisure. I ask some one who has his or her hands pretty well filled already.' See, there is Mrs. Ray, standing at the gate, looking for us. I wonder if anything has happened?"

Ethel quickened her pace, and was met by Emily with a face and gesture of comical dismay.

"What has happened?" asked Ethel.

"Aunt Dorinda!" whispered Emily.

Ethel groaned, and sat down on the horse-block.

"When did she come?" she asked, presently.

"This afternoon, at four."

"Is she going to stay?"

"Of course, I suppose so. She has brought two big trunks. And now, while I have a chance, Ethel, I want to tell you something. Of course, we must all be very respectful and kind to Aunt Dorinda; but you must make up your mind that you will hold your own, and 'not' be walked over by her. Of course, she will want to interfere with everything, as usual."

"I hope she won't want to interfere with the sewing-school," said Anna, who knew something of Aunt Dorinda's peculiarities.

"She will, you may be sure," replied Ethel. "She will have some fine, grand system of her own about it. They say she had not been introduced to the President five minutes before she had advised him as to the Alabama claims, the Indian question, and the reform of the Patent Office."

"I suspect there must be a little exaggeration in that story, as she herself would remark," said Emily, laughing. "But never mind; we must make the best of her, that is all. Anna, won't you come in to dinner?"

Anna declined, and went on her way.

Ethel called after her, "Don't forget to see Mrs. Rose early in the week."

"See Mrs. Rose about what?" asked Emily.

"About teaching our knitting class. We have six or seven girls whose mothers want them to learn to knit, and we cannot attend to them and the others at the same time."

"Then you had a full school?"

"I should think so. Not one girl was absent, great or small. We had thirty-three scholars, and heard of several more who were coming. We wanted Mrs. Trim to take the knitting girls, but she thought some of the other people would be offended if she were asked to teach, and that we had better ask 'some of our own folks,' as she said. But, oh dear, Emily! What shall we do with Aunt Dorinda?"

"We won't borrow trouble," replied Emily. "Perhaps she may not care to interfere, and then Henry will know how to manage her. But come, dear, you had better go and dress, and that will refresh you for your dinner. You have just half an hour."

Miss Dorinda Atwood was a lady somewhere between fifty and sixty, of independent fortune, well educated, and a sincere Christian. How was it, then, that her advent was looked upon as a misfortune wherever she appeared, as she did pretty regularly at the houses of any of her numerous relatives? The question is easily answered. Miss Dorinda Atwood had no capacity whatever for minding her own business. 'Wherever she went, she advised, directed, and interfered, right and left, with everybody's most private affairs and arrangements. Nothing was sacred from her, from household arrangements and nursery management to affairs of the heart or religious experiences.

All her life Miss Dorinda had been giving advice. She had begun with her own father and mother before she was six years old, and she had gone on with the families of her brothers and sisters, nephews and nieces, pastors and fellow church-members. She had been sufficiently disinterested, very benevolent and liberal with her money, and sincerely desirous of doing good; yet at fifty-five, there was not one of her own family who did not dread her like a nightmare.

Ethel dressed herself for dinner, and came down, when it was ready, to find Miss Dorinda in the parlour, talking to Dr. Ray in her usual loud emphatic voice, which, somehow, wearied the ear like some noisy piece of machinery.

"Why, 'Dr.' Ray. It is not 'possible' that 'you,' a 'physician,' can admit the practice of dining at 'six' o'clock. I don't wonder at it in silly, fashionable people, but I should suppose 'any' one who made a study of the human frame, would know better. Is it possible you can advise your patients to take their meals at such unhealthy hours?"

"I don't usually give my patients a great deal of advice about their household arrangements, unless they are more than usually bad," replied Dr. Ray, in the dry tone which showed that he was annoyed. "For myself, I don't find it desirable to work after dinner, and, therefore, I like to have it late in the day. Well, dear, how has the day gone with you?"

"Oh, nicely," replied Ethel. "How do you do, Aunt Dorinda?"

Aunt Dorinda was diverted for a moment from the dinner question by Ethel's appearance, but she began upon it again as soon as they were seated at the table. Dr. Ray, like other middle-aged gentlemen who work hard all day, enjoyed his late dinner, and liked to have something good, and to discuss it at his leisure, with an accompaniment of lively light conversation. But Miss Dorinda did not approve of light conversation. She had always made it a rule, she said, to improve her mind by conversing with every one she met, upon the subject with which he or she was best acquainted. Accordingly, she questioned Dr. Ray about the sanitary condition of Ironton; slid related various striking and unsavory facts concerning tenement-houses, and sewerage in large cities.

Dr. Ray at last grew restless under the infliction, especially as he perceived that Miss Dorinda's stories were spoiling his wife's dinner as well as his own.

"Suppose we start another subject," said he, good-humoredly. "I hear enough about sickness during the day."

"Dr. Forrester used to say, when I was at C—, that if there was any one subject which ought by common consent to be banished from conversation in a health establishment, it was the subject of health," remarked Emily.

"Don't mention Dr. Forrester. I never want to hear of 'him' again," said Aunt Dorinda.

"Why, aunt, I thought he was a great friend of yours," said Emily.

"I 'used' to think he was a sensible man, but I have changed my mind. I was the means of sending Lily Adams to him, but I will never send any one there again. Three or four weeks after she went, I stopped there to see her. If you will believe it, there she was in a room with a carpet 'all' OVER the floor, and warmed by 'steam;' and a regular spring bed, as luxurious as anything she was used to at home. And there was Lily eating 'eggs' and 'meat' for her breakfast, and drinking 'tea,' and going up and down in the 'elevator.' I asked her how many miles she walked in a day, and she said she hardly walked at all—the doctor would not let her." And Miss Dorinda stopped short with a look which expressed a dozen exclamation points at least.

"Yes," said the doctor, calmly. "Forrester was very judicious with Lily. I always told them at home, that she took too much exercise."

"'Judicious!'" said Miss Dorinda, with a sniff. "Yes, very judicious, no doubt! I talked to Dr. Forrester myself. I said to him,—

"'Dr. Forrester, you are entirely in the wrong. These carpets and easy-chairs and spring beds in the rooms—these luxuries of the table, are all wrong, 'radically' WRONG! What your patients need are not luxuries. They want 'rousing' and 'invigorating' and HARDENING,—THAT is what they want. You ought to take up every carpet, and have only two meals a day, and those of the very plainest. Lily Adams don't want coddling; she wants bracing and rousing, and you ought to give it her.'

"And do you believe he just went into his room, and shut the door, without a word. And the next time I went to Lily's room, there was a card on it, with 'No visitors allowed.' Of course I went in, however; I knew it could not mean 'me.' I told Lily what she ought to do, and tried to get her out to walk; but she said the doctor would not allow it, and she must do as he said. So I just came away, and left her to her own destruction."

"But Lily is almost well, Aunt Dorinda," said Ethel. "The doctor says, in another year, if she is careful, she may be as well as anybody."

"Nonsense, Ethel! She may appear better, but it cannot possibly be that she has made any permanent improvement under such treatment as that. Air and exercise—air and exercise—they are the great panaceas for illness. Don't you think so, Dr. Ray?"

"Air and exercise are very good things in their places; but they are no more to be administered indiscriminately than any other remedies," replied Dr. Ray. "I have seen more than one patient aired and exercised out of the world in my time."

Miss Dorinda was "amazed," and "shocked," and "distressed," to find her nephew so far behind the most "distinguished" men of the time.

But Dr. Ray continued to eat his dinner, undisturbed by the shower of emphatic participles, till Emily's mention of a new club-book changed the subject and brought Aunt Dorinda out on the subject of indiscriminate reading.

It was a fashion at Dr. Ray's for the family to spend most of the summer evenings on a long veranda, which led into the garden. Thither Emily and Ethel now brought their work—Emily, the basketful of patchwork which she was basting for the "infants," and Ethel, some pretty, dainty little garment she was crocheting for a neighbour's young baby. Mr. Dalton came and sat down by Ethel on the step, and began talking about the sewing-school and its prospect. Aunt Dorinda went up-stairs, and presently came down with an immense bundle, which filled both her arms, and was as much as she could carry.

"I have brought some work with me, which I expect you all to take hold of and help me about," said she, as she set down her bundle. "You and Ethel ought to be especially interested in it, Emily, because it is missionary work. What 'are' you doing, Emily—sewing 'patchwork?' Now, 'do' you," said Miss Dorinda, in pathetically argumentative tones, "DO you consider it an employment worthy of a rational and immortal being, to spend precious time in putting together little pieces of calico, or crocheting worsted?"

"As to that," replied Emily, "immortal little babies have mortal bodies, and need jackets and cloaks to keep them warm; and it would be hardly worthy of a rational being to set little children to sewing patchwork, without basting it beforehand."

"But why should they sew patchwork at all?" persisted Aunt Dorinda. "Why should they not as well learn to sew upon the sleeve of a shirt, for some poor missionary or minister?"

"In the first place, because they cannot, usually, sew well enough; and in the second place, because it is not as pleasant for them, Aunt Dorinda. They like the bright colours, and feel a great deal of interest in seeing the blocks go together."

"And, pray, who are these children who are to be so entertained?" asked Aunt Dorinda. "Not 'poor' children, of course!"

"They are the children of Ethel's sewing class, up at Henry's chapel," answered Emily.

"A sewing class, indeed! I should not have suspected Ethel of such an undertaking. Tell me all about it, my dear," she continued, turning to Ethel, who heartily wished Emily had kept her basket out of sight. "I dare say I can give you some valuable assistance."

"There is nothing so very much to tell," said Ethel. "Anna Burgers and myself meet the girls of the Sunday-school on Saturday afternoon, and teach them to sew. That is all."

"How many have you?" was the next question.

"About thirty-five."

"All little children?"

"Oh, no! About fifteen are little ones. The rest are quite large girls. By-the-by, Henry, we gave one class to that tall McHenry's girl, who said she was going to make her dress like mine, you know, and she managed it nicely. She really has copied my suit quite accurately, and you don't know how much better she looks."

"That ought to show you, Ethel, the importance of always being plainly dressed, especially when you go among poor people," said Aunt Dorinda, solemnly. "You see how that poor simplicity has already been corrupted by your example. Perhaps you may have laid the foundation of a love a dress and fashion, which will prove the ruin of that immortal soul. I don't exactly see what you find to laugh at," said Miss Dorinda, in a tone of some irritation, as Mr. Dalton smiled. "I am speaking only the plain truth."

"Oh, Aunt Dorinda, if you had seen Martha McHenry's dress before, you would know what Henry was smiling at," exclaimed Ethel, laughing outright. "I never saw so many puffs and ruffles and trimmings on any one person in my life. Her present suit is perfect simplicity compared with the one she wore that first Sunday. That was why I said she looked so much better."

Miss Dorinda looked rather disconcerted, and hastened to change the subject. "I am glad to hear of this sewing-school. It exactly fits in with my own plans. I will supply them with work at once, and oversee the school for you while I remain. Of course, you will be glad to have some competent person at the head of the affair."

Ethel looked at her sister with a face of such blank dismay that Emily could hardly forbear laughing.

"What is your work, Aunt Dorinda?" asked Emily.

"Missionary work, of course. I am preparing a box to send to the girls' school at O—, a suit of clothing for each girl in the school. I have a whole trunkful of them, and I have brought down two of them to show you."

So saying, Aunt Dorinda proceeded to unfold her package and display its contents. They consisted of two high-necked, long-sleeved frocks of thick, dark calico, incredibly ugly, and tasteless in colour and design; two aprons ditto, of another kind of ugly calico, and various undergarments of coarse brown factory and thick yellow flannel.

"You see, everything is plain and substantial; nothing to minister in the least degree to the love of dress or finery. I bought two whole pieces of the calico very cheap, because the man said it was not a popular pattern. 'Never mind,' said I; 'it will do very well for the missionaries.' And do you believe, a lady standing by, and whom I had never seen, took me up quite sharply. 'Poor missionaries!' said she. 'People think anything which is too coarse or too tasteless to wear at home, will do for the missionaries.'"

"She was very much in the right, I think," remarked Emily. "I never could see why missionaries should not have pretty and tasteful clothes, as well as other people."