"I'd rather have Miss Etta talk to us about the patriarchs and the stories and all that," said Matilda Eckart, who was a good scholar, or would have been if she had not, by the necessities of her family, been forced to work in the mill. "I like to learn things; still I like Miss Eunice, too. She's real sweet, and maybe we ought to do as she says."
"Nonsense!" said another girl, Helen Felting by name, "Miss Etta isn't a Christian, and she's her own sister and three or four years older than we are. I don't want to be any better than she is. My, ain't her dress lovely, all silk and velvet, and such an exquisite shade! fits so, too, just as if it was her skin!"
"Did you see her ear-rings?" said another. "Real diamonds, all set round with pearls, and such a chain and locket!"
"I don't care," said Bertie; meaning, of course, that she did care very much. "We girls haven't got so much money and we can't have real things. I like my chain and locket just as well (which she didn't, for she was quite keen enough to understand the difference), but I won't go there again till I get my silk dress made;" and she glanced disgustedly at the light-blue cashmere which, as it was her best dress, she chose to wear on all occasions, and which looked already much the worse for its week in the rag-room at the mill.
Katie Robertson did not speak at all, except to answer the questions of Eric, who had come for her, as to whether she had had a pleasant time decidedly in the affirmative. She was thinking very deeply. We have seen that our Katie was a faithful, conscientious little girl, loving God sincerely, trusting in her Saviour, and striving to please him and grow like him. She loved to study the Bible, which she knew was his word, and to pray to him in her own simple language every night and morning; nay, often at other times when she felt the need of his help, or had something she wanted to tell him about. She had not asked herself any hard questions yet about whether she were a Christian or not. She knew she was her mother's Katie because she loved her mother and wanted to please her, and she knew she was God's child because she loved him and wanted to please him. She often did things, and said things, and thought things that she knew were displeasing to both, but she did not want to do so. She was always very sorry, she always asked to be forgiven and believed she was, for did not her mother say so each time, and had not her heavenly Father promised so once for all in the Bible?
But this afternoon the thought had really come to her that she ought publicly to confess herself a Christian; and yet she shrank from it, she hardly knew why. She was afraid she might afterward do something which would disgrace such a holy profession; and yet, if her Saviour commanded it, as he certainly did, that made it a duty, and, of course, she ought to obey, trusting him to help her keep all the promises as he had promised to do. He would like it, too, so much; it would be easier afterward to resist temptation and to "stand up for Jesus" among her companions.
Katie's thoughts were very busy ones, and by the time she came in sight of her home she had decided that, if her mother and the pastor had no objection, she would give in her name among those who were, at the first opportunity, to confess Christ.
The Wednesday afternoon meetings were continued throughout the spring and early summer, and were attended by all the members of Miss Eunice's class, nearly all those of her sister's, and five or six other girls who accepted the kind invitation of the former. There was always the same hospitality, always the same warm welcome, and always the same grave but happy earnestness on the part of the young lady on whom God had laid this great work. As the warm days came on, the meetings were adjourned to the velvety, close-shaven lawn, where chairs and rustic seats were clustered under the shade of a great, wide-spreading tree, and the sweet, holy themes of reading and conversation seemed all the sweeter that they were henceforth associated with blue sky, bright flowers, white clouds, green leaves, and the other things made by the God who was even now calling these young hearts into his service.
Miss Eunice went through with a pretty thorough course of reading upon sin, repentance, faith in Christ, renunciation of all evil, walking obediently in God's holy will and commandments, which is another name for holy living, and as she prayed constantly for God's blessing upon her efforts, she had great cause for thankfulness in the hope that many of these young souls thus brought, for the first time, face to face with their personal responsibility toward God, and his loving provision for their salvation, really chose the "better part," which no man can take away from us,—"passed from death unto life," and in publicly confessing Christ made no false profession.
CHAPTER VI.
A DISCOVERY.
Meanwhile work in the mill was becoming an old story and, as such, decidedly monotonous. The glamour had passed by, and Squantown Paper Mill had ceased to be an enchanted palace and become a prosaic place of daily toil. Such disenchantments are always more or less painful, and Katie's high spirits declined proportionally. It was well that principles of self-support, independence, and duty to God, underlay her enthusiasm, or it would soon have died away, being choked to death by the dust from the rags.
The little pile of money that was ready to be carried home every Saturday night at first did a great deal toward rekindling the old enthusiasm. The first week it was only two dollars and forty cents, but on the second it had risen to three dollars, fifty cents a day being the regular price paid to the "rag-room girls." By this time the "new hand" was new no longer, and she had learned to work so fast as to accomplish the amount usually done in a day in a much shorter time, and then Miss Peters told her she might go home.
Mr. Mountjoy, or rather "Mr. James," upon whom all arrangements concerning the work-people devolved, was not one of those employers who consider that they have bought all the time of their employees. He had a right to a fair day's work in return for a fair day's wages, but if any one was industrious enough to do more than this, the time thus gained was his own to use as he liked. Many of the elder workers did use it in the mill, receiving extra pay for extra work, when, as sometimes happened, there was extra work to be done. Some of her companions made as much as a dollar a day in this way. But Mrs. Robertson was gifted with good sense, and knew that her child's young strength must not be overtaxed and thus the development of the future woman be stunted. So Katie came home generally about four o'clock, and had plenty of time to rest, to help her mother about the house, to keep up some of her old school studies, and to read the very valuable and interesting books of which the Sunday-school library was composed. Her mother took her money and kept it for her, hoping thus to have enough for the summer outfit she would so soon need. The child would gladly have done extra work in order to make extra money, she knew so well how much it was needed, but her mother was inexorable, and she was forced to submit.
As to Bertie, she never finished her day's work at all. Her time was largely spent in looking out of window, studying the dresses and ribbons of the other girls, making signs to her companions, and whispering to her neighbor whenever Miss Peters's back was turned. She hated her work and would have given it up long ago, at least as soon as the silk dress had been procured, and her mother would have very injudiciously purchased it long before the money had been earned, but that her father was resolute. The mill would have dispensed with her society as soon as her idleness and inefficiency were seen, except that Mr. Sanderson was her father, and it was thought best to show due consideration to him.
"Dear me! how hateful it all is," said Bertie, with a yawn, one day during the half-hour when talking was permitted. "Are you not heartily sick of it, Katie?"
"It's a little monotonous, I own," said the girl addressed, "but then, no work is play, I suppose. Maybe we'll get promoted to the folding-room soon, and it will be much nicer there."
"It isn't a bit nicer. It's work anywhere, and I hate work. I never mean to do a bit of it that I can help. Ma says pa'll have money enough to make us all rich, and I want to be a lady." "Ma" had been a factory-girl herself, which was perhaps one reason why Bertie despised the business. She had married the foreman of the mill, who had now risen to be overseer of the bindery, and yearly laid up a large portion of his salary, while her sister had married a city grocer, who was spending all he made as he made it, and his children were growing up to be useless, fine ladies, and a positive injury to their country cousins.
"But while you do work you might do it faithfully, not spend time for which you are paid in idleness, and crowd in rags with the buttons all on, which will be sure to spoil the machinery when they come to be ground."
"Bah! what difference does it make? I'm paid for my time. Provided I stay here all day, they haven't a right to claim anything more."
"But, Bertie, they have. Don't you remember the text which is painted on the wall at the foot of the corridor?
"'Not slothful in business, fervent in spirit, serving the Lord.'"
"It seems to me just like stealing to waste time that we're paid for, or not to do work entrusted to us just as well as we possibly can."
"Oh, well, you're one of the saints, you know. If it's saintship to be rude and call other people thieves I'm glad I'm a sinner, that's all. I guess we'll catch the saint in a slip before long, don't you, girls?" said she, appealing to several other idlers who naturally congregated around a bird of the same feather as themselves.
Bertie and Katie did not walk home together any more. The former, never having finished her work, was always obliged to remain in the mill till the closing-bell rang, while the former went home, as we have seen, at four o'clock, and at noon she was generally met by her brothers.
"Eric," she said on the day of the above conversation, "do you think it's right to idle and talk instead of doing your work?"
"We can't in the bindery; the machine won't let us. Everything would go to thunder if we looked off."
"But suppose you could, and nobody knew anything about it?"
"They couldn't fine you if they didn't know," said Alfred, whose ideas of the righteousness of law were modified by the possibility of escaping its penalty.
"What difference would that make?" said Eric. "God would know."
"Yes," said Katie, "I always wish the words 'Thou God seest me,' were written up on the walls of the mill. It helps you not to get tired and want to stop."
"Do you ever want to stop, Katie?" said her brother, tenderly.
"Yes, lots of times, It's just the same thing day after day, no change, no variety, the dust suffocates you, and it's so hard to get up in the morning, and"—
"Sho!" shouted Alfred, "I thought you'd sing a different tune after you'd been in the factory a little while. Don't you remember I told you so?"
"Katie," said Eric, "you remember I told you that you should not work one moment longer than you wanted to. A girl with two strong brothers to support her need not work for her living unless she chooses to. Do you want to stop now?"
"I want to, ever so much," said the girl, "but I don't mean to. Do you think I am a baby to begin a thing and then leave it off again? There's just as much reason as there ever was for my earning money. I'm not going to be dependent upon you, and mother is growing older every day. Do you remember what the Bible says about those who put their hands to the plough and look back? I don't mean to be one of those; and I mean to pray every day," she said more softly, "that I may be more patient and persevering."
Eric understood her, and even Alfred respected his sister the more for what he could not understand.
"I wish I knew some way of making money faster," said Katie to her brothers soon after; "a great deal, I mean. Mother wants any quantity of things—blankets, and kitchen utensils, and table things, and she hasn't a bonnet fit to go to church in. It takes about all we can make to feed us all, and if there is any left she always uses it to buy things for us instead of thinking about herself."
"I wonder how it is mothers never think of themselves," said Alfred. "They are always fussing to make us happy, and we don't do things for them at all."
Katie thought of the words:—
"As one whom his mother comforteth,"
which had been in last Sunday's lesson, but did not say them aloud, only it was a comfort to her to think of the other holy words which say of a mother and her child: "She may forget, yet will not I forget thee." No matter how much a mother may love, God loves us better still.
One day about that time, Bertie Sanderson, following her usual custom of looking around the room instead of at her work, saw something that caused her to start, open her eyes very wide, and then mutter half-aloud:—
"Oho! the saints are not so saintly after all. It's dishonest to look around the room, is it? I wonder what you call that!"
"Bertie Sanderson, talking, as usual," said Miss Peters, marking the
fine upon the slate which she always carried with her," and Katie
Robertson, too," noting a sudden flush upon the face of the latter.
"I am surprised."
"I did not speak," said Katie, respectfully, but with some confusion.
"There's no harm in talking to yourself," said Bertie, in the rude tone which she usually addressed to Miss Peters.
"Were not those girls talking, Gretchen," said the superintendent, appealing to a stout German who worked near the others.
"No, ma'am, I believe not; at least, Katie wasn't. I heard Bertie say something, but Katie did not answer, but"—
"Never mind," said Miss Peters, who had got all she wanted,—a chance to fine Bertie whom she hated,—"attend to your work," and she passed on, never noticing the hand which Katie, having hastily thrust it into her pocket, continued to hold there.
The work proceeded in silence, and, as Katie went home at four o'clock as usual, Bertie did not have an opportunity to speak to her about the strange thing she had noticed. She did, however, say to Gretchen, as they separated: "Did you see that?"
"What?" said the German, innocently.
"Oh! nothing, if you did not see it." Bertie was going to tell her companion what she had seen, but on second thoughts decided to keep her discovery to herself, that she might have more power over the "saint," whom she was beginning to absolutely hate.
But Gretchen had seen exactly what Bertie had, only she did not think it her business, and as it was not, did not choose to speak about it, but, German fashion, went about her own business.
What had the two girls seen? What was it that made Katie Robertson's face such a study as she walked home at a much slower pace than was her wont? What was it that lay in the depth of her pocket, where her hand rested for greater security. What did she put away in the drawer that contained her treasures, going directly to her room for the purpose, instead of rushing first of all to the sitting-room to see if her mother were at home.
Only a crisp fifty-dollar bill! Katie had never seen so much money at once before. How beautiful it looked; how much it represented of comfort and luxury; how many things it would buy that she knew were wanted by her mother and the boys! She deposited her treasure carefully at the bottom of a little pearl box which had been her mother's, and was the only really pretty thing which she possessed, and then went downstairs to lie on the sofa, think about and plan for spending it.
Where had Katie suddenly got so much money? and why did she so earnestly desire to keep the possession of it a secret? She thought the answer to the latter question lay in her desire to surprise her mother, and was not at all conscious of another feeling that lay as yet quite dormant and unaroused. As to the former, that is easily answered. After cutting off the buttons of an old vest, just as the little girl was preparing to cut it in smaller pieces, the pocket opened, and out fluttered a crumpled paper, which on being opened proved to be a fifty-dollar bill. Some careless gentleman, no one could tell whom, no one could tell when, had stuffed it into the pocket and forgotten all about it. Strange that the vest should have gone through all the vicissitudes common to old clothes, worn possibly by a beggar, condemned to a dust-heap, fished out, sorted, sold, packed, sold again, and transported to the factory, passing through a dozen hands, to any one of whose owners the money would have been so useful, and there it had lain unnoticed till it fluttered out into the very hands of Katie Robertson, who needed it so much.
What castles in the air the little girl built as she lay there in the twilight!—dresses and bonnets for her mother; new suits for each of the boys; a new tea-set, with table-cloth and napkins. Never in the world did a fifty-dollar bill buy half so much in reality as this one did in imagination; which, by the way, is a very pleasant way of spending money, since it does not at all diminish the amount, which may be all spent over and over again in a variety of ways. But strangely enough, while everything needed by the others, even to a new ribbon to tie round pussy's neck, was remembered, Katie's catalogue of articles to be bought contained nothing in the world for herself.
CHAPTER VII.
STRIFE AND VICTORY.
No thought had as yet suggested itself to Katie concerning her right to the money which had thus come into her possession, and as she lay there planning the things she was going to get with it, she enjoyed to the full the dignity of ownership. How glad her mother would be when there was a decent water-pail in the house, plates enough of one kind to go round, and a table-cloth that was not nearly all darns! Then her mother should have a new shawl and bonnet, and each of the boys a straw hat and a bright necktie, and she would have something to put in the plate every Sunday in church, and to add to the missionary collection of the Sunday-school class. Perhaps, even, she could give something toward a present that the girls were talking of giving to Miss Eunice.
But just then an idea, so painful that at first she turned away from it, struck her, and a question that she did not want to answer suggested itself to her mind. Had she a right to keep the money? Was it really hers? Of course it was, said inclination; whose else could it be? She had found it, no one else; if she had not picked it up it would have gone in with the rags to be boiled and ground up into paper again, or it might have been swept away among the dust and waste paper, and no one been the better or wiser. "Findings is keepings" was a familiar school-boy proverb; was it the right principle or not?
Katie tried to persuade herself that it was. Nevertheless, she was glad that, as she supposed, no one had seen her find the bill, and that her mother as yet knew nothing about the finding. Also, she did not plan out any more ways of spending the money.
Katie was so silent all teatime that her brothers continually rallied her upon her preoccupation, and her mother, fearing she must be sick, sent her to bed very early. To this the little girl did not object, as she wanted to be alone to think over the question that was so perplexing her brain.
Before getting into bed, our young friend opened her drawer, took out the box, gazed lovingly at the bill for a time, then put it away, and knelt to say her evening prayer. What was the matter to-night? For almost the first time since she had known what prayer really was, she could not pray. Her thoughts would not be controlled; they kept wandering away to the finding of that bill. She wondered whether any one had seen her find it, what use she should put it to, and if it were really hers after all. She knew it was wrong to think of other things at such a solemn moment, and felt guilty and condemned. Her conscience troubled her; it seemed as though God were angry with her. So far the finding of the money had not been a very happy event for its finder. It often happens that secular things, the things we are interested in in our daily lives, will come in between us and our prayers, and we cannot get rid of them. Young Christians especially are greatly troubled in this way, and have many weary fights in the attempt to control their thoughts. They have an idea that prayer is such a sacred thing, and God is so holy, that they must only talk to him about religion, and use pretty much the same words which they hear in church, and when they cannot do this, they either fall into the habit of saying such words formally without in the least thinking of their meaning, or else they are wretched and self-condemned because of what are called "distractions in prayer." But there is a more excellent way, even to take all the things that really interest us directly to "our Father which art in heaven," and tell him all about them. He encourages us to do so when he says, "casting all your care upon him," and "in everything by prayer and supplication make your requests known unto God." If we are really his children we may be sure that nothing is too small to interest him which rightfully interests us, and if it is not a right interest there is no surer way of finding that out, and gaining the victory over it, than by bringing it to the light of his Holy Spirit and asking him for strength to dispose of it as we ought.
Had Katie thus taken the money which she had found directly to the Lord, she would soon have understood all her duty concerning it. Her desire would have been only to do his will, and she would have gone to sleep as peacefully as a little child who trusts its mother to manage for it just as she sees to be for the best. But this she did not dare to do, partly because she had not yet learned to understand how God "careth" for his children in all little things, and partly because down at the bottom of her heart she was not quite ready to do his will—that is, she hoped that it would be right for her to keep the money, and hoped this so strongly that she could not look fairly on the other side of the question. Nearly all night—or it seemed so to a little girl who was generally asleep by the time her head touched the pillow—she lay tossing from side to side, troubled by a dozen different sides of the question. And when she did get to sleep it was to dream confused dreams of thieves being taken to prison, and of being one of them herself.
As soon as it was light, for the long days had come now, the tired little girl sprang from her bed, and dressed herself, in a very unhappy frame of mind. She must decide very soon now, and she began to see more and more clearly that that money did not belong to her, but to the owner of the vest in which she had found it. To be sure, she could not now find the original owner, but Mr. Mountjoy certainly owned it, because he had bought the rags. It was one thing, however, to see this, and quite another to decide to give up to him who had so much the little that was so much to her. All the pleasant planning must go with it; all the things she had desired for her mother and the boys. She was sure she had not been selfish; it was not for herself she wanted money at all. From force of habit she opened her Bible and read the first words she saw, which were these: "Thou desirest truth in the inward parts." And again the words flashed upon her: "Thou God seest me."
What did God see? Did he see "truth in the inward part" of her heart? Was she prepared in all her ways to acknowledge him? his right to her and all that was hers?
Then she knelt down and did what she ought to have done the first thing—told him, who understands and pities us "like as a father pitieth his children," all about it, and asked him to forgive, to pity, and to direct her. And now it all came to her, for God always keeps his word, and he has promised to give his Holy Spirit to them that ask him, and further that that blessed Spirit when he comes shall "guide us unto all truth."
Whoever was the owner of that bill, she was not. It belonged to God primarily, but he had given the disposal of it into the hands of him who owned the rags. If she kept it, at least without telling him that she had found it, she would be a thief! There was but one right way for her, and that was to take it at once to him, tell him where she had found it, and leave him to do as he thought best. To her mind there was little doubt what he would do. People did not generally give away their money, especially such large sums as fifty dollars seemed to her. All her air-castles must fall to the dust, and the house must go on with the old things as before.
Nevertheless, it was with a sense of absolute relief that Katie folded that bill away in her little purse, and dropped it far down into her pocket. If the "eyes of the Lord were in every place," they saw it there, and they saw, too, into her heart, and saw there that the purpose of doing his will had, by his grace, triumphed over her own desires, and that was enough to make her once more the happy, bright Katie Robertson.
She was almost late at the mill this morning; had only just time to get to her place as the short whistle sounded, and of course there was no time to speak to Mr. Mountjoy. She commenced her work at once, and continued it very diligently, never once looking around at the other girls, so full was she of her own thoughts. Thus she did not see the significant looks which Bertie cast at her from time to time, nor the signs which she made to some of the other girls who, in their turn, became curious and significant, and lost several pennies in fines, because they could not help asking each other what was the matter.
Bertie had not exactly told the story as she knew it, but had insinuated to one and another that she knew something that nobody else knew about Katie Robertson; that, if she chose to tell all she knew, people would not think her such a saint; that, for her part, she did not believe in saints; when people pretended to be very religious they were sure to be dishonest, etc. etc. She made such a mystery of her news that the girls to whom she had made her half-confidence were worked up to a great state of excitement, and the others were devoured with curiosity to know what it could all be about.
But Katie worked quietly on. She had plenty of opportunity to change her determination had she desired to do so, and indeed the temptation to keep the money herself and say nothing about it presented itself again and again to her mind. But now she knew it to be a temptation, and she was strong to resist, because she had committed herself to One who was mighty and his strength was made perfect in her weakness.
As soon as the noon-bell rang and the work-people all poured along the corridors and out at the open doors, Katie knocked at the office door and was told to "Come in!" by Mr. James, who happened to be alone inside. Without a word the girl walked up to his desk and laid the bill down beside him.
The young man started, stared, and finally said:—
"Where did you get this?"
"I found it in the rags, sir."
"When?"
"Yesterday afternoon."
"Why did you bring it to me?"
"Because I think if it belongs to anybody it does to you, it was found among your rags."
"Why did you not bring it to me at once?"
"Because—because I didn't think at first, and I wanted it so much."
"Did you?" said he, gravely. "You know the Bible says: 'Thou shalt not covet'?"
Katie started; had she been breaking one of the commandments, after all?
Not the one about stealing, of which she had thought, but another.
"I didn't mean to do that," said she, in a low voice, "but we do want things so much—mother, I mean. We are so poor."
"Are you?" said the young man, in a sympathizing tone. "Well, you are an honest little girl to bring it to me at all. A great many would not have done so, and I should have known nothing about it. Didn't you think of that?"
"Yes, sir; but God knew it, and that made all the difference. Besides, I don't think I was quite honest; if I had been, I should have come to you the first minute, and not thought about keeping it at all."
"Then you did have a little struggle about it?"
"Oh, yes, sir, I hardly slept all night. I didn't know what to do at first, and then I didn't want to do it."
"But God gave you the victory," said the young man, reverently.
"I understand all about that, and how sweet it is to be helped by him,"
Katie added.
"Now," continued he, "I think he sent you that fifty-dollar bill himself; first to try you, and then that you might help your mother to buy all those things that you and she are so much in need of. It isn't mine, for when I pay two cents a pound for old rags I do not buy fifty dollar bills. Take it, and be just as happy with it as a thankful heart can make you. Good-morning; I must hurry home to dinner."[1]
A gladder little girl than Katie Robertson it would be hard to find. The love of money is said to be the root of all evil, and so money itself sometimes is, but that is according to how it is gotten and how used.
This bill would have been a root of bitter evil to the girl had she kept it, in spite of an enlightened conscience, which told her to give it up; and it would have been a root of evil to the young man, had he taken it, as by the letter of the law he had an undoubted right to do, when he knew the little girl needed it so much more than he did. As it was, it was a seed of joy to both of them. Mr. James went home full of the joy which is so like to Christ's joy, in having been kind to another at his own expense; and Katie's heart could hardly hold the glad thankfulness, both to him and to her heavenly Father, that filled it to overflowing, and that was all the gladder because it was rooted in an approving conscience, at peace with itself and at peace with God.
The precious piece of paper was displayed to the wondering mother and brothers at the dinner-table that day. The story, or so much of it as Katie could bring herself to relate, was told, and all enjoyed in anticipation the comforts it was able to procure; but the best thing it accomplished was to teach its finder where to go in time of perplexity and temptation and in whose strength to be "more than conqueror."
——- [Footnote 1: 1 This whole occurrence is a positive fact.]
CHAPTER VIII.
TEMPLES.
It was a lovely June Sunday. The seats of Squantown Sunday-school were even more crowded than usual; the girls' side looking like a flower-bed in its variety and brilliancy of color. Bertie Sanderson was there in her new silk,—a brilliant cardinal,—looking strangely unsuitable to the season; Gretchen, the German, in her woolen petticoat and jacket, which she had not been long enough in the country to discard for summer attire; the other girls in spring suits, and Katie Robertson in a lovely pale-blue lawn and a white straw hat trimmed with the same color. It was the prettiest costume the little girl had ever possessed, and as it was all bought with her own earnings she may be pardoned for being very much pleased with it. And yet it was as simple and inexpensive a summer outfit as any one could have, and certainly was not fitted to excite the hateful thoughts to which it was giving rise in Bertie's mind—Bertie, clad in her unsuitable finery! This finery had not been the success that Bertie expected. To be sure, it was a silk dress, and the brightest color she could procure, but it had been made by the Squantown dressmaker, and entirely lacked the fit and finish of Etta Mountjoy's dresses, besides being in direct contrast to the delicate, harmonious colors which the latter wore—a contrast which her admirer and would-be imitator was quick to perceive when her own brilliant coloring had been selected and it was too late to change. The disappointment made her cross, and inclined her still more to look for flaws in Katie, whom she began to hate as natures not sanctified by the grace of God are apt to hate those who are trying to do his will, and are thus a constant rebuke to them.
"Just look at her finery," said Bertie to her nearest neighbor, as Katie entered, looking as fresh and sweet as a June rose, "and her mother so poor. I could tell a story about how she got it that would make Miss Etta open her eyes, and Miss Eunice, too, for all she makes such a pet of the saint."
"What in the world do you mean?" said the other; but Bertie shook her head and looked mysterious, of course thus exciting the curiosity of the other tenfold.
"Do tell me," she said.
"We know what we do know, don't we?" said Bertie, provokingly, appealing to Gretchen, who nodded, but did not speak.
"Now, you're real mean," said the other, one Amelia Porter by name. "I know something I won't tell you, that's all."
Just then the bell tapped for silence, and the rest of the conversation was carried on in whispers, the only part which was heard being Amelia's astonished "Stole it? You don't say so! I never would have thought of such a thing."
But Katie did not hear. She was not thinking about her dress at all. The lesson was to her a very interesting one—the oft-repeated story of the tongues of fire that came down upon the early church, symbolizing the mighty power of the Holy Spirit to enkindle divine emotions, enthusiasm, and praise, and to make human tongues as flames of fire.
Miss Etta explained (for she had taken pains to study it up) how, in the early, times one Sunday in June was observed in commemoration of this descent of the Holy Ghost, and how, on that day, the new Christians, who of course were originally heathen, having been at first subjected to a long course of training, were baptized. They were called catechumens, because they were catechised or questioned, and candidates because they wore long white robes, candidus being the Latin word for white, and by degrees the day came to be called Whitsunday. Furthermore, Miss Etta told all about the Whitsuntide festivals of old English times in the days of the corrupt church, when festivities of the most riotous kind took place on the two days following Sunday; and the girls left the school, if not impressed by the holy teachings of the lessons, very full of a certain knowledge of that kind which St. Paul says "puffeth up," and prepared to pass a brilliant examination on the history and customs of Whitsuntide.
Very different was the pastor's sermon of that morning, which several of our girls remembered all their lives. Its text was:—
"Ye are the temples of the Holy Ghost."
And the speaker showed first what the temples of old times were; not places of meeting, as our churches to a great extent are, but dwelling-places, homes where God, or rather "the gods," were supposed to live. This idea was the one used as an illustration by St. Paul in the text, which means that God has made all human hearts to be his home and dwelling-place, and that if we will let him, not barring the doors with sin and filling up the inside with other things, he will live there always; or, as our Lord Jesus says: "If any man will open unto me, I will come in unto him and will sup with him;" and in another place, "will abide with him." Then he explained so that the youngest of his audience could understand what are the sins that bar the door against our blessed Saviour, and how we set up idols upon the altars of God's temple, by worshiping dress, vanity, pride, revenge, worldliness, and our own way, and showed how nobody can really worship God and have him abiding in his holy temple who yields obedience to anything or cares for anything more than his will. He said it was an awful thing to defile the temple of God by such things as drinking, smoking, and swearing, or even by evil thoughts and dishonest intentions, by selfish motives and unkindness in word or deed.
He closed his sermon in these words:—
"My hearers, every one of you is a temple of the Holy Ghost, built and fashioned with exquisite skill, for his own chosen dwelling-place. See to it that ye defile not this temple, and if it be in any wise already defiled, from without or within, at once seek the double cleansing, which flows from the Cross on Calvary, that thus your sacred temple may be washed whiter than snow. Dethrone the idol Self which has so long usurped the place of God upon its altar, and let him rule alone. And remember that every other human soul is likewise a sacred temple, no matter how defiled and degraded it has become by yielding itself willingly to the dominion of sin. Strive to do all that in you lies, by kind, persuasive words, by example and effort, to cleanse the degraded and polluted temples, and so do all in your power to exalt the dominion and worship of God in all the human souls which he has made."
The impression made by this sermon upon its hearers was in accord with the character and religious development of each.
James Mountjoy resolved to be more active and energetic in all efforts to improve the condition of his work-people, to raise the fallen, to reclaim the sinful, to set a better example and raise a higher standard of moral excellence, that the human temples over whom he had influence might be better fitted for the abiding presence of their heavenly Guest. Some of the more thoughtful of his boys resolved that smoking, drinking, and swearing should no longer, even in a slight degree, defile the "temples" entrusted to their keeping.
Eunice Mountjoy made a more entire consecration of herself than ever before to God's service, praying that there might be no hidden idols in her temple; that self and self-seeking might be forever cast out, even as our Lord cast out the money-changers and traffickers from the temple at Jerusalem; that God's will in all things might be hers, and that she might devote not a part only, but all her time, all her faculties, all her influence to his service in doing good to others, and thus "worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness."
Katie Robertson felt that she had understood some things to-day as never before. What but the presence of the Holy Spirit in her heart had enabled her to see the right and strengthened her to do it, and thus come off victorious over temptation? She remembered how the Holy Ghost is symbolized by a pure white dove, and she longed that her temple should also be a soft, white nest full of pure desires and kindly thoughts, and that nothing she might do or say in her daily life, among her companions or at home, should grieve that blessed heavenly inhabitant.
Even Bertie Sanderson had been struck with the sermon. If her heart was indeed a temple of the Holy Ghost, how was she defiling it? Envy, hatred, and malice were allowed to run riot there; love of dress and vanity were the idols enthroned on the altar; pride, disobedience, irreverence, contempt of rightful authority, idleness, and unfaithfulness were barring the door and keeping the loving Saviour, who stood knocking there, from coming into his own.
Bertie felt uncomfortable; the Holy Spirit was speaking to her, and she could not help but hear. But to hear and to obey are two very different things. The girl knew that she could unbar the closed door of her heart if she chose. One earnest, sincere prayer would bring the omnipotent aid of the Spirit to cast out the evil things and cleanse the defilement. But she did not want them cast out; she loved them too well. It would be all very well to have Christ's love, pity, forgiveness, and protection, and to be sure of heaven when she died; but to be a Christian—a saint she would have called it—now, to give up the things that most interested her, and live a life of self-denial and obedience,—she had no idea of doing any such thing. So, to drown the voice that she could not help hearing but did not mean to obey, she went off on a Sunday afternoon's excursion with some of the boys and girls, received a sharp reprimand from her father for so doing, and went back to her work on Monday morning more rebellious, more hardened, more idle, more malicious than before.
The blessed Holy Spirit is always longing to have us come to Christ and walk in his holy and happy ways. He watches for an opportunity to speak to us, and does speak, again and again, inclining us to give up sin and choose holiness, offering us, if we will do so, all the help we need. But he will not force us to obey his gentle call. If we will not listen and obey, he lets us go off on our self-chosen path, ceases to speak audibly to us, and patiently waits for another and more propitious season. Bertie Sanderson, that June Sunday, greatly "grieved the Spirit."
But not so did Etta Mountjoy. This young lady, ever since that first Wednesday when she attended her sister's tea-party, had thought more seriously than she had ever thought before. The duty of being a Christian had come home to her during Eunice's talk and prayer, and at the same time she had felt that she was not, and had never tried to be, one. She had seen this still more clearly during the subsequent meetings, from which her duty to her own class would not permit her to be absent. Dishonesty and hypocrisy were not Etta's vices; she could not pretend to be what she was not, and yet she could not shake off the impression that she ought to give herself to Christ and openly confess his name. She tried to put the subject out of her thoughts; but still, as she listened, day by day, she grew more and more dissatisfied with herself, her own character, her aims in life. The preparation of her Sunday-school lessons became a dreaded task, for it was impossible to minutely consider the shells of sacred things and not at the same time take cognizance of the spiritual kernels which they envelop, and these spiritual realities made her uncomfortable and more and more dissatisfied with herself.
This Sunday's sermon had gone to the very quick of Etta's conscience, painting as with a finger of light what she ought to be and what she was. God had made her for his own temple and dwelling-place; made her fair, outside and within; endowed her with intellectual and spiritual gifts, and with wealth, station, and influence, giving her opportunities for culture and usefulness far greater than most of those who surrounded her. It was not chance or accident, but God, who had given her all this, and he demanded, as he had a right to demand, in return, her love, her obedience, her service. Had she given him these? Never once in her whole life. She had set up upon his altar in the midst of his beautiful temple the idol of self-pleasing, and never in her whole seventeen years had she acted from any other motive than to please herself. It was sacrilege, it was idolatry, it was dishonesty; and so were all the actions which had come from such a corrupt source.
Etta was too clear-headed to suppose that any sudden change of practice, which it was in her power to commence now, would make any difference. She might obey mechanically, but she could not make herself love, and she did not love, God. His service was a weariness, prayer a formality, the Bible a dull, uninteresting book. She did love a light, gay, frivolous life; she saw no attractiveness in one of self-denial and holy living.
She went directly to her room on reaching home, refused to go down to dinner, sat behind the shaded blinds, and thought till thought became insupportable; and then, having come to one settled determination, put on her hat, covered her tear-stained face with a veil, and walked down the hill to the parsonage, and rang the bell with a nervous jerk. Whatever Etta did she did with a will; she made no halfway decisions.
The servant who admitted "Miss Etta" showed her into the pastor's study, where after a time he joined her, looking a little surprised at receiving such a visitor on Sunday afternoon. Etta's peculiarities, however, were well known, and he concluded she had some new project in her head, in which she desired his assistance and, as usual, could not wait a moment to put it into execution. He was rather surprised by the tear-swollen eyes and the resolute expression of face, and after courteously welcoming his visitor, waited somewhat impatiently to hear what she had to say.
"I came," said the girl, with her usual directness, "to ask you to give my Sunday-school class to some one else."
"Tired of holding your hand to the plow, and beginning to look back already, eh?" he said.
"No, sir, it isn't that; but I am not fit to teach any class; certainly not such a one as this. I don't myself know what those girls ought to learn; besides, I'm not a fit character for them to imitate."
"Not a fit character? What can you mean?"
So far Etta had spoken quite steadily, but now there came a tremor into her voice, a mist before her eyes, and a choking sensation in her throat, that would not let her speak.
He waited a few moments, then said gently: "Try to tell me about it, and
I will help you if I can."
Encouraged by something fatherly in the clergyman's voice, the girl at last found courage to commence her story; and having broken the ice, her words came fluently enough, as she tried to make him understand how utterly self-seeking and godless her life and character were; how the temple that should be God's was barred against him, and filled with idols and idolatry.
"This must be the Holy Spirit's teachings," said he, gravely; "for, so far as I know, you are no worse or more careless than most girls of your age."
But this thought was no comfort to her thoroughly aroused conscience, nor did the minister suppose it would be. He continued:
"Now that you see how bad things are, you are going to change them, are you not? You will open the barred doors that our blessed Lord wants to enter, and let him henceforth be your one object of worship and obedience, will you not?"
"How can I?" said the astonished girl. "I can't make myself like things."
"No; but it is the Holy Ghost who desires to come into his holy temple, and where he comes he brings healing, cleansing, and regenerating power. What we have to do is to let him do his work, not hindering him by our self-will and disobedience, not even trying to feel as we think we ought to feel."
"But I am not worthy to have him come to me. For seventeen years I have been sinning against him and grieving him. Even if I were made right all at once, I could not undo all that."
"But Jesus can," he said solemnly. "Have you forgotten the cross, and all that it means? Have you forgotten that he died to bear the penalty of sin, and that for his sake the worst sinners can be forgiven? We are none of us worthy to come to him, or, which is the same thing, to have him come to us; but he is the 'propitiation, sacrifice, and satisfaction for the sins of the whole world'; it is not what you can do or be, but what he has done and is. Believe that he loves you, and died for you, and is your Saviour, and you cannot help loving and trusting him and letting his Spirit do with you as he will."
Was that all? So simple, so easy, and yet an hour ago it had seemed so impossible to be a Christian. She did not speak for some minutes; then she said:—
"Have I nothing at all to do?"
"A great deal by-and-by; only one thing to-day."
"And that is?"
"To be sure that you are in earnest, that you are thoroughly ashamed of, and sorry for, the past, really anxious to be delivered from sin and made holy, and resolutely determined obediently to follow where God leads the way."
"I believe I am in earnest," said she, simply. "Won't you pray for me, sir?"
"Yes, indeed, my child," said the minister, laying his hand on her head. "God bless you, and make you very happy in his love, and useful in his service."
"You will provide a teacher for my class?" said Etta, as somewhat later she rose to take her leave.
"Why, no; unless you are really tired of it. I think you had better go on as you have commenced."
"I am not fit to be a Sunday-school teacher."
"I am not fit to be a minister; but God, in his providence, has seen fit to make me one, and so I trust him to give me the strength and wisdom I need. If you will do the same, you will become a very successful and efficient Sunday-school teacher; and this is a good way in which to consecrate your talents and opportunities to his service. Now, good-by; I must prepare for the evening service. Whenever you want help, advice, or sympathy, be sure you come to me."
Etta went home in a new world of thought and feeling. She seemed to herself scarcely to be the same girl; but in fact she was not thinking particularly about herself. God's love in desiring to save sinners, Christ's love in dying for them, the love of the Holy Spirit in being willing to come and abide with them, filled all her soul, and she was not trying to love this triune God, but loving him with all her might, because she could not help doing so. How strange it is that we go on from year to year, trying to be better, trying to feel right, trying to make ourselves holy, instead of just opening the door of the temple of our heart and believing that Jesus Christ loves us, and because he loves us will make us all that he wants us to be.
CHAPTER IX.
UNDER A CLOUD.
Meanwhile there were some changes at the mill. Katie Robertson had been promoted to the folding-room, which was on the lower floor, and where the work was not so heavy, though the payment was much better. She now received seventy-five cents for a regular day's work, and might often have made a dollar if her mother would have allowed her to work a half or quarter day extra. This promotion came soon after the occurrence of the fifty-dollar bill, which, no doubt, had something to do with the higher place in Mr. James's estimation, which the little girl held in consequence. He took occasion to inquire of Miss Peters concerning her work, and heard such a good account of her industry, capability, and faithfulness that he felt sure she might be trusted with pleasanter occupation and that which needed greater skill.
To enable our young readers who have never seen the process of paper-making to understand the change in our heroine's surroundings, we will tell them in a few words how paper is made.
As, of course, is universally known, rags, straw, old rope, poplar pith, etc., are the materials used. The best writing-paper is made of linen rags, which are for the most part imported from Germany. For ordinary writing and printing paper cotton rags are used, while straw and hemp, and even wool, go largely into the construction of manilla and wrapping paper. The linen rags and the woolen ones are generally sorted out in the places where they are gathered, at which time the others are all packed into bales, when, after passing through various hands, they are brought to the different paper-mills. Here the bales are hoisted to the top loft of the building, where they are broken and their contents turned over and over and subjected to a fanning process which removes a large part of the dust. They are then passed through slides down into the rag-room, where, as we have seen, they are sorted, cut in pieces, and the buttons taken off. They are cut again, in the next room to which they are carried, by a revolving cylinder whose surface is covered with short, sharp knives, acting on each other much like the blades of scissors. From here they are passed into the interior of a long, horizontal, copper boiler containing a solution of soda and some other chemical substances, and boiled for several days, at the end of which time, the dirt being thoroughly loosened, the boiling mass is passed through a long slide into vats, through which a constant stream of water is flowing, and so thoroughly washed that it becomes as white as snow and looks like raw, white cotton. It is then taken into another room, packed into a "Jordan engine," and ground into an almost impalpable pulp. This pulp is passed into other vats thoroughly mixed with water, blueing, and some other substances calculated to give it a hard finish, and then conveyed by pipes to the drying-room, where it is distributed over the surface of fine wire netting stretched on cylinders and looking much like "skim milk." It is now passed from cylinder to cylinder, dropping the water with which it is mixed as it goes, and gradually taking, more and more, the consistency of paper. At one stage—if it is to be writing-paper, which was chiefly manufactured at Squantown Mills—a certain amount of glue is poured upon it by means of little tubes which are over the cylinders, and this gradually becomes pressed into the fibre, giving the paper the shining surface to which we are accustomed. This is called sizing. At another stage the wire netting is changed for a blanket which passes over the cylinders and keeps the weak, wet paper from friction, as well as from any chance of breaking. Steam is now introduced into the cylinders, and the drying process goes on so rapidly that, at the end of the long room, the pulp issues from between the two last cylinders in sheets of firm, dry, white paper, which are cut off in lengths by stationary knives, and caught and laid in place by two boys or girls who sit at a table just below. So complete and perfect is the machinery that, in addition to the two boys, only one man is needed in the room, and he only to watch lest either of the machines gets out of order, or lest the paper should accidentally break.
It is quite fascinating to watch the thin pulp as it gradually becomes strong paper, and Katie one day overheard a gentleman visitor, to whom Mr. James was explaining the process, say something that she never forgot:—
"It makes me think of God's way of dealing with human souls. He takes them, polluted and sinful, from the gutters and the slums of life, cuts and fashions them till they are in a condition to be used; then washes out their stains by his precious blood, grinds, moulds, dissolves, and manipulates them, till they come out pure, innocent, white paper, on which he can write just what he pleases."
"Yes," said Mr. James. "I have often thought out that analogy, but you have not yet seen the whole process. No saint is completed till he has gone through the polishing and finishing of his life and character. You will see how we polish and finish our paper in the next room."
In the next room were great steel rollers, at each of which two women were employed, as this work was generally considered too hard and steady, as well as too particular, for the girls and boys. One of these women places a sheet of paper between the rollers at the top; the engine turns them, carrying the paper round and round between them, and the other woman takes it out at the bottom, beautifully polished by the pressure.
It is then carried in great piles to the ruling-machines, which stand at the other end of the room, and there other girls and women act as "feeders" and "tenders." The sheets are carried under upright, stationary pens, filled with blue or red ink, and ruled first on one side and then on the other, the machine never letting go of the sheets till the ruling is perfectly dry.
The paper is now finished, but it must be prepared for being taken away and sold; so great piles of it are placed on barrows, and it is carried by the "lift" down to the lowest room of all, called the "folding-room," and this is a very gay, busy scene.
Multitudes of girls are at work here, and everything is so clean that no checked aprons or mob-caps are needed. Some of them count out the paper, first into quires, and then into reams and half-reams. Others fold the sheets with an evenness and rapidity that only long practice can give; others, again, stamp each sheet in the corner with a die; and still others fold the reams—after they have been pressed together—into the pretty, colored wrappers prepared for them, sealing them with wax, and putting the packages, two together, into heavy brown papers, which are closed with the label peculiar to the special brand of paper.
There was plenty of work for everybody, and there was, moreover, a variety, and Katie felt very much elated at her promotion when she first came into the gay, pleasant folding-room.
But the poor girl was destined to meet with a very bitter disappointment. Perhaps the most severe trial of her life awaited her in that pleasant room. She had only been there a few days when she became aware that she was looked upon with suspicion. The superintendent watched her closely, and carefully verified the accounts she gave of her work. The girls with whom she tried to make acquaintance turned away, and either answered her in monosyllables or else declined speaking at all, and often when she came in suddenly before work had commenced two or three who were mysteriously whispering together would suddenly stop and look curiously and strangely at her. Once or twice she overheard some disconnected words, of which the following are specimens: "What was it really?"—"You don't say so!"—"Dishonesty!"—"I never should have thought it!"—"Are you sure?"—"Bertie Sanderson!"—"She saw it herself," etc. etc. Katie, having no key to these disjointed sentences, could make nothing of them, but she felt that she was what school boys call "sent to Coventry," and had not the least idea why.
The fact was that Bertie, whose jealous dislike was greatly increased by Katie's promotion, while she herself remained in the rag-room, had uttered her innuendoes to all who would listen to her, till it was pretty generally understood throughout the mill that Katie Robertson was a thief, who appeared in unbecoming finery bought with ill-gotten gains. The rumor never took sufficient definiteness of shape to reach the girl so that she could confute it and explain its origin. Of course, she was not likely to tell any one in the mill about the finding of the fifty-dollar bill and what had passed between Mr. James Mountjoy and herself, since it was largely to her own credit, nor had he ever thought of mentioning it, for a somewhat similar reason. So the report traveled from one mouth to another, losing nothing in its passage, and poor Katie was obliged to endure the general avoidance and reprobation as best she might. It was a hard trial and one in which she had no one to sympathize with her, for Mrs. Robertson's gloomy disposition inclined her children to keep from her anything that might add to her unhappiness, and somehow she did not feel like making confidants of the boys. But hard as the trial seemed in the passing, it was, in the end, good for our heroine, for it drove her to the only Friend who knew all about it, who knew that she was innocent of the charge, whatever it might be, and pitied and loved her, whoever else might cast her out. The things which drive us close to Him, no matter how hard they seem, are really blessings in disguise. Katie had now but one friend in the mill, a slight, pale girl, who stood by the folding-table next to herself. She had only just come to the mill, was intimate with no one, and, so far, had not heard the story, whatever it was, about Katie Robertson. Her name was Tessa. Her father, who had been a traveling organ-grinder, was taken sick and died very suddenly at Squantown. His little dark-eyed girl, who accompanied him, was left perfectly destitute and in a most desolate condition. She was at first taken care of in the poor-house, but as she grew older, and it was thought best that she should do something for her own support, Mr. Mountjoy had been appealed to, and had given her a place in the mill. Not in the rag-room, however, for she had such a delicate constitution that it was supposed she never could stand the dust. Her work consisted in pasting the fancy paper over the edges of little "pads," intended for doctors' use in writing their prescriptions, and when she was tired she was allowed to have a seat. She could not make much, but what she did receive sufficed to pay for her room in the factory boarding-house, and Tessa was as happy as she could be without her father.
The Italian girl had conceived a strong admiration for our bright little Katie, and by degrees the two girls became great friends. Tessa's love was the silver lining to the cloud under whose shadow her companion lived.
But the heaviest part of the cloud was that the story reached Miss Etta. She had noticed the general avoidance of Katie by the other girls in her class, and was very much at a loss to account for it, for to her this scholar had always seemed the best and brightest of them all, and she could see no change in her reverent, attentive behavior, her carefully prepared lessons, and her evident understanding and enjoyment of the spiritual truths which they contained. This latter point she could appreciate better than before, and she often shrank in humility from attempting to teach Katie anything, feeling herself better fitted to be the pupil. But the girls evidently did not feel so. What could be the matter?
One day, when all had left the Sunday-school, except Bertie, she stopped her and asked her directly why neither she nor the other girls were willing to sit next to Katie Robertson, and why they all looked at her so significantly when she came in or went out.
Bertie flushed, whether with joy or shame it would have been hard to say, and at first would not answer; but on her teacher's insisting, said that she didn't want to tell tales, etc.
The young lady saw that nevertheless her scholar was running over with her secret and longing for an opportunity to divulge it, and, had she been a little older and more experienced, she would not have given her the opportunity. But Etta was very curious, and, moreover, thought she had a right to know all that concerned her Sunday scholars, so she waited until her patience was rewarded by the whole story—that is, the version of it that Bertie's vindictive fancy chose to give.
She learned that Katie had been seen by two of the girls in the mill to steal a large sum of money, which she had appropriated to the use of herself and family; that by degrees one after another had heard of it, and that of course honest girls who had their own way to make did not like to associate with a thief.
On being asked who the girls were that had seen the action, and why they had not at once given information concerning it, Bertie declined to give any answer to the first part of her question, and professed entire ignorance concerning the latter; only she said: "All the girls knew, and of course couldn't associate with a sly thief, especially when she gave herself the airs of a saint."
Etta was very much troubled. She could not believe such a story of her best pupil, and yet how could she contradict it? Without names and particulars she did not know how to set about investigating the truth; nor did she like to ask any one's advice, and thus cast suspicion upon the child.