"'Doing with our might whatsoever our hand findeth to do,' added the other sister softly. 'Thanks, little flowers, for the lesson you have taught us!'
"The two girls passed their hands tenderly over the bright convolvuluses once more, and then left them, tremulous with delight.
"'Ah,' said they both together, 'what joy it is to think we have not lived in vain! But this morning, we were lamenting at the thought of coming death; now, we shall give up life with such different feelings, for we know that a remembrance of us will remain in the hearts of the gentle and good! We have done all we could do; "we have sown the seed of a right thought, and who knows what good actions may spring from it?"'
"Calmly and quietly, the twin-flowers waited for death; and when the sun sunk in the west, they closed for ever, gladdened by the knowledge that they had not lived in vain."
As Uncle Paul ceased, he saw that Bernard's face was grave, and that down Marian's cheeks the tears were trickling fast, while Kate clung more closely than common to his side. The story had brought "solemn" thoughts to them all, but "sad" ones to Marian only.
"I did not wish to make you unhappy, my darlings," said Uncle Paul tenderly. "But is it not as well to look at both sides of the picture? Death is as certain to overtake each of us as it is the little flower which lives but for a day. And yet, while we love to look at all which belongs to life, we shrink from looking at what is every night brought a day nearer to each of us. Uncle Paul is growing old, my darlings; his hair is white. It is summer 'here' now, but for all that, 'he' is in the winter of life. He does not know whether the season will be a short or a long one; but he knows it is the last of the four, and that his spring, summer, and autumn are gone already. He looks back on them, and often wishes that he had done more and better than he has. So he preaches to you, children, that you may begin to work while it is yet your spring-time, and have the less to regret should you live until life's winter."
There was no answer in words when Uncle Paul finished speaking; but Kate kissed his cheek again and again, and passed her little fingers lovingly through his white hair; while Bernard pressed his hand, as if by way of pledge that his words should not be thrown away. Down Marian's cheeks the tears now flowed like rain, and Uncle Paul guessed that conscience was reminding her of a neglected duty. So putting Kate aside, after a loving caress, he passed his kind arm round Marian, and said:
"Dear child, I have a word or two to say to you in particular. Shall I send these others away, and whisper them in your ear only?"
He waited for her reply, and Marian answered in a low voice: "No, dear Uncle Paul; let them hear what you say to me. Then we shall all learn something more from your story."
"I was thinking, my darlings," said Uncle Paul, "that when we do a single kind act, from the mere impulse of a moment, and not habitually because it is right, we are like the flash of lightning, which dazzles for a moment, but makes the darkness seem all the greater when it is gone. For instance, Marian here worked very hard for a little while to perform an act of kindness. Her gift to the poor widow's children came upon them as unexpectedly as the flash of lightning, and her promise of further help raised a degree of hope in their minds, which, not having been fulfilled, must have caused far greater disappointment than the mere absence of the promised comforts could have occasioned. The disappointment was thus the greater darkness that followed the flash of light and hope. Now, the true and steady charity which springs from the habitual feeling and principle of right, is just like the bright sun, whose course is continued, to cheer and bless, from year to year, and whose mode of noting is only varied for the benefit of what it shines upon.
"Uncle Paul has done preaching now, children," added the dear old man; "and see, here comes the empty wagon, in good time, to fetch the last load of hay!"
Marian dried her tears, and they all rose from the ground to go and meet the merry group of children who had come in the wagon. Amongst them Marian distinguished the forms of the poor widow and her little folks, and she whispered to her uncle: "I am so sorry I have been lazy and forgetful of my promise, Uncle Paul. I shall be punished by the sight of those children who might have had their new clothes, if I had worked in my spare hours half as hard as I did at first."
"They are not ragged, though, Marian," said her uncle.
To the young girl's great astonishment, she saw that the widow's children were dressed in new frocks and pinafores of the very same stuff as she had chosen.
"One would think, Uncle Paul," she remarked, "that some good industrious fairy had taken pity on them, and finished my work."
"It was some one who is both good and industrious, but no fairy, Marian." Uncle Paul glanced towards Mrs. Ingram as he spoke, and Marian knew the truth.
"Oh, mother," said she, "I know now why you have spent an hour or two every day shut up in your own room. You were doing the work which my hands ought to have finished."
"Yes," interposed her uncle, "mamma has acted the part of the good fairy this time, and I hope the lesson will not be lost upon you, my dear. For, remember, through using up the 'fragments' of her time only, she has been enabled to confer a great benefit on these poor people. She has joined us in all our excursions and rambles, yet the remnants of leisure, well used, have sufficed for this work. You may cast aside fragments of anything else you please, and pick them up afterwards, but time once thrown away, is gone for ever."
There was no more preaching—as Uncle Paul called his kind warnings—after this. Bernard, Marian, and Kate found enough to do in decorating the little children with flowers, and the wagon with green-boughs; and when the small remaining portion of hay was put into it, the youngsters all rode home together in triumph. When they reached Hay-Lodge, the large kitchen was quite a sight. Long tables were set out, and covered with white cloths, and large cups placed on them. These, the three children filled with new milk, and as soon as the spice-buns were drawn hot from the oven, all the young guests were seated at table, and liberally supplied with them, to their great satisfaction, by Bernard, Marian, and Kate.
After the meal, they had a hearty romp on the lawn; and at eight o'clock, each child was supplied with another bun, and sent home in high glee, and very grateful to Uncle Paul for the treat he had given them. Only city-children, like the little Ingrams themselves, can understand how delightful these country scenes are.
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CHAPTER V.
BERNARD'S FAULT, AND "THE HOLE IN THE WINDOW."
UNCLE PAUL was extremely fond of flowers, and had a particularly choice collection of foreign plants, which he had gathered at great cost and pains during his travels. In his green-house and conservatory were many flowers of rare beauty, and in these Bernard took very great delight. He and his uncle watched with almost equal interest for the opening of the buds; and so careful had the boy been in his movements amongst the plants that to him was intrusted the daily watering of some of the very choicest of all the floral-stock.
The day after the hay was gathered in, Uncle Paul and Bernard were in the green-house together. They were both quite absorbed in admiration of a beautiful plant which was just bursting into bloom.
"This will be quite fully opened by to-morrow," said Uncle Paul. "I am very glad of it; for two ladies, neighbours of mine, have long been curious to see a flower of this species, and this of mine is a very uncommon variety. You will be sure to take particular care not to injure it, for the stem is as fragile as the flower is lovely."
"I will take care, uncle," replied Bernard. "Shall I carry it into the conservatory this afternoon?"
"Either this evening or to-morrow morning will do, Bernard. But do you think you are sufficiently experienced to handle such a delicate affair as this? Never mind," he added quickly and kindly as he saw the boy's colour rising at the question; "I place reliance in your care, Bernard."
"Thank you, uncle," was the reply; "I will do my best."
Uncle Paul then left the green-house; and Bernard, quite proud of the trust reposed in him, proceeded to perform his daily duties there. Afterwards, he attended to the whole of the plants in the conservatory, for the gardener had obtained three days' leave of absence from his post that he might visit an invalid brother.
It happened that Bernard had made arrangements to accompany some youths, whose acquaintance he had made at the picnic, on a fishing-excursion that day. He had just completed his task in the conservatory, when they came to call for him, so he made great haste to prepare himself, and in a few minutes was ready to set out with them. It was dusk in the evening when the boys returned, and much later than Bernard had calculated on being absent from Hay-Lodge.
After displaying the fruits of his excursion to the admiring eyes of Marian and Kate, he threw himself upon a seat, saying: "How tired I am! I think I never in my life felt so weary as I do to-night!"
A moment afterwards, he remembered that some of the sashes in the green-house had been left open to admit air, and he hastened to shut them at once, feeling uneasy lest any of the plants might have suffered from exposure to the night-air. Uncle Paul he knew to be from home, and likely to be detained till rather late. The evening was very warm and mild, and the moon shone brightly in as he entered the green-house. He hoped no harm was done, and eagerly but cautiously he stepped up to the place where the plant stood respecting which his uncle was so anxious.
How beautiful it looked in the soft light! How the now full-blown flower bowed the delicate stem, while half-opened buds around it gave the one perfect blossom additional charms! Bernard could scarcely admire it sufficiently, and he quite longed to see it reigning the very queen of the conservatory.
After having fastened the sashes, he lifted the pot containing the plant, in order to place it in its new abode. Uncle Paul and he had arranged what position it should occupy in the morning, and, as Bernard thought, there was nothing in the way; but when he reached the conservatory, the door was shut, and he was obliged to place the pot on the ground whilst he opened it. As he raised it again, he stumbled slightly, and bruised the stem of the plant between his arm and the door-post. Much alarmed, he hastened to place it in the appointed spot, and then examined the stem to see if it were injured, and if so, to what extent. To Bernard's great regret, he found that the stem was partially crushed, but so far the flower and buds were untouched. Hoping that the injury it had received would not spoil its appearance, he left the conservatory, feeling anything but comfortable, and joined his mother in the drawing-room.
Only a few minutes afterwards, Bernard heard his uncle's voice in the hall, and soon the kind old gentleman entered.
Uncle Paul asked his nephew how he had enjoyed his day on the water, and then inquired if the sashes in the green-house were closed.
"Yes," replied Bernard; "I attended to them as soon as I came in; but it was rather later than I expected it would be before I returned."
"The air is so warm and mild that it has done them no harm, I am sure, Bernard," said his uncle. "And how did 'the' plant look? You know it stands first in my favour at present, and I hope it will not disappoint me to-morrow."
"It was full out, uncle, and looked very beautiful," returned Bernard in rather a low voice. Most heartily did he echo the hope that the plant would retain its beauty, and be none the worse for the accident; but he greatly feared the contrary.
"Did you move it into the conservatory?" asked Uncle Paul.
"Yes, uncle, since I came home."
Uncle Paul rose from his seat. "I will just go and have a peep at it," said he. "Thank you, my dear niece," he added, addressing Mrs. Ingram, who offered him a light, "I shall not take a candle. My beautiful plant will look all the more lovely in the pale moonlight. Come, Bernard, and share my pleasure, keen florist that you are."
For the first time during his visit, Bernard felt reluctant to obey his uncle's summons; but, unwilling as he was to enter the conservatory, he was still more unwilling to refuse, and he rose instantly and followed.
Uncle Paul's eyes, though they looked so dark and keen, had seen a great many years of hard service, for he had not gone through life with them shut, in any sense of the word. When he stood opposite to his favourite plant, he did not observe the bruised stem, though the injury was quite visible to Bernard, who knew all about the cause of the hurt; he only noticed how beautiful and perfect the shape of the flower was, and how admirably it was placed to display its loveliness, and then he turned to leave the conservatory with his nephew, who locked the door, and handed him the key.
During the few moments they had been there, Bernard was several times on the point of mentioning the accident to Uncle Paul; but his courage failed him, and he remained silent, fervently hoping that all would be well, and that no confession would be necessary. But he did not rest very comfortably that night, though he was so weary with his long day out of doors. Anxiety of mind, and the thought that he had not dealt frankly with his kind uncle, overpowered even his fatigue, and kept him from resting until daylight.
It was in vain that Bernard tried to stifle his inward monitor, Conscience, by saying to himself: "I told my uncle nothing but the truth." Conscience always answered promptly: "'Yes, but you did not tell the whole truth.'" In vain, too, did Bernard argue that Uncle Paul was so just and kind that he would not be angry at the effects of what was really an accident. His heart quite sank within him when he recalled the pleasure which Uncle Paul took in his floral-treasures, and particularly in the injured plant. So the morning came, breakfast-time passed, the carriage of Uncle Paul's visitors was heard on the gravel, and Bernard had not yet said one word about the bruised stem.
"Where is the conservatory-key?" asked Uncle Paul, as he was about to lead his guests thither.
"You have it yourself, uncle," said Bernard. "Do you not remember I gave it to you last night?"
"To be sure you did, my boy." Then turning to his guests, he said: "The flower of which I spoke to you is now fully blown; I saw it by moonlight; but you will, I doubt not, find it exquisitely lovely this morning." With eager step he advanced to the spot—and, lo! the stem was bent down, and the flower half-withered. It would be hard to describe his disappointment and regret as he pointed out the mischief.
"The stem has been crushed," said one of the ladies, as she examined the plant; "but there are still sufficient proofs left to shew how very beautiful a perfectly fresh flower must be."
She and her companion continued to examine and praise the wreck of the lovely bloom; but, for a few moments, poor Uncle Paul was unable either to speak or to listen, and Bernard's cheeks were wet with tears.
"Who can have done the mischief?" said one of the ladies.
The kind old gentleman's face brightened, as he answered: "No one, my dear lady. And this is to me a great source of comfort under what is to a florist a serious disappointment. My nephew and I came together late last night to look at this plant, and left it all right. From that time until we entered the conservatory, no one can have been here, for the key has not been out of my own possession. Bernard and I are equally disappointed; but, after all, it is so pleasant that there is no person to blame. The stem must have been diseased, or eaten by some insect."
When Uncle Paul knew that anything could not be amended, he never indulged in useless lamentations or murmurs respecting it; and thus, on this occasion, though he certainly cast a regretful look or two towards his favourite plant, he did not grumble and fret over it. On the contrary, he guided his visitors through the conservatory and green-house, accompanied also by Mrs. Ingram, with a face as cheerful and good-humoured as though his hopes had been all fulfilled. There was still an abundance of attractions, and when all the choice plants had been examined, the two ladies had almost forgotten the spoiled flower in their admiration of those around them, so select was Uncle Paul's stock of floral-beauties. They left Hay-Lodge quite delighted with their visit, and enriched by the gift of several plants from their kind entertainer's own store.
Bernard, however, was by no means happy. He knew that his uncle did not for a moment suspect that he had had any hand in injuring the plant, and was convinced, too, that he could not discover the cause of its altered appearance.
But conscience would not let him rest. This thought was continually present: "I ought to have told my uncle the whole truth. Though I have not spoken a falsehood, this allowing him to remain under a false impression is the same thing. How I wish I had told him all about it last night!"
Poor Bernard! He was just experiencing the truth of the words: "The longer we defer a duty, the more difficult it is to perform;" and when that duty is to confess a fault, the difficulty is increased many-fold by every hour's delay.
Uncle Paul could not fail to observe Bernard's grave face and sorrowful looks, and he fancied the boy was grieving over the loss of what had been for some time past an object of interest to him also; so he kindly said: "You must not let the loss of the flower grieve you, Bernard; it would only have been a thing of a day, after all, and we saw it in perfection. Beside, there are two more plants of the same kind to flower, though they are not so forward as the fading one; and if the first should open while you are here, we will go ourselves and present it to the young ladies who were here to-day."
Bernard gave a sickly sort of smile. His uncle's words were far harder to bear than reproaches would have been. He was indeed thinking about the flower, and wishing that he could either summon courage to tell his uncle all about it, or forget it altogether.
"Now, we must turn the conversation. Who will talk about something else?" cried Uncle Paul cheerfully, yet just as though he could not find another word to say.
"Turn it yourself, uncle, if you please, with another story," said Marian.
"What! You want Uncle Paul to begin preaching again, do you? I thought you must have had enough of my stories. You have all been such good children lately that I seem to have nothing to preach about. Still, for fear you should take it into your heads to be naughty in order to furnish me with a subject, I will tell you a tale about—"
"THE HOLE IN THE WINDOW."
"The stone had gone through, sure enough, and left a round hole in the pane, and the boy who had thrown the stone, startled by the crash, stood for a few seconds quite still upon the road, gazing at the result of it. It was wonderful how many thoughts went through the lad's mind in that short time. He had very often been warned not to throw stones, because it was an idle, mischievous, and likely to be also a destructive habit. As he stood, his mother's very words seemed ringing in his ears—words which she had said that morning but an hour before. Yet the warning had been unheeded, the mother's command disobeyed, and there stood Arthur Franklin, as if rooted to the spot, gazing at the hole in the window.
"It was not a very large hole. The stone had been sent through with such force that it had only just made a passage for itself, and the remainder of the pane was very little cracked. Arthur looked round, but there was no person within sight. The sound of the broken glass had not attracted the attention of the inmates, and the cottage stood by itself. The fractured pane was in one of the front windows, and Arthur thought that, most likely, the good woman who was the mistress of the house was somewhere in the back-garden. He had often seen her there, and she had said good-morning to him many a time as he passed on his way to school. He felt very sorry that he had broken her window, and if he had had any money in his pocket then, he would have tried to find her, in order to pay for the mischief. But Arthur's pockets were quite empty; he had not a single penny to call his own; for he was rather an improvident individual, and when he received his monthly allowance, always spent it directly, saving nothing for a time of need. He knew that in order to act justly, he ought to find the good woman of the cottage, point out the damage he had caused, and then own his fault to his parents, and ask them to give him money to have it repaired.
"'But,' argued Arthur within himself, 'I know that my mother and father will both be so much displeased at my disobedience, that, if even I escape any other punishment, I shall be obliged to pay back the price of the broken pane out of my own pocket-money; and I want to buy so many things for myself.'
"These thoughts passed very quickly through Arthur's mind, far more quickly than I can tell them, for they occupied but a few moments; and selfishness conquered justice, as it too often does. After making quite sure that nobody was near, he ran away from the spot as fast as he could, leaving behind him, as the only trace of his visit to the neighbourhood, that hole in the window.
"Arthur had another motive for wishing to receive his pocket-money untouched: the yearly fair was just at hand, and what boy does not like to have something in his bank at such a time? Still Arthur ought to have done what was right first of all, though it might cost him some striving against self. Yet, although he had counted what he would have had to pay for taking a straightforward course, he had not calculated what would be the cost of wrongdoing. That was to come; and he found that, though no mortal eye had seen him, Conscience, stern taskmaster, took him to task, and accused him continually.
"The morning after Arthur broke the window, he was obliged to pass it on his way to school. He felt very uncomfortable as he neared the place in company with two or three other boys, but he did not turn his head to see whether the mischief had been repaired, though he was very anxious to know.
"'Just look!' cried one of his companions; 'somebody has broken a pane in that window. What a round hole! It might have been cut out.'
"Arthur was thus in a manner forced to look; for if he had refused, he might have been suspected. He did not feel better satisfied with himself when a second lad said: 'The people who live there are very poor. The man is often ill, and there is a large family. I daresay he cannot afford to have the window mended.'
"'And it must have been broken from the outside,' remarked the first speaker, 'for there is no glass on the road. If anybody has done it, and not paid the poor people, what a shame it is! Isn't it, Franklin?'
"Arthur could not help answering in the affirmative, though it was no very pleasant task thus to confirm with his lips the sentence which his conscience had already pronounced against him.
"For a whole fortnight, Arthur passed the broken window four times each day on his way to and from school. At first, it was a very hard matter, but it became less so by degrees. Three days before the fair, Arthur's grandfather came to pay a visit to his parents, and when he went away, he presented his grandson with half-a-crown.
"'You will manage to get rid of this at the fair, Arthur,' said the old gentleman with a pleasant smile. 'There will be the wild-beasts to visit, and I know not what beside. I shall give your cousin Frederic the same, and you can spend the money as you think good.'
"'Thank you, grandfather,' said Arthur in high glee.
"'But can you keep your half-crown untouched until the fair, do you think, Arthur?' asked his mother.
"Now, Arthur had not intended to keep the whole of the half-crown to spend at the fair. Though he had thought less about that hole in the window of late, conscience would not let him quite forget it. So, when the silver coin was placed in his hand, his first thought had been: 'Now, as I have received this present of money which I did not expect, I will at once devote a part of it to the mending of that window. It will not cost me more than one-and-sixpence, perhaps not so much. I shall have a shilling left, which, with my month's allowance, will be quite enough to spend at the fair; and I shall have what is better still—a quiet conscience.'
"Mrs. Franklin's remark was rather an unfortunate one. Arthur felt himself bound to shew that he 'could' keep his half-crown untouched until the fair-day, unless, indeed, he were to tell his mother to what purpose he meant to devote a part of the money. To the latter course he could not make up his mind, so he replied:
"'I can keep my half-crown whole, grandfather, as my mother shall see, for I will shew it to her on the fair-day morning.'
"His mother still looked rather doubtful, and she laughed as she answered: 'If you do, Arthur, it will be the first time that you have ever accomplished such a feat.'
"Arthur was rather afraid lest he should spend the money, after all his resolutions, so, for fear of yielding to temptation, he locked it up in his little treasure-box, quite determined not even to touch it again until the appointed time. As he passed the hole in the window, he thought, with no small pleasure, that in two more days he should repair the damage, for, though he had determined to save his money for so long, in order to shew that he 'could' do it, he had not lost sight of his original plan with regard to the ultimate disposal of the half-crown.
"Whenever we determine to do right, it is always best to put our resolution in force at once. 'Delays are dangerous,' as the copy-slips say, and so Arthur found them. In the first place, it was very hard to resist the inclination he felt to take the half-crown out of the box again, just to shew it to his school-fellows, that they might know what pleasures he should be able to purchase at the fair. However, he did resist that temptation, and only boasted of his riches, instead of displaying them.
"The fair-day brought greater trials along with it. Arthur triumphantly exhibited his half-crown whole, and received his monthly allowance besides; but even then he found that his cousin Frederic had more money than himself, because he had saved a little beforehand. Still the boy thought he would pay for the broken window, and he put a shilling and sixpence aside for that purpose; but first one attraction, and then another, tempted him to spend. He was habitually prodigal, and he was dissatisfied when Frederic bought anything for himself, unless he followed his cousin's example. Thus, before the evening came, he had spent all the money that was really his own, and he had not yet been to see the wild-beasts.
"'Now for the show!' said Frederic, as the two boys rose to leave the tea-table.
"'I will go with you as far as the marketplace, where all the shows are,' replied Arthur; 'but I think I shall not go in.'
"'Oh, nonsense! Why, you have never seen any wild-beasts, have you?'
"'No,' said Arthur; 'and I should like very much to go; but it will cost a shilling.'
"'To be sure it will; but that is not a great deal considering; and you cannot tell when you may have another chance, if you miss this. I have thought more about seeing them than anything else; and if I had not had money enough, I should have spent less this afternoon. Come along. I know you have eighteenpence left, and the fair only comes once a year.'
"Arthur wished 'he' had spent less; for he had bought several things he really did not want, just to be like his cousin. 'I don't mind going with you, Fred,' said Arthur again, 'but not into the show.'
"However, Fred was quite satisfied with this promise, for he knew Arthur's disposition well, and had no doubt he should have his company, whatever resolutions he might make to the contrary before they started.
"Truly, Arthur would have found it quite hard enough work to keep firm to his purpose, had he stayed at home; but when he reached the marketplace, and heard the music of the attendant-band, while the roaring of the wild animals sounded even above the drums—when he saw several of his school-fellows running up the steps of the show—and, above all, when Fred was on the point of leaving him, to follow their example, all his good resolutions melted away like snow in the sunshine. The shilling passed into the hands of the money-taker at the entrance, and Arthur's last sixpence was left in solitude at the bottom of his pocket, though Frederic had still pence in store with which to buy cakes for the elephants and nuts for the monkeys, things which Arthur had entirely forgotten.
"However, his cousin good-naturedly gave him half of his own store, saying, as he did so: 'You must not break into that sixpence, you know, Arthur, for you will want it by and by.'
"'What for?' inquired Arthur.
"'Why, the beasts will be fed in about half an hour, and if we want to see them, we must pay an extra sixpence. Of course, you'll pay. I shall, for I know that is a sight, and it would be provoking to turn out just when the best is to come.'
"Arthur hesitated, knowing he had already spent too much; but then, thought he to himself: 'Sixpence will not mend that hole in the window. I shall be obliged to wait another month before I can pay for the broken pane, at any rate. The window will not run away in the meanwhile, though the shows will be all gone; so I may as well see all I can.'
"Thus, once more, selfishness conquered justice. Arthur did stay; he spent his last sixpence, and returned home at night very weary, the possessor of several useless toys, and still burdened with the thought that he had committed a wrong action, and neglected to repair the evil when he had it in his power. In his own quiet bed, after the excitement of the day was over, the boy's conscience again made itself heard, and, grieved at his folly and weakness, the lad moistened his pillow with tears, while he wished he had had strength of mind to keep his resolution, but wished in vain. All at once, a veiled figure took him by the hand, and led him out into the open air. Arthur knew not how he passed over the ground, but, almost immediately, he found himself in front of the cottage by the road-side, and gazing at the broken pane in the window.
"'That was your work!' said the figure that still accompanied him, and now pointed with outstretched finger to the broken pane.
"In a trembling voice, Arthur owned the truth.
"'And you have wasted the money which would have repaired the damage on things that you did not want.'
"It was of no use to deny it. Arthur replied that he had; that he had 'intended to pay for the mending of the window, but—'"
"He stopped, and his strange companion said: 'I will finish the sentence for you. You preferred indulging your own selfishness at the expense of justice.'
"These sounded hard words, but Arthur felt their truth, and could not utter a syllable in his own defence.
"'It is of no use to make good resolutions,' said the stranger, 'unless we carry them out. These very resolutions are witnesses against us, because they prove that we know what is right, though we do not practise it. Follow me, and you shall see what you have done beside breaking the window.'
"Away through the open door into the cottage went Arthur's mysterious guide, and the boy was impelled to follow him, though much against his will. In front of the fire, in a rocking-chair, sat the good woman of the house, and on her knee she held a baby, whose cries she was vainly endeavouring to still.
"'Ah, poor baby,' said the weeping mother, 'you are in pain, and I do not know how to relieve you; and it is all owing to that broken window, which let in the bitter piercing east wind all the night through. And to think I never found out that some careless or wicked boy had broken our bedroom-window while I was in the garden. And the piercing wind blew in upon you and your father that night; and I never found out what made it so cold till the morning, when daylight shewed me that hole in the window.'
"'O dear, dear!' groaned poor Arthur. 'What have I done? I knew I had broken a window, but I never thought I had injured any "person" by that.'
"'Very likely not,' replied his guide. 'It is not often that people can count the exact amount of harm they will cause by even a single wrong action, or a little step on the path of evil.'
"The baby still wailed and cried, and the mother's tears fell on its wan face, when a feeble voice from the inner room cried: 'Wife, will you bring me a drink? My tongue is parched, and my throat "so" dry.'
"The woman pressed the poor baby more closely to her breast, and rose from her seat in order to supply her husband's want.
"'We will go with her, and see all that is to be seen here, Arthur,' said his companion. So they entered the inner room where the father lay.
"The sick man eagerly drank what his wife offered—it was but cold water—and then he said: 'I wish the poor child would cease crying; it keeps me from sleeping, and I think, but for it, I could rest. The little darling is suffering, like its father, from the terrible cold it caught by sleeping just under that hole in the window. And you, my dear wife, will be almost worn out with waiting on us both. It is terrible to lie here, and think that I "ought" to be at work, yet can do nothing!'
"The wife tried to hush the baby; said a few kind, comforting words to her husband; examined the broken pane, to see whether the rag she had stuffed in to keep out the cold was still in its place; and then hurried out of the room again, to weep in silence.
"'Come and see what makes her weep,' said Arthur's guide.
"'I suppose it is on account of her husband's illness,' said the boy, while his own tears fell fast.
"'Not altogether,' was the reply. 'Come, and I will shew you more still.'
"Arthur followed the stranger into the pantry. There was no meat to be seen, nothing but dry bread on the shelf, and only a scanty supply of that. Then they looked into the cupboard, and saw that there were only a few grains of tea in the bottle, which the poor woman used instead of a canister; indeed, there was scarcely anything like food in the whole house.
"'Do you know how it is that these shelves are bare, and the dishes empty?' asked the guide.
"Arthur felt very unhappy, but did not speak.
"'I will tell you,' continued his companion; 'it is because the hands that at the best of times are not strong enough to earn much, are now so weakened by pain, that they must be idle, though that sick man would be glad to work. And what can the poor weeping mother do, with the sick husband and child to tend almost night and day? It will be very hard, indeed, when morning comes, and she has nothing at all left but dry bread and cold water.'
"Arthur thought of times when he had been ill, and remembered how many dainties were brought, in the hope of tempting him to eat, yet all in vain; and he fancied to himself how hard it would have seemed to him if 'he' had had nothing but bread and water at such a time.
"'Oh, if I could but do anything!' he cried aloud. 'How I wish I had told the whole truth at first, and then, though I might have been punished, these poor people would not have suffered through my fault.'
"He burst into a passion of tears as he cried: 'What shall I do?—What shall I do?'
"At that moment, Arthur lost sight of his stranger-guide, the cottage and its inmates vanished, and he opened his eyes to find that he was lying on his own comfortable bed, while his mother stood beside him.
"'Why, Arthur,' said she, 'what is the matter with you? You cried out so loudly, that I heard you down stairs, and ran up in haste, fearing you were ill, and I found you sobbing in your sleep, as though you were in great trouble.'
"Arthur sat up in bed with a strange, bewildered look on his face, for he was scarcely awake yet. It was a great relief to find that he had been dreaming, and had not really seen the inmates of the road-side cottage in such distress.
"'What were you dreaming about?' said his mother. 'I am afraid you have eaten too many good things to-day.'
"'I was dreaming about the hole in the window, mother,' returned Arthur.
"The boy was far too much excited and disturbed to go quietly to sleep, so he at once told his mother all about his disobedience, and the mischief that had been the result of it, as well as the resolutions he had made to repair the damage, and the manner in which he had broken them.
"'For more than a fortnight, mother,' said he, 'I have felt very uncomfortable indeed. Though nobody saw me break the window, I have always felt as if a voice were telling me about it whenever I have passed the cottage. But I am so glad that last was a dream!'
"'I am not at all surprised at the feeling of self-reproach you have experienced, Arthur. Conscience always will tell us of our faults, though no human being knows that we have committed them. It was conscience that was busy with you to-night, Arthur. It filled your mind with troubled thoughts, which continued after you fell asleep.—Now, what shall you do to mend the hole in the window?'
"'I have not one penny left, mother. I wish I could sell the toys I bought to-day; I would take half the money I gave for them. Mother, will you buy them?'
"'No, my boy; they would be useless to me. Beside, I think it will be better for you to keep them as a remembrance of ill, or rather unjustly, spent money, and a warning to be wiser and more just for the future. However, I will, if you like, advance you enough to pay for the mending of the window, and you can repay me out of your pocket-money.'
"Arthur was very glad to embrace his mother's offer, and his mind being so far set at rest, he was able to sleep quietly during the remainder of the night. On the following day, his mother kindly went with him to the cottage, and explained all to the good dame, who held up her hands in astonishment.
"'Well, to be sure,' said she, 'I never thought we should find out who broke our window; and now, after all this time, the young gentleman has owned to it. Better late than never, they say. I should have had it mended a long time since, but I never could spare eighteenpence to pay for it, for my husband has been out of work.'
"'I am very sorry that I did not tell you before,' said Arthur, 'but I hope you will forgive me.'
"'That I will,' said the good dame. 'There's not much harm done, except that a hole in the window doesn't look very nice stuffed up with rag—does it, ma'am?'
"Mrs. Franklin said: 'No, indeed. But I think it will be a lesson to my son to do what is straightforward, just, and honest another time, for he tells me the sight of this broken pane has troubled him every day since he first did the mischief.'
"'See that now!' said the mistress of the cottage. 'What a thing conscience is! If nobody knows of what we have done wrong, "that" always keeps telling us of it over and over, and will not let us rest. I should advise you, young gentleman, if you want to be at peace, to try "and keep on good terms with your conscience."'
"The mother and son then bade the woman good-morning, and left the cottage. As they were walking home, Arthur said:
"'Was it not very strange, mother, that I dreamed what I did last night? I am very glad I did not find matters in such a miserable slate as I fancied they were in my sleep.'
"'I do not think it strange you should dream about what occupied your waking thoughts, Arthur. But if you would avoid such dreams for the future, do what is "just" before you study your own selfish inclinations, and follow the good woman's advice: Try and keep on good terms with conscience.'"
Bernard and his conscience were on anything but good terms when Uncle Paul told this last story, and the boy was inclined to think that it was related on purpose for him.
"Uncle," said he, "I am obliged to own that in the tale of The Hole in the Window you have been preaching to me."
"You never were more mistaken, Bernard," said his uncle. "I had no thought of you. On the contrary, I related what really happened to some one I knew when we were boys at school together. Arthur Franklin himself told me all that I have just repeated to you many a long year ago. From what you have said, Bernard, I am inclined to think that you are not on good terms with conscience at present; indeed, I fear few of us are so for long together."
"I have been thinking, dear Uncle Paul," said Bernard, "how much more it costs us to conceal than to own a fault. I have been very unhappy ever since last night; but I will tell you the cause, and then I shall at least be on good terms with conscience again."
So Bernard related in what manner he accidentally crushed the stem of the plant in carrying it to the conservatory, and afterwards allowed his uncle to remain under a false impression with regard to the way in which it had received the injury.
"Dear uncle," said he then, "will you forgive me? I have been very unhappy indeed ever since the accident occurred."
"My dear boy," answered Uncle Paul, "if you had only told me directly, there would have been nothing to forgive. As to the accident itself, that needs not a word of apology. Which of us can be sure that he will pass through a single day without any mischance? Only you ought to have known your old uncle better, than to fear that he would blame you for what he knew you would regret as much as he did himself."
Bernard was much moved by his uncle's kind words, and they increased his regret for not having at once told him the truth instead of remaining silent.
"Yet, Bernard," resumed the old gentleman, "I must blame you for—"
Here his nephew interposed. "Dear uncle, I know for what. I was a cowardly fellow to be afraid of telling the truth, for, after all, I 'acted' a falsehood, though I did not speak one."
"I need not, then, say any more, my dear lad. To be conscious of a fault, is the first step toward its amendment. May He who 'requires truth in the inward parts' help you to be true in thought, word, and deed!"
There was a pause, and perfect silence in the room for a time. Who doubts that, in the mother's heart, that brief prayer found an echo; and that as Mrs. Ingram sat with her hand on her son's shoulder, she commended him, her orphan-boy, to the care and guidance of that merciful Being who is a Father to the fatherless.
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CHAPTER VI.
UNCLE PAUL'S BIRTHDAY; "MAGGIE'S DAISIES, OR THE VALUE OF A GIFT;"
AND "LITTLE FLORELLA, OR THE WISHING-TEMPLE."
HOW fast the hours passed at Hay-Lodge! Nay, the very days themselves seemed but like hours, so absorbed were the children in the new sights and sounds by which they were surrounded. But while each day brought with it so many sources of amusement and satisfaction, it also brought their visit so much the nearer to a close. Bernard's vacation was fast drawing to an end, and, despite the attractions of Hay-Lodge, he knew he must soon be at school again, and hard at work. Mrs. Ingram, too, began to talk of her home in the great city, and to say that she must soon return thither; but Uncle Paul said that they could not be spared until after his birthday, which would be on the 28th of July. He talked matters over with Mrs. Ingram, and she gladly consented to stay "so long," in compliance with his request.
"And now," said Uncle Paul, "I mean to have a party on my birthday."
"I am sure you ought to have one for yourself, uncle," said little Kate; "mamma always lets me have some little girls to tea on mine."
"And so you think I ought to have little girls to tea on my birthday, do you?" asked Uncle Paul, holding her fast by one of her curls until she answered him.
"No, Uncle Paul; you ought to have grown-up people, of course—not little girls. Besides, we have either had visitors, or gone out every day since we came. It must be 'your' turn to have a big party."
Uncle Paul laughed at the idea of his taking his turn to have a party, but said he was much obliged to Kate for not wanting any little girls to be invited on the occasion.
During the week which preceded Uncle Paul's birthday, not only he, but the children in their turns, had a great deal of whispering, and held many mysterious conferences with Mrs. Ingram. The children guessed that their uncle was planning the various arrangements to be made before the "grown-up party," as Kate called it, could take place. For their own parts, they were contriving what they could offer him as birthday-presents; and they did the best in their power to shew their affection for their kind relative, by denying themselves something for his sake.
They had not long to prepare their little offerings, for until Uncle Paul himself spoke of his birthday, they were not aware that it was near at hand.
Bernard was at first rather at a loss what to do. He had never had a large allowance of pocket-money, but it so happened that at this particular time he possessed a sum which he had been accumulating for nearly two years. The boy was extremely fond of drawing, and even of carving in wood, but he was often much at a loss for materials for his work. In order to obtain a box of colours, some mathematical instruments, and other little matters, he had saved during all that time every penny he could spare; and he had amassed so much that he intended to purchase and take back to school with him the much-wished for articles at the end of the vacation.
Bernard had enough, but nothing to spare; and he could only purchase a birthday-gift for his uncle, by taking a portion of his hoard for that purpose. He consulted with his mother, told her what she indeed knew already, and said: "Dear mamma, what shall I do?"
"Follow your own inclination in the matter, Bernard," replied Mrs. Ingram. "The money is your own; and if you choose to use it for a different purpose from that for which you saved it, the cost will be yours only. But I must remind you that I shall not have it in my power to buy you the colours and instruments; for the cost of your education at a distance, and Marian's at home, leaves me nothing to spare at present."
Bernard hesitated, considered, and decided.
"Mother," he said, "I believe I shall feel even more pleasure in the thought that I have denied myself what I wish for, in order to shew my affection and respect for dear Uncle Paul, who has been so good to us, than I should in the possession of the articles I meant to buy."
And so it "was" decided.
On the morning of Uncle Paul's birthday, when he entered the conservatory to pay his usual visit, he found, on the shelf where the injured plant once stood, a beautiful and rare one of a different species. It was Bernard's offering. A little note was fastened to one of its branches, containing his nephew's good-wishes, and begging that Uncle Paul would allow the new plant to occupy the spot in which it was then placed.
In the drawing-room, Uncle Paul found another gift. It was a beautiful leather-work frame—a monument of the perseverance with which Marian had learned to labour during the short time she could devote to it before the arrival of the important day. It enclosed one of Bernard's drawings, which the boy had given to his sister on his return from school. Marian prized it highly as her brother's gift, but thought it all the more suitable on that account to shew her love for Uncle Paul.
Last amongst the children's offerings came a little paper-parcel, which lay beside his plate. In it was a book-marker, by no means a beautiful specimen of workmanship; but nobody can guess what an amount of labour it cost little Kate, who had never attempted to do such a complicated affair before. Of course, she never would have completed it at all, but for mamma's supervision; and it would be hard to count how many times it had been picked out and put in again. And there was the queerest note along with it! Printed all awry with a lead-pencil, something like this: