Monteagle

DILLY'S SUNDAY-SCHOOL ACQUAINTANCE.

"Are you going to make a garden?" she asked pleasantly, seeing that the little girl sweetly returned her smile.

"I'm going to water mamma's flowers, and hoe out some of the weeds; they grow very fast up here, worse than they do at home."

"Do you like to water flowers, and hoe weeds?"

"Some I do: I like it here better than at home, it is so hot at home; and the flowers get so dusty; but we have lots and lots of flowers in our garden at home; ever so many more than we have room for here. And we have lovely fall flowers too, that we don't stay up here long enough to have. Mamma has millions of kinds, I guess."

There came the new question crowding into Dilly's heart and shutting out her enjoyment of this flower story. Why was it right to have so many flowers, and to spend so much time as she knew it must take, to care for them?

"Why, what do you do with so many flowers?"

Dilly asked the question somewhat absently, more because she saw the child waiting for her to speak, than because she cared for the answer; of course they put them in vases, and enjoyed them.

"Oh! Lots of things," the little flower girl said, triumphantly. "We always take them to church, and Sunday-school, great loads of them; Dr. Halbert says they help him preach; he's our minister, you know. Once he preached about 'Consider the lilies'; Jesus said that, you know, and mamma had every kind of lily you can think of, in church that day; and a man most eighty years old told mamma he had never understood before, how wonderful God was to make so many flowers, or something like that; I can't remember just how it was. Then mamma sends flowers to the hospital for the sick people to look at, and rest themselves; and she always sends them to houses where poor people live, when any one dies; once I went with her and we put lovely rosebuds all around a little bit of a coffin where a baby was; it looked just as sweet! Her mamma came in to see her, and when she saw the flowers she cried; I thought they made her feel bad, but mamma said no, they helped her; and she told mamma afterwards they made her think of her baby in Heaven. I don't see how, do you?" asked the little girl simply.

"Yes, a little," said Dilly, smiling.

Then she stooped and kissed the flower girl and said "Thank you," though I don't think the child knew for what she was being thanked. Dilly knew; she had learned a great deal in those few minutes. Here were flowers speaking just as loud as they could for God's glory, and if the child pulled out the weeds which hindered them, because she wanted their sweet voices to speak for him, Dilly could see how the work fitted the new verse.

It was very wonderful. Did everything fit?

As for Hart Hammond, he also had something to think about; something which Dilly had furnished, though she did not know it.

CHAPTER XI.

A SURPRISE.

WHEN Dilly reached home, she found her little charge safely tucked away for the night and sleeping sweetly, while her mother in pretty white wrapper, with black velvet trimming which made her look prettier, Dilly thought, than any of her elegant dresses, sat writing by the gleam of three wax candles, which she liked much better than kerosene lamplight.

"They make much prettier shadows on the wall," said Dilly to herself, as she watched them dance in the evening wind, "but I should think a light that would keep still would be better to write by."

Mrs. Hammond looked up as her little maid softly entered, and smiled pleasantly.

"So you are safely back," she said; "I am always glad when people get home from Table Rock. One could plunge so easily from one of those rocks, down, down!" She shivered a little, and asked quickly: "Where is Mr. Hart? He came home with you, did he not?"

"Yes'm, as far as the corner of Glen Avenue; then he went away with a friend. He said he had an errand down town."

A shadow fell over the mother's face. "Did he say when he would be at home?" she asked. And then, before Dilly could reply: "Of course he didn't. What a foolish question to ask you!" and the sentence finished with a sigh. "Well," she said, after a moment's pause, during which the pleasant look did not return to her face, "I shall not need anything to-night; Effie is resting quietly, and everything is done. You may go to bed if you wish."

"I should like to write a letter to father, if you please."

"Oh! Very well; Jeannette has a shaded lamp at the tent, and here are paper and envelopes if you wish. That is right, child, don't neglect your father; and don't give him any anxious thoughts about you if you can help it."

"I'll try not to," said Dilly earnestly, and she went away with a smile on her face, thinking what very good news she had for father, this time.

It took quite a while for Dilly to write the letter, though it was not very long. This was what she said:

   "MY DEAR, DEAR FATHER:

   "It isn't time to write to you yet, but I am going to write, because I have something so nice to tell you that I don't want it to wait. I am very much better; I grow strong every day, and I eat a great deal of baked potato, and oatmeal and milk, and fruit, and lots of nice things. Effie is just as sweet as she can be. She loves me better than anybody, except her mother, and sometimes she is even willing to come away from her mother to be with me. I have learned how to make a lovely pudding; when I come home I can make it for you; it doesn't cost very much, only a little bit of milk, and one egg, and Jeannette is showing me how to make other nice things; she is very good to me. She said at first she did not think she would like me, but now she does. Everybody is good to me. Mr. Hart is 'so nice;' he took me up on Table Rock to-night to see the sun set. Father, I do just wish I could tell you about it! All gold, and crimson, and purple mountains all around, and red streaks away up into the sky, and castles in the sky made of glory color, and angels hurrying around to get ready for the sun to come home; that is the way it seemed, you know. I can't tell about it; if you could only see it! Don't you think Mr. Hart was nice to take me up there? And he talked, and was pleasant all the while. I like him very much, for all I wrote to you that I never should. He is just us kind to me as he can be. But it isn't any of these things that I am writing this letter to tell you: I wanted to tell them first, and get them out of the way, because I have something so very much better; and I don't quite know how to tell that, either.

   "Dear father, something very wonderful has come to me; I decided yesterday that I would belong to the Lord Jesus Christ. In Sunday-school the teacher talked about how he promised to draw all people unto him, and explained how he did it, and I knew he had been drawing me ever since before mother died; and I found out that it was Satan who kept me from making up my mind; and I did not like to obey Satan, nor have him keep me from doing things that I ought; so I just knelt down and began a prayer about giving myself to him, and then Mrs. Hammond called me, and I had to go, and for awhile I was worried because I hadn't finished; but when I got a chance to finish, I found it was all done! Such a little bit of word he had heard, and answered me! Isn't it wonderful, father?

   "To-day I have found out new things; one is a verse:

   "'Whether therefore ye eat or drink, or whatever ye do, do all to the glory of God.'

   "I knew the verse long ago; but it didn't mean me, then; but now it does, and the thing which troubles me, is, how I can do the work I have, so it will glorify him. But it doesn't trouble me as much as it did even a little while ago, because I met a very little girl who showed me how some work could be done to glorify him, that I never thought of, before; and I guess thinking will make me understand about other things. The little girl did not know she showed me about it, but she did. It is too long a story to tell you, and I must stop now, anyway, and go to bed; but I wanted you to know this, right away, because I was sure you would be glad.

   "O father! When I get home, I will be a better girl than I ever was before. It is so nice to be well, and to feel cool and pleasant, and to want to eat things. Father, you and I will have a nice time together when I come; I am learning how to make other things besides puddings. Dear father, I shall be very glad to get home. Good-by!

"Your loving little

"DILLY."

Wasn't it a nice letter? Dilly read it over carefully, and did not like it. She had not expressed herself as she wished; it seemed to her she had told the wonderful news altogether too simply; she thought common words ought not to belong to such great changes as had come to her. If she had only known some great words to put the story into, I think she would have written it all over again, that night, tired though she was; but fortunately she knew no long words, so her letter was not spoiled. If Dilly ever grows to womanhood, and has an education, she will probably adopt a very good rule which will apply equally to letter-writing, and to conversation. This is the rule: Never use a long word, when you can find a short one which will express your meaning.

Meantime, Hart Hammond, having done his errands and said good-by to his friend, walked slowly homeward, thinking of his lesson which Dilly had given him that evening. If it was Dilly's duty to tell this new experience to her father, why had he not something which he ought to tell his mother? Yet he had a shrewd suspicion that while Dilly's father would understand in a moment what it all meant, his mother would be bewildered, and perhaps troubled. Perhaps she would not attach any importance to it; perhaps it would even trouble her; he had heard of people being troubled about such news as he had to tell. There was that fellow, Harrison, in school, whose change of views about this one thing made an utter change in his life; made him worth something to himself and to others, instead of being an idler, and a spender of pocket money; yet when he told his mother all about it, she cried, and said he had disappointed her ambitions for him! What if his mother should do the same?

"But the thing is settled," said Hart to himself, speaking very gravely, "and perhaps I ought to tell her, just because as Dilly says, 'Mothers ought to know all about us.'"

He walked past his tent door three times before he seemed to come to the decision which turned his steps in the direction of the hotel. But at last, his mother, her letter long ago deserted, because she felt too restless to write, saw in the moonlight his quick, springing step, and turning from the window dropped into her easy chair with a glad smile. For one night more he was safe.

He chatted with her pleasantly for ten minutes before he came to the subject of which he had been all the time thinking. Then he dashed into it without introduction.

"Mother, I've something to tell you; I don't know what you think of such things, but ever since I was in school last winter, I have known something which I ought to do, and not being able to make up my mind to do it, and, indeed, trying to get rid of the belief that I ought to do it, has made an unusually miserable fellow of me all the spring and summer, thus far. When I came up here I thought I had fully settled 'not' to do it; but within a few days that little nursemaid of Effie's has overturned all my reasoning, without knowing it, and at last—well, to make a long story short, mother, the thing is fixed; I've enlisted in the regular army, and there is no backing out."

And his mother, who had been growing paler every moment, gave at this last sentence a low frightened cry, and said, "Hart Hammond, what do you mean!" It was evident that she did not in the least understand him.

He arose from his easy chair, came over to her side, and dropping on one knee, put an arm caressingly over her shoulder and spoke very gently. "Dear mother, did I frighten you? I assure you there is nothing which need trouble you, only I don't know how to tell such things. I mean—mother, do you know Jesus Christ? I'm pledged to serve him with all my powers all the days of my life; that is all."

Then he had a surprise. Such a look as came over that mother's face he will never forget, even if he lives to be an old, old man.

"My boy," she said, her lips trembling, her voice so low he could hardly hear it, yet the strangest brightness in her eyes, "my dear boy, I do not know Him as I ought, as people do who are called Christians, but I know enough about Him to feel like shouting for joy all night long! I never even dreamed of such blessed news as this. Hart, I know that people who truly belong to Him are safe, safe, safe! And yet it never entered my mind that you were one who would ever be one of that sort. O Hart, my precious son! You do not know how happy you have made your mother to-night. And my little Dilly helped you on! Bless the child! Will I ever forget it?"

Of course I am not going to tell you all they said to each other, nor how late it was when Hart Hammond at last untied the strings of his tent; but I know that Jeannette, looking out from her upraised curtains, saw him, and knew the hour, and murmured as she laid her head back—

"If she saw him steal in at this time of night—and I dare say she is watching, there will be some more heavy eyes, and another headache to-morrow."

But Jeannette was mistaken.

CHAPTER XII.

A HAPPY TRANSFER.

[This chapter should really be in three parts, as you will see after you have read it. On the whole, I believe we will put it that way, though each part will have to be very short, because I have not room to tell you all I would like.]

PART I.

DILLY was taking a last walk with Hart Hammond; they went to Table Rock again, because it was so lovely there they couldn't help it.

"Does it seem as though we had been hiding up on this old mountain for nine weeks?" asked Hart, as they turned away from the pink and purple and golden sky, and moved homeward.

"Oh!" said Dilly, "I was just thinking of that, and it truly doesn't seem possible. And yet when I think of all the lovely things that have happened, it seems as though we had been here most a year."

Hart laughed and gave her an admiring smile; certainly there had been a great change in her. The pale-faced, languid little girl who used to move about with a slow, quiet step was gone; and in her place was a red-checked, bright-eyed maiden with springing step, and cheery voice, and energy in every movement. Hart Hammond knew there had also been a great change in himself; but of this, he said nothing.

"You have evidently got well," he said, watching the sparkle in her eyes.

"O yes! I have; I'm just as well as I can be; won't father be surprised and glad?"

"What are you going to do when you get home? Do you expect to go to school?" He was watching her closely, and could not fail to see a little of the brightness die out of her face; her voice, too, was lower than it had been.

"I don't think I can," she said, speaking slowly. "I have thought about it a good deal; and I don't see how I can. You know father has only me; and there is no school within a mile of where we live; and if there were, I could not afford to go to it; father could not pay the bills this winter, I am sure; and then there's the dressing; and besides, I have to keep house for him. O no! Of course I cannot go to school. I do not mean to think any more about it."

"But you would like very much to go?"

Then a pair of wondering eyes were raised for a minute to his face, and Dilly answered gravely,—

"Why, of course every girl wants to go to school; mother wanted me to get ready to be a teacher; maybe I can, some day, but of course I could not expect to go this winter, and I am not going to let father know I want to do it."

PART II.

In the little kitchen the table was set for two: baked potatoes, and broiled steak, and homemade bread, and pudding of Dilly's own baking; in fact it was all Dilly's work; and her cheeks were red with stove heat and exertion and excitement this October noon, as she set the chair for her father, and waited while he washed his hands and turned down his shirt sleeves and made himself nice. Dilly had been at home but forty-eight hours and had accomplished wonders; even to the baking of three loaves of perfect bread.

"Well, well, well!" said Mr. West, as he took his seat. "What a dinner this is, to be sure; fit for a king! And you made the bread, and broiled the steak, and everything. Well, well! Who would have thought you could ever do it, when you went away last summer. This is living! And you've cleaned the room, too! You're just a genius, Dilly; father hasn't had anything like this since you've been gone. But I tell you what it is, my girl, I like the red cheeks best of all. I didn't ever expect you would look like this again. Why, your cheeks are puffed out as they used to be in the old home." This is only a hint of what he said. Never was father happier to get his girl again.

All the busy afternoon Dilly lived in a kind of happy dream. It was so nice to feel strong and well; to be able to sweep, and mop the floor, and clean the little cupboard, and wash all the dishes, and do a hundred other things, and, feel tired, it is true, but not at all as though she was going to fall to pieces, as she used to do in those breathless days before she went to the mountain. Then she had learned so many new things this summer; Jeannette had known a great deal besides fine ironing, and had taught her all she could. Dilly felt sure she could keep a comfortable home for her father, and was happy. When she had her pretty tea-table arranged, with a white cloth and shining dishes, and a dear little one egg cake of her own baking, and, to crown all, a lovely cut-glass dish of late peaches which Mrs. Hammond had sent over with her love, Dilly felt that she was certainly the happiest girl in the city.

It was while they lingered at the tea-table that her father spoke the thought which was troubling him.

"There's one thing, my girl, that worries me; I can't see my way clear to have you in school, this winter; I meant to, and I tried for it with all my might; but in spite of all my planning, I'm afraid I can't bring it to pass."

"No," said Dilly bravely, "of course you can't, father; I don't think of such a thing; I'm going to keep house for you this winter; and I can study a good deal at home; Mr. Hart will lend me books, and he will help me with my lessons sometimes; he said he would. Father, you can't think what a nice, splendid young man he is! He is going to take a class in our Sunday-school; he says he wants little bits of girls, and I must help him teach them. Won't that be nice?"

In the privacy of her own little cupboard of a room, Dilly did shed two tears that night; but she dashed them bravely away, and said aloud: "To think of my crying about school, when I have so much to be glad over! I am not so 'very' old that I can't afford to wait a year; and I can learn a good deal at home; and I'll keep a beautiful house for father."

PART III.

It was about that time that Hart Hammond leaned back in the easy chair in his mother's luxurious sitting-room and asked,—"Mother, what are we going to do with Dilly this winter?"

"Do with her?" repeated Mrs. Hammond, smiling on him. "She is doing for herself by this time; as nice a little housekeeper as her father ever imagined."

"I know, but—we don't intend to drop her in this way, do we?"

"I don't want to drop her," said Mrs. Hammond earnestly; "she is a dear little girl, whom I shall always love; but I don't see my way clear to doing what I would like for her. It would be pleasant to keep her with Effie all winter; I feel safe when the child is in her care; but she ought to be in school."

"That's just it," said Hart decidedly; "she must be in school, of course; she is a smart girl and ought to have an education. But she tells me she must keep house for her father."

"So she must, I suppose, unless some other way can be contrived."

"Some other way 'must' be contrived; she is too young to have the care of a family on her shoulders. Why couldn't her father take his meals here, and have the room over the carriage-house for himself? If we give the gardens into his charge, we ought to have him at hand; it would be much more convenient for you."

"In that case what would become of Dilly?"

Now aunt Helen, sitting in her easy chair in her lovely white wrapper, leaned forward resting her head on her hand and listened to this and much other talk which followed; and thought, while she listened.

Aunt Helen, who had been all her life an invalid; having teachers come to her in her intervals of rest from pain, but never going to school a day in her life; never running and frolicking through the world like other girls, always belonging to easy chairs, and couches, and wrappers, and slippers; aunt Helen, all alone in the world, with much money, much leisure, and much pain. She had been on Monteagle with her sister-in-law during the last three weeks of their stay, and had admired the deft-handed little maiden who took such thoughtful care of Effie, and was always ready with a helpful hand for her. Now she listened and thought, and at last she spoke: "Give her to me!"

"Who?"

"This little girl, this Dilly. I like her very much; and it has occurred to me that I might have her do for me the thing which I have never been able to do for myself. I wanted to go to school, and to study music, and to do a dozen other things which I could not; why not have her do them for me? It is an excellent idea; I wonder I have never thought of it before. That is just it; Dilly shall live my life for me; the part of it I planned to live, and never could carry out."

That was the way the conversation began; I have no space in which to tell you the rest of it; the long, long talk which followed; the plan to have Dilly come next door to aunt Helen's own beautiful home which it pleased her to keep up in the style it had worn when father and mother were living. Dilly should be her little friend and companion nights and mornings, and a busy schoolgirl during the day; and aunt Helen would live through her the life which had been planned for her own girlhood and never carried out.

Hart was exceedingly pleased. "I like it for her sake," he said, "she deserves such advantages, and will make more of them than most girls would; she is going to make a grand woman some day; and then I like it for you, aunt Helen; I know she will be a comfort to you. Oh! Her father will consent. I have been talking with him this afternoon about her going to school; he wants it very much, but cannot see his way clear to sending her; she is the very apple of his eye."

Well, it was all arranged, so far as those three people could arrange it, that night. What Dilly said when she heard the story, and what her father said and thought and did, I cannot tell; you must imagine it. Nothing so unutterably wonderful had ever happened to a girl before; so both Dilly and her father think.

This one sentence I must give you; it tells a great deal.

"Father," said Dilly, having been silent and thoughtful for some time, "I thought when I came down from Monteagle, that it was not likely I would ever see another mountain; but it seems to me now as though you and I were going to live on mountains all the time."

So you will see that all of our little party were pleased and glad. No, not all; I forget poor little Effie Hammond, who in her fall coat, buttoned from head to foot, her new fall hat pushed back on her yellow head, and her worst-looking doll grasped by the neck, wandered disconsolately, all the long, cool days in search of Dilly, and missed her every minute.

"How glad Effie will be to have Dilly for a next door neighbor," said aunt Helen, as the days went by, and the plans for the winter began to take shape. "Many a happy hour she will give the child."

"Yes, indeed!" said mamma. "She loves Effie almost as much as Effie does her; and it is really pitiful to see how disconsolate the baby is without her. I have tried to make her understand; but I don't think she fully realizes anything but that Dilly is away and she wants her."

"When is Dilly to come to aunt Helen?" asked Hart, that evening, as he lifted Effie on his knee for a frolic.

"On Monday, I believe; the school opens on Wednesday, you know; and her father thinks they can close up their dreary little home Monday morning."

"Then we know two people who will be glad, don't we Effie?" Hart said, tossing her toward the ceiling.

"You are almost as fond of her as Effie is, I believe," said the smiling mother.

"I am 'very fond' of her," said Hart, "I have reason to be."

Then the mother bestowed on him a most loving look, out of which all the wistful unrest was gone, and said with emphasis, "So have I."