"Yes, do. Say all the hymns you know. I love to hear them. Are you warm?"
"Not very," said Annie.
Sarah took off her woollen frock and laid it over the child, and then sat down by her.
"Now listen, Annie," said she, impressively, laying her hand on the child's arm. "When you wake up, whether it is night or morning, don't you stir. You may speak to me, but if I don't answer, don't you move. Lie still, and somebody will come and find you. Will you remember?"
"Yes," answered Annie; "I will do just as you tell me."
"That is a good girl. Now, say your hymns and try to go to sleep."
Annie began to repeat her hymn, but presently her voice died away and she was silent.
Sarah hoped she was asleep, but presently she roused up again:
"Sarah!"
"Well, dear, here I am."
"I forgot to say my Bible verse—the verse I learn every morning, you know."
"Well, say it now."
"'I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou, Lord, only makest me dwell in safety,'" repeated Annie, reverently. "I don't think we ought to be afraid, Sarah. I think he will take care of us."
"Annie," said Sarah, "suppose you had been very naughty indeed. Do you think he would take care of you or care anything about you then?"
"Why, yes," answered Annie, simply, "because he does take care of all the wicked people all the time. They couldn't live if he didn't."
A great wonder rose in Sarah's mind. Had her heavenly Father really been taking care of her all this time, as Aunt Sally used to say he would? She thought of all the risks she had run in her wild rambles, of her encounter with the bull. Had he really taken care of her? Was it his hand which had guided her to Annie? "And suppose we have been very wicked and are sorry and want to be good, what must we do?" she asked.
"We must be very sorry and ask him to forgive us and make us better, and we must try never to do so again," she answered.
"And will he forgive us and help us if we do so?"
"Yes, it says so in the Bible. I don't remember the words."
"Never mind," said Sarah. "Go to sleep like a good girl, and remember what I said to you about lying still."
"I will," said Annie. "Please kiss me goodnight."
The two children—for Sarah was not much more—kissed each other tenderly. Then Annie lay down to sleep, and Sarah sat by her, shivering with the cold, her bare arms exposed to the wind. At last she crept close to Annie's side, within the shelter of the rock; and leaning against the side of the little cave, she fell into an uneasy slumber.
On the Mountain.
"If you find her, you shall have more dollars
than ever you saw in your life."
CHAPTER XI.
THE SEARCH.
JOHN STEEPROCK'S dog guided his master and Mr. Brandon straight to the green spring, but there he seemed puzzled. He smelt about, ran here and there, and finally came back to his master, as if baffled in the search. Steeprock patted him, talked to him in his own language, and again showed him the little shoe, and the dog again set off up the side of the mountain, but at a slower pace and as if still somewhat uncertain.
"What ails him?" asked Mr. Brandon.
"Somebody else been here—been here only a little while ago. Don't you be scared, Hugh. Dog know heap."
"So I see," replied Hugh. "John, if you find her, you shall have more dollars than ever you saw in your life."
"Dollars very good," said the Indian, philosophically—"good to buy tobacco and powder, and clothes," he added, after some consideration. "But s'pose you no got one dollar in the world, me find nice little girl all the same. You light um lantern."
"What do you think the chances are?" asked Hugh as he stopped to light the lantern.
"Don't know," was answered rather gruffly. "Tell better when we get through."
"Perhaps the others will find her first."
"They no find her," said Steeprock. "They good boys—want to do something; so me tell them run, go where they do no harm," he added, in a tone of benevolent condescension. "You and me, we get um out of the way, and then go find her. Me old man, but know something yet."
"I should think so," said Hugh, laughing despite his anxiety. "How old are you?"
"Don't know, exactly," replied the Indian. "You know when the great war was when King George's men fight the Yankees at Bennington?"
"Yes," said Hugh.
"Well, then me tall boy, about like John Crane. Then I went on the war-path with my father, the first time I ever take scalps."
"Why, you must be over a hundred years old," said Hugh, in surprise. "Is that possible?"
"Very old man—just as I tell you. That day I took two scalps—got 'em now. When I die, I leave 'em to you, Hugh," said John, with a benevolent air and tone, as of one who bestows a valuable curiosity. "You good boy. I always like you. Waugh!" exclaimed John, interrupting himself with the Indian's startling and inexpressible exclamation of surprise as he held his light to the ground.
"What now?" asked Hugh.
"Another girl gone up here—not long ago, either. That make the dog so puzzled and uneasy."
"Another girl!" exclaimed Hugh, in astonishment. "How do you know?"
"How I know anything? How you know what words mean when you read um book? See um track plain as writing. Gone up about two hours ago."
"It must be Sarah Leyman," said Hugh. "Willy said she had gone to look for Annie."
"Maybe so. That Leyman girl all same as Indian. Waugh!" exclaimed Steeprock again as the dog came running back to them with something in his mouth. It was Annie's little boot.
"All right," said Steeprock, showing it to Hugh. "She been right up here, and the other after her."
"Then she must be near, dead or alive," said Hugh.
The Indian shook his head gravely.
"Maybe so—maybe not. Lost children travel very fast. Maybe she gone clear up above the trees. Come on." And he resumed his walk, climbing the more difficult path so fast that Hugh, though an experienced woodsman, had some trouble in keeping up with him.
Sarah had slept about two hours, when she was awakened by the cold. She put her hand on Annie. The child felt warm and was breathing softly. She rose with some difficulty, for she was stiff with the cold and from the cramped position in which she had been sitting. The moon had now risen high enough to throw a good deal of light on the place where they were, and Sarah could see to move about a little. She walked to and fro on the narrow level platform in front of Annie's shelter, to warm herself, and then began to pull more evergreen boughs and to lay them over Annie.
"I must keep awake if I can," she said to herself. "If I sleep, I shall be chilled to death, and then what will become of the child? I don't care so much about myself. I know Mrs. Lilly would find some way to befriend Ally, and perhaps she would be all the better without me."
As she spoke these words half aloud, she brushed Annie's face with one of the branches she was laying over her. Annie opened her eyes.
"What are you doing, Mary?" she said, in a sleepy tone.
"Getting some more clothes to lay over you," replied Sarah. "Are you warm enough?"
"Yes, I am as warm as toast, but the bed feels so hard and lumpy." Then waking more fully and realizing where she was, she broke out into a pitiful little wail: "Oh, Sarah, I thought I was at home in my own nursery, and mamma was just saying, 'Annie, don't let Pick lie on the clean pillow.' Oh dear! I shall never see mamma nor Pick any more."
Sarah could not speak, but she put her arms round Annie and kissed her and held her in a close embrace.
"Am I naughty to cry?" asked Annie, presently.
"No, dear, you are not naughty, but I wouldn't cry if I could help it. You will only make yourself sick, and I am sure mamma would not like that. Tell me all about Pick. Is he your dog?"
"No; he is my cat, and I have had him—oh, such a long time!"
Sarah asked various questions about Pick, and Annie was gradually diverted from her grief to talk of his beauty and accomplishments.
"You haven't any brothers and sisters, have you?" asked Sarah.
"No; only little baby sister that I haven't seen yet. Grace Belden used to live at our house and be my sister, but she is dead now. She died in the winter before I came here. People die everywhere, don't they, Sarah?"
"Yes, dear, and they live everywhere too," answered Sarah.
"Grace never went up on the mountain," continued Annie, pursuing the current of her own thoughts. "She never went into any dangerous places, and she had mamma and Mary to take care of her."
"And yet she died, you see," said Sarah. "And people have been in much more dangerous places than this, and yet they have lived."
"Have they?" asked Annie. "What sort of places?"
"Shipwrecks and earthquakes and battles and fires," said Sarah. "I read the other day of a baby which was carried off by a tiger, and yet it was saved."
"My papa has been in a great many battles, and he never was even wounded," said Annie. "Do you think we shall ever get away from here, Sarah?"
"Oh yes," returned Sarah, hopefully. "Everybody will be looking for you by this time. But you must mind what I tell you, and not stir from this place, whatever happens."
"I will mind," said Annie. "But won't you be here, Sarah?"
"Yes, but I might be asleep or something," answered Sarah.
She began to realize their position more clearly than she had done before. They were a long way from any frequented part of the mountain. It was very cold, and she was thinly dressed, even if she had not given up her frock to Annie, and she thought it not unlikely that she might be chilled to death by morning.
"Annie," said she, "do you know any more Bible verses?"
"Oh yes, a great many."
"Say them for me, will you? They will help to pass away the time."
Annie repeated her texts reverently. Sarah listened with fixed attention.
"Say that again," said she, as Annie repeated, "'Come unto me, all ye that labour.' Who said that?"
"The Lord Jesus," answered Annie; "and oh, Sarah, I know some more pretty verses, about a lost sheep. They were in my lesson last Sunday." And Annie repeated the parable beginning, "'What man of you, having an hundred sheep—'"
"Grandma said that meant the Lord Jesus," said Annie. "She said his people were his sheep; and when one of them strays away and gets lost, he goes and finds him and brings him back. 'We' are lost in the wilderness, you know, Sarah."
"I know 'I' am," said Sarah, sadly.
"And so I think he will send some one to find us. Is it almost morning?"
"Not yet, but it will be pretty soon. I guess you had better lie down again. I am afraid you will catch cold."
"I 'am' cold," said Annie, shivering. "Are you?"
"Lie down, and I will lie down by you; then we can keep each other warm."
Annie was soon asleep again, but Sarah could not sleep. She was too cold and anxious; and besides that, her head was full of new ideas. Was God really her Father? Had he taken care of her all these years that she had gone on never thinking of him or caring to please him? Did he really love her, and was she one of those lost sheep the Lord had come to find?
She began to think over all she had heard about him. It was not much. As she had truly told Fanny, her father would not permit good books to come into his house. All she knew of the sacred volume she had learned by reading it in the district school, and she had never been to school very regularly. Yet she could remember a good many things, after all. There was the verse Deacon Crane had talked about at the meeting that night.
Suppose she should confess her sins then and there, would He indeed forgive them and take them all away, as the deacon had said? Yes, it was all true. She felt quite sure that it was true. She hid her face in her hands for a long time; and when she again raised it, her bright black eyes were wet with tears, and her face wore an expression of peaceful awe.
She drew the covering closer over Annie, and lay down as near as possible to her side, repeating Annie's verse, "'I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep.'"
She had hardly lost herself five minutes when something roused her. She sat up and listened intently. Yes, some animal was coming up the mountain-side directly toward them. She could hear the patter of its feet on the dry leaves, and her heart beat fast and thick. Could it be a wolf or a panther? It was not unlikely, for there were plenty of them on the other side of the mountain, she knew. She could now hear the sound distinctly, and see the movement of the branches below. Oh for a club or a stout stick! She snatched up a stone—the only weapon she could find—and threw herself directly before Annie, but she dropped it the next moment as the supposed wolf pushed his way through the bushes and sprung upon her neck, licking her face and hands and yelping with delight.
Hugh and Steeprock were still some distance below, and had stopped an instant to take breath, when Fox came dashing down toward them. He ran to his master, jumped upon him, and then ran back the way he had come. The Indian uttered a yell which resounded far and wide; and springing forward as if his great age had been no more than five-and-twenty, he bounded up the mountain-side at a pace which left Hugh far behind.
Hugh followed as quickly as he could, and stood at his side. The old man was bending down, and beckoned him to approach.
There lay Annie, fast asleep on her bed of leaves, and across the entrance of the little cave lay Sarah, looking as if she were in the sleep that knows no waking in this world.
"Are they dead?" Hugh managed somehow to ask.
"Not the little one," replied Steeprock. "She fast asleep. You got bottle in your pocket?"
Hugh produced his travelling-flask, and with some difficulty forced some of the spirit it contained between Sarah's lips. She gasped, sighed, and opened her eyes.
"Where is Annie?" was her first question.
"Here, safe and sound. Annie dear, wake up. Here is Uncle Hugh come for you."
"Uncle Hugh!" said Annie, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. "How did you come here?"
"I came after you, my little lost lamb," said Mr. Brandon, taking Annie in his arms, "but I see somebody was before me. My dear girl, what has become of your frock?"
"I put it over Annie," said Sarah, blushing crimson, and shrinking into the farthest corner of the cave, as she suddenly remembered that she was half undressed. "I was so afraid she would freeze to death." And pulling out her dress from among the green branches, she slipped it on with all speed.
"Ugh! S'pose you freeze yourself," said Steeprock. "What you say now, Hugh? Didn't I tell you another girl gone up here? Old Indian no fool, eh?"
"No, indeed! But who could guess that they could both reach this place without being killed?"
"God took care of us, I guess," said Annie, who was now quite cool and collected. "But how did you know where we were?"
"It was this good old man who found you, my dear," said Hugh, turning to Steeprock, who was composedly filling his pipe by way of improving the time. "But I am afraid all our finding would have been in vain, only for Sarah. My dear girl, how shall we ever thank you?"
"You needn't thank me at all," replied Sarah, rather gruffly. "Annie never would have been lost only for me. It was all my fault, leaving her alone in the first place."
"No, it wasn't your fault, either," said Annie, rather petulantly. "I ought to have minded, and stayed at the spring when you went to get the snail shells for me. Did you find any?"
"Yes, here they are in my pocket," said Sarah, laughing rather hysterically. "I will get you something prettier some day."
"And you made my bed and put your own frock over me, and heard me say my prayers, and all," continued Annie. "I think you are the 'bestest' girl in the world."
"Pretty nice girl!" said Steeprock, approvingly. "Once I had a daughter just so big. You pretty nice girl too. S'pose you got kiss for old Indian?"
Annie put up her face to be kissed, though. She felt considerable awe of the old man.
"Now we go home," continued Steeprock. "You take the baby, and I take this one."
"I'm not a baby," said Annie, indignantly. "I am seven years old, and I can read and write."
"Oh no; you great big woman," said the Indian, soothingly. "All the same; you let Hugh carry you."
Annie was very willing to be carried, and the party set out to return. The proverb that "to go down the hill is easy" is not always true, by any means. The descent in the present instance was both difficult and dangerous. They could only go very slowly and carefully, and Sarah, who was much exhausted, fell more than once.
"You fire your pistol," said Steeprock, at last. "Maybe someone hear and come to meet us. This girl can't walk much farther. She clear worn out."
"Never mind me," said Sarah, sitting down wearily. "I can stay here very well. Just carry Annie home, and leave me here."
"That would not do at all," said Mr. Brandon. He fired three shots as he spoke—the signal which had been agreed upon.
An answering shout told that he had been heard, and presently three or four of the young men came up. A volley of shots now rang through the woods, proclaiming to all within hearing that the lost child was found. Two of the Crane boys made a "lady chair" with their hands, and Sarah was persuaded to let herself be carried down to the red house. She began to feel very tired and confused, and nearly fell from her seat more than once.
Mrs. Cassell and Mrs. Lilly were called out by the shouts, and met the party in the garden.
"It was all my fault, grandma," called out Annie as soon as she saw Mrs. Cassell. "Sarah thinks it was hers, but it wasn't. And she found me 'way up in the mountain, and made me a nice little bed."
"It was even so," said Mr. Brandon. "Sarah found her first, and her care and good sense saved the child's life."
"Bless you, my dear!" said Mrs. Lilly, taking Sarah in her arms and kissing her. "But how cold you are! You are shivering all over. You must go right to bed and have some hot soup. Oney has it all ready on the stove."
"I guess I had better go home," said Sarah, wearily. "I shall make you too much trouble."
"You don't stir a foot this night," said Mrs. Lilly, positively. "You must go to bed directly."
Sarah was in no condition to resist Mrs. Lilly's strenuous kindness, even if she had wished to do so. A deathly faintness was stealing over her; and when she was undressed by Oney and put into bed, her head sank on the pillow as if it would never rise again. She wanted nothing but to lie still. But Oney, whose experienced eye knew the symptoms of dangerous exhaustion, would not let her sleep till she had taken several spoonfuls of strong hot soup.
At last, all was still. The neighbours who had helped in the search were dismissed with thanks. Old Steeprock camped down on the kitchen floor, with his dog beside him, preferring that accommodation to Willy's bed, which the boy offered him. Annie was already asleep in her grandmother's arms, and all was quiet about the old red house.
CHAPTER XII.
REPENTANCE.
THE next day Annie did not get up, but in the course of a week, she was playing about as lively as ever. But Sarah still lay on her sick-bed, and it seemed doubtful whether she would ever rise from it again. The chill she had received on the mountain resulted in an attack of acute rheumatism, which chained her hand and foot, and was accompanied by a severe cough.
It was well for her that she was at Mrs. Lilly's instead of at home. Mrs. Lilly put her into the best bedroom down stairs, and she and Oney waited on her night and day, while Mrs. Cassell and Mrs. Brandon made her up a set of nice underclothes, and nobody thought anything too much to do for the girl who had risked her own life to save little Annie. Sarah's mother came to see her, and would fain have established herself at the red house altogether, but she was nothing of a nurse, and it seemed as if she could not come near Sarah without hurting her. Besides, as Oney said, she needed twice as much waiting on as Sarah herself. And so Mrs. Lilly, who was not a woman to be imposed upon, soon gave her to understand that Sarah did not need her, and that she had better go home and take care of her own house and family.
Mrs. Leyman departed, shaking off the dust from her feet, and declaring that she would never enter the house again, whatever happened. They had got Sarah away from her, she said, and now they might take care of her till they were tired of it. They were a set of Pharisees, anyhow, who never would do anything for poor folks except in their own way; and if Sarah was going to join them and turn against her, she (Mrs. Leyman) would have no more to do with her.
For three or four weeks Sarah lay very sick, and Dr. Perkins came every day to see her. She was wonderfully patient and grateful for all that was done for her, and Mrs. Lilly said it was surprising to see the wild girl so tamed. One day, when Sarah was able to talk a little, she called the old lady to her bedside.
"Mrs. Lilly," said she, "do you think I shall ever get well?"
"I don't know, my dear," answered Mrs. Lilly, frankly. "I hope so, but nobody can say for certain."
"Did Willy tell you what I told him that day—I mean about the pie and the gingerbread?" asked Sarah.
"Yes; he told me that you got them, and that you were sorry. Did you ever take anything else?"
"No," replied Sarah; "only I have sometimes picked an apple when I was going through the orchard. I got the pie more in fun than for anything else."
"So I supposed," said Mrs. Lilly. "Did Fanny know about it?"
"I don't want to say anything about Fanny," replied Sarah. Then, after a pause: "Mrs. Lilly, did you and Oney really make fun of me for coming to the meeting that night, and say you should think I would be ashamed to come looking so?"
"Of course not," answered Mrs. Lilly. "I was very glad to see you there, as I told you at the time. Who could have told you such a story?"
"Never mind," said Sarah. "Somebody did, and I was just fool enough to believe it. It almost killed me, I can tell you. I made up my mind that night that I would try to be good, and I was going to ask you to give me a Bible or Testament, and then Fanny—" Sarah stopped short and looked very much vexed.
"Go on," said Mrs. Lilly, quietly. "'And then Fanny—'"
"I didn't mean to tell," said Sarah, "but it is out now. Well, Fanny told me how you made fun of me for coming, and said you meant to shut me up in the asylum. That almost broke my heart, for I always thought you were so good—like Aunt Sally. And when I heard that, it made me feel as if there was nothing real or true in heaven or earth, and I might as well do one thing as another."
"Poor child! I don't wonder. But now tell me, Sarah—for it is very important that I should know the true story—did Fanny have anything to do with stealing the pie?"
"Well, I suppose I may as well, though I never meant to say a word about it," said Sarah. And she went on to give the whole history of that unlucky Sunday afternoon.
"I felt sorry enough afterward," she concluded, "and I wanted to tell you so, and to make it up somehow, but Fanny seemed afraid to have me say a word, and I thought it would be mean to get her into a scrape after I had eaten my share of the pie. I sent you the raspberries, though, to make up. And afterward, when the bull chased us—I don't know whether you heard about that—"
"Yes, Willy told me."
"Well, then I wanted to tell you again, but Fanny wouldn't consent. She said afterward that you were very angry with me for letting the bull out of his pasture, but indeed I didn't do it."
"He did not get out of the pasture," said Mrs. Lilly. "He was in his stable, and I don't know to this day how he got loose. I always supposed it was some of Pat's carelessness, and never thought of blaming you."
"Well, there is no use in going over it all," said Sarah, wearily. "Only that night when I was up on the mountain with Annie, I heard her say her little prayers and verses before she went to sleep. And she told me some things in her innocent way that encouraged me, and I made up my mind that if I got down alive, I would try to be a Christian like Aunt Sally. And I want you to tell me how, for I don't know any more about it than a wild Indian or a heathen."
"I am sure I will tell you all I know, my dear child," said Mrs. Lilly, much affected. "The way is very plain and easy, as the Scripture says, 'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved'—believe that he came to save all of us, and you in particular; that he died to redeem you, and that he now lives in heaven to intercede for you."
"Do you mean that he really cares about 'me'—me in particular?" asked Sarah, with eyes full of wonder.
"I mean just that, Sarah. You are one of the lost sheep that, he came to seek and to save. If you will but believe on him, your sins will be forgiven and washed away, and God will give you the Holy Spirit to dwell in your heart and help you to do right."
"It seems too good to be true," said Sarah. "Is it in the Bible? Read it to me, please, will you?"
Mrs. Lilly brought her old Bible and read, and Sarah lay and listened till a look of sweet peace and contentment stole over her face. But presently she grew troubled again.
"I have been so wicked," said she. "I never really knew before how bad I have been. It doesn't seem as if he could ever forgive 'me'."
"'Though your sins be as scarlet they shall be white as snow,'" repeated Mrs. Lilly. "Scarlet is the hardest colour to get out. The paper-makers say so, and they have to use the red rags to make that reddish blotting-paper that you have seen. When God forgives us, he washes away our sins and makes our souls clean and white again. And so he will do by you, if you ask him to do it for his dear Son's sake."
"I am sure I 'am' sorry," murmured Sarah. "Mrs. Lilly, please ask him for me."
Mrs. Lilly prayed with Sarah, and Sarah joined in the prayer with her whole heart.
"Now you have talked enough for once," said Mrs. Lilly, after a little silence. "Another time we will take the subject up again."
"I want to say one thing more," said Sarah, eagerly—"only one thing, because I may not be able to talk another time. Please sit down and let me tell you, and then my mind will be quite easy."
Mrs. Lilly sat down again, wisely thinking it better to let Sarah free her mind, and Sarah went over her plan for seeing her Aunt Caroline and persuading her to take Ally.
"Was that what you wanted Fanny to give you the money for?" asked Mrs. Lilly.
"Yes, but I never asked her to give it to me. I only wanted to borrow it till I could earn something. But won't you write to Aunt Caroline yourself, and tell her the story and ask her to take Ally and bring her up? She may have her all to herself, and I won't even come near her if Aunt Caroline doesn't want me to. Ally is real clever and good, though she isn't pretty, and I am sure Aunt Caroline would like her and do well by her. Won't you ask her, please?"
"I will write this very day," said Mrs. Lilly. "I think your plan is an excellent one. But now you must rest, and try to sleep before the doctor comes, or he will scold us all round for letting you talk so much."
Mrs. Lilly wrote that day, as she had promised, and read the letter to Sarah, but she added a postscript which she did not think it necessary to show.
The result was that Aunt Caroline came over to see the state of things for herself. She made acquaintance with the girls and talked matters over with Mrs. Lilly, and finally she carried Ally home to live with her, taking the precaution to have her legally bound till she came of age.
Mr. Leyman demurred at first, but certain little matters in the line of stealing lumber and iron from the quarries having come to Squire Holden's ears, it was hinted to Mr. Leyman that unless he consented to do what was deemed best for his children, the place would speedily be made too hot to hold him. Mr. Leyman sold his place not long afterward, and he and his wife, accompanied by Miss Clarke, went off to Utah, regretted by nobody in Hillsborough.
And where was Fanny all this time? Fanny was more unhappy and more ashamed than she had ever been before in all her life. She had made up her mind that as Annie was found, and, as she expressed it, no great harm was done, after all, things would go on just as usual.
She had come down to the breakfast table next morning prepared to be very amiable, and even expecting to be something of a heroine for her share in the adventure. She was astounded when Mrs. Lilly ordered her back to her room with an admonition not to leave it again till she had permission, which, she added, would not be very soon. In vain Fanny cried and protested that she didn't mean to and she couldn't help it. Mrs. Lilly was deaf to all such excuses. She saw that Fanny needed a severe lesson, and she meant that it should not be wanting.
For a whole week Fanny stayed in her room, with nobody to speak to, and no other recreation than a very short walk every day with her grandmother or Oney. When she was at last permitted to come down stairs, she found that her troubles were by no means at an end. Nobody took any notice of her. Nobody asked her any questions or listened when she spoke, her grandmother only saying,—
"I don't want to hear anything from you, Fanny. You have told so many lies that nobody can believe a word you say, and so I prefer that you should say nothing."
Fanny was not allowed to go out of sight of the door, and she was made in every way to feel that nobody trusted her. At first she tried to harden herself and think that she did not care, and then that she was terribly abused, but all did not answer. She was very miserable, and began to wish in earnest to be a good girl. The first sign of improvement was seen in her beginning to wait upon Sarah, who was now able to sit up and to use her hands a little, though she could not walk or even bear her weight at all. Fanny had begun by keeping entirely out of her way, and putting on a very injured look whenever Sarah's name was mentioned before her. But now she began to do little offices for the invalid—to bring her fresh water and set flowers on the table by her side, at first without speaking a word. One day she rather timidly asked Sarah if she should read for her.
"Oh yes, please," said Sarah, eagerly. "My eyes are so soon tired, and it hurts me to hold the book."
"I will read to you every day if you want me to," said Fanny. "I love to read aloud."
"I am sure I shall be glad to have you," said Sarah. "Fanny, are you angry with me now?"
"No," replied Fanny, sadly, "but I did not know whether you would care to have me talk to you. Nobody does, nowadays."
Sarah did not exactly know what to say, so she bent forward and kissed Fanny. Fanny returned the kiss and burst into tears.
"Don't cry," said Sarah, tenderly.
"I can't help it," sobbed Fanny, "I am so very unhappy. But I won't bother you with my crying. I have made trouble enough already."
"Fanny," said Sarah, detaining her as Fanny was about to go away, "why don't you tell Grandma Lilly all about it, and ask her to forgive you? I am sure she would if you asked her. She did me."
"You were not half so bad as I have been," said Fanny. "Oh, Sarah, I was so mean to you. I told you grandma made fun of you, and it wasn't true. And all the time I used to play with you, I felt so above you."
"I know you did," answered Sarah. "I never could understand why; though, of course, your folks were rich and respectable, and all that, but that was no merit of yours. But never mind now. Come, Fanny, tell grandma all about it. I am sure you will feel better, and that she will forgive you, and it will be all right again."
Fanny shook her head sadly. "I don't feel as if it would ever be right again," said she. "Don't you want a hot brick for your feet?"
"Yes, please. They are cold nearly all the time."
The next day Oney was going over to R—, and Fanny timidly asked if she might send for some worsted.
"Yes, if you choose," said Mrs. Lilly. "Why do you want it?"
"I want to crochet some thick, warm slippers for Sarah. She says her feet are cold all the time."
"Very well," said Mrs. Lilly, evidently pleased. "Tell Oney what you want, and she will buy it for you."
"I would rather buy it with my own money, please," said Fanny.
"Oh, very well. If you want to make Sarah a pretty present, I have no objection, my dear."
It was the first time Mrs. Lilly had said "my dear" since that unlucky day, and the words brought the tears into Fanny's eyes. She had begun to feel the value of that kindness and affection which she had always accepted as her just due.
"I am sure I should like to do something for somebody," said she.
"You can do a great deal for everybody, Fanny, but then you must begin in the right way."
Oney bought the worsted, and Fanny began the slippers. She was rather apt to grow tired of work and throw it aside when it was half done, but she persevered with the slippers, and Sarah was delighted with them.
"I never saw anything so pretty, and how soft and warm they are!" said she. "If I had some wool, I would try making a pair for Grandma Lilly. I know how to crochet a little."
Now, Fanny had decided in her own mind to use the rest of the wool for a pair of slippers for herself. But as Sarah said this, a thought came into her mind, and she acted on it immediately.
"You may have this wool if you want it, Sarah; then the present will be partly yours and partly mine."
"Oh, thank you," said Sarah. "But suppose you make one and I the other?"
"Well, just as you like," answered Fanny. And this was almost the first time in her life that she had ever sacrificed her own pleasure or convenience to another person.
"Fanny," said Sarah as she laid down her work to rest her hands—"Fanny, have you made it right with Grandma Lilly yet?"
"No," returned Fanny, sighing. "I don't see that things are any nearer to coming round than ever."
"Things don't 'come' round, Fanny. You have got to cut them round or roll them round, or something."
"Maybe so. But, you see, the trouble is, I don't know how to begin. Grandma don't believe a word I say, and no wonder," said Fanny, sighing. "I have been such a liar all my life. I don't know how to believe myself when I say I am sorry. I hate myself, and I wish I was somebody else. However, I believe I will tell her. Things can't be much worse than they are."
"Do," said Sarah. "Tell her to-night when you are going to the schoolhouse:" for it was Thursday night, and some sort of religious service was always held in the schoolhouse on that evening.
Fanny was as good as her word. That night, coming home from the Corners, she confessed everything without reserve, telling her grandmother of many acts of disobedience which she had never suspected.
"I don't know whether you will believe me or not, grandma," she concluded, "but indeed I am telling the truth now."
"I believe you, Fanny," said Mrs. Lilly.
"I shouldn't blame you if you didn't," continued Fanny, "I have told so many lies. Grandma," she added, in a low, frightened voice, "I told lies to God when I said my prayers. I said I was sorry when I wasn't, and when I meant all the time to do the very same things again. Do you think he will ever forgive me?"
"Certainly, my child. He will not only forgive you, but will help you to do better another time. Now, Fanny, can you tell me what has been the root of all your troubles?—What has made you disobey me so many times?"
"I wanted my own way," said Fanny, after a little consideration.
"Exactly; and when you had done so very wrong that Sunday, and Sarah wanted to come and confess, as I know she did, why did you hinder her? Why did you take so much pains to prevent her from going to the meetings and from coming to talk to me, as she intended doing?"
"I thought you would find out all about me and punish me. I wanted you to think I was a good girl when I wasn't."
"Then, my dear, it has been your love of self which has been at the bottom of all the mischief. Don't you see that it is so?"
"I know it," said Fanny, promptly. "It has always been just so. I never could bear to give up to anybody or do anything for anybody unless it was something that I liked myself, and yet I thought people ought always to give up to me. And everybody did give up to me at home, till Arthur came. Mamma used to say it made children deceitful to be contradicted."
"Do you think that excuses you now, Fanny?" asked Mrs. Lilly, thinking, however, that the tree had borne such fruit as might have been expected.
"No, grandma, but you don't know how hard it is for me to give up the least little thing that I want. It seems as if I couldn't. That day on the mountain, Sarah didn't want to leave Annie alone. After we started to go away, she wanted to come back, and I wouldn't let her, because I wanted to know what she had to say. And, after all, I would not lend her the money."
"There was nothing wrong in that," observed Mrs. Lilly. "It would not have been proper for you to lend such a large sum without asking me. Sarah herself sees that now."
Fanny shook her head. "That was not the reason," said she. "I was ready enough to spend the money in other ways—to buy candy and 'dime novels,' such as I knew you wouldn't want me to have. And then I told so many lies about Annie. She might have been found directly and Sarah might have been well this minute. Do you think Sarah will ever be well again?"
"I don't know, my dear. Her state is very discouraging. I do not see that she gains the use of her feet in the least. But, Fanny, how is it to be with you hereafter? Do you mean to go on in the same way, living for self and nothing else?"
"Not if I can help it, grandma. I have tried not to be selfish lately, and I have asked God to help me, too, but it is hard work."
"Yes, I dare say—much harder than if you had been trained to give up for others when you were young."
"I don't want you to blame mamma, grandma," said Fanny, flushing a little. "It wasn't her fault at all. I am sure she meant to do just right."
"We won't blame anybody, dear," said Mrs. Lilly, not displeased by this little outbreak. "We will only try to do better in future. I will give you a verse, Fanny, which I think may help you: 'Whosoever will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow me.' Do you know who said that?"
"The Lord Jesus."
"Yes, and he says again: 'Whosoever doth not bear his cross, and come after me, cannot be my disciple.' You must try as much as you can to deny 'yourself'—to put yourself out of the question and live for other people. You must think about yourself as little as possible, and never lose a chance of putting yourself aside when you can do good or even give pleasure by it."
"It doesn't seem as though it was in me to do that," said Fanny, shaking her head. "Grandma, I should just like to be made new, to be made over altogether."
"Well, dear, that is just what your heavenly Father is ready to do for you—to 'create a clean heart and renew a right spirit' within you, as the Psalm says. If you ask him, he will so change your heart and disposition that you will love to do his will. You will love him, and because you love him, you will want to be like him and to make your whole life one sacrifice to him. I do not say that you will not do wrong a great many times, but whenever you do, you will be sorry and not rest till God has forgiven you. If you persevere in this course, you will grow more and more like him every day. Your life will be a blessing to all around you and the beginning of eternal happiness to yourself."
All the rest of the summer Sarah sat helpless in her arm-chair, unable to stand for a moment. One bright day in September, Mrs. Cassell came up to see Mrs. Lilly and consult her about a plan for the sick girl's benefit. Mrs. Cassell had a friend at the head of a great institution where some wonderful cures had been performed on rheumatic patients. Doctor Henry was to be at Mrs. Cassell's house on a certain day, and Mrs. Cassell proposed to bring him up to examine Sarah and see if anything could be done for her. Mrs. Lilly consented, but thought Sarah had better not know anything about the matter, and to this Mrs. Cassell agreed. Mrs. Lilly herself was not at all hopeful about Sarah, and she did not think it best to excite the child's own hopes of recovery.
Doctor Henry came at the appointed day, and examined Sarah very carefully before pronouncing an opinion. He thought she might be cured, but she would need a long course of treatment and great care.
"I should like to take her home with me and see what can be done," said the doctor. "Has she any friends?"
"Plenty," said Mrs. Lilly. "If you will undertake the case, I will pay her expenses. My children do not need my help, and I have more money than I know what to do with."
"With your permission, Mrs. Lilly, that is our part of the business," said Mrs. Cassell, smiling. "My son-in-law has written to me to spare no expense."
"Well, we won't quarrel about it," said Mrs. Lilly. "When would you like to have her go, doctor?"
"I shall be here again in two weeks, and will take her home with me," answered the doctor.
And so it was settled. Sarah was to return with the doctor, and Oney was to go with her and see her settled. Sarah did not know whether to be pleased or sorry. She had been happier since her illness than ever before in her life, and she dreaded to leave Mrs. Lilly and Fanny, whom she loved more than ever. But then she was very anxious to get well and be able to earn her own living as well as to do something for Ally, now happily domesticated with Aunt Caroline.
"I can't make up my mind whether I like it or not," she said, in answer to Oney's question. "I am glad it has been all settled for me; for if I had to choose, I should not know what to say."
"Well, it is all settled, you see, so you needn't say anything at all," remarked Oney. "Fanny, if you sew so steadily all day, you will have a headache again. Run out to the barn and hunt up some fresh eggs, that is a good girl."
"How she has worked making my things!" remarked Sarah, after Fanny had left the room. "She used to say that she hated sewing. It seems a shame that every one should be working so hard for me, and I can't do anything."
"It has been a very good thing for Fanny, though," said Oney, "and has given me more hopes of her than anything else. I believe she will turn out a good girl yet, and that is more than I would have said of her six months ago—or of you, either, for that matter," added Oney to herself.
Sarah went away to "The Cure," and, contrary to her expectation, she found herself very happy there. Every one was kind to her, and after she once began to amend, her health improved rapidly.
A lady who was staying in the house undertook to teach her in the things she so much wanted to know. And very happy was Sarah when she succeeded in writing a letter to Fanny without one misspelled word.
But Sarah found something else beside her health at the Spring. She found her business and place in life. As she grew better and able to go about the house, she showed a remarkable aptitude for nursing and waiting on the sick. Doctor Henry, who saw most things that went on around him, one day called Sarah into his office.
"You are almost well now," said he, after he had asked her several questions about her health. "What are you going to do with yourself?"
"I must go to work at something," answered Sarah. "There is no use in my living on Grandma Lilly any more. I don't know enough to teach, so I suppose I must go out to work."
"The world is running over with teachers," remarked the doctor, "and there are plenty of other things to be done."
And then he proceeded to open his plan, which was that Sarah should be regularly educated for a nurse. "You seem to have a natural talent for that sort of thing, and it is a pity it should be wasted. I have been surprised to see how handily you adapt yourself to the work. Have you ever had any experience?"
"Only what I have gained in waiting on Ally," said Sarah.
"However you learned it, you certainly have it," said the doctor. "A skilful nurse is sure to have plenty of practice, and that of a profitable kind, and there is no place in which a good woman can make herself more useful. To be sure, it is hard work."
"Everything worth doing is hard work sometimes," remarked Sarah, "but I think doing nothing is the hardest work of all."
"Very true," said Doctor Henry. "Well, take time to think and pray over it, and write to your friends. If you decide to undertake the profession, I will find a place in the house for you, and will see that you have all needful instruction."
Sarah did think and pray over the matter, and finally concluded to accept the doctor's offer.
"Well, I must say I did wonder at your choice of a profession when I heard of it," said Fanny, on one of their meetings at the red house, which Sarah still called home, and whither she always came to spend her vacations. "I think I should rather do almost anything else. And you know, Sarah, grandma and Mrs. Cassell both offered to educate you for a teacher. How did it happen that you decided to take up nursing for a business?"
"I can't pretend to tell you all about it," replied Sarah, "only when I began to go about, I wanted something to do, and I began to wait on a sick lady whose room was next mine. So one thing led to another, and I seemed just to have found my place. I did not so much choose it as it chose me. Besides, I like to be a person of consequence," she added, smiling. "Teachers go begging nowadays, but people come begging for nurses. There are twice too many of the one and not half enough of the other."
"So it seems. I wonder how many letters you have had since you came here? Grandma says you work a great deal too hard."
"I don't mean to work so hard another year," said Sarah. "I am going to rest and study and have a nice time with Ally, and in order to do that, I must lay up some money. And now, Fanny, what do you mean to be?"
"To be Fanny, I guess," returned Fanny, smiling. "I shall never be anything great or grand in the world. I shall just go on filling up the chinks and rounding the corners, threading needles for other folks to sew with, and carrying bricks for other people's houses. I used to think that I should like to go into a convent or a sisterhood, but I can tell you I find there are plenty of ways to be useful in every-day life, and that one can be just as self-denying and work just as hard in a gypsy hat as in a cambric cap or a black serge veil."
"Annie has found her vocation, too, with all those little brothers and sisters of hers," said Sarah. "You don't know what a grave, motherly little thing she is, though her face isn't a day older than when she was lost on the mountain."