"Of course not," replied Fanny, trying to keep up her tone of dignity and reserve, but feeling all the time that she was making a signal failure. "I didn't want to tell of you, Sarah, though I don't mean to have anything more to do—with you," Fanny was going to conclude, but she changed it into "such doings."
"Oh, you needn't mind 'me'," said Sarah. "I wouldn't have you go on telling lies and deceiving your grandmother for anything. Come to think of it, I believe I will be a good girl and a Christian myself, and then I suppose we can play together again. But you can't be a Christian without confessing your sins, you know, Fanny. I dare say Mrs. Lilly is blaming somebody else for the pie all this time. Come, let us go together and tell her all about it directly." And Sarah quickened her steps in the direction of the farm-house.
Fanny looked at her to see if she were in fun, but she appeared quite serious and determined.
"You are not in earnest?" said Fanny, in rather a scared tone.
"Yes, I am in earnest. Come, why don't you walk faster? You can tell what I did, and I can tell what you did, or we can each tell of ourselves. I guess that will be the best way, after all."
"But I can't—I dare not!" exclaimed Fanny, stopping short. "Oh, Sarah, do come back!"
"Well, what now?" asked Sarah, turning and coming back, for she was already some steps in advance. "What's the matter?"
"You won't tell grandma, will you?" asked Fanny, trembling.
"Why, of course," replied Sarah, coolly. "That's the way to begin, by confessing our sins. When old Mrs. Burt joined the church last winter, she went to Mrs. Hoyt's and told her that she had cheated her out of three dollars by putting water in the milk she sold her, and paid her back the money. Mrs. Hoyt said that was the right way to begin, and she gave the money to the missionary collection. Besides, I dare say Mrs. Lilly is suspecting some one else all the time."
Fanny knew that this was true, for she had heard her grandmother say she thought the pie must have been taken by one of Mr. Wye's children.
"But—but I can't," she stammered. "I am afraid. I don't know what she would do to me."
"Didn't she ask you anything about it?" asked Sarah.
"Yes, of course she did."
"And you told her all sorts of lies, I suppose, and mean to stick to them; and yet you call yourself a Christian, and think you are too good to play with me!" said Sarah, in a tone of contempt. "Well, I don't care; I mean to tell her, anyhow."
Fanny sat down on a stone and burst into tears.
Sarah stood by her in silence a minute or two.
"So you don't want me to tell?" said she.
Fanny only sobbed.
"You will make your head ache with crying, and, besides, your grandma will ask you what was the matter," said Sarah, presently. "Come, Fanny, let's make a bargain. Don't you put on any airs to me and I won't tell of you. But just as sure as you act again as you did just now, I will go to Mrs. Lilly and tell her all about the pie and your running away. I don't mind it when people are really good, like Mrs. Lilly and Aunt Sally, but I do hate hypocrites. Come, will you agree to that?"
"I suppose I shall have to," said Fanny, rather sullenly.
"Well, then, kiss and be friends. And now tell me where you have been this afternoon."
"I can't stay now, Sarah, indeed I can't," said Fanny, rising. "I have been gone too long already, but I will tell you all about it another time," she added, seeing Sarah's face darken—"to-morrow, perhaps."
"Well, come up to the spring to-morrow afternoon. And, Fanny, I wish you would lend me a story-book. You have got ever so many, haven't you?"
"Yes, I brought a whole boxful, and Mr. Brandon lent me this one to-day."
"Let me see it," said Sarah, taking it from her hand and turning over the pages. "It looks nice; I would as soon have this as any."
Fanny felt very much vexed, but she dared not say a word.
"On the whole, I will let you read it first," continued Sarah, returning the book. "There! Run along, and be sure you come to the spring to-morrow, or I shall come down to the house and ask for you."
CHAPTER V.
DANGER.
FANNY hurried along up to the hill, walking so fast that she soon put herself out of breath and had to sit down and rest.
"Oh what a hateful thing she is!" she said to herself. "I wish she was dead; I wish the bull would get out and kill her when she is going home to-night. I don't care if it is wicked; I do wish so. There isn't one bit of use in my trying to be good when she is around. I don't care; it is all her fault."
When Fanny reached home, she found supper ready.
"We were just going to sit down without you," said her grandmother. "What has kept you so long?"
Fanny gave a straightforward account of herself, except that, as it may be guessed, she said nothing about Sarah Leyman.
"Oh, very well," said Mrs. Lilly; "I am glad you had a nice visit at Mrs. Cassell's, and it was very kind in Mr. Brandon to lend you and Willy such nice, pretty books."
"I wonder whether Mr. Brandon knows that Willy is a hired boy?" said Fanny.
"I presume he does. Why?"
"Oh, nothing—only I was wondering whether, if he knew it, he would take so much notice of him and lend him books, and so on."
"And I wonder whether he would take so much notice of Fanny if he knew how she talked about him and his wife?" said Oney.
"I dare say it would not make much difference in either case," said Mrs. Lilly, dryly. "Mr. Brandon is too much of a gentleman to think less of a good boy because he works honestly for a living, or to mind the idle gossip of two silly girls. Never mind, Willy; I hope Fanny will know better some day."
"Mr. Brandon does know," said Willy. "He asked me where I lived, and I told him all about it, and he said it was an excellent thing, and that I couldn't be better off. I hope it is no disgrace to be a hired boy, or man either."
"I hope not," said Mrs. Lilly. "Fanny's father was one."
"Why, grandma!" exclaimed Fanny. "You don't mean to say that 'my' father was ever a hired boy."
"I mean just exactly that," said Mrs. Lilly. "He lived out three winters at Judge Higley's, and worked for his board that he might go to school, and afterward, when he was in college, he used to hire out in harvest-time that he might help pay his way, for money was not very plenty in those times."
"I wonder if I could go to college?" said Willy, while Fanny suddenly subsided and became very busy in buttering her cakes.
"I don't know what should prevent you," said Mrs. Lilly, "but it is early to be thinking about that."
"But there is no harm in thinking about it, is there?" asked Willy.
"No, my dear, not the least harm," replied Mrs. Lilly; "on the contrary, there may be a great deal of good if you only think of it in the right way."
"What would you like to be, Willy—a lawyer or a minister?" asked Oney.
"Neither, I think," replied Willy, soberly, and as if he had been turning the matter over in his own mind for some time. "I think I should like to be professor of a college, or else a State geologist, like that gentleman who came here last summer and camped out on the mountain with Mr. Brandon."
"Well done!" exclaimed Oney, laughing. "You mean to aim high, anyway."
"There is no reason that I know of why you should not be either," said Mrs. Lilly, smoothing down Willy's black curls as he sat beside her at the table. "A good many learned men have been worse off than Willy to begin with."
"I don't think I am badly off at all," said Willy. "I think I am as well off as any boy I know."
"Good for you!" said Oney, putting a large piece of cake on his plate. "When you are president of a college, send for me, and I will come and keep house for you."
Fanny ate her supper in silence, feeling very much disgusted.
"What a fuss they do make over him!" she thought. "And nobody takes any more notice of me nor cares any more about me than if I was nothing at all. I don't care. I'll 'make' them care about me some time. I mean to be a missionary or something, and do a great deal of good, so that every one shall talk about me and praise me. But there doesn't seem to be much use in trying to be good so long as Sarah Leyman is round. I wish I was in a convent or something, like that girl in my book who went to the Moravian school in Germany. I mean to try, though. I will be very good about everything else, and perhaps it won't matter so much about Sarah. Grandma says we are all sinners, so I sha'n't be any worse than the rest are."
The next day, and for a good many days afterward, Fanny and Sarah met somewhere about the farm—either up by the spring or in the grove by the side of the river. Once or twice Sarah had tempted Fanny up on the mountain-side by telling her of the wonderful stones and flowers and mosses to be found there. But Fanny did not much like these expeditions. The loneliness scared her, and so did the thick dark evergreens, the great rocks, and the strange sounds she heard every time she listened.
"I don't see what you want to come here for," she said, pettishly, and just ready to cry, one day when Sarah had coaxed her into visiting one of her favourite haunts. "I think it is awfully lonesome and dismal, and I don't like it one bit. One would think we were out of the world."
"Now, that is just what I like," said Sarah. "It is so solemn, and the wind makes such strange noises. But you must never try to come up here by yourself, Fanny," she added, gravely. "Promise me that you will not."
"No danger," said Fanny; "I don't like it well enough for that. Come, do let us go down."
Sarah agreed, and they walked down the blind path which led to the spring. When they reached it, they sat down to rest, and Sarah took out of her pocket the last book Fanny had lent her and began to read.
"Don't read; it is so pokey," said Fanny. "I want to talk. You are very fond of reading, all at once."
"This is such a nice book," returned Sarah. "All the people in it are so natural."
She closed it, however, and they sat for some little time in silence.
"Well, why don't you talk?" said she, at last.
"I am listening," said Fanny. "I keep hearing such a strange noise, like something growling or grumbling under ground. What can it be?"
Sarah laid her ear to the ground to listen like an Indian.
"It is the bull," said she, after a minute's silence. "He has got out some how. We must run home as fast as we can. Now, don't begin to cry," she added, sharply. "That will only hinder you."
The two girls started for home, but as they came into the open field, they saw the bull coming across the pasture straight toward them. Sarah comprehended the situation in a moment, and had all her wits about her. She was a girl of naturally strong mind, and her out-of-door life had made her quick and self-reliant. Fanny wore a small red cloak. Sarah snatched it from her shoulders, saying at the same time, in sharp, clear tones,—
"Now, Fanny, do just as I tell you, and you will be all right. Walk away behind me—don't run—and get over the wall. I'll take to the trees, and I bet I can dodge him, but never mind me. If I am caught, run home and call somebody. There! Now, while I take across the field—'now'!"
Fanny did as she was bid.
With wonderful agility Sarah started for another part of the field, running like a deer. When she had gone some little way, she turned, and began shaking the scarlet cloak. The bull, attracted by the colour, and taking it, as all bulls do, as a personal insult to himself, instantly abandoned his intended chase of Fanny and ran at Sarah. But Sarah was too quick for him. She dodged out of sight, first behind one tree and then another, till she saw that Fanny was safely over the rough stone wall. Then picking up a good-sized stone, and wrapping the cloak round it, she threw it at the bull with such a correct aim that the missile struck him full in the forehead. The next minute she went over the wall at one spring, and came round to where Fanny was lying on the ground crying as if her heart would break.
"There! Don't cry. There is no more danger now," said Sarah, soothingly. "Nothing is hurt but your cloak, and I guess you won't get much of that," she added, peeping over the wall at the bull, who was now expending all his rage on the scarlet flannel, tossing and trampling it as if he had at last found the enemy he had been hunting all his life.
"It is all your fault," sobbed Fanny, finding her voice. "I should think you would have been ashamed, Sarah Leyman."
"Well, I declare!" said Sarah.
"You needn't have given him my cloak," continued Fanny. "It was an opera flannel, and cost ever so much money."
"Which would you rather the bull should be tossing—me or the cloak? It had to be the one or the other," said Sarah, very sensibly, and naturally vexed at Fanny's unreasonable faultfinding. "I wonder what you think would have become of you if I had not been here?"
For the first time it occurred to Fanny that Sarah had saved her life.
"To be sure, I don't know what I should have done," said she, "and I am very much obliged to you, Sarah—only I don't like to have my pretty new cloak spoiled."
"Nor I, but you would rather it should be the cloak than me, wouldn't you, Fanny?"
"Of course," said Fanny; "but what shall I tell grandma?"
"What you please," said Sarah, shortly. "Tell her the bull chased you and you dropped your cloak, or tell her the whole truth. Why not?"
"But then she will scold me for going with you," said Fanny.
Sarah turned and looked at her with an expression of wonder and contempt in her great black eyes.
"I wonder what makes me care to go with 'you'?" she said, at last, in an odd, choked voice.
Fanny was silent. She did not know what to say.
Sarah sat down on a stone and hid her face in her hands for a few minutes.
"I say, Fanny," said she, looking up suddenly, "let's you and I set out to be Christians in good earnest, instead of only pretending to be good."
"I 'am' good now," replied Fanny, rather indignantly. "I read my Bible and say my prayers every day, and I heard grandma say to Oney that I had been very good lately, and I have, I know. I learned three hymns yesterday of my own accord."
"Oh! Then, of course, Mrs. Lilly knows all about your running away, and about the pie and all?"
"Why, no," said Fanny, hesitating. "I didn't think it worth while. What would be the use? She thinks it was one of the Wye children, and she may as well think so."
"The use would be that you would be telling the truth instead of telling and acting lies all the time," said Sarah. "Now, it is of no use, Fanny. You know you can't be a Christian in any such way as that. Don't she ever say anything about the pie now?"
"Sometimes."
"And don't she ever ask you, when you come in, where you have been and what you have been doing?"
"Why, yes, she almost always does."
"And then you tell her the truth, I suppose?"
"It is no business of yours what I tell her," replied Fanny, sullenly.
"Maybe not, but it is of yours," said Sarah. "Don't you know, Fanny, the Bible says no one that loves or makes a lie can go to heaven? I remember Aunt Sally's telling me that years ago."
"What makes you want to be a Christian, Sarah? I mean, what sets you to thinking about it?" asked Fanny, trying to turn the conversation.
"Partly the books I have been reading, and partly some old journals and letters of Aunt Sally's that I found in a trunk up in our garret, and partly—well, I don't know that I can tell you if I try. All the best people I know are religious. Pa was going on the other day about pious people being all hypocrites, and says I, 'Pa, where would we have been if pious people had not helped us last winter when you broke your leg?'"
"You would have an awful time with your father," remarked Fanny.
"We have that now," said Sarah.
"And you would have to go to church and Sunday-school and learn your lessons," continued Fanny. "You couldn't run about all day Sunday and weekday as you do now. You wouldn't like that at all."
"I don't think I should mind," said Sarah, thoughtfully. "Running about is all very well, but one may have too much of it. I'll tell you what, Fanny: I will try if you will. Let us go together and tell the old lady all about it, and then we can begin in earnest. She won't be hard on us, I know."
"I can't, I tell you," said Fanny, in an agony of alarm and vexation. "She would whip me, I know, for she said the other day that she never whipped pa but once, and that was for telling lies. And then they would all despise me so. Oh, Sarah, don't! Wait till I go away, and then you can tell her if you like."
"Well, I won't tell of you, only of myself," said Sarah.
"She will get it all out of you, you may be sure. She is so sharp! I am afraid every day, as it is, that she will find me out."
"Don't you suppose God finds you out, Fanny?" asked Sarah, in a low voice. "Don't you think that, for all your hymns and prayers and Bible readings, you are only making believe all the time? Aunt Sally used to say he knew our very inmost thoughts."
"Your aunt was a church-member, wasn't she?" asked Fanny, hoping to divert Sarah's attention. "Mrs. Merrill told me something about her."
"She was a good woman, if ever there was one in this world," said Sarah, with feeling. "If she had lived, I know I should have been very different, but she died when I was only eight. But come, Fanny, let us go and see your grandmother."
"I 'won't'! So there!" exclaimed Fanny. "And if you tell her, I'll run away and go down to Boston all alone. I have got twenty dollars of my own, and I can go on the cars; and I will, Sarah Leyman, if you tell her one word. And besides, you can't tell her to-day," said Fanny, with a sense of sudden relief. "She has gone away, and won't be home till Saturday."
This was not true, for Mrs. Lilly expected to be at home next morning.
"If she isn't at home, of course I can't tell her," said Sarah. "You had better go home now, Fanny. Be sure you tell them that the bull is loose, because he may do some great mischief. Good-night."
Sarah turned and walked rapidly away across the fields.
Fanny watched her for a minute, and then went home. She informed Oney that the bull was loose, that he had chased her and torn her flannel cloak all to pieces, but she never said a word about Sarah Leyman.
CHAPTER VI.
AT MEETING.
FOR a good many days Fanny saw nothing more of Sarah Leyman. She was not at the spring or down by the river, nor did she come to the house, as Fanny had feared she would.
One day, however, Willy came in, bringing a pretty little birch bark basket filled with beautiful wild raspberries. He said Sarah Leyman had met him in the lane and handed him the basket, asking him to give it to Mrs. Lilly.
"What beautiful berries, and what a nice little basket the poor girl has made!" said Mrs. Lilly, admiring the basket, which was indeed most ingeniously made, and lined with fresh green leaves. "I wonder where she found the berries? I thought they were all over."
"Up on the mountains somewhere, I dare say," replied Oney. "They always ripen ten days later up there. I wonder she dares run about as she does, but she seems to have no more fear than a wild creature. They say she is often gone whole days and nights together."
"Grandma, why is it so dangerous to go on the mountain without a guide?" asked Fanny. "Are there wild beasts to hurt anybody?"
"It is dangerous for several reasons," replied Mrs. Lilly. "In the first place, it is very easy for inexperienced persons to lose themselves, and there are many dangerous places."
"Such as what?" asked Fanny.
"Such as precipices and deep cracks between the rocks into which one might fall and never be found again, and bogs in which you might be smothered and swallowed up in the mud. Then, in the upper part of the mountain, there are often sudden fogs and showers and cold winds which would chill you to the bone in five minutes."
"Are there any wild beasts?"
"Not on this side, though even here, I suppose, one might meet a bear or a wildcat now and then. But on the other side they say there are both bears and panthers, besides plenty of rattlesnakes, though I have not heard of any being killed very lately. But the mountain is a very dangerous place, and you must never go up alone as Sarah does. It is a thousand pities the poor child has not a better home."
"What is the matter with her home?" asked Fanny.
"Well, her father is a bad man, to begin with. He drinks very hard at times; and though he is a skilful workman, he will never do a day's work as long as he can help it. His mother is—well, I don't mean to be hard upon her," said Mrs. Lilly, "but the truth is, she is nothing but a nuisance—an idle, gossiping, tale-bearing, mischief-making slattern. If she spent half the time in taking care of her house and family that she does in running about the village, picking up and repeating slanders and gossiping with old Miss Clarke, she might keep things going on well enough. But as it is, they never have anything comfortable or decent from one year's end to another."
"Who was Sarah's aunt Sally?" asked Fanny.
"She was Mr. Leyman's sister, but as different from him as light from darkness. A better woman never breathed, and while she lived the family were somewhat respectable. She used to do tailoring and dressmaking, and sometimes she went out nursing. She was one of the best hands in a sick-room that ever I saw."
"What did she die of?" asked Fanny.
"Of hard work principally—of toiling night and day to support her great lazy brother and his family. I never saw a child grieve so at a death as Sarah did for her aunt. She was only eight years old, poor little wild thing! But when they came to screw down the coffin, she screamed, and threw herself upon it and would not let anybody touch it, and they had to take her away by force. Does Sarah ever say anything about her aunt?"
"I don't know," answered Fanny, coolly. "I never see Sarah nowadays. You told me not to play with her, so I don't."
Willy's black eyes shot a glance at Fanny which said a great deal, but he spoke not a word.
Fanny felt the look, however, and wondered how much Willy knew, and whether he would be likely to tell of her.
The next Sunday, as they were coming home from church in the village, Mrs. Lilly said to Fanny, "We are going to have some company this week, Fanny. Mrs. Cassell and Mr. and Mrs. Brandon and Annie are coming up here to spend the day on Wednesday, and perhaps Mr. and Mrs. Brandon may stay a few days."
"Oh how nice!" said Willy.
And Oney added, "It will seem like old times to have Mr. Brandon about the house again. But I must be careful, now that he has grown such a great man. As likely as not, I shall be calling him Hugh, the first thing."
"I dare say it wouldn't do any harm if you did," said Mrs. Lilly.
"Where in the world did 'you' ever know Mr. Brandon?" asked Fanny, with an emphasis on the "you" which was not very polite, to say the least.
"He used to live with us once," replied Oney. "He was rather a delicate boy, and his father used to send him to the mountains in summer, and he spent all his college vacations with us after his father died. Don't you remember the description of our house in his book—I don't remember the name, but that story about the war?"
"I never read any of Mr. Brandon's books," said Fanny.
"Why, Fanny!" exclaimed Willy, who had an untamable appetite for books, and who was perpetually astonished by Fanny's indifference to them. "Why, it has lain on the table all summer."
"Well, what of that?" returned Fanny, tartly. "Is that any reason why I should read it?"
"It would be a reason with me," said Willy; "besides, it is so interesting."
"There's an odds in folks, you see, Willy," said Oney. "But hadn't you better study it up, Fanny? Mr. Brandon might ask you some questions about it."
"Dear me! I hope not," said Fanny, in alarm. "Do you think he will, grandma?"
"No, my dear. Authors are not very apt to talk about their own books."
"Do you think he would be offended if I were to ask him about some things in his other book—I mean the one about South America?" asked Willy.
"No; I dare say he would be pleased to find that you had read his book so carefully."
"I am glad of that, because there are ever so many things that I want to know more about," said Willy. "I mean to get the book and look it over again."
"Well, I shouldn't think you would want to, Willy," said Fanny, who had her private reasons for being alarmed at Willy's announcement. "It would look like putting yourself forward, and I am sure Mr. Brandon would not like it. He isn't used to associating with all sorts of people," said Fanny, with a grand air. "He associates with the best families in Boston."
"Oh!" said Willy. "Well, I don't know about the first families in Boston, but I don't mean to keep any company I am ashamed to own, Fanny."
This hint alarmed Fanny, and she did not speak another word all the way home; she was afraid Willy knew too much.
That evening Fanny went with the rest to the five-o'clock meeting in the schoolhouse down the road. They were rather early, and took their usual seats on the side of the room. Fanny liked this, because she could watch all who came in, and make her remarks on their dress and manners. The room was pretty full at last, for it was a cool, pleasant evening, and quite a number of people walked up from the village to attend the service.
Just as the first hymn was being sung, Sarah Leyman came in and slipped into a seat near the door. She had made herself as neat as she knew how, and looked very handsome, for in spite of her dark skin, made darker by exposure to all sorts of weather, Sarah was a beautiful girl. She behaved with perfect propriety; and when she raised her head after the first prayer, Fanny felt sure that she had been crying.
"Well, I declare!" said Fanny to herself. "I wonder what she will do next? I wonder if she really means to do as she said! Oh dear! I am sure I hope not, for then she will go and tell grandma."
And then for one moment Fanny saw how utterly mean and selfish she was, and what a wicked and false life she was leading. That momentary glimpse of herself might have done Fanny a great deal of good and saved herself and others a great deal of distress if she had profited by it. But she did not. She only went on thinking how she could possibly manage to keep Sarah and her grandmother apart.
"Were you not surprised at seeing Sarah Leyman at meeting?" asked Oney of Mrs. Lilly as they walked home together. "I should as soon have expected to see one of the wild eagles off the mountain. But she looked and behaved very well, didn't she?"
"Very well; and I was glad to see her there," replied Mrs. Lilly. "I hope it is a good sign. I must try to have a talk with her some time. I have a Testament that her aunt gave to my Eunice when they were girls together; I think I will give it to Sarah. Perhaps she would read it because it was her aunt's."
"I wouldn't, grandma," said Fanny; "she would only make all sorts of fun of it, as she does of everything about religion. That's one reason why I didn't want to play with her any more. She talked so she scared me."
"I am sorry to hear that," said Mrs. Lilly.
"That's all she went to meeting for, I know," continued Fanny, growing bolder, and determined at all hazards to prevent any chance of an understanding between her grandmother and Sarah. "She will go home and mimic the minister and deacon and poor Mr. Willson, and make all sorts of fun of them. She has listened under the window on purpose before now."
"Who told you?" asked Oney.
"She told me herself," returned Fanny, boldly. "I used to play with her when I first came here, and I did play with her two or three times after grandma forbade me, but I have not done it this long time—not since I have been trying to be a good girl. If you talked to her ever so kindly, she would only go away and make fun of you."
"Well, that wouldn't hurt me," said Mrs. Lilly, "and we can never know what words will do good. I don't like to think that any girl can be a hardened sinner at fifteen, and especially one who was the child of so many prayers as Sarah."
"Mrs. Lilly," said Willy, "don't you think that a person who pretended to be good and religious all the time that he knew he was wicked would be a great deal harder to convert than one like Sarah Leyman?"
"No doubt," returned Mrs. Lilly. "Especially if the hypocrite were self-deceived."
"I suppose hypocrites usually do impose on themselves more or less," remarked Oney.
"Almost always to some degree, I presume. A man who is destroying his neighbour's body and soul by selling liquor, may very likely make himself think that he is quite a good man because he gives away money liberally; and another, who will cheat half an ounce in every pound he sells, comforts himself by thinking that he keeps Sunday carefully, and always has family prayers; and so of other things. I would rather undertake to make an impression on poor Sarah, or even on Sam Leyman himself, than on such a person. But I will certainly speak to Sarah if I have a chance. It can at least do no harm. Oney, there is Squire Howe before us, and I want to speak to him about drawing Mrs. Merrill some wood. He said he would give her a load any time, and I dare say it will be more convenient for him to do it before harvest."
Mrs. Lilly and Oney walked on quickly, and no sooner were the children alone together than Willy broke out with more than his usual vehemence.
"Fanny Lilly, I do think that you are the very meanest creature that ever lived in this world. Nobody but a girl could be so mean as you are. You are as much worse than Sarah Leyman than she is worse than—than Grandma Lilly," said Willy, finishing up with a grand climax.
"Why, Willy, what is the matter now?" asked Fanny. "What have I done to you?"
"To me! You haven't done anything to me, only you are always hinting about my being a hired boy and coming from the poorhouse, and Mr. Brandon said himself that nobody but a snob would throw such a thing in a fellow's face. But I don't care so much about that. It is the way you treat Sarah Leyman that makes me despise you. As if I didn't know how you have been with her day after day, going over to the Corners with her, and all! As if I didn't know how she saved you from the bull! And you never said one word about her, though it is the greatest wonder in the world she wasn't killed."
"I should like to know how you found out anything about it," said Fanny, trying to speak in an unconcerned manner.
"Because I saw it; that's all."
"I think you might have come to help us, than, instead of watching and spying," said Fanny.
"I did come, but I was too late. I was up in the barn-loft and saw the whole performance, but before I could get to you, it was all over. So I went to find Mr. Wye and tell him about the bull. And after that, you abuse her behind her back, and don't want your grandma to show her the least kindness or even speak a good word to the poor girl. I suppose you are afraid she will find out some of your secrets. I always thought you knew more about that pie than you chose to tell."
Fanny was very angry, but she controlled herself; and answered, quickly, "You are very much mistaken, Willy, as you will see when you know all about it. I only met Sarah by accident that day. The only reason that I didn't tell grandma and Oney how she saved me from the bull was that she made me promise not to say a word about it, because she said she left the bars down, and let out the bull herself. All I said about her making fun of religion was every word true, only I didn't tell it half as bad as it was, because I didn't like to repeat such stuff, and because I didn't want to tell grandma how Sarah made fun of her for praying in the meeting Thursday evening, and for sitting at the table with a dirty nigger, like Oney. Those were her very words."
"Oney isn't a nigger, and if she was, she couldn't help it; and I don't think nigger is a very pretty name to call any one," said Willy.
"Nor I; and that wasn't the worst she said, by a great deal. As for the pie," continued Fanny, feeling that she was "in for it," and that a few more lies would not make much difference—"as for the pie, you are right, Willy. I do know—or at least I have a very good guess—where it went, but I wasn't going to say what I thought when Sarah and I had played together. I would like to have Sarah a good girl as well as anybody, and I have talked to her myself, but there is no use in it. She only makes fun of me, and I don't want her to make fun of grandma.
"I know I have hurt your feelings, sometimes, Willy, but I never meant to do it, and I beg your pardon. You see things are very different here from what they are in Boston. There were two girls who came to our school last winter, and everybody liked them at first, but by and by the girls found out that their mother was a dressmaker, and after that a good many of the scholars would not speak to them. I heard Cousin Emma tell of a gentleman who refused to be introduced to a young girl at her house because he thought she was not genteel enough."
"If I had been master of the house, he would have seen the outside of it pretty suddenly," said Willy, who had the instincts of a gentleman. "Besides, I know all Boston people are not like that. Those gentlemen who came up and camped out on the mountain last summer were as polite and pleasant to everybody as they could be."
"Well, anyhow, that was the reason I didn't like to see Sarah at meeting, because I knew why she had come," persisted Fanny, returning to the first subject. "Of course I am thankful to her for saving me from the bull, though she got me into the scrape in the first place, but that doesn't prevent me from seeing her faults."
"Humph!" said Willy, not more than half satisfied. "Well, anyhow, I hope Grandma Lilly will have a real good talk with her."
"And so do I, because, after all, it won't hurt grandma if Sarah does make fun of her, and perhaps grandma may do her some good," said Fanny. But in her heart she was determined that this talk should never take place if she could help it.
CHAPTER VII.
THE OFFENCE GIVEN.
THE next day, and the next, Fanny went up to the spring and down to the grove, but she could see nothing of Sarah.
The next afternoon she was sent on an errand to the Corners. She went "'cross-lots," as they say; and passing the end of Sam Leyman's garden, she saw Sarah sitting at work on the back doorstep and called to her.
"Is that you, Fanny?" exclaimed Sarah, jumping up and coming to meet Fanny with an expression of real pleasure on her face. "Where are you going?"
"Over to the Corners for grandma. Don't you want to go with me?"
"I am afraid Mrs. Lilly wouldn't like it," said Sarah, hesitating in a way very unusual with her.
"Seems to me you have taken a very sudden fit of goodness," said Fanny, not at all pleased. "I wonder how long you have been so particular? Ever since you went to meeting the other night, I suppose. But do come a little way with me. I want to see you ever so much."
"Well, I don't care."
"I went down to the grove yesterday on purpose to find you," said Fanny, in rather an injured tone, as they walked across the pasture together. "I thought you would certainly be there. Why didn't you come?"
"Well, for two or three reasons; I was busy at home, for one thing, mending and washing Ally's clothes, and trying to patch up some of my own old frocks, so as to be a little more decent. And besides, Fanny, to tell you the truth, I thought it would be rather mean after your grandma spoke to me so kindly Sunday night."
"Oh yes; very kindly indeed—to your face," said Fanny, sneeringly.
"What do you mean?" asked Sarah.
"Oh, nothing—only Oney said she wondered what had brought 'that' Sarah Leyman to meeting, and grandma said she presumed you had only come to make fun of everything and everybody, and she thought you had better stay away, at least till you had something decent to wear."
"Did Mrs. Lilly say that?" asked Sarah, in a low tone.
"She said a great deal more than that," replied Fanny, "and so did the rest of the people?" And she proceeded to repeat a number of contemptuous speeches which she professed to have overheard, till she was stopped by Sarah's throwing herself on the ground and bursting out into a passionate fit of crying.
"What is the matter?" asked Fanny, surprised and rather alarmed at the storm she had raised. "What are you crying about?"
"I don't care so much for the rest of them," said Sarah, sitting up with her black eyes flashing through her tears. "But Mrs. Lilly that I thought was so good, and that spoke to me so kindly! I don't care; I never will believe in anybody's goodness again. Fanny, are you telling me the truth? Was your grandma really so mean and wicked as that?"
"I don't see anything so mean and wicked," said Fanny, rather scared, but not at all understanding Sarah's state of mind. "She said what she thought, I suppose."
"When did she say what she thought, when she was telling me to my face that she was glad to see me and hoped I would come again, or when she was talking against me behind my back, and saying she should think I would be ashamed to show myself? Come now, Fanny! She did not really say all that. You are making it up to tease me, I know."
"You can ask Willy, for he heard her," said Fanny, determined to stand her ground, but beginning to wish she had not said anything.
"I have a great mind to go and ask Mrs. Lilly herself," said Sarah.
"You will get into a scrape if you do, I can tell you," said Fanny, knowing that if Sarah and her grandmother came together, they would soon arrive at an understanding. "Grandma knows that it was you who let out the bull."
"It was 'not' me!" exclaimed Sarah, indignantly. "I 'never' leave the bars down, and hardly ever go through them, and I had not seen the bull that day."
"Well, anyhow, she thinks you did, and she is very angry about it. She said if she caught you, she would have you sent where you would be taken care of and kept out of mischief. And Mrs. Crane said you would be a great deal better off in the asylum, and that grandma would be doing a good turn to everybody."
"I should like to see them put me in the asylum!" exclaimed Sarah. "I never will go there. I will kill myself or somebody else first." And down went her head on the grass again in a tempest of grief and anger.
"I don't believe there is one single good person in all the world," she said, through her sobs. "I wonder whether there is anything good anywhere? If it wasn't for poor Ally, I would go and jump into Pope's hole this very day, and so be dead and buried at the same time."
Ally was Sarah's younger sister, and her special pet.
"I wonder if Aunt Sally was just such a hypocrite as your grandmother?" continued Sarah, with a fresh burst of grief. "I wonder if all her goodness was just lies and pretence?"
"You shall not call my grandmother a hypocrite, Sarah Leyman; I should think you would be ashamed." And then Fanny stopped suddenly, for it occurred to her that it was herself who had given her grandmother such a character, and not Sarah. She could not in the least understand the cause of Sarah's excessive grief, and thought she was only angry at being laughed at.
"Oh come, never mind," said she, presently. "Why, it isn't anything so very dreadful; and besides, if you want to come to meeting, you can come, for all them."
"I shall never come again, never," said Sarah, sitting up and wiping her eyes. "I did think that night I would try to be a Christian. I made up my mind to it; I have said my prayers ever since, and I was going to ask you to give me or lend me a Testament to read myself and to teach Ally out of. Father won't have a Bible in the house, if he knows it, but I would keep it hidden away where he could not find it. But it is all over now. There is no use in trying."
The tone of hopeless despair in which Sarah said these words made its way even into Fanny's blunt feelings. She began to feel a little sorry for what she had done.
"Oh, I wouldn't say so," said she; "I wouldn't give it all up for that—just because grandma isn't perfect. Just keep on and be good all the same. I do."
"You do!—You!" said Sarah, in a tone of contemptuous wonder. "Fanny Lilly, do you really think you are a good girl?"
Her tone and words made Fanny wince, but she stood her ground.
"Why, yes, I do," she replied. "I read my Bible and say my prayers every day, and I have been reading ever so many good books. I learned two hymns only yesterday. If that isn't being a good girl—"
"Well, it isn't—not according to my notion," said Sarah. "That would not be my way of being good. Fanny," she added, with sudden energy, "if you tell me that all you have said is just made up to tease me, I will be your friend for ever, and I will do anything in the world for you. I don't care; I mean to ask Mrs. Lilly about it, anyhow."
"Well, you can do as you please, of course," said Fanny, affecting an unconcern which she by no means felt. "I shouldn't think you would like to be taken and shut up with all those poorhouse children, and never see Ally nor anybody again, but if you do, I don't know why I need care. I went to see the asylum with grandma, and it did not look very pleasant, I tell you."
The asylum spoken of by Fanny was one for poor children which had been established at R— by the joint efforts of two counties. The children of paupers were carried to this asylum instead of the poorhouse, and were taught and cared for.
"Besides, I shouldn't know whether she told the truth or not if she spoke ever so kindly to me," said Sarah. "I shall never know whether anybody is true again, or anything, for that matter. Well, let it go. I dare say it is all nonsense, as pa says, and that nobody cares whether we are good or bad. Come, tell me the news. What has happened?"
"Nothing very particular that I know of, only old Mrs. Cassell and her granddaughter and Mr. and Mrs. Brandon are coming up to our house to spend the day on Wednesday, and Mr. and Mrs. Brandon are going to stay for a visit. Oney is making all kinds of nice things. Oh, by the way, Sarah, I want that volume of Mr. Brandon's travels that I lent you. Willy has been hunting the house over for it."
"I'll get it when I go home," said Sarah. "He's another, I suppose."
"Another what?" asked Fanny.
"Another of the hypocrites," said Sarah.
"I didn't know he pretended to be anything so very good."
"Don't he? I met him up on the mountain last week. He was looking for wild flowers, and I showed him some kinds he had never seen before; and didn't he talk 'good'? I thought he was a wicked young man before, and so I told him."
"Oh, Sarah, you never told Mr. Brandon all that stuff?"
"Yes, I did; and he only laughed and said, 'Don't be in such a hurry to believe evil of people you don't know, my girl. Anybody as bright as you ought to have something better to think about than idle, gossiping stories.' And then I told him I was reading his book, but I couldn't understand it very well. Oh, we had a real nice talk, I can tell you. But I dare say he is all humbug, like the rest of them. Annie Cassell is a cunning little thing, though. You bring her up to the spring, and we will have a real nice time."
"I don't suppose grandma will let me," said Fanny.
"You needn't tell her all about it, you goose. Just tell her you want to show Annie the spring. There is no harm in that."
"I don't know about it."
"If you don't, I will just come down to the house and ask to see you, and tell your grandma you promised to come and bring Annie with you."
"You wouldn't tell such a lie?" said Fanny, alarmed.
"You'll see," was the answer. "Why shouldn't I tell lies as well as other folks? Just as sure as you don't come, I will come down to the house and ask for you. You needn't be afraid. You don't suppose I want to hurt the child, do you?"
"No; of course not. Well, I will come if I can."
When Fanny reached home, she went to find her grandmother, who was in the dairy. The truth was, she had seen Willy in the field, and was by no means sure that he had not seen her walking with Sarah. So she meant to be beforehand with him, in case he should have any intention of telling of her. So first putting Mr. Brandon's book down behind the parlour table that it might have the appearance of having fallen by accident, she went into the milkroom, where Mrs. Lilly was working over her butter—an operation which she always performed herself if possible.
"Grandma," said she, "I met Sarah Leyman at the Corners; and she walked over home with me. I couldn't get rid of her without being rude, and I knew you wouldn't want me to hurt her feelings."
"Of course not," said Mrs. Lilly, feeling pleased that Fanny should come to her so frankly. "Don't be unkind to her in any way. How did she seem to feel?"
"Oh, just as usual," said Fanny. "She says she thinks all religious people are hypocrites alike."
"I wonder whether she thinks her aunt Sally was one?" said Mrs. Lilly.
"I asked her that, and she said she didn't remember much about her, but she didn't believe there was much to choose."
"Poor child!" said Mrs. Lilly, sighing.
"Well, I suppose one ought to be sorry for her, and yet I could not help being angry," said Fanny. "I told her she ought to be ashamed, but she went on worse than ever. I do believe she will make fun of anything. I never heard her so bad as she was to-day."
"That may be only a sign that her heart is touched," said Mrs. Lilly. "She may be trying to silence her conscience. Those have a great deal to answer for who have brought her up in such a way."
"Yes, indeed," said Oney, who had just come in with her hands full of cake warm from the oven. "'Whoso shall offend one of these little ones, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.' I wouldn't like to have the responsibility that rests on that girl's father and mother."
"I hoped for better things from seeing Sarah at the meeting," said Mrs. Lilly, "but Fanny tells me she only makes fun of the whole thing. But it may be only that she is trying to put down conviction in her own mind. You must be very careful what you say to her, Fanny. I wish I could get a chance for a quiet talk with her."
"Has Willy found that book yet?" asked Fanny, feeling very uncomfortable, and wishing to change the subject before anything else was said.
"No, not yet; I can't think what has become of it," replied Mrs. Lilly. "I hope it is not lost."
"I believe I will go and take a look for it; perhaps I may find it in some place Willy has overlooked," said Fanny. "I am pretty good at finding things."
"Do, my dear, and dust the books in the parlour at the same time. And, Fanny, you may get out all the Indian curiosities, and arrange them; they will help to amuse Annie."
Fanny dusted and arranged and put everything in nice order, trying to become so much interested in her work as not to think of anything else, for the words of Oney rang in her ears very uncomfortably. "Whosoever offendeth one of these little ones—" Fanny thought that did not sound quite right, and she opened the book to see.
"Whoso shall offend one of these little ones which 'believe' in 'me,—'"
That did not mend the matter, and she shut the book and laid it down as if it burned her fingers. Was not this just what, she had done? Had she not offended Sarah just as she was beginning to believe? Had she not done her best to prevent her from taking another step in that path which the poor girl was just trying to enter—the path which led to safety, to happiness and salvation? Suppose Sarah should never repent and become a Christian, whose would be the fault?
"Well, I couldn't help it," said Fanny to herself. "I couldn't have her coming up here and talking to grandma, and telling her everything, as I am sure she would the very first thing if grandma coaxed her a little. I don't see how I can help going to the spring to-morrow, either, but I must be sure and make Annie promise not to tell. Tiresome little torment! I wish she wasn't coming at all. I dare say she will get me into some scrape or other."
Fanny busied herself till tea-time with the books and curiosities, and in unpacking her doll and its clothes, which had remained in their box ever since she left home. When Oney called her to supper, she came into the kitchen, holding up the missing book in triumph.
"See what I have found," said she.
"Oh, Mr. Brandon's book! How glad I am!" exclaimed Willy, with sparkling eyes. "Where did you find it? I have hunted all over for it."
"It was behind the table in the parlour," said Fanny. "You couldn't have looked very sharp, Willy."
Willy looked as if he did not know how to believe his ears.
"Why, Fanny!" he exclaimed. "I don't see how that can be. I moved the table and looked behind it this very morning, and I am sure the book was not there then, or I would have seen it."
"I am sure it was," answered Fanny, positively. "I found it when I was dusting the parlour. I happened to think I would move out the table, and down fell the book directly. So you see, Willy, you must be mistaken."
"Perhaps you only thought you would move it, or you might not have moved it far enough," said Mrs. Lilly. "Never mind; I am glad the book is found."
"Well, if that isn't the strangest thing, I wouldn't say so," said Willy to Oney when they were alone together. "Oney, I know just as well as I know anything that the book was not there this morning. I pulled the table clear away from the wall, and looked behind it and under the cloth and everywhere."
"So did I," said Oney. "I am sure that it was not there."
"Then why didn't you say so?" asked Willy, a little vexed.
"Because I am an Indian, and know how to hold my tongue—a thing which I sometimes think white folks never learn," said Oney, smiling. "Where's the use in making a fuss?"
"But Fanny is so awful deceitful," said Willy; "I do think Mrs. Lilly ought to know."
"Oh, she'll find out, never you fear," replied Oney; "and I would rather she found out of herself, without any help of mine. You see, Fanny is playing 'good' just now, and the old lady thinks she is just right. I have given her two or three hints, but she would not hear, and the other day she as much as told me she was afraid I was jealous of Fanny. So I made up my mind to let matters alone, and you had better do the same."
CHAPTER VIII.
SARAH'S PLANS.
THE next day was Wednesday—the day appointed for Mrs. Cassell's visit. Fanny remembered it the moment she opened her eyes, and did not exactly know whether she were glad or sorry.
"I should be glad, only for going up to the spring," she thought, "but perhaps, after all, Annie's grandmother won't let her go, and then I shall have a good excuse. I don't care: I mean to have a good time, anyway. And even if Sarah does come to the spring, grandma need not know that I expected her. How bad she did feel yesterday! I wonder what ailed her? I shouldn't think she need mind so much. They can't do anything to her."
In truth, Fanny was quite incapable of understanding Sarah's feelings. With Fanny, partly from her natural disposition and more from the way in which she had been brought up, self was everything. She judged of everything as it affected herself. What pleased her or afforded her any advantage was right; whatever displeased or annoyed her was wrong. She would not have shed a tear at finding out her best friend in the greatest crime or meanness, so long as it did not affect herself.
She liked Sarah in her fashion, because Sarah's wit and wild stories amused her, and because she was, on the whole, an agreeable playmate, and it never troubled her in the least to think that Sarah was a very naughty girl and in a fair way of going to utter destruction. She loved her father as well as she was capable of loving anybody, but the most disgraceful failure on his part would have affected her less unpleasantly than his refusal to pay fifty dollars for some dress or trinket on which she had set her heart. In fact, self was her idol, her god. Whoever sacrificed to that god was right in her eyes; whoever treated her deity with neglect or disrespect was wrong, no matter how good he might otherwise be.
It was very different with Sarah Leyman. Utterly wild and untaught as she was and had been ever since she was eight years old, the poor child had a heart capable of devoted attachment and of great sacrifices. Till she was eight years old, Aunt Sally had been her all—her friend, teacher, protector, and playmate, all in one. Mrs. Leyman often said before her sister and daughter that Sarah took after her aunt a great deal more than she did after her mother, and predicted that she should turn out just such another saint—saint being a term of the deepest reproach in the vocabulary of people like Mrs. Leyman.
Everything that Sarah knew she learned from Aunt Sally, who taught her to say her prayers and read her Bible, and to know that she had a Father in heaven who would always love her and take care of her. But Aunt Sally died at thirty, because she hadn't any ambition according to her sister-in-law—in reality, of hard work and anxiety and grief and shame. Poor Sarah was left without a friend. Two or three people would have taken her for her aunt's sake, Mrs. Lilly among the rest, but her father would not hear of binding her out, and nobody wanted to be at the trouble of dressing and teaching and becoming attached to her, only to have her taken away as soon as she was old enough to become useful. Moreover, Mr. Leyman made it a condition that Sarah should not go to church or Sunday-school or be "taught any priestcraft and superstition."
So Sarah grew up with no education except what she picked up herself by reading such books as fell in her way and by going for a few weeks at a time to the district school. Here she learned to write and cipher a little. Aunt Sally had taught her to read almost before she could remember, and she heard the Bible read and read it in turn with the other children, and now and then an earnest teacher would try to put into the child's mind some sense of the truths of religion, so that she was not absolutely ignorant on that subject.
But during the last year, she had lost that small chance. The three or four small district schools in and around the village had been consolidated into one grand union school, attended by all the young ladies of the village, and Sarah was too proud to show herself among those who were so much better dressed and educated than herself.
Sarah's father was what he called a freethinker, which in his case meant nothing more nor less than an impudent, reckless creature, regarding the laws neither of God nor man. He made a regular business of ostentatiously breaking the Sabbath, and as far as possible, he brought up his children in the same way. The training had produced its legitimate fruits. One son was already in the penitentiary, and the other had escaped a like fate only by running away and going to sea.
Mrs. Leyman was pretty much what Mrs. Lilly had described her. She had come of a decent family, and there were those who were willing to show her kindness for the sake of her father and mother. But Mrs. Leyman was one of those people who take two or three miles for every ell that is given them. If she had an invitation to any house in the village or at the Corners—the little hamlet which had grown up at the slate quarry—she made such an invitation a pretext for a dozen visits at least. If anybody gave her a pail of skim milk or buttermilk one day, she would send the next for a piece of cheese or butter, or to borrow a washboard or flat-iron; and those who were weak enough to lend to her seldom saw their property again.
Her chief pleasures in life were strong green tea and scandal. A small property which still remained to her from her father's estate supplied her with means for purchasing the first. For the second she was chiefly indebted to Miss Clarke, the washerwoman and tailoress employed in good families for her abilities in doing up fine muslins and making children's clothes. Miss Clarke was an inveterate collector of news and scandal, and the worse a story was, the better it pleased her. She was, to put it in plain English, an inveterate and malicious liar, and she improved her natural gifts in that direction by taking opium. Such was Mrs. Leyman's chosen friend, and from her did she obtain all those stories of the secret sins and shortcomings of church-members and respectable people with which she entertained her husband.
Sarah listened to her mother's tales because she liked anything in the shape of a story, and because, being sensible of the degradation of her own family, she took a sullen satisfaction in thinking that others were no better. But she despised her mother and almost hated her father, and she would have run away from home long before now, only for Ally, her poor little sickly sister. It was Ally who kept Sarah at home for the few hours that she ever spent there from the beginning to the end of warm weather. For her sake, Sarah recalled all she could of Aunt Sally's hymns and verses, her Bible, and other stories. For Ally she learned Sunday-school hymns and borrowed Sunday-school books from the other children, and gathered flowers and berries and everything that could comfort and amuse the child in her sick times.
It was Mrs. Lilly's kindness to Ally which had made Sarah like her in the first place. Poor Sarah was a very naughty girl—there was unfortunately no doubt of that—but she would have been a great deal worse only for Ally, and for the half-remembered lessons learned at Aunt Sally's knee. But for these things and for an undefined something—she could hardly tell what—which had lately been creeping over her, and making her feel a kind of hope that she might some time become better and happier, she would have run away and left the family to its fate.
What Sarah found to love in Fanny it would, perhaps, be hard to say, but she did love her, and would have done anything for her. Fanny was very pretty, for one thing. She had nice manners and a pleasant way of speaking when she was pleased, and she could tell tales of a world of which Sarah knew nothing, and which she fancied must be more wonderful and beautiful than her own. Sarah soon found out that Fanny was shallow, and she had begun to feel, rather than suspect, that she was false: but she was one of those people who, having loved once, love always, and she was still devoted to Fanny with her whole heart and soul.
Sarah could hardly have told what led her to go to the meeting on Sunday evening. She had never attended before, though all the neighbours went, especially Mrs. Lilly, and she had a feeling that everything Mrs. Lilly did must be good. She had been quite serious in what she had said to Fanny after the adventure of the bull. She did want to be a good girl, a true Christian like Mrs. Lilly and Aunt Sally, but she did not know how to begin. Perhaps she might find out at the meeting. So she made up her mind to go and try, and she found out that, at any rate, it was very pleasant, though rather awful. Those things which she had mimicked for Fanny's amusement—Deacon Crane's broad accent and Mr. Howe's bad grammar—did not now strike her as so absurd because she felt as she never had done, that both the deacon and Mr. Howe were talking to some very real Presence: not the less real because unseen. The singing, the Bible reading, the speaking, all touched her heart, and the kindness with which she was met by everybody, especially Mrs. Lilly, increased the charm.
They had all seemed so glad to see her there, and had asked her to come again. Sarah made up her mind that she would go again, that she would somehow have a Bible and read it and teach Ally to read it, and she would try her best to be a good Christian girl. And then to find out that these people who had seemed so glad to see her were laughing at her and plotting to separate her from Ally and put her in prison, to find out that Mrs. Lilly was capable of such treachery—Mrs. Lilly, whom she had always considered as the very model of everything good,—this it was, and no hurt vanity, which had caused the violent burst of feeling which Fanny could not understand. This it was which made her feel as if there were no real truth or goodness anywhere, and no use in trying to do right, since religious people were, after all, no better than any one else. This was the mischief Fanny had done, and at which she might well have stood appalled if she had at all understood it.
But she did not. She was sorry to have made Sarah feel so badly, but she was glad to have prevented any chance of an explanation between Sarah and her grandmother. To be sure, this was not much like the missionary work over which she had been dreaming lately, and which was one day to make her famous and admired. But perhaps Sarah might not have been good, anyway, or perhaps she would become a Christian, after all. And, anyhow, she could not help it now, so there was no use in thinking about it any more.