CHAPTER V.
A NEW LIFE.
FOR many days Rhoda was very ill with a kind of nervous fever, and for many more she lay in her pleasant little room, weak and languid, and so thoroughly depressed that her friends began to fear for her mind. She had every care and kindness, for every one in the house knew her story and felt interested in her, and even Aunty Parsons, who generally resented whatever was done for anybody else as so much taken from herself, expressed the opinion that that girl wasn't half taken care of, and ought to have some real good whisky with cherry bark in it, that being a cordial to which the old lady was much addicted.
A few days after Mr. Bowers left Rhoda at "The Home," he sent her by express a box containing all the books and other possessions she had left behind her at Boonville, together with an envelope containing ten dollars, but not a word of a letter.
Rhoda never asked for news from her former home—never alluded to her adopted parents in any way. She lay quite still, with her eyes closed or gazing out of the window opposite her bed, giving very little trouble and never speaking except when spoken to. All the lady managers had been to see her; and if there were anything in the old sign, Mr. Bowers's left ear must have rung like a chime of bells at the opinions expressed of his conduct.
Rhoda had been at "The Home" about three weeks when she had one day a new visitor. Mrs. Worthington was one of the most active managers of "The Home," but she had been out of town for some time, and this was her first visit to the institution since her return. Of course she heard the whole story over in every room she visited.
"The doctor says she ain't no disease now," remarked Mrs. Josleyn, "but yet she don't seem to get no strength."
"No, and she won't so long as she is coddled up so," said Aunty Parsons, who had grown tired of sympathizing with Rhoda. "She ought to have some real good whisky with cherry bark in it, and be made to get up and exercise, and go out in the fresh air. What's the sense of her lying there when she hain't no disease?"
"It's just the trouble on her mind, you see," said Mrs. Josleyn, who was as sweet as her neighbour was sour. "She's had such trials, poor dear!"
"Her trials ain't nothing to mine," grumbled Mrs. Parsons; "nobody never went and signed away all her property. But if I was ever so much overcome by my troubles, you wouldn't catch Miss Carpenter making no chicken broth for me."
Mrs. Worthington smiled, but made no reply, well knowing from experience that there was no use in it. Mrs. Parsons was one of those people whom one finds it hard to think of as being happy in heaven, since there will be nothing in that locality for them to find fault with.
"In what room is this poor child?" Mrs. Worthington asked.
"She's in twenty-eight—the very room I always wanted; but of course they never would put me in there."
"Because they keep it for sick folks," Mrs. Josleyn.
"Well, and ain't I sick? Have I ever had a well day since I came into this house? But anything is good enough for me."
Mrs. Lambert, the nurse, an experienced and kind-hearted person, confirmed Mrs. Josleyn's opinion:
"Dr. H. says she hain't any disease, and I do really think she would be better for making a little effort, but I don't like to urge her, poor thing! If we could only find something to interest her!"
"Yes, that would be best. I think I will go in and see her."
Rhoda lay on the bed, as she had done for the last three weeks, and turned her eyes listlessly to the door as Mrs. Worthington entered, but they brightened a little as they rested on the visitor's face.
"Ah, little Rhoda!" said Mrs. Worthington, coming to the side of the bed and kissing her. "I think you remember me, don't you?"
"Yes, ma'am," answered Rhoda; "I remember you very well. When we had the measles in the house, just a little while before I went away, you took me over to your house, and let me stay two or three days. I remember how we played under the big tree in the back yard—Cathy and Rosy and I—and how the boys let out their rabbits. I suppose Cathy and Rosy are grown-up young ladies now."
And then, catching Mrs. Lambert's warning glance, she faltered, and said, "Oh, I am so sorry!"
"Never mind, dear; you have not hurt me at all. I like to hear you talk about them," said Mrs. Worthington. "Yes, they are all gone—Cathy and Rosy and the boys. We have a lonely house now, Rhoda. Poor Miss Smith is not troubled by the noise in our back yard any more."
"I remember how she came out and scolded us when we were playing 'king's land,'" said Rhoda; "and then, when Cathy cried, she went in and brought out a great plate of little almond cakes for us. Is she alive yet?"
"Oh yes; she is just the same as ever. She gave me a great deal of efficient help in John's last illness."
"Your house must seem very lonely," said Mrs. Lambert.
"Yes, it does indeed," said Mrs. Worthington, sadly. "It sometimes seems as if I could not go on living there, especially as Mr. Worthington has to be away so much. But I must keep a home for him, you know," said the bright little woman, brushing away the drops from her eyelids. "When it gets so that I can't bear it any longer, I just put on my bonnet and run away up to the hospital or over here and stay all the morning, and I always go home feeling cheerful again."
"Well, I will leave you with Rhoda a while," said Mrs. Lambert. "I have my hands full, now that Miss Brown is so helpless, though the old lady makes me very little work, considering—not half so much as some who are better able to wait on themselves. The other night I had just laid down, after being on my feet till nearly one o'clock, when, just as I was dropping off to sleep, Miss Martin screamed out to me from the top of the house that she was dying and wanted a cup of tea directly. You might have heard her down to the college, I am sure."
Rhoda laughed—a faint little ghost of a laugh:
"And was she?"
"Bless you, no, child—not near so much like dying as you were. I remembered how she had eaten stewed peaches at the supper-table, and I wasn't at all scared. So I just mixed some essence of ginger and took it up to her, and she was asleep again in half an hour."
"Was I really in any danger of dying?" asked Rhoda. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Where would have been the use when you were not able to think clearly, and when you were so weak that the mere telling might have made all the difference? But I really must go. Mrs. Worthington, you mean to stay and take dinner with us, don't you?"
"Oh yes; I have come for all day," said Mrs. Worthington, producing her tatting from her pocket. "I will sit here and take care of Rhoda a while."
After Mrs. Lambert had left the room, Rhoda lay for some time silently watching the motions of Mrs. Worthington's fingers. Then she sighed deeply.
"What are you thinking of, dear?" asked Mrs. Worthington.
"I was thinking about your little girls, and about myself," answered Rhoda, sighing again. "I was wondering why I didn't die when I was so sick."
"Shall I tell you what I think was the reason, Rhoda?"
"If you please."
"I think it was because your work in this world is not finished," said Mrs. Worthington.
Rhoda raised herself on her pillow and looked interested.
"I don't exactly know what you mean," said she. "Tell me, please."
"I think, my dear, that our heavenly Father has placed us here and given to each his or her allotted task, and that he keeps us here till we have finished it. Or to change the figure, this life is a kind of school-room in which we have each our lessons to learn. Some are hard, some are easy, but we must stay in the school-room till we have learned them as well as we are able. Then he lets us go home. My dear girls finished theirs very early. Mine, you see, takes longer, and yours are not done yet, though you have, as I may say, seen the door opened. You have your education to complete, and so you must stay."
Rhoda sighed again. The word "education" had sad associations for her.
"I thought I was going away to school when I came here," said she. "Mother—I mean Mrs. Bowers—told me so, and I never guessed at anything else. If they had only told me, I don't think I should have minded so much. I wonder if Aunt Hannah thought of it?" she continued, musingly. "I wonder if she thought it probable, and that what made her choose those texts to write in my Bible?"
"What texts?" asked Mrs. Worthington.
"Aunt Hannah gave me a Bible when she went away to the West, and she wrote some texts in it. She made me promise never to forget them. The Bible is there on the table, I believe."
Mrs. Worthington took up the book and read the passages which Miss Weightman had written on the blank leaves.
"These are precious words," said she. "I hope they have comforted you?"
"I am afraid they haven't," answered Rhoda, frankly. "Somehow, I haven't been able to think of anything comforting, only of how I have been treated."
"Ah, my poor child, that is an unprofitable subject of thought. Tell me, have you found grace to forgive Mr. and Mrs. Bowers?"
"No, I haven't—I can't!" said Rhoda, in great agitation. "It is not in human nature to forgive such an injury."
"Our Father requires us to do a great many things which are not in human nature," said Mrs. Worthington.
"I think that is very hard," said Rhoda.
"That depends," returned her friend. "If I give a boy, say, a Latin lesson which is quite beyond his power, and leave him to do it alone, without help, you would say that was very hard?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"But if I give him the same lesson, and say to him, I know very well that you cannot do this alone, but here are lexicons and grammars and commentaries and a translation, and, moreover, I will myself sit down with you and help you over the hard places, would not that alter the case?"
"It certainly would," answered Rhoda. "The boy would have no cause to complain."
"Well, just so our Lord deals with us. He gives us tasks far beyond sour natural powers, but he affords us every help—his word, his example, and his life; and he himself is ready to be with us and help us by his presence and his strength.
"'I am with you alway, even to the end of the world,—'
"I see is one of Aunt Hannah's verses.
"'I can do all things through Christ, which strengtheneth me,—'
"said the apostle, and he might well say so. You can no more make yourself forgiving than you can make yourself well and strong, but you can put yourself into the hands of One who can make you so if you really, honestly desire it."
"I'm afraid that has been the thing," Rhoda. "I haven't felt as if I wanted to forgive. It seems to me—"
"It seems to you a terrible wrong, and so it is," said Mrs. Worthington, as Rhoda paused. "I can hardly think of a greater. They promised to take care of you as their own, and they had no more right to turn you off than if you had been born to them. The first thing you have to do is to ask for the will to forgive; the rest will come in time. You might be worse off than you are here."
"Yes, indeed. Everybody is so kind to me."
"Well, there is one thing to be thankful for, at all events. You may be sure we shall not turn you off. I won't talk to you any more now, but I shall come to see you again. Try to get well as soon as you can."
So saying, Mrs. Worthington kissed Rhoda and went away, leaving the Bible lying open on the bed.
Rhoda took it up and turned the leaves over, reading here and there a passage which she found marked by Aunt Hannah's pencil. Then she lay still a long while with closed eyes and clasped hands, and at last she fell asleep.
She was waked by Mrs. Lambert's coming in with her dinner.
"Is it dinner-time? What a nice sleep I have had!" said Rhoda, rubbing her eyes.
"Good!" said Mrs. Lambert, depositing her tray on the table and bringing a basin of fresh water to the bedside. "If you begin to fall asleep in the day-time, you will sleep at night. Don't you want to wash your face? How do you feel?"
"Better," answered Rhoda, bathing her eyes. "I believe I could sit up and eat my dinner."
"Mrs. Worthington has done you good, I guess," said the nurse, arranging the rocking-chair and helping Rhoda to rise. "She is a real comfort in a sick-room or where any one is in trouble."
"She must have seen a great deal of trouble herself," remarked Rhoda, "losing all her children so. I remember Cathy and Rosy so well—such nice pretty little girls with such red, round cheeks."
"Yes, they all seemed healthy, but they pined and died one after the other. John lived to be a young man in college, and it did seem as if he would be spared, but he fell into a decline and died like the rest."
"And yet she seems so cheerful!" said Rhoda. "I don't see how she can."
"I expect she has to be," remarked Mrs. Lambert. "People that have had such great troubles can't afford to nurse and pet them all the time; they would go crazy if they did. Besides, Mrs. Worthington is always looking out for chances to help and comfort other people, and so she gets helped and comforted herself.
"'He that watereth shall be watered also himself,—'
"you know the good book says. Do you think you are going to be able to sit up?"
"Oh yes I feel a great deal stronger," said Rhoda.
Nevertheless, when Mrs. Lambert came up for the tray, she found her patient quite ready to lie down again.
"I thought I was going to be ever so smart, but I got tired very soon," said Rhoda. "I wonder how I came to lose my strength so?"
"You have been very sick, child; and besides, you had a dreadful shock. It was enough to kill you, I am sure. Can I do any more for you?"
"No, thank you; only, please, will you ask Mrs. Worthington to come in a minute before she goes, if it isn't too much trouble?"
"Oh, she won't think it a trouble. She is sitting with Miss Brown."
"Did you say Miss Brown was sick? I suppose it is the same Miss Brown I remember—the one who always had a little dog?"
"Yes, the very same. She has had a bad fall and broken her leg above the ankle, and Doctor H— says she won't walk again in a good while, if ever. She is an old lady, you see. She is confined to her bed, of course; and as she can't read much lying down, it is pretty dull for her."
"I want to tell you one thing, Mrs. Worthington," said Rhoda when that lady entered: "I don't want you to think that Mr. and Mrs. Bowers ever abused me. They were always as good to me as they could be till the baby was born, and even after that, though they never were quite the same."
"I understand," said Mrs. Worthington.
"I suppose they have never been heard from," said Rhoda, wistfully. "Do they know I have been sick, I wonder?"
"Yes; Mrs. Mulford wrote, but she never had any answer, except that Mr. Bowers sent a box of things for you, and also some money. I am afraid there is nothing to hope for in that quarter, my child."
"I am sure there is not," said Rhoda. "I don't think I should go back, even if they wanted me. I do want to forgive them, and I think I shall, but I can't feel as if I wanted to see them again. But I don't wish people to think them worse than they are."
CHAPTER VI.
MISS BROWN.
"HOW is Miss Brown?" asked Rhoda, one morning, as Mrs. Lambert brought her breakfast. She had been dressed two or three days, and had even gone down to tea the night before, but it was not thought advisable for her to attempt too much at once.
"Well, she is better, so far as the pain goes, but she has pretty dull times, poor old soul! If it was some of the folks, they would fret their heads off; and mine too, but she isn't one of that sort. She never complains."
"I was thinking I might go in and sit with her, if you think she would like to see me," said Rhoda. "I could wait on her and get what she wants, and perhaps read to her."
"Oh, my dear, if you could! It would be a great comfort and save me ever so much trouble. There are so many sick now; and so much to see to, that I have to be here and there and everywhere at once."
"I feel as if I ought to begin doing something," said Rhoda; "I have been waited on long enough. I never knew how much I was in the habit of doing for myself till I was so weak I couldn't walk across the room. Do you know, Mrs. Lambert, I never was confined to my bed a day in all my life before this time? I feel as if I had learned a great deal—as if I had learned how to feel for other people as I never did before."
"Then you have been sick to purpose," said the nurse. "A great many people are sick all their lives and never learn as much as that. But come, eat your breakfast, and then we will go and see Miss Brown."
Miss Brown lay in bed in her pretty neat room with her little black dog beside her, looking so little changed that it seemed to Rhoda as if she had seen the old lady for the last time yesterday, instead of nearly nine years before.
"Rhoda has come to sit with you a while," said Mrs. Lambert. "You remember her, don't you?"
"Oh yes," said Miss Brown, evidently very much pleased. "You have grown into a woman, my dear, but you keep your child's face wonderfully. I should have known you anywhere."
"And I am sure I should have known you," said Rhoda. "You have not changed a bit, nor the room, either. I believe I could tell now exactly which books have pictures in them. I should almost think that dog was old Beauty, though I suppose that can hardly be."
"Oh no; Beauty died several years ago. This is one of her puppies, and she is growing an old dog too. That is the worst of dogs. They will grow old and die."
"I suppose if they lived thirty years, it would be all the harder to part with them," observed Rhoda. "Anyhow, I would rather people should die than they should do some other things."
"Yes, 'a dead sorrow is better than a living one,' the old proverb says. I have always that feeling about the deaths of people that I love, especially young people. They are so safe. They never can change for the worse. But come, sit down and make yourself comfortable, child. What can I find to entertain you?"
"I came to entertain you, and not to be entertained," said Rhoda, smiling. "Shall I read to you? I like to read aloud."
"Yes, do, if you please. There is a new magazine on the table with some interesting articles in it. Mrs. Campion sent it in yesterday."
"Mrs. Campion!" repeated Rhoda. "Don't I remember her? Didn't she have a little girl named Rose?"
"Yes, an adopted child."
"What has become of her?"
"Oh, she is a fine young lady, and is going to be married, they tell me. Mrs. Campion has several others, but Rosy has always been the pet, I think."
Rhoda sighed deeply, but said nothing. She read for a long time, till Miss Brown said,—
"There! That will do. I am sure you must be tired. Besides, I want to ask you about some people I used to know in Boonville—the Weightmans. Hannah Weightman was one of my intimate friends when we both went to the Phelps academy fifty years ago. Is she alive, do you know?"
"Aunt Hannah Weightman? Yes, indeed—at least she was a few weeks ago," said Rhoda.
"Why do you call her aunt?" asked Miss Brown.
"She was Mrs. Bowers's aunt, you know," said Rhoda; "I was always taught to call her so. She was my Sunday-school teacher all the time I lived in Boonville. Oh, what would I give to see her?" said Rhoda, her eyes filling with sudden tears. "Oh, I wonder what she said when she came back and found me gone?"
"Then she did not know of it—of this change, I mean?"
"No, ma'am, she was away. I don't believe it would have happened if she had been at home. And yet I don't know. She never had half as much influence as Uncle Jacob, though she is so good and knows so much. Uncle Jacob don't know about anything but money, and don't care for anything else, but everybody gives way to him because he is rich. No, not everybody, either, but some people do. I heard Jeduthun Cooke say to him,—
"'Mr. Weightman, I'd rather be Sammy Makay than you any day.'
"You see, Sammy is a kind of natural, but just as good as he can be.
"'I'd rather be Sammy than you,' said Jeduthun, 'whether you take it now or a hundred years from now.'
"Oh how angry Uncle Jacob was! He tried to make Mr. Francis discharge Jeduthun, but Mr. Francis would almost as soon burn down the mills."
"And what did Uncle Jacob say to your coming away?" asked Miss Brown, with an appearance of interest.
"I believe it was all his fault," said she. "He never could bear me when I first went there, and I remember his saying he wouldn't let that poorhouse girl call him 'Uncle.' I didn't think so much of it at the time; but now that I think matters over, I can see that it was his doing. He never could bear to have Aunt Hannah give me anything, and I know he made Mr. and Mrs. Bowers think he wouldn't leave them or the baby any money unless they sent me away. Mother—Mrs. Bowers, I mean—used to be always talking about the money he had, and how he could make baby rich. I told her one day that he wouldn't do it—that he would go on saving all his life, and then leave his property to some charity at last by way of making amends."
"It is likely enough," said Miss Brown, sighing. "Is his wife living?"
"Oh no; she died long ago."
"What kind of woman was she?"
"I asked Aunt Hannah once, and she said,—
"'Harriet was one of the salt of the earth, if she had only been in the right place.'
"Afterward mother told me that Aunt Harriet was an open-handed, liberal woman, but that she and her husband were not happy together. Did you know Mr. Weightman?"
"Yes, I knew him when we were all young together," answered Miss Brown, sighing again, "though he is several years older than I am. My dear, have you written to your aunt since you have been here?"
"No, ma'am," answered Rhoda, rather proudly; "I waited for her to write to me."
"And has she not done so?"
"No, ma'am, not a word."
"Perhaps—it is just possible she does not know where you are," said Miss Brown. "Miss Carpenter told me that when you left home you thought you were coming to school. Isn't it just possible that the same idea may have been carried there?"
"And that Aunt Hannah thinks I am at school all the time?" said Rhoda, starting and dropping her book. "I dare say she does. And yet it would be so mean, I don't like to think they would do so."
"Nevertheless, I would write to her," said Miss Brown, thinking at the same time that the people who would play such a trick on an orphan child would be none too good to save appearances for themselves in the same way. "She may be wondering why you do not write to her."
"Yes, it must seem very strange if she thinks I am at school, and—Why, of course she does," exclaimed Rhoda. "How silly I am! I wrote to her that they were thinking of sending me to school in Milby, but it was not settled yet. But would you tell her all about it?"
"I would. Truth is always best in the end, and she will be sure to hear it somehow. Besides, you owe it to her. But don't write to-day. You are tired and excited, and must not undertake too much at once. Lean back in the chair or lie down on the couch and rest a while."
"May I bring my writing things in here, Miss Brown?" asked Rhoda the next day, coming into Miss Brown's room with her desk in her hands.
"Yes, do, my child. Are you going to write to your aunt?"
"Yes, ma'am. I have been considering about it, and I asked Miss Carpenter, and she said I should write by all means."
"You can take that little table by the window," said Miss Brown. "I like to have you sit where I can see you. What a pretty little desk you have!"
"It was given me last Christmas," said Rhoda, sadly. "I little thought then where I should be when Christmas came round again."
"We can none of us tell that, my child."
"I asked mother whether I should come home at Christmas, and she said it would be just as the teachers thought best," said Rhoda, after she had finished her letter, taking out her work and sitting down in the arm-chair by the bed. "I don't think I ever was happier in my life than I was that very morning. I was so pleased with the thought of going to school, for I had set my heart on having a good education. But that is all over now," she added, sighing. "I must put it all out of my head."
"Why?" asked Miss Brown.
"Because I never shall have any chance," answered Rhoda. "I suppose I shall have to go to work and earn my own living."
"That need not prevent your getting an education," said Miss Brown. "If I were you, I would set my heart on it more than ever, and improve every chance I had. You need not be uneducated because you don't go to school. Mrs. Thomas Conroy, who used to have the charge of Miss Dickey's orphan asylum, was one of the most cultivated women I ever knew, and she never went to school after she was twelve."
"But what chances shall I be likely to have?" asked Rhoda, doubtfully.
"Plenty of them," answered Miss Brown, smiling. "You are likely to have your home here for some time—at least as long as there are so many sick and helpless. Why shouldn't you learn some lessons and recite them to me as I lie here doing nothing?"
"That would be delightful," said Rhoda, with a little of her old animation; "only I am afraid it would give you too much trouble."
"On the contrary, it would be a great amusement to me," said Miss Brown. "Oh no; don't give up the idea of an education, but make up your mind to improve every opportunity you have, be it ever so small, and you will be sure to succeed."
"One can do a good deal in that way," said Rhoda. "I learned all the music I know by practising on Fanny Badger's piano when I was up there."
"Then you can play a little?"
"Yes, ma'am—several pieces; and I have played in Sunday-school sometimes, but I suppose I shall lose it all. I wonder," exclaimed Rhoda—"I wonder whether I might practise sometimes on the little piano down stairs? I don't believe I should hurt it; do you?"
"I should say there was very little danger," answered Miss Brown, dryly. "You can ask Miss Carpenter about it. There is a lady in the house—Miss Wilkins—who plays the piano. I dare say she might help you along with your music. Meantime, let us talk a little about these same lessons. Tell me what you have studied."
The lessons were arranged without any trouble. Miss Brown produced a good collection of solid, old-fashioned books, remains of her father's library, and she was herself a well-educated woman, who had read much and thought more. Rhoda was to learn a geometry lesson every day, and to continue her readings in Rollin, which she had brought away with her, and Miss Brown, who had a reverence for the wisdom of our ancestors, set her to writing out the exercises in Lindley Murray's English grammar.
Miss Carpenter was at first a good deal startled by the proposition that Rhoda should use the piano and take lessons of Miss Wilkins, and would give no answer till she had consulted Mrs. Mulford.
Mrs. Mulford was rather surprised and amused, but could see no objection.
"We have everything else at 'The Home,' and I don't know why we shouldn't have a few music-lessons," said she. "It will amuse poor Miss Wilkins, and can do the child no harm that I can see."
"It may make some talk," said Miss Carpenter. "I know remarks have been made because some of the old ladies go in and out of the front door. They say it shows such a spirit of pride in people who are living on charity."
"They may as well say that as anything else," said Mrs. Mulford. "If they didn't come in at the front door, we should hear of the oppression exercised in making them go round the back way."
So it was all settled. Miss Wilkins got out her old instruction-books, and revived her own knowledge in teaching Rhoda. She was a gentle, cultivated woman, the daughter of an English clergyman, who, after a life of governessing in different places, had drifted into this safe haven to spend the rest of her days. She was sometimes rather shocked, and even a little alarmed, at the boldness of Rhoda's opinions and the freedom with which she expressed them, but she soon learned to love her pupil, who loved her heartily in return, and respected her as well, for Rhoda was one of the happy people who are capable of respect; and the two did each other a great deal of good.
Rhoda posted her letter to Aunt Hannah and after waiting a week or two she wrote again, but she never received any answer. Why she did not we shall learn in the next chapter.
CHAPTER VII.
AFFAIRS AT BOONVILLE.
WHEN Aunt Hannah came home, which she did about three weeks after Rhoda's departure, her first question Was about Rhoda.
"She wrote me she was going to school in Milby," she said to Jeduthun Cooke, whom she had met at the station, and who had offered to take her home in his buggy.
"Oh, she did?" said Jeduthun, in something like a tone of relief. "Well, I'm glad to hear you say so. It's all right, then."
"All right? What do you mean, Jeduthun? Of course it's all right. What should be wrong?"
"Oh, nothing," said Jeduthun. "I thought all the time it was nothing but talk; but some of the folks over at the Springs, and even at Boonville, say that it is all stuff about her going to school—that John Bowers just took her to 'The Home' where he got her first and left her there."
"I dare say he did," answered Miss Weightman. "Rhoda told me in her letter that there was talk of her boarding at 'The Home' till she could find some other place."
"Oh, well, I dare say it's all right. I hope so, I'm sure, for Rhoda is as nice a girl as ever lived, and I'd hate to think John Bowers would do such a mean thing. Here comes Uncle Jacob now."
"So you've caught a ride, I see," said Uncle Jacob. "I calculated to meet you, but I had business that kept me a spell, and this old horse hain't got any go in him. I don't see what ails him."
"I do," said Jeduthun, who stood no ways in awe of the rich man, and knew his own value too well to be afraid of consequences; "I can see it right through his ribs. Put some oats into him, Mr. Weightman; that's the best medicine for his disease."
"You might as well go on since you have got started," said Mr. Weightman, not noticing Jeduthun's remark on his steed. "I've got business over at the Springs, and may not be home till dark."
"I guess you won't, according to appearances," chuckled Jeduthun. "I sha'n't charge her anything for the ride, you may be sure," alluding to a current story that Mr. Weightman had once asked a poor woman to ride to the Springs with him and then charged her two shillings.
"I suppose one way the story got out about Rhoda was this," remarked Jeduthun, after they had gone on a little way in silence: "Mr. Badger, at the post-office, remarked that nobody got letters from Rhoda. You see she promised to write to Fanny Badger and Flora Fairchild and two or three of the girls, and they kept coming after letters, and didn't get any.
"'It's very strange, pa,' says Fanny one day.
"'It ain't any more strange than that she don't write to her own folks,' says Mr. Badger, 'and they hain't had one letter from her since she went away: I know Rhoda's writing,' says he, 'and I know there hasn't been one.'
"Then at that minute, Mr. Bowers came in, and Flora Fairchild, she asks him when he had heard from Rhoda.
"And he colours up, and says, 'Well, not very lately. I expect she don't have much time to write letters.'
"And he turned and was going away without his mail, till Mr. Badger called him back, he seemed so kind of confused. And the next day Aunty Fairchild was over to the Springs, and she heard it from some one that knew her that Rhoda was living at 'The Home.' But if she is boarding there to go to school, it's all right, of course."
"Of course," echoed Aunt Hannah, but she did not feel perfectly easy. She said to herself half a dozen times during the five miles' ride that it was all nonsense—that John and Maria never would do such a thing in the world, and it was a shame even to think it of them; but she felt all the same that it would be a great comfort to hear from themselves that Rhoda was well and happy at school.
Her adopted grand-niece had crept very near the old woman's warm heart during these last years. She had done more to form Rhoda's mind than any one else, and she understood the girl far better than her adopted parents.
"It would kill the child or drive her to something desperate," she said to herself; "but it can't be. I am an old fool, and am just worrying myself for nothing."
Nevertheless, when she at last reached home, her first inquiry of Aunt Sarah for the Bowers family and Rhoda.
"Oh, Rhoda; well, I don't know," answered the old woman. "They tell all kinds of stories, but I dare say there isn't no truth in 'em. Some say she has gone to school—some say Bowers has took her back to 'The Home,' or done worse. I don't know nothing about it. I've asked Mis' Bowers two or three times, but she always seems dreadful shy of saying anything about Rhoda. The girl herself thought she was going to school, I know, for she came down here and told me so the night before she went away.
"'What school are you going to?' says I.
"'I don't know,' says she. 'Pa says he can't tell till he gets there,' says she.
"Well, I thought that was queer too, not to know where she was going to school, but I never thought no more about it till I heard these stories."
"I can't think there is anything in the stories," said Aunt Hannah. "It is just village talk. Have any letters come for me?'
"Yes, a lot. Here they are in this drawer. I've been to the office every day."
Aunt Hannah looked them over.
There was one from the grocer who bought her catsup and pickles every year, one or two from missionary friends and others, but no letter from Rhoda.
"There must be something wrong," she said to herself; "and yet perhaps she is waiting to hear that I have got home."
"The Bowerses are all gone away and their house is shut up," said Aunt Sarah, "but I heard Kissy Cooke say they was coming home Saturday. Hasn't the kitten growed?"
The days went on, and still no letter came from Rhoda, but on Saturday, Keziah Cooke stopped in and brought one.
"John Bowers has got home," said she; "I've just been up and opened the house for them, and I stayed to get tea, for the baby ain't very well, and Mrs. Bowers seemed kind of beat out. I was coming by the office, and Mr. Badger handed me that letter for you. It's from Rhoda, ain't it?"
"Yes," said Miss Weightman.
She opened the letter as she spoke and reading a few lines, she dropped the paper and clasped her hands with such a look of pain and distress that Keziah sprang to catch her, thinking she was going to faint.
"There! Sit down and let me get you a glass of water," said she. "What is it? Is she dead?"
"No, no!" said Miss Weightman as soon as she could speak. "I could almost wish she were. Keziah, they have turned the poor girl off—sent her back to 'The Home.' She thought to the last minute she was going to school. She has been very sick, she tells me, and is only now getting about again."
"Well," said Keziah, with emphasis, "I know one thing: I wouldn't be in their place for something. If they don't bring a curse on themselves and their child, I don't know anything. And she all the same as their own for so many years. Poor dear! No wonder she was sick. I hope the folks were kind to her."
"She says they were," said Aunt Hannah, recurring to the letter. "She says she was very low—that they thought she would die, and wrote to Mrs. Bowers, but had no answer. She has found a friend in one of the old ladies. Dear me! To think of Anne Brown being in a 'Home.' She was very well off in a house of her own the last I knew of her.
"'She has been very kind to me, as has everybody else,' Rhoda writes.
'She thinks I had better tell you all about it. Oh, aunty, do come and
see me if you can.'"
"You will go, won't you?" said Keziah.
"Indeed I shall, and bring the child home with me," said Aunt Hannah. "While I have a roof over my head, that child shall never be dependent on a public charity. I will go to-morrow."
"Jeduthun is going over to Shortsville, and can take you to the train as well as not, if you don't mind an early start," said Keziah, full of kindly sympathy, and at the same time not insensible to the pleasure of having authentic news of Rhoda to tell Mrs. Antis and her other friends. "Well, I never could have believed that of Mrs. Bowers. I wonder whether Rhoda did anything to displease them? I always thought she was one of the steadiest, piousest, best young girls in the whole town. I know, when she joined church last winter, Mr. Maynard said he never seen a young girl of her age that seemed to have a more realizing sense of religion than she had. Well, when her father and mother forsake her, the Lord 'll take her up. He don't never get tired of his adopted ones; that's one comfort, ain't it?"
"It is indeed," said Aunt Hannah. "I am sure Rhoda is one of his little ones. Just now I must say I feel worse for John and Maria than for the child. She will have a home with me as long as I live, and it will go hard but I will contrive to educate her, so that she can provide for herself when I am gone."
"Where are you going now?" asked Keziah as the old lady went into her bedroom and came out with her bonnet on.
"I am going up to see Maria," answered Aunt Hannah. "I must know the whole story before I sleep. Remember, we have only heard one side as yet."
"I'm afraid there ain't but one side to hear," said Keziah. "I know I wondered to see how confused and kind of angry Mrs. Bowers seemed every time anybody asked her about Rhoda. Poor thing! No wonder she didn't write to any of the girls. I'll walk with you, Miss Hannah, if you don't mind."
For as Keziah said when speaking of it next day, "I mistrusted the old lady might want help. I didn't like her looks. She was just as gray as ashes for a while and when her colour came again, it was all on one side of her face. She was getting an old woman, you see, and her heart was dreadful set on Rhoda."
"Why, Aunt Hannah! Who expected to see you here so soon?" said Mrs. Bowers as her aunt entered.
"Maria," said Miss Weightman, without any reply to the greeting, "what have you done with Rhoda?"
"Rhoda? Oh, she is at school," answered Mrs. Bowers, trying very unsuccessfully to speak as if nothing were the matter. "You know she always wanted to go to school."
"Don't lie to me, child!" said Aunt Hannah, so sternly that Maria started and turned pale. "I know that she is not at school. I have just had a letter from her. What has she done that she is turned off in this way?"
"I never said she had done anything," answered Mrs. Bowers, beginning to cry. "I think it is too bad if I am to be called a liar in my own house. I am sure I never said one word against Rhoda; but when we had one of our own, it was different. And Uncle Jacob was always at us about her, and he said we needn't expect anything from him unless we would be guided by him; and an adopted child isn't the same as one's own."
"It is, if possible, a more sacred charge," said Aunt Hannah. "Oh, Jacob, could not you be satisfied with destroying your own soul without bringing on yourself and these the curse of the orphan?"
"I am sure it was all his fault," whimpered Mrs. Bowers; "and we had a right to do it. And the ladies at 'The Home' treated John shamefully. And I think Rhoda ought to be ashamed to abuse us so."
"She has not abused you, nor will she do so, Maria; but the punishment will surely come, I fear. The wealth for which you and your husband have sold yourselves will eat as a canker if ever it is yours. You are bound—sold under sin, and the wages of sin is death. You have cast off the child you solemnly promised to cherish as your own. Do you think your boy will be the better for it? Do you think, if you were taken away, you would like to have him turned over to public charity? You and your husband have committed a grievous sin; and unless you repent, your sin will rise against you in the judgment day. What will you say when you are asked for the child which you were permitted to take into your charge?"
"Aunt Hannah, I'll thank you to let my wife alone," said Mr. Bowers, who had hitherto sat silent. "I don't think it is any of your business. We took Rhoda and we have given her up again, and she is no worse off than she was before."
"And I am sure we gave her five new dresses and ever so many underclothes, and John sent her all her things that she left here when she went away," sobbed Mrs. Bowers. "I think it is a shame that I should be talked to so."
"I shall say no more to you, Maria, nor to you, John," said Aunt Hannah, recovering her calmness. "Rhoda is henceforth my charge. I shall go to the city to-morrow and bring her home with me. Though I am not rich and never shall be, my precious child shall not be left to strangers while I have a loaf or a dollar to divide."
"And then everybody will know the whole story, and there will be no end of a fuss and a scandal," said Mrs. Bowers.
"There will be that at any rate," answered Aunt Hannah. "Do you think you can do such a thing and not have everybody know it? I heard the story before I had been off the cars ten minutes, but I would not believe it till I had the child's own letter."
"What do you think Uncle Jacob will say to you?" asked Mr. Bowers.
"I neither know nor care. I am not accountable to Jacob, nor in any way dependent on him. I want nothing that he has to give. Ah, John, John, you have made the greatest mistake of your life."
"Well, I don't know but I have, Aunt Hannah," said Mr. Bowers. "Sometimes I have thought so. It was more Maria's doing than mine, any way. Only that I didn't know what she might say, I believe I should have given up at the last minute and brought Rhoda home with me."
"Oh yes, 'It was all Maria!' It is always 'The woman whom thou gavest to be with me,'" said Aunt Hannah. "That excuse was one of the first fruits of the fall, and it will be one of the last."
"Well, you know, Aunt Hannah, I really couldn't have the girl here unless Maria was willing," said Mr. Bowers, with some show of reason. "Rhoda was a good girl, and I was very fond of her; but, after all, our own had the first claim. But I do wish you would reconsider this matter before you bring the girl back to make a talk and a fuss. She is well enough off where she is, and she is sure to make friends."
"She has made one Friend who I am afraid is not yours, John—even the Friend that sticketh closer than a brother, and who has said,—
"'Leave thy fatherless children, I will preserve them alive.'
"Oh, why didn't you tell me what you meant to do? Then the poor child might have been spared some part of this distress which has almost cost her life."
"Well, Uncle Jacob thought it would only make a fuss; and besides—Come, Aunt Hannah, do take a second thought before you send for Rhoda. Second thoughts are always best, you know."
"I know people say so, but I don't believe it," said Aunt Hannah. "I believe, when any person habitually tries to be governed by a sense of duty, the first thought is almost always the right thought. But there is no use in talking to me on this matter. I can't consider you at all. I shall go to town to-morrow morning, and if possible bring Rhoda home with me. You have done what you saw fit, and you must take the consequences. They are nothing to me. I can only pray that you may be brought to a better mind, and that the sins of the parents may not be visited on the children."
When Aunt Hannah went home, she found that Keziah had lighted her fire and got her tea all ready.
"I thought you'd be kind of tired and done over, and wouldn't feel like getting supper," said Kissy, who was aching with curiosity to learn the result of the interview, though she had too much delicacy to ask any questions. "I guess I'll go along now, for 'Duthun will want his supper; but if you don't mind, I'll just run round again before bedtime—say about nine o'clock—and see how you are. You might be took faint again."
"Do," said Miss Hannah; "and, Kissy, bring Jeduthun with you. I want to see him."
When she was left alone, even before she drank her tea, Aunt Hannah went to her desk and took out a paper. She sat down and wrote about half a page, apparently referring to the other as she did so. Then she tore up the first and burned the pieces; and leaving the other on the desk, she sat down to her tea.
As Keziah and her husband were finishing their supper, which was rather later than usual, there was a knock at the door, which was opened before Jeduthun could reach it by Mr. Bowers.
"For mercy's sake, Kissy, come to my aunt!" he exclaimed. "And, Jeduthun, you run for the doctor. I'm afraid Aunt Hannah is dead."
"Is any one there?" asked Kissy as they hurried toward the house.
"Only Uncle Jacob. We went over together, and found her sitting by her desk leaning back in her chair. She was at our house not two hours ago."
"I know," said Kissy. "She wasn't well, though. It shook her dreadfully when she got that letter. I thought she would faint away then. It's gone to her heart, I expect."
Aunt Hannah was indeed gone to her long home. She had died sitting in her chair, apparently without pain. Uncle Jacob at once took possession of the house and gave all the orders about the funeral on a liberal scale.
"She sha'n't say that I didn't do what was right by her," he muttered to himself. "The will wasn't signed, so it wasn't worth anything in law, and I don't believe she was in her right mind. I'll send all her clothes to that girl, and that's more than she had any right to in law; but I will do it. Yes, she shall have the clothes."
"After all, I don't know that I am sorry," said Mrs. Bowers to her husband. "Aunt Hannah was an old woman, any way, and it would have been very awkward to have Rhoda back here. I wonder how she has left her property?"
"There wasn't any will, so it all goes to Uncle Jacob," said Mr. Bowers. "I expected to hear she had left it to Rhoda. It is odd that there should have been no will. She was always so particular about business. Uncle Jacob says he shall send Rhoda all her clothes. I am glad of that."
"I don't see why he should. Rhoda has enough of her own. But they won't amount to much, Aunt Hannah always dressed so plainly."
"She was always giving away. Uncle Jacob says she has sent over four hundred dollars to foreign missions, besides all she has done at home. Well, I hope it will all turn out for the best, that's all."
There was a great wonderment in the little village when it came to be known that Aunt Hannah had died without a will. Two or three people had known of her making one some years before, and did not scruple to hint that Uncle Jacob had destroyed it to get possession of the place, but nobody could prove anything.
Of course Keziah told everybody about Rhoda, and how her aunt had meant to take her home.
Mr. and Mrs. Bowers found themselves in anything but an enviable position, and at last Mr. Bowers sold out his interest in the mills and went to Hobarttown to live, so that Rhoda's last tie to Boonville was cut off.
CHAPTER VIII.
A NEW HOME.
THE news of Aunt Hannah's death was a dreadful shock to Rhoda. She had looked to her return with a vague but strong hope that somehow the old lady would set matters right. She had felt so sure of seeing her, especially since she had made up her mind to write, and her heart had throbbed faster every time the door-bell rung. Now it was all over. Aunt Hannah was gone, and she felt herself indeed alone in the world.
"After all, if it was to be so, I am glad she died instead of changing like the others," said she to Miss Brown. "If mother had died when baby was born, I should not have been half so sorry about her as I am now."
"Ah, my dear, there are few people who might not say that of some one," said Miss Brown, sighing. "But, Rhoda, would there have been nothing to regret then?"
"Not on her side," answered Rhoda. "I soon found out that mother was not the wisest woman that ever lived, but she was always kind to me. I don't believe any child ever was happier or better taken care of than I was for those eight years."
"Then you have at least that much for which to thank Mrs. Bowers," remarked Miss Brown, "since she gave you eight years of happiness."
"Yes, I suppose so," said Rhoda, thoughtfully; "and yet, somehow, this last business seems to have blotted out all the rest. I could find it in my heart to wish they had let me alone."
"I understand you," said her friend; "but, Rhoda, you must try to forgive as you would be forgiven."
"Indeed, I do, Miss Brown," said Rhoda, earnestly. "You don't know how much I pray for a forgiving spirit, and sometimes I think I have it, but then again the tide comes up and sweeps it all away."
"That is the way with everybody, child. We have to fight our battles over and over again."
"It is very strange that Aunt Hannah left no will," said Rhoda, recurring again to Mr. Weightman's letter. "He says that as his sister left no will, the property returns to the rightful owner—himself, I suppose he means: that he sends me her clothes and some other things, though I have no right, in law, to anything. I don't understand it, for I am sure that Aunt Hannah had made a will at one time. You don't suppose Mr. Weightman can have destroyed it, do you?"
"I think not. He would hardly have ventured on such a crime. Aunt Hannah may have destroyed it herself, thinking that she would make another. You know she died very suddenly."
"I don't know. Mr. Weightman would do almost anything for the sake of money, I think," said Rhoda. "It was all he cared about. It was that which spoiled mother more than anything else. She got to think, as Uncle Jacob did, that money was everything, and she was jealous of everybody better off than herself. She used to vex me talking about Aunt Annie—aunt is her sister. She said Annie was so worldly and extravagant, though I don't think she was, and she said she should think Annie would feel ashamed to wear so diamonds and keep so many servants when her own sister had none.
"I don't think that she loved money so much for its own sake as because she thought it made people respected and looked up to. She said nobody cared for poor folks—they never were respected; and she used to fancy that people felt above her. I know Mrs. Swan came to see her from the Springs, and she never would return the call, because she said Mrs. Swan came in a handsome silk dress and a sable cloak, and she had nothing to wear but a merino."
"It is a poor kind of spirit, but one meets it everywhere," said Miss Brown. "Mrs. Merchant won't sit next Mrs. Smithers on Sunday because Mrs. Smithers wears her black silk dress to tea."
Rhoda had several letters from the girls in Boonville, and one from Mrs. Antis offering to give her a home till she could do better. Rhoda thanked her friend, but declined the invitation.
"I couldn't do it," she said to Miss Carpenter, to whom she showed the letter. "Mrs. Antis is very kind, but I think it would break my heart to go back there now."
Miss Carpenter sympathized with the feeling, and was secretly glad that Rhoda did not want to go away.
"I should hardly know how to do without her, and that is the truth," said she to Mrs. Mulford, one day when the two were talking over matters in the house.
"She makes herself useful, then?"
"Oh yes, indeed, she does. Not that she accomplishes so very much work, but she is always at hand, and always ready to help when she is wanted. Even when I have to call her away from her book or her music to do an errand or to sit with somebody, she is just as pleasant about it as can be.
"And she is one of the kind who save steps instead of making them. When she waits on the old ladies at table, which she offered to do of her own accord, she is always on the watch to see whose cup is out or who wants anything; and if Mrs. Gardener or Mrs. Pratt wants to rise—you know neither of them can get up alone—Rhoda's arm is always there ready. Now, Jenny means to do right, for aught I know, as much as Rhoda, but you have always got to tell her. She don't anticipate one as Rhoda does."
"I am glad to hear such a good account of the child," said Mrs. Mulford. "I was a little afraid she might be 'stuck up,' as they say; and I have not felt quite sure about the effects of these lessons. Miss Brown tells me that she is an excellent scholar. I wish we could keep her here and give her a good education, but I don't see any way to do it. We have stretched a point in keeping her as long as we have. I am afraid she must go to a place pretty soon."
"I am sure I hope it will be a good one, then," said Miss Carpenter. "That is the worst of our little girls. As soon as we have made them worth something, we have to let them go."
"Is that Rhoda playing?" asked Mrs. Mulford as the sound of a piano reached her ears.
"Yes; she practises every day. I think she would make a good player if she had a chance, but the piano is a poor old thing, and some of the old ladies complain of the noise; so Rhoda doesn't play as much as she would like to."
"Well, I must see what can be done, but I fear it won't answer to keep her here much longer. People say now that the funds are misapplied and the old ladies half starved. I should think any one might see that they are not badly used by the way they live on after they come to us. Mrs. Pratt was nearly eighty when she came to 'The Home,' and she has been here ten years."
"It's her good temper keeps her alive," said Miss Carpenter.
"And what do you think keeps Aunty Parsons alive? Not her good temper, I am sure."
"She has got in the habit of living just as she has of smoking, and she doesn't know how to leave it off," said Mrs. Lambert, who, though the most faithful and untiring of nurses, was by no means so placid as Miss Carpenter. "I believe she will wear me out before she dies herself. Well, we shall dislike to have Rhoda go away but perhaps, if she has to earn her living, the earlier she sets about it, the better. She is a girl sure to make friends wherever she goes—that is one thing."
The box containing Aunt Hannah's clothes arrived in due time, and Rhoda shed many tears over its contents, particularly over her aunt's Bible, which she was delighted to find among the things. On turning it over, she found a two-dollar and a twenty-five-cent bill concealed among the leaves, and showed them to Miss Brown.
"That money will just do to get you a new pair of shoes with," said Mrs. Parsons, who happened to be in the room at the time. "Some folks has all the luck. Nobody never sends me no money."
"No," said Rhoda; "I know Aunt Hannah put them in there for the missionary collection; this paper with them says so. That is the way she used to do. I mean to get Miss Carpenter to change the money and keep it to carry to church."
"That's a good notion, Rhody," said Miss Dean, another old lady, who had always taken a great interest in Rhoda. "It is strange, now, how Providence orders things," she continued, reflectively. "Last week I was worrying because I hadn't a speck of money to send to the children's hospital fund—and I always did feel such an interest in that object—and when I was at the worst, my grandnephew came in to see me and gave me five dollars for a present—he's a dreadful openhearted boy, Daniel is; just like my father—so there I had a dollar to send to the hospital directly."
"Everything comes right for you, don't it, aunty?" asked Rhoda, smiling.
"Well, yes, child, pretty much."
"I'm sure I shouldn't think it came very right when you had to be turned out of your room," said Mrs. Parsons, who, like most grumblers, resented Miss Dean's contentment as an affront to herself.
"Well, yes, it did. I was sorry to lose my closet, but then I had a wardrobe and a register to myself; and then it's a great saving of my strength not to have to go up and down stairs; and when grandmother was put into my room, I did feel favoured, indeed."
"How is grandmother?"
"Well, her eyes trouble her some, but she is pretty smart for a woman a hundred and one years old. But I must go, for I promised to make a cap for Miss Carpenter to-day."
"And I must go too," said Rhoda, starting. "Miss Wilkins will wonder what has become of me."
Rhoda's lessons were not to be uninterrupted much longer. As Mrs. Mulford remarked, the managers had stretched a point in keeping her so long, since she was quite well again and her services were really not needed in the house. The funds of the institution were strictly tied up to two special objects—the maintenance of the old women and of the eight little girls, who were to be put out to places at the age of fifteen. Miss Carpenter often regretted this law, saying that it obliged them to part with the girls just at the wrong time.
"Just when they begin to be most useful to us, and when they need the most care," said she. "Fifteen is about the last age when a girl should be thrown on her own resources. She is usually a good deal better able to take care of herself at ten."
However, the law was a law, and could not be altered. Rhoda was past sixteen, a stout, healthy, capable girl, and some people had already begun to talk about favouritism, etc., in the amiable strain in which many persons who do nothing whatever for their fellow-creatures are apt to criticise those who are trying to do a little. It was decided that Rhoda must go, and it fell to the lot of Mrs. Mulford to tell her of the decision.
Poor Rhoda felt as if she were being once more torn up by the roots. She had taken her first transplanting hardly enough, but she had, as it were, become settled in the new soil, and had struck out rootlets and tendrils. She had said to herself more than once that it must come to this some day—that of course she must expect to work for her living; but as the days and weeks went on, and nothing was said about a change, the idea had fallen into the background of her mind. She felt herself once more at home; and when Mrs. Mulford mentioned the matter, which she did very kindly, Rhoda burst into tears and cried bitterly.
Mrs. Mulford was rather annoyed. She had done her best to find a place for Rhoda, and she disliked anything like a scene. Moreover, she did not quite understand Rhoda's feelings, so she delivered her a little lecture on false pride.
"You ought to be thankful for all that has been done for you already," said she, in conclusion. "Come, now, dry up your tears, and look at it like a sensible girl."
"I am sure I am thankful," said Rhoda, trying to compose herself. "I know how kind everybody has been, and it was very good in you to find me a nice place; but—but it came over me so suddenly. It seems somehow to make me feel the change more than anything. And I did so want to get an education," said the poor girl, with a fresh burst of tears as the sense of her disappointment overcame her; "I have set my heart on it all my life. I wouldn't care how hard I worked for it."
"Yes, yes, I understand," said Mrs. Mulford. "I will try to find you a place where you can work for your board and go to school by and by; but really I think you can't do better than to accept this one at present. It is not so distant but that you can come home pretty often—for you must always consider this house your home, my dear; and the wages are good—two dollars a week. You can be laying up money, you see, and by and by you may be able to accomplish your object. You have a pretty good stock of clothes, have you not?"
"Oh yes, ma'am, all I shall want this long time."
"And some money beforehand, I think Miss Carpenter said?"
"Yes, ma'am—twenty dollars. But I thought perhaps I ought to pay that for my board here."
"Oh dear, no!" said Mrs. Mulford, secretly very much pleased with the suggestion. "You have done quite enough to pay for your board since you have been here. I think you had better put your money in the savings bank, as you don't want to use it. Then it will be safe and drawing interest, and one is not so much tempted to spend money when one has to go to the bank for it, as I know by experience," she added, smiling. "I will go to the bank with you and get you a book, and you can deposit what part of your wages you don't want to use; and by and by you will find yourself with quite a little capital—enough to go to school on for some time."
"And perhaps I may have time to study where I am going," said Rhoda, brightening up a little at these suggestions.
"I dare say you may, if you are quick; though you must remember that your time is your employer's, and not slight your work. Mrs. Ferrand is a reasonable woman in the main, and won't expect too much of you. My Jane has half the time to herself—at least three days in the week; though I am afraid she spends very little time in studying. She likes to run in the street better than anything. Miss Carpenter tells me that you don't care very much about going out."
"I haven't anywhere to go," said Rhoda, sighing a little. "When will Mrs. Ferrand want me?"
"As soon as you can be ready. She usually keeps two girls, but has nobody at present."
Rhoda was not sorry to hear this, for one of the things she had dreaded was the being obliged to associate with uncongenial people, and she secretly resolved that she would do all in her power to make another girl unnecessary. The prospect of being able to save money for her great object was another comfort. Nevertheless, it was not very strange that after Mrs. Mulford had gone, Rhoda should shut herself up in her room and have a good cry.
But Rhoda, young as she was, had learned the way to the only spring of comfort and peace. She recurred to Aunt Hannah's verses written in the beginning of her precious Bible, and by degrees she was able to say honestly and from her heart,—
"'Not my will, but thine, be done.'"
There was a great outcry in the house when it was known that Rhoda was going away. Her quiet helpfulness and cheerfulness had greatly endeared her to the old ladies, and Miss Brown had come to depend very much upon her.
Granny Parsons declared that "it wasn't no more than she expected. She always knew that Rhoda's pride would have a fall, with her music-lessons and her history-books, thinking herself a young lady, when she wasn't nothing but a charity child." Then turning round with a rapidity quite her own, she declared that it was "a shame and a sin to make the poor girl live out, just as if the ladies couldn't afford to support her when they was perfectly rolling in money. It was all of a piece—just some of Mrs. Lambert's doing, because she, Mrs. Lambert, knew that granny liked her best of any gal in the house. Just like her taking away my bottle of whisky with cherry bark into it—the only thing that is any comfort to me."
"Because the doctor said it wasn't good for you," said Mrs. Josleyn. "He said 'twas that made your eyes sore."
"Just as if he knew anything! I knew his father when he wasn't nothing but a hired man, living out with old Mr. Mellener. A likely story he knows what's good for folks!"
"Well, Rhody, so we are going to lose you, I hear?" said Miss Dean. "I'm real sorry, but I suppose it is all ordered for the best. You are a good girl, and I'm sure the Lord will take care of you. Now, let me give you one bit of advice, because I'm older than you, and I've seen a great deal of the world in one place and another. I dare say you will find some things not quite pleasant—one does everywhere; but you just make up your mind to take the bitter with the sweet, and don't throw away your dinner because you happen to find a cinder in it. You might not get another in a hurry; or if you did, it might have something worse than a cinder. Of course it ain't the kind of place you've been used to; but if you respect yourself and mind your business and don't put yourself forward, but just do your very best in your own part of the house, there's no fear but your folks will think enough of you. And don't you give up the notion of getting an education. I feel to believe that it will be brought about somehow for you."
"Oh, I don't mean to," said Rhoda, cheerfully. "I mean to learn all I can about everything, work included."
"That's right," said Miss Dean. "My mother used to say that there wasn't any use in neglecting your knitting to-day because you expected to have some spinning to-morrow. Some folks are always doing that very thing—neglecting the work just under their hand because they expect to accomplish something grand byme-by, and they never accomplish anything.
"Well, the Lord bless you, Rhody, and I'm sure he will. You've had some pretty hard trials when you was young, and maybe you'll have all the better times when you are old. Anyhow, as long as you hold on to him, he won't never leave you. I'm just as sure of that as I am that I'm alive."