"Will you pray for me, Greta?" asked Anne softly, as they walked towards the house. "I will pray for myself. I never felt so much like it before. But will you pray for me?"
"Yes, indeed," said Greta, "I do very often. And, Anne—if you will excuse me for saying so—will you sit somewhere else, and not with Carry and Martha, if you go to church to-night? It does not seem right to whisper in church, and if you will only sit somewhere where you can listen—"
"I will, Greta," said Anne. "I will sit with aunt Shelby if mother does not go. I do not think it is right any more than you, but when I am with the other girls I forget."
True to her word, Laura set out to call upon Sophie after school, and see what else could be extracted from her: but just as she was turning into the street where Mr. Kennedy lived, she met Sophie. She had a basket on her arm, and was going to visit nurse Brown, and carry some delicacies to poor Betsey, who, after a week or two of great suffering and weakness, was again comparatively comfortable. Sophie had nearly forgotten her uneasiness, until she saw Laura running to meet her: she now resolved internally that she would say nothing out of which that young lady could make any capital.
"I was just coming round to see you, Sophie," exclaimed Laura. "Where are you going?"
"I am going up to nurse Brown's to carry Betsey Hand some things that mother has sent her," answered Sophie; "and I am going to call and see if Greta will go with me."
"I will walk round to Mrs. Carroll's with you," said Laura; "I want to tell you what a nice time we had last Saturday. I was so sorry you did not go. We went to the green-house, and then down to the lake shore, where we got out and ran about on the snow and ice. But be sure you don't tell, Sophie, for I promised mother I would not get out of the sleigh."
"I wonder you were not afraid to go on the ice," exclaimed Sophie. "Suppose you had fallen through and been drowned?"
"Why then I should, I suppose, but there was no danger. What did you do all the afternoon? I should think you would have cried your eyes out."
"Oh, no," answered Sophie, "I had a nice time. Mother borrowed some volumes of engravings, and bought that large book of costumes for me, so I enjoyed myself very much. And, Laura," she added, with a good deal of hesitation, "I wish you would not repeat what I said about mother. I ought not to have spoken so, I suppose, but I was very much vexed. I wish I was not so quick-tempered."
"I don't see how you can help it, if it is your natural disposition," answered Laura. "You never keep angry. For my part, I don't like these very particular people, that always cut their words by one pattern, like Greta Carroll."
"Why, Laura, I am sure Greta Carroll is as good as she can be. I wonder you can speak so, when she is so kind to you. How many times she has helped you about your lessons! I wonder you should speak so."
"I do not feel myself under any such overwhelming obligations," answered Laura, with a toss of her head. "I am not very fond of being patronized for my part. I like Greta well enough, but I don't see why she should set up to be so much better than other people. Martha Prime says that Greta has you and Emma Gaylord completely under her thumb."
"It is no such thing," retorted Sophie angrily. "I don't believe Greta ever said so."
"Nobody said she did say so," answered Laura "but actions speak louder than words. Why should she, the oldest girl in the school almost, want to have so much to do with you little ones, if it is not because she likes to govern."
"Because she likes to help us, and keep us out of mischief," answered Sophie. "She likes to help every one. Miss Warner says she is as useful to her as any of the teachers."
"To be sure; that is just what I say," persisted Laura. "She likes to be in authority. She likes to have Miss Warner send her to hear classes and to keep order among the little ones, and to have them coming with their books to her. She and Anne Weston have been wonderfully confidential this afternoon; I should not wonder if she should bring her round. However," she added, "I don't want to prejudice you against Greta, Sophie. If you like to be governed, I am sure I don't care."
Just at this moment Greta passed them on the other side of the street. She was walking with Harry Reed, and the two were so much engaged in conversation as not to see Laura and Sophie. If she had been alone, Sophie would have called to her at once, but Laura's remarks had not been without their effect on her mind, and she determined to show that she could do as she pleased. So she let them go on without speaking, and then said, "Greta will not be at home, Laura. Suppose you go round with me and see Betsey?"
"I don't mind going round and waiting for you," said Laura, "but I would not see her for the world. I have such quick feelings that I cannot bear to see people suffer. When James hurt his face so last summer, I never went into the room till he was almost well, it made me feel so bad to see him."
Sophie thought within herself, that it was well every one's sensibility did not take the same form. She remembered Mrs. Gaylord's dressing Betsey's hand and face, and her mother binding up the gardener's arm when he cut it with the scythe; and it did not appear to her that their feelings would have been equally well displayed in sighs and tears. She would have said so, but that she stood rather in fear of Laura's sarcastic remarks.
"Does your stepmother make you go to see poor people very often, Sophie?" asked Laura.
"She does not make me," answered Sophie, "she lets me."
"Oh, she makes it a privilege, then! I must say it is a privilege I do not want, going into such dirty places, among Irish and Dutch, and every thing. I think it is the business of the Charitable Society to do that. We give them our money, and they ought to take care of the people."
"Mother says," replied Sophie, "that we can never excuse ourselves by giving money, from getting acquainted with the people themselves. And I know both she and father think that only giving money does harm instead of good, sometimes."
"Well, to be sure!" exclaimed Laura. "Charity do harm! That is a new idea."
"Not charity," said Sophie. "Only giving things away."
"I don't see any difference," answered Laura.
Sophie's own mind was not very clear upon the subject, so she did not answer.
"You go to Sunday school now, don't you?" asked Laura, after a moment's silence. "Whose class are you in?"
"I am going to be in Greta's class after this week," answered Sophie. "She is going to take half of mother's."
Laura smiled.
"What do you mean, Lolla?"
"Oh, nothing; only I should rather have a teacher that knew more than I did. Greta and your mother are great friends, are they not?"
Sophie did not answer. If she had followed her best impulse, she would have stopped Laura's insinuations at once, but she was really afraid of her, and did not like to offend her. Moreover, Laura's remarks had not been without effect. Sophie was beginning to be very jealous of being treated like a little girl, and she could not bear to think that any one near her own age should try to govern her. She was often displeased at her mother for insisting upon her doing things in exactly the right time and way, treating her like a baby, as she said.
That very morning she had been seriously disobliged, because her mother did not think proper to have her dresses made long, like a young lady's. Mrs. Kennedy did not think it worth while to dispute the point at length, but gave her own orders to the dressmaker; and when the dresses came home, they were short, as before. Unluckily Laura chanced to observe that she had on a new frock, and asked her why she did not put on long dresses.
"Mother would not let me," said Sophie. "I wanted them made long, very much, but she says it will be time enough two years from now, especially as I am so small. I wish I was as tall as Miss Lee," she continued, thinking aloud, "and then I should not be treated like a child by every one."
"I don't wonder you don't like it—I shouldn't. But why don't you set up and do as you please, as I do? Mother did not wish me to go to school this quarter, but I was determined I would, and I did."
"That would never do with my mother," answered Sophie. "You would never try it but once with her, I can tell you. For all she is so gentle usually, she can be severe enough when any one sets her at defiance. I should never dare to say I would do what she told me not to—I would as soon cut my head off."
"It must be a change for you; you used to do pretty much as you pleased, before she came."
"I do now, about a great many things, but then I have to mind. She is very kind when I am sick, and takes a great deal of pains to teach me. And I am sure I am very much attached to her, but I should like to be left more to myself sometimes. Here we are now, and here is nurse at the door."
Nurse had her finger on her lip. Betsey had had a very bad turn, but was better, and asleep. Sophie must leave her basket full of dainties, and come to see her another time.
Laura now found she must go in another direction; so Sophie walked home alone, pondering on all she had heard, and feeling more than ever discontented with Laura, herself, and every one around her. She felt very unhappy, she could hardly tell why. Nobody appreciated her; Greta only wanted to patronize her; her mother was very unkind; and even her father did not love her as he used to. She wished she had never seen Laura, and yet she continually thought over all she had said. "Truly, the words of the tale-bearer are as wounds."
CHAPTER VII.
SOPHIE'S GREAT TROUBLE.
FOR several weeks Sophie continued to see a good deal of Laura Bartlett, and she never saw her without being made uncomfortable by her remarks. Mrs. Kennedy saw with great uneasiness the influence that Laura was gaining over her daughter. She perceived that Sophie grew discontented, peevish, and critical that she was far more difficult to manage, and more disposed to rebel against necessary government, and that she was estranged from her best friends. She tried to warn Sophie of the injury which Laura would do her, but without success. Sophie at once concluded that her mother was prejudiced against Laura, and wanted to keep her from having any friends but herself. Mrs. Kennedy thought it would do more harm than good to forbid any intercourse between the two girls, as it would of course cause a quarrel between the families. Laura expected to go away to school in the spring, and to be gone two years. And this, Mrs. Kennedy thought, would answer the purpose, without having recourse to any extreme measures.
Easter came, and with it the Confirmation: a number of the older girls and boys out of the Sunday school, and several of Sophie's schoolmates, were confirmed; among them were Greta, and Harry, and Anne Weston.
Anne had, with much fear and trembling, made up her mind to this decisive step, and her courage almost failed her at the last moment. The service was held on the evening of Easter Tuesday, and in the afternoon she ran up to Dr. Shelby's and tapped at the study door. She was a distant relation of the good doctor, and he was very fond of her, so she had no hesitation in confiding her troubles to him. She now poured forth all her fears, her distrust of herself, and her anxiety for the future, and concluded by saying—
"And I am afraid, Uncle Shelby, that I am not fit to be confirmed, after all, Suppose I shall fail? I have so little steadiness—I have no strength at all."
"You are not expected to have any, my little girl," answered the doctor kindly. "If any one were to come forward to this ordinance, trusting in his own strength he would be sure to fail. The only safety for you, or any one, is in earnest prayer, and a full dependence on God for help. Remember that you have all the power of God on your side, so long as you persevere in asking for it. Trust all to your Saviour. Be not troubled overmuch about yourself. 'Take no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself.' Every day has its duty, and every duty has also its day; and I think I may safely tell you, little Miss Much-afraid, that 'as your days, so shall your strength be.'"
Sophie witnessed the Confirmation, and she was much affected when she saw so many of her friends going forward to enroll themselves as the soldiers of Christ, and she heartily wished herself among them. She forgot her distrust of her mother and of Greta, and as the latter stood before the altar looking more beautiful than ever, but evidently entirely forgetful of every thing but the solemn vow she was about make, she turned her eyes to her mother for sympathy.
Mrs. Kennedy pressed Sophie's hand warmly in hers, and the tears stood in her eyes, as she prayed that her dear little charge, in proper time, might stand in the same place and make the same offering of herself. The solemn question was asked and the response given, and after prayers the good bishop laid his hands on the heads of the young people kneeling so humbly at the chancel rails, with those beautiful words which have welcomed so many souls to new life and usefulness—
"Defend, O Lord, this thy servant with thy heavenly grace; that she may
continue thine for ever, and daily increase in thy Holy Spirit more and
more, until she come unto thy everlasting kingdom."
As the Reverend Father in God came round to Anne Weston and her schoolmates, Carry Woodford who was sitting in the pew before Sophie and her mother, put down her head and sobbed aloud. Her natural and acquired levity was for the time subdued.
As Anne came out of the church, Carry took her hand and whispered, "Please forgive me, Anne, for teasing you so. I am real glad you have become confirmed, though I cannot myself."
Anne pressed her hand but did not reply, for she felt that she could not speak just then.
Sophie had allowed Laura to tempt her into repeating a great many little things which had occurred at home, such as always happen in any family, and are of very little consequence unless told of abroad. Every little jar in her own lessons or employments was also confided to Laura, who did not fail to make the most of them.
Yet Laura was not without good qualities; her great trouble was, that her mind and heart were entirely unoccupied. Her mother was a vain and vulgar woman, who being without cultivation herself, was jealous of it in every one else. Mrs. Bartlett professed great contempt for "literary people," and thought women had enough to do to attend to their domestic affairs, so she spent half her time in collecting news and the other half in relating it. Under such influences Laura had grown-up, and it was not wonderful that she should make gossip the employment of her life. She retailed the stories which she extracted from Sophie's folly and waywardness, with additions and embellishments of her own, for like most other newsmongers, she never could tell any thing exactly as it was told to her. Her mother did the same in her own circle of friends, and it was soon the impression with many people that poor Sophie was very unkindly treated by her stepmother, and that Mr. Kennedy had made a most unfortunate match.
Three or four weeks after Easter, as Sophie was sitting with her mother one afternoon, Mrs. Gaylord came in, and after a few moments' conversation asked to speak with Mrs. Kennedy in private. Sophie left the parlor and went up to her own room, feeling rather uncomfortably. She was never without a lurking uneasiness lest her confidences to Laura should bring her into trouble, and she felt almost sure that Mrs. Gaylord had heard of them and was come to tell her mother.
The two ladies were closeted together for a long time, and as soon as Mrs. Gaylord left, the tea-bell rung and Sophie was obliged to go down. She ventured to glance at her mother's countenance once or twice, and could not help thinking she looked very sadly, but she said nothing. And Sophie could not make up her mind as to what had been the subject of the conference. She had a feeling, however, that she had been concerned in it. Sophie was right—Mrs. Gaylord had related to her mother the reports in circulation, and concluded by saying—
"I should never have dreamed of bringing you this foolish tale, my dear friend, had not Sophie been so deeply concerned in it, but both Laura Bartlett and her mother declare that Sophie told them the stories in the first place. And my Emma, who I may say without boasting is very truthful, tells me that the girls at school all say that Sophie is in the habit of speaking, not only to Laura, but even to other girls, about things that happen at home. Laura is a very unsafe friend for any girl, least of all for one so easily influenced as Sophie."
Mrs. Kennedy was too much shocked to answer, at first, and could only express her obligations to her friend by pressing her hand. At last she said,—"If any one else had told me such a story about my child, I would not have believed it. But I fear it must be true. I have seen many things in Sophie lately which have made me very uneasy and I almost wish now that I had followed my first impulse, and forbidden her to have any thing to do with Laura. But I had such a dread of a neighborhood quarrel, that I concluded to let the matter rest, hoping that Laura would soon leave town, and so an end would be put to the affair."
Mrs. Gaylord rose to depart. "I think Mrs. Bartlett will hold her peace, for her own sake, after what I have said," she remarked; "and as for other people, it is of no consequence. In such a place as this, any story soon dies out, if left to itself."
The next morning Sophie got her books as usual, and was about to sit down to the piano, when Mrs. Kennedy said,—
"You may let your books be for the present, Sophie; I have something else to talk to you about."
She then informed Sophie of what Mrs. Gaylord had told her, and ended by saying—
"I should care very little about the matter, Sophie, if it had been an ordinary piece of gossip, but that you should have been guilty of such treachery, astonishes me beyond measure. I can hardly doubt that such is the fact, but if you have any thing to say for yourself, I shall be glad to hear it."
Sophie sat perfectly overwhelmed with confusion and shame, almost wishing that she could sink into the earth, or be at once annihilated. She dared not look up and meet her mother's eye, which she felt was fixed upon her. At last she stammered:—
"I am sure I did not mean—I did not think Laura would go and tell!"
"How could you think otherwise? You know that she always repeats every thing she hears. But even if she had never repeated a word, did that justify you in slandering your mother?"
Sophie burst into a violent fit of weeping.
"Stop crying, Sophie, instantly," said Mrs. Kennedy.
Sophie had never heard such a tone from her mother before. She wiped her eyes, and sat trembling like a leaf.
"Turn your face towards me," commanded her mother in the same tone.
Sophie obeyed, but she dared not look up.
"Now listen to me, and answer my questions, and be careful to tell me the exact truth: Did you tell Laura, the day I would not let you go out with her, that I would not permit you to do any thing you wished to, that I made you stay at home all day because you did not know a lesson, and that I kept you sewing from morning till night? Answer me!"
"Yes, ma'am," articulated Sophie, with difficulty.
"Is it true that I never let you do any thing you wish to, or that I ever made you sew from morning till night?"
"No, mother," answered Sophie again.
"Did I ever restrain you from doing any thing which you yourself knew, on reflection, to be right?"
"No, mother."
"Have I ever neglected, from the first moment I came into this house, to provide every thing necessary for your comfort? Have I not taken care of you when you were sick, and taught you when you were well? Dare you say, this moment, that I have ever treated you unjustly once since I came here?"
Sophie dared not say yes. She felt as if she were standing at the judgment seat. For in her heart she knew that she had never received any thing from her mother but kindness.
"Answer me, Sophie: yes or no."
"No, mother," said Sophie.
"So that all you have told Laura is false? Is it?"
"She is a good-for-nothing tattler!" exclaimed Sophie, trying to find relief from her shame and remorse in violent indignation. "I wish she was in the Red Sea."
"What she is, or is not, is not to the present purpose," answered Mrs. Kennedy. "And if she is a tattler, you by your own confession are a slanderer, and that of your own mother."
"I wish my own mother was alive," sobbed Sophie. "I wish I could die and go to her."
"You are not worthy to take her name on your lips in such a spirit, Sophie. She was a saint upon earth, as she is now a saint in heaven. I trust she does not see her little girl as she is now."
"Oh dear! I wish I were dead! I wish I were dead!" sobbed Sophie.
"Are you prepared to die? Suppose God should at this moment take you at your word, where would you be?"
Mrs. Kennedy was silent for some time, and then said in a tone of the deepest sadness—
"I am sorry for you, my child; I do not know what to do for you. If in a single outbreak of temper you had spoken so to Laura, I should think little of it in comparison, though that would be bad enough. But again and again you have told her and others, what was either entirely false, or you have repeated things with a false coloring. I came here from a very happy home, determined to devote my life to your advantage, and since I came, I have labored in every way by teaching you, and working for you, to make you good and happy. I have put aside my own tastes and employments for your sake, and day and night I strove to behave to you as your own blessed mother would have done. I thought I was succeeding, and that you loved me as I did you I could not but perceive how much you were improved inwardly, and I flattered myself that your heart and mind grew in proportion.
"But it seems that I was mistaken: you have allowed the idle words of a vulgar school-girl to have more weight with you than all my love and care, and have given to her the confidence you denied to me. I do not know what more I can do for you, since you think my care tyranny, and treat my affection with contempt. What is to become of you if you continue in this course, I do not know. You may go to your room and remain there for the present. If we can do no more for you, we must at least take care to save your reputation from irrevocable injury if possible."
Sophie went to her room, and throwing herself upon the floor, gave way to the wildest expressions of grief and anger, weeping and sobbing and wringing her hands almost like a mad creature. But this could not last long, the violence of the passion exhausted itself, and she began against her will to think. Oh, how contemptible and mean she appeared in her own eyes as she reviewed the course she had taken. She dared not whisper even to herself that she had ever been unjustly treated by her stepmother. Every kind word and act, every sacrifice for her sake, seemed to rise up in judgment against her.
In that very room, her mother had sat up with her night after night when she was sick, and had thought no pains too great to amuse and comfort her. Her book-shelf filled with pretty volumes, her nice dressing-case, the pretty prints on the walls, all witnessed against her. Above all, her first mother's picture, which her stepmother had copied and hung at the foot of the bed, and upon which her eyes first rested on Christmas morning, how it reproached her! She dared not look at it.
She felt indignant at Laura's treachery, but her conscience repeated to her that she had known Laura before, even if she had not been warned against her. Turn where she would, she saw no comfort. The girls at school all knew how she had behaved. Greta and Harry would despise her, and never want to have any thing more to do with her. Mrs. Gaylord would never let her come and see Emma again. How could she even go into the Sunday school? How could she go to church or into the street?
What would her father say? She had not thought of that before. Of course he knew all about it—and what would he think of her? Would he ever forgive her? She did not feel as if he could.
She did not dare to think of dying. What if she should die now, just as she was? The idea was insupportable. She took a book from the shelf, and thought she would read, but it was one her mother had given her, and she hastily replaced it and took another. It was a Testament, and her eyes fell upon the words, "It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God:" she threw it from her as if it had stung her. And at last, worn out with weeping, she threw herself upon the bed and fell asleep.
She was awaked by Nancy, who brought up her dinner; and having arranged it comfortably for her, and made up her fire, left the room without speaking.
"Nancy is turned against me too," she thought. "I have not a friend in the world; what will become of me?"
The afternoon passed wearily enough, and it seemed to Sophie as if it would never be dark. She tried to sew, she tried to read, to draw,—but she could fix her mind on nothing. She wished her mother would come and see her. And yet when she heard her step in the hall, she trembled lest she should enter. At last Jane, the housemaid, brought her tea, with a lamp and a new magazine.
"Who told you to bring the magazine, Jane?" asked Sophie.
"Your mother, miss. She fixed the waiter for you, and got the quince jelly herself. She has been lying down all the afternoon with a headache, and looks dreadful pale. I heard your father ask her if he should send for the doctor, but she said it was nothing much."
"Did papa say any thing about me, Jane?"
"No, miss, but he looked as if he felt very bad. If I was you, miss, I should go and beg mamma's pardon, right off, whatever I had done, and not stay shut up here. Only think how much better it would be."
Sophie shook her head.
"Well, miss, now I call that real naughty of you, when your mamma has been so good to you. I'm sure you ought not to be proud."
"It's not that," said Sophie, "but I know she never would forgive me."
"Oh, nonsense, don't you believe it; I know better. But I must go and wait on the table,—so good night, miss."
So, her mother was almost sick. Sophie felt that it was her fault, and thought what would become of her if her mother should die. She looked at the evidence of continued care on the neatly spread tea-board, and the book she had sent her, and felt in her heart of hearts, that no own mother could be more kind. The time passed slowly enough, and she went to bed before nine o'clock, to try and forget her troubles. But she had slept so long during the day, that she could not go to sleep at once, and she felt almost afraid to do so.
She lighted her lamp again, and taking her Bible to read herself sleepy, she opened to the parable of the prodigal son. She read it through again and again.
"That is what I ought to do," she thought, "if only I could. But then even if mother forgives me, it will never be again as it was before. She will never trust me again—how can she? Oh, how I wish I could undo it all! If I had only minded what she told me about Laura, it would have been well enough. I made so many resolutions when I was sick, and I have broken them all. Oh, dear me! I don't know what to do!"
Then another thought occurred to her which made her heart beat fast. She had offended God as well as man, and her heavenly Father was angry with her. How could she go to sleep without asking his forgiveness? She knew now, why she had never kept her resolutions. She had learned that in the Church Catechism, but she had never thought of it before as she did now. She had never asked God for his special grace by diligent prayer, though she had said her prayers a great many times.
Sophie had strong religious feelings, and had been well taught. And now in her time of trouble, the good seed began to spring up. Thoughtfully she turned over the leaves of her Bible, reading a few words here and there, till she came to a chapter in Isaiah where were a few verses marked by her mother's hand. She read:
"He was wounded for our sins and bruised for our transgressions; the
chastisement of our peace was upon Him, and with his stripes we are
healed. All we, like sheep, have gone astray; we have turned every one
to his own way, and the Lord has laid on Him the iniquities of us all."
She knew very well to whom these words referred. "My sins too," she said. She put down the book, and sat meditating with her eyes covered with her hand for some minutes. Then she rose from her bed, and kneeling down beside it, she remained in that position a long time. When she arose, she was weeping, but not bitterly; and the hopeless expression was gone from her face. She no longer felt forsaken of God; and trusting that He had forgiven her, she felt sure her kind mother would do the same.
At first she thought she would go to her at once, but she remembered what Jane had said about her headache, and thought she would not disturb her to-night. So she lay down again, and putting out her light, was soon asleep. She did not sleep quietly, being tormented by uncomfortable dreams, all relating to the events of the day. Several times she awaked herself by talking, or started up in a great fright.
At last she thought that her mother was lying on the floor in the schoolroom; that she was dying, and calling on her for help, while Laura Bartlett held her fast and would not let her go. Oh, how she struggled to get free, till some one pressed her hands softly, and said, "Sophie! Sophie! What is the matter? Wake up, my child."
Then she opened her eyes, and knew it was all a dream. Her mother was standing over her, holding her hands and speaking to her.
"Oh, mother!" she sobbed. "I thought you were dying, and I could not go to you."
"You were dreaming, my child; lie down now, and I will sit by you till you go to sleep."
Sophie threw her arms round her mother's neck as she bent to arrange the pillow, and whispered, "Oh, mamma, I was so wicked!—But I am so sorry! Can you ever forgive me, and love me again?"
Her mother kissed her, and said gently, "I forgive you, my daughter, with all my heart. But, Sophie, there is another whom you have offended more than you have me, and whose forgiveness you ought to ask—your Father in heaven, my child."
"I have, mamma; I did before I went to sleep. But I don't see how you can ever trust me again, or any one else."
"We will talk about that in the morning, Sophie. You must not expect to escape from the consequences of your fault, even though you repent of it. But we will talk of that another time."
"Does your head ache now, mamma?" asked Sophie, anxiously.
"It is better, though it aches a little. It has been very bad for a few hours this afternoon."
"And that is my fault too. Oh dear! How much harm I have done! If I had only minded you, mamma, it never would have happened. But you don't know half I used to do. I am ashamed to think how I used to let Laura talk to me."
"You must not be angry with Laura, Sophie."
"I am not, mamma, now. I was at first, but now I see it was all my own fault. But please, mamma, go back to bed. Your head will soon be worse than ever. I shall go to sleep now, I know; and I cannot bear to see you look so pale. Please do go to bed."
Mrs. Kennedy yielded to Sophie's earnest entreaties, and retired, thankful from her heart to find her so truly penitent. And Sophie, after again saying her prayers, was soon asleep.
The next morning Mrs. Kennedy had a long conversation with Sophie on the subject of her fault, in which the latter confessed without reserve all that she had done. And her mother was encouraged to find that she had no disposition to justify herself at Laura's expense.
Neither did she appear confident in her own resolutions, but said, humbly, "I am afraid to make any promises, mamma, but I will try and be a better girl than I have ever been, and I hope God will help me. I don't want you to trust me, mamma, but I want to stay with you, and not be sent away."
Sophie had rather feared she should be sent to school somewhere away from home.
"I have no thought of sending you away, my daughter. On the contrary, I shall keep you with me more than ever, and try to do more for you. I hope you have learned by this time, Sophie, how foolish and dangerous a thing it is to have secrets away from your parents. Depend upon it, they are your best friends, and any thing which you are afraid to confide to them must be wrong. I am glad to have you have friends and playmates of your own age, but unless you are willing to have me acquainted with all you do and say with them, they will do you more harm than good. Many a girl has bitterly repented all her life that she did not make a confidant of her mother instead of some one as foolish as herself."
Mrs. Kennedy paused a few moments and then said, "I want you to go out with me this morning."
"Where to, mamma?" said Sophie, rather unwilling to run the risk of meeting any one, for she felt as if the whole world must know how wicked she had been.
"Up to Mrs. Brown's, my love. Betsey—"
"Is she worse, mamma?" asked Sophie, seeing that she hesitated.
"She is dead, Sophie. She died last evening about dark."
Sophie burst into tears.
"She passed away without suffering, and apparently without waking up at all."
"Then I am sure she waked up in heaven, mamma," said Sophie.
"I have no doubt of it, my dear. She was in heaven in spirit before she died: I never saw a more perfectly Christian character. Dry your eyes now, Sophie, and let us go and see if we can do any thing. Your father and Mr. Carroll will pay the funeral expenses, and we must see that the mother has proper clothes."
When they arrived at Mrs. Brown's, they were taken up into the room where Betsey had suffered so long, and where her body now lay asleep to await for the resurrection day! A neat cap hid the scar on her face, and her hand held a sweet white rosebud. Sophie thought, as she looked at her, that she had never seen any thing more beautiful.
"Are you afraid to sit here alone a few minutes, my dear?" said Mrs. Kennedy. "Mrs. Hand has lain down, and I want to speak to nurse."
"No, mamma, I am not afraid; I do not think Betsey would hurt me, now that she is an angel."
Sophie kneeled down by the body of her friend, when she was left alone; and there, in the presence of death and of eternal life, she prayed that her heart might be moved as Betsey's had been; and that she might have grace henceforth to live, not to herself but to God; and that following her Saviour all her life, she might meet Him at last in heaven.
And God heard that prayer and answered it!
CHAPTER VIII.
THE BABY.
FOR some time after the events recorded in the last chapter, Sophie felt rather unwilling to go out, or meet any of her friends. For she could not help feeling as if she had forfeited the respect and affection of all those she most valued. She did not find, however, that she was treated any less kindly by Harry and Greta, or that Mrs. Gaylord was not glad to see her.
Laura left town immediately after the affair came out, and Sophie was spared the embarrassment of meeting her. She wrote one letter to Sophie, who showed it at once to her mother. Mrs. Kennedy could not help smiling to see that Laura had already learned the history of every one in the school, and was deep in all the gossip of the establishment. She advised Sophie not to answer the letter.
"A correspondence with Laura will do you no good, and it will use up time which would be much better employed by that young lady in learning to spell, an accomplishment which she seems thus far to have neglected."
Sophie had learned a lesson which she never forgot. In the loneliness of her chamber, face to face with her wounded conscience and her God, she had found that all her own strength was the most miserable weakness, her own resolutions worse than useless, unless supported upon a higher Power. She had been deprived of all stay upon herself; had been forced to see her own folly and sinfulness, and she had been led to the Rock that was higher than herself—the Rock of Ages—that tried stone, the precious Corner Stone, the Sure Foundation.
She had many a conflict with herself, more than ever, for many things now appeared to her in the light of sins, which she had never thought so before, and she could not look back upon her past life without shame and self-reproach. But she fought bravely, and found her strength and courage increasing with every victory. Many of her careless and indolent habits she now saw were merely the indulgence of selfishness, and she addressed herself with steadiness to break them off.
"Sophie has left every door in the house open." "Sophie, here are your overshoes by the drawing-room fire." "Sophie, you have not mended your stockings," were sentences much less frequently heard than formerly.
It was very hard for Sophie to answer in a good-natured tone when she was reproved, and her mother advised her never to answer at all: she found this an excellent plan, and I would advise all my young readers to try it. You may possibly think that these are small things to make matters of conscience, but depend upon it, unless you find yourself applying the religious test to every-day duties, faults, and cares, you have good reason to distrust yourself and your attainments.
We must now ask our readers to take a long step, and pass over an interval of several months. It was now about a year since Sophie first saw her new mamma; how long the time seemed to look back upon! She had learned to think of her mother as her best friend, and turned to her for advice as naturally as if she had never known any other counsellor. The story which had originated in Sophie's indiscretion and Laura's gossip, had long ago died out, as Mrs. Gaylord had predicted. And the people who troubled themselves about the matter, had come to the conclusion that Sophie was wonderfully improved in manners and appearance, and much better dressed than formerly, so after all it might be as well for her to have some one to take care of her.
One pleasant morning in September, Sophie was awakened very early by some sudden noise which startled her very much, though she could not tell what it was. She listened, but all in the house seemed quiet, so she lay down and went to sleep again. This time she slept rather too long, and when she awaked the second time, the sun shone brightly into the room. Afraid of being too late for breakfast, she dressed hastily, and as soon as she had finished her reading and prayer, which she now never forgot, she went down into the parlor.
There was no one there! What could be the matter? Was any one sick? Sophie was going to knock at her mother's door, when Nancy partly opened it and looked out.
"Why, Nancy—" Sophie began hastily, but Nancy smiled and held up her finger, and at that moment she heard a sound such as she had never heard in the house before—it was the cry of a little baby.
Then she knew in a moment what had happened. Her heart beat faster than it had done since the night she had stood at the hall-door, waiting for her new mamma to get out of the carriage, and she trembled so that she could hardly stand.
"Is that Sophie?" said a soft voice within. "Let her come in, nurse."
"Will you be very still, dear," said Nancy, "and not worry your mother?"
Sophie nodded, for she could not very well speak, and Nancy allowed her to enter. A little fire was burning in the grate, and a strange woman sat before it with something in her lap, but Sophie did not look at her. She saw only her mother lying in bed, with her face almost as white as the pillows. Mrs. Kennedy held out her hand to Sophie, and kissed her very tenderly. I should not like to affirm that the little girl did not shed a few tears, and even sobbed once or twice, but Nancy said, that "'On the whole,' she behaved very well."
"Come here, Sophie," said her father, as soon as she was released from her mother's embrace; "come and make acquaintance with this young gentleman."
Sophie went towards the fireplace, and there, on the strange woman's lap, lay a little baby—certainly the smallest baby in the world, Sophie thought, though nurse declared it was a good big boy. Well, at any rate, there he lay, with his eyes wide open, poking his little hands about, and puckering his little red face into all sorts of odd shapes.
"What a darling little thing!" exclaimed Sophie. "But what funny faces it makes up!"
"They always do so at first, miss," said the nurse. "See what pretty little hands he has!"
Sophie slipped her little finger into one of them, and the tiny little pink claws closed upon it, to her great delight. "See, papa, he is holding my finger. What a dear little baby! When will he be old enough to play, nurse?"
"Not in some time yet," said Nancy. "I expect you will be wanting him to run about by next week."
"I am not quite so foolish as that," said Sophie, smiling. "I know babies cannot walk and talk directly, but I shall want very much to see him grow." She turned to her mother again, and a new fear entered her mind, as she saw how pale she was.
"I am afraid you are very sick, mamma," said she, anxiously.
"No, my love, I am only weak. I do not think I am very sick. Now go and make coffee for papa. You must be mistress for a while, till I get about again."
Sophie was duly installed in her mother's place at the breakfast-table, and filled her office with great propriety and dignity: her father gratifying her by saying that he never drank a better cup of coffee. "I am taller than I was the last time I made coffee for you, papa. Don't you remember how I used to get the great Dictionary to sit upon, before mamma came?"
"You are very much improved, my daughter," said her father, "especially for the last few months. I hope you will continue to improve. Think how soon you will be a young lady, and how much you will have to learn before that time!"
"I am learning a great many things now, papa. I am going over the arithmetic the second time, and I can do any sum in the book. How stupid I used to be about it!"
"Do you think it was altogether stupidity, Sophie?"
"No, papa," answered Sophie, "I know it was not. I used to be vexed the moment I could not do a sum, and then I would not try again. Now I like it quite as well as French."
After breakfast, Sophie began to consider what she should set herself about. She thought she would not practise, as that would disturb her mother. So she took her slate and arithmetic, and worked an hour at her sums with great perseverance. Then she went about the parlor, and put all the tables and book-shelves in order, and arranged some late flowers in the vases.
"I mean to try and keep the house looking just as it would if mamma were about," she thought, "and have every thing pleasant for my father when he comes in."
Finally, she took her sewing, and spent the rest of the morning in her mother's room, sewing and watching the baby. What a surprising thing that baby was! Every contortion of its little pink countenance, its hands and feet, its cunning little ears, and the scanty locks of hair which appeared when its cap was taken off, all were marvels in Sophie's eyes. If she had not been a little anxious about her mother, she would have been perfectly happy.
Every thing went on well, and in the course of a week Mrs. Kennedy was able to sit up a little. Greta and Harry had seen the baby, and admired it to Sophie's full content, but Emma Gaylord had rather affronted her, by declaring that it had a funny lump of a nose, and that she could not tell what color its eyes were—they seemed to her to be of no color at all. As Mrs. Kennedy only laughed, and agreed with Emma perfectly, Sophie could only take refuge with Nancy, who joined with her in declaring that its eyes—bless 'em—were the perfect pattern of its father's, and so was its nose.
One evening as Sophie was coming in from feeding her chickens, and stopped a moment on the steps to take off her overshoes, she overheard the following conversation between the nurse and Jane:
"Miss Sophie's very fond of her little brother," said Jane.
"She's a mighty pleasant child, any way," answered Mrs. Briggs, "and takes to the mistress the same as if she were her own. But don't you think, Jane, dear, she'll find a difference now?"
"What do you mean?" asked Jane.
"Oh, just this. I've seen a good many ladies that were very fond of other children just as long as they had none of their own, but the minute their own children came, they could not abide any others."
"It won't be so with Mrs. Kennedy, I am sure," said Jane; "she is not one of that sort. She used to have a deal of trouble with Sophie at first, but I never saw her one particle out of patience; not half as much as many are with their own, and I don't believe it will be different now."
"Well, maybe not. The lady is a good lady, to be sure, and its like she will treat them all the same. I hope so, for Miss Sophie is that fond of her, it will break her heart to be turned off."
This was all Sophie heard, but it was enough to fill her heart with trouble. She was naturally inclined to be rather exacting of affection, and perhaps a little jealous; and the thought that possibly her mother would not love her as well, threw her into great distress. She did not really believe that such would be the case, but she could not help thinking about it. When she went to kiss her mother and the baby good night, she approached the cradle with different feelings from what she had done before: she felt almost angry with the little stranger, whom she had been so glad to see. After she had retired to her room, she sat for some time brooding over the uncomfortable idea which had taken possession of her.
"But how foolish I am!" she finally said, half aloud. "I should think I might have had enough of distrusting mother. I am sure she has not made any difference, lately, and it will be time enough to think of it when it comes."
So Sophie read her Bible and said her prayers, and with a resolute effort dismissing the matter from her mind, she was soon asleep.
The next morning she had almost forgotten her distress, but it was renewed in the course of the day by Mrs. Bartlett, who seemed destined to be Sophie's evil genius. Mrs. Bartlett had kept away from Mrs. Kennedy's, and had rather avoided meeting her, but the latter disliking the idea of any thing like a quarrel, had called upon her, and made a point of treating her politely. So Mrs. Bartlett came round to make the proper inquiries for the health of Mrs. Kennedy and the baby, and Sophie received her and answered her queries with due politeness.
"I suppose you will find yourself quite cast into the shade now, Miss Sophie," said Mrs. Bartlett with her accustomed delicacy.
"Why, I don't know," replied the little girl, rather at a loss what to say. "Why should I?"
"Oh, why—because the baby is almost always the most important personage, you know—the oldest always has to be put out of the way even when—" Mrs. Bartlett hesitated, and then went on in quite another direction. "I suppose your mamma will not care to superintend your education any more, now she has a baby of her own to occupy her. Probably she will be thinking of a school for you."
"I don't know," said. Sophie again, feeling her heart grow suddenly heavy. "She has never said any thing about any change."
"Of course she would not be likely to mention it to you, but Mrs. Stone remarked to me that she heard your mamma making a great many inquiries of Miss Crosset about the school she was at in H. And Mrs. Stone said your mamma said, she was very much interested in the subject just now: that's all."
Sophie, feeling herself very uncomfortable, was about to try and change the subject, but Mrs. Bartlett continued—
"If your mamma should really intend to send you away, I can recommend the school where Laura is. It is one of the most expensive in the city, and very fashionable. The young ladies all take their own silver forks and spoons and napkin-rings, and they are expected to dress for dinner every day."
"One need not go away to school for that," remarked Sophie. "Mamma always wants me to dress before dinner."
"Your mamma is right no doubt, Miss Sophie, but I think probably she will not be so particular now. People are always more strict with other people's children than their own. I suppose you are very fond of the baby, are you not?"
"Yes, ma'am," said Sophie rather shortly.
"That is quite right: you ought to love him the same as if he were your own brother. Many people say there need be no difference in the feeling. I cannot see how that is possible myself, but no doubt it is. So I hope you will not be jealous even if you find yourself cast quite into the shade. You know it is natural for people to like their own children best."
Sophie made no answer, and Mrs. Bartlett, having "freed her mind," finally departed, leaving the poor girl's heart full of trouble. In vain she told herself that it was foolish to mind what Mrs. Bartlett said, the words would constantly recur to her mind—"You know it is natural for people to like their own children best."
To do her justice, she strove manfully against the feelings of anger and jealousy which she was shocked to find arising in her heart, and never gave way without a struggle, but it made her wretched to find that she could feel so towards the darling little baby. Especially she dreaded being sent away to school, and when she heard her mother say that she would need several new dresses and other articles, she feared it was with a view to her leaving home. She did not like to say any thing about it to her mother for fear of distressing her, otherwise she would have told her the whole story.
But Mrs. Kennedy had eyes and ears of her own, and she had become well skilled in reading her daughter's looks and tones. She saw that Sophie was unhappy, and guessed that some such ideas might be at the bottom of the trouble, so she took the first opportunity of drawing her out.
"You may take this pleasant afternoon to go home and see your children, Mrs. Briggs," said she one day not long after Mrs. Bartlett's visit. "Sophie does not care about going out, and she will sit here and call Nancy if any thing is wanted."
Mrs. Briggs was much obliged and prepared to be gone accordingly, and as soon as they were alone, Mrs. Kennedy opened the subject.
"It seems to me, Sophie, that you have not been very happy for two or three days. Has any thing happened to make you uncomfortable?"
"You will think me very foolish, mamma, and wrong too," said Sophie, "but indeed I have tried all I can to help it."
"Help what, my dear?"
"Feeling jealous, mamma. I don't mean to, indeed; and I do love the little fellow dearly," said Sophie almost crying. "I never should have thought of it, but from something I heard."
"What did you hear, my child?"
Sophie related what she had overheard from the servants, and the substance of Mrs. Bartlett's remarks.
"I wish Mrs. Bartlett—" began Mrs. Kennedy, in a tone of irritation very uncommon with her, but she stopped and did not finish the sentence.
"Do say you wish she was in the Red Sea, mamma," said Sophie laughing. "I should be delighted to hear you, just for once."
"You want me to be as bad as yourself, you saucy girl," said Mrs. Kennedy, laughing in her turn. "But, really, I wish she lived anywhere else. I do not wonder you were made uncomfortable by her remarks. Why did you not tell me at the time, instead of fretting yourself ill over it?"
"I was afraid of worrying you, mamma, as you were not very strong. And besides, I did not really believe it after all, though I could not help thinking of it. You do not mean to send me away, do you, mamma?" asked Sophie very anxiously.
"No, my dear child," answered her mother, "I never thought of such a thing. Of course I shall not have quite as much time to devote to your lessons as formerly, and I intend that you shall have a music-master at any rate, but I shall keep you at home as long as I can, I assure you. I shall expect you to be very useful to me for the next few years, in various ways. You will soon be able to take a great deal of care off my hands, and that will be very desirable for you, in order that you may learn housekeeping. Your father tells me that you have mended all his stockings, and sewed on the buttons since I have been sick, and Nancy says your room and clothes are in fine order. I am very much pleased with your improvement in these matters."
"But do you think it is true, mamma, as Mrs. Bartlett says, that—that baby and I, for instance, can never be the same as an own brother and sister?"
"No, Sophie," said her mother, "I do not believe it at all. I have seen large families situated in the same way, where no one would have thought of there being any difference. No doubt in such cases, jealousies do sometimes grow up, but it is almost always the result of some such impertinent meddling as this of Mrs. Bartlett. I advise you to set yourself entirely at rest about the matter, my dear, and as far as you can dismiss it from your mind. If you are kind and patient with baby, he will no doubt love you. As for myself, I make no promises. I only ask you to judge for yourself, whether I make any difference. We have said nothing about baby's name yet; what would you like to have him called?"
CHAPTER IX.
GAWKY ANNE.
AUTUMN passed into winter, and winter into summer, and summer into autumn again, while baby—we beg his pardon—while Freddy grew in mind and body, and waxed prettier and more knowing every day. Never, Sophie thought, was there so wonderful a child. She could not believe that any other baby had ever made such pretty noises, or improved so fast. And in truth, Freddy was a very pretty child. His eyes, which Emma had declared to be no color in particular, were now, unquestionably, dark blue; and he had beautiful soft hair, curling in rings round his head. As to his intellectual attainments, truth compels us to state that he was about on an equality with other children of his age, but every one knows that our baby—especially the first baby—is always remarkable.
When Freddy was six weeks old, he was baptized by the name of Frederick Wood. Sophie stood at the altar with her mother and father, and joined with all her heart in the solemn service. She had seen children baptized before, and beheld the ceremony with interest, as every one must, but she had not realized the importance of it. Dr. Shelby marked the sacred sign upon Freddy's innocent forehead, "in token that hereafter he should not be ashamed of the faith of Christ crucified, and manfully to fight under his banner against sin, the world, and the devil, and to continue Christ's faithful soldier and servant unto his life's end."
Sophie felt that she now stood in a new relation to the darling boy, now made a member of the Holy Catholic Church, to which she herself belonged, and standing by the font where she herself had been dedicated to God by the office and ministry of the same good man, she resolved, that, God helping her, she would take care that no act or word of hers should ever offend or mislead that little one, but that she would do her best to lead him onward in the paths of righteousness. For a long time afterwards, Freddy's name had a sacred sound in her ears, and she never pronounced it at length without a certain feeling of awe.
Sophie did not altogether conquer herself so but that she had several attacks of her old feelings of jealousy towards the baby. She was especially subject to it when she was sick and though she struggled against it with all her might, it often cost her many tears. She tried to conceal her feelings from her father and mother, but in this she was not as successful as she herself supposed. Her mother almost always divined at once what was passing in her little girl's mind, and without noticing it in words, she generally contrived some diversion, which helped to drive away the evil spirit.
"It is very often better to run away from such ideas than to fight them," she remarked one day to her husband. "It is perfectly natural that Sophie should sometimes feel as she does, especially as I began by giving her my whole attention. She really makes great exertions to be disinterested, and the best way to help her is to give her something else to think about."
The year after Freddy was a year old, Mrs. Kennedy thought it best for Sophie to begin school again. So she made an arrangement with Miss Warner, by which Sophie was to attend only in the morning, the afternoon being spent at home in drawing and practising. Sophie was at first rather unwilling to make the trial. She had been so much in the society of grown persons since her father's marriage, that she felt herself rather lost among girls of her own age, and this was one reason why her mother made the arrangement.
"It is undesirable, my dear," she said, "that you should grow up altogether unlike other girls. You have had a great deal of attention lately, moreover, and have fallen into a very dependent way of studying, from having some one always ready to answer your questions. In school, you will be obliged to take care of yourself."
"But then, mother—" said Sophie, and she stopped.
"Well, my dear, what then?"
"I am afraid I shall not find it so easy to do right in school as at home. A great many of the girls are very careless, and idle; and I am afraid I shall be led into temptation."
"But, Sophie, you cannot remain shut up in a glass case all your life. You will soon be old enough to go into society, where you will meet many more temptations. You must learn to be firm and resist."
"Miss Lee says we must be self-reliant, mamma, and then we shall do very well. But I never can be self-reliant."
"I am not anxious you should be," replied her mother. "I have no great faith in self-reliance. Self is a miserable support—a broken reed to lean upon. Woe to that one who in the hour of trial has only self on which to depend. No, my dear, your only safe resting-place at home or abroad, in solitude or in society, is upon God. 'Watch and pray,' is both sword and shield to the Christian, and as long as you obey this rule, you are safe anywhere; forget it, and you are safe nowhere."
Sophie was somewhat comforted by this view of the case, and began school on Monday morning with the determination that in all cases she would faithfully "watch unto prayer."
For a few days all went well with her. Having been so long out of school, she was almost a stranger to many of the girls, and was, therefore, under no temptation to join in any mischief that might be going on. She sat with Emma Gaylord, who was very steady and industrious, and her other neighbor was a young lady who was preparing to be a teacher, so she was very well placed for study.
And in fact it was from study that her first temptation arose. Sophie was ambitious in a certain way. She loved study for its own sake, and she was also fond of being praised by those to whom she was attached, though she never cared, as some girls do, to mortify others by going before them. She had read so much with her mother, since she had been out of school, that she was far beyond most girls of her age in general information, and this stock of knowledge "told" in various ways, especially upon her compositions. She wrote better than many of the oldest girls in school, and her rhymes and sketches were in great request for the "Lily," and the "Rose," two literary papers kept up with great spirit among the older pupils.
Miss Warner mingled with her praises, admonitions against haste and "scribbling," but the younger teachers were not so cautious, and, on the whole, it is no wonder that Sophie's head became a little turned. Then she was soon very much interested in her studies, and worked very hard at them, not only in school but at home. Two or three times she was tempted to curtail her hours of reading and prayer for the sake of her lessons, and often when she was reading her Bible, her thoughts were far from its sacred pages. Sophie felt that this was not right, and made some efforts to regain her former watchfulness, but without much success, for she did not strive with her whole heart.
"But then," she reasoned with herself, "papa and mamma expect me to be diligent about my studies, and improve as much as I can. Mamma always says, 'Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.'"
Thus, she lulled her conscience into an uneasy slumber. Her prayers grew more and more formal, and her thoughts were less upon things above. Presently her lessons invaded even her Sundays: she was always thinking of them in church, and once or twice she spent Sunday afternoon, which she had been accustomed to make a time of prayer and religious reading, in writing compositions. She felt a sense of guilt in so doing, but satisfied herself with the thought, that it was certainly her duty to write, because Miss Warner would be displeased if she came to school without a composition, and she should lose her place in her classes.
Poor Sophie was indeed in a bad way. True, she had not yet fallen into any open and grievous sin, but having strayed from the straight path, she was ready to fall at the first temptation.
The occasion was not far off. There was a girl in the school who rejoiced in the singular name of Chicago Anne Higbee. What could have induced any one to bestow such a name upon a girl, it is impossible to imagine, but that was her name, and many were the changes rung upon it by her schoolmates, the favorite ones being Chicky Anne and Gawky Anne, especially the latter, which had a suitableness about it quite irresistible to the mischievous girls.
Poor Gawky Anne was continually exciting the mirth of her schoolmates and the rebukes of the teachers by her awkwardness and slatternly habits. She had an immense quantity of light-colored hair, and daily displayed some new and startling fashion of dressing it. She wore the very largest figured muslin de laines and calicoes, and usually an apron made of some other kind of muslin de laine trimmed with a showy cord and tassel. She commonly eschewed collars and cuffs, but wore a red ribbon pinned closely around her throat, while about a dozen pins, large and small, were stuck on the waist of her dress. Gawky Anne always dropped every thing that could be dropped, and spilled every thing that could be spilled. She chewed slate-pencils and little pieces of india-rubber, and bit her nails, and turned her toes in and her elbows out and in short, as Miss Lee observed, if there were ever an awkward thing to be done, Miss Higbee was the one to do it.
She might have learned better if she could have been convinced that she was not well enough, but she saw no difference, in any important respect, between her own manners and those of Miss Bradford, the most elegant girl in the school; for withal Gawky Anne had a fund of self-complacency which nothing could disturb. Poor Gawky Anne was very romantic, and nourished her budding fancies upon such books as "Thaddeus of Warsaw," "The Children of the Abbey," "The Romance of the Forest," and the like, until she fancied herself an Amanda or Adeline at the very least, and rather wondered that no Thaddeus or Theodore appeared to claim her hand, or cruel Montini to imprison her in a dungeon.
Some of the more thoughtless of the girls used to "put her up," as they said, to talk of her castles in the air, and I regret to say, they did not hesitate to encourage her in her folly, by telling her stories of the admiration she excited, and by praising her verses written by moonlight, and comprising examples of false syntax under every rule in the grammar.
At first Sophie refused to join in this sport, and expressed herself decidedly against it, but as she left off to watch and be sober, her sense of the ridiculous got the better of her sense of duty, and she was tempted to join with the rest. One day at noon, while the girls were amusing themselves with some of Gawky Anne's effusions, Sophie snatched up a pen, and scribbled a letter to Miss Higbee, purporting to come from a romantic young officer, smitten with the charms of that young lady, and breathing an admiration and devotion worthy of Thaddeus himself.
This precious production was read aloud amidst shouts of laughter; Carry Woodford declaring that it was too good to be lost, and that Gawky Anne should have it that very day.
Sophie remonstrated, but Carry would not surrender the paper, and she finally dropped the matter, thinking that Gawky Anne would not be foolish enough to be so imposed upon.
But Miss Higbee was foolish enough for any thing which promised to gratify her love of romance. Carry copied the letter, and contrived to have it fall into her hands before night. Gawky Anne was delighted beyond measure at the contents of the epistle, and before next morning she had concocted an answer, which she deposited, as desired by her imaginary admirer, in the spout of the rain-water conductor. From thence Carry, watching her opportunity, extracted it, and collecting two or three of her especial friends, she read it aloud with great emphasis.
"You must write an answer to it, Sophie," said Carry, after the laugh had subsided a little; "Gawky Anne will break her heart if you do not."
"Oh, no!" exclaimed Sophie. "It would not be right to deceive her."
"Deceive her, indeed!" answered Carry. "No one has tried to deceive her. If she is such a goose as to believe such stuff, it is not our fault."
"Come, do, Sophie!" urged Martha Prime. "No one can do it but you. We can tell her any time, if we think it worth while."
Sophie resisted for some time, but the entreaties and flatteries of the girls prevailed over her sense of right she wrote the answer, and gave it to Carry to copy. She wished she had never begun, but had not resolution enough to stop short after taking the first false step.
That night Sophie did not feel much of the spirit of prayer. Her head was full of very different things and then she feared to awaken her conscience, for she knew that she had done wrong. How could she ask God's forgiveness for the sin she had committed, when she was intending to repeat the same sin again to-morrow? She hurried over a form of prayer, however, and thus partially satisfying her conscience, she fell asleep.
In the morning it was the same, and the next night she omitted the form. We can never stand still in the path of holiness; unless we are going forward, we are surely receding. Sophie had ceased to go forward: she had allowed the cares of her little world to choke the Word, and it was fast becoming unfruitful.
The days went on, and still the deception continued. The girls did not find it so easy to stop, when they had once begun no opportunity occurred for undeceiving Gawky Anne, and the correspondence grew more and more animated. Poor Miss Higbee considered matters all settled, and began to hint to some of her intimates, that "they need not be surprised if something should happen some of these days." Meantime she curled her hair in longer and longer ringlets, and grew more and more sentimental every day. Miss Lee complained that she never had a lesson: Miss Warner herself began to suspect something wrong, and aware of her romantic propensities, determined to watch her closely.
One morning early, as Miss Warner was standing at her window, she saw Gawky Anne appear in the courtyard, and glancing above and around, proceed with a letter in her hand to the corner of the building. She threw on a shawl, and quietly crossing the yard, stood behind Miss Higbee, just in time to see her extract a letter from the spout, and put another in its place.
"What have you there, Miss Higbee?" asked the teacher, in her usual calm voice.
Miss Higbee started, and gave a slight scream. Miss Warner repeated the question.
"'Taint—'taint nothing at all, Miss Warner."
"It is certainly something," said Miss Warner, "for I see a letter in your hand, and here is another," extracting the epistle from its romantic place of concealment.
"Please don't read it," sobbed Miss Higbee, bursting into a flood of tears, "it ain't nothing but nonsense."
"Very likely," said Miss Warner, breaking the seal, "but I must see what it is. I cannot have girls under my roof carrying on private correspondences."