Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

"I have nothing to forgive," said Sophie, cordially
taking Carrie's outstretched hand, and kissing her.

Sophie Kennedy's Experience;

OR

THE STEPMOTHER.

BY

LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY.

NEW YORK:

GENERAL PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL S. S. UNION

AND

Church Book Society

637 BROADWAY.

1856.

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   Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by the
GEN. PROT. EPISCOPAL S. S. UNION and CHURCH BOOK SOCIETY,
in the Office of the Clerk of the United States' District Court for
The Southern District of New York.

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PREFACE.

——————

   THE following story was written with a view of doing something, if possible, towards overcoming the prejudice existing in the minds of children and grown people against Stepmothers. It is the impression of the writer that that most useful and sorely tried class of women have hardly received fair play at the hands of authors, from the times of Cinderella down to the present. No one will deny that it is a very difficult station. To take at once the whole charge of a family of children, usually after two or three years of unsettled habits of indulgence and mismanagement—with an abundance of friends, relatives, and acquaintances, all watching eagerly the conduct of the new mamma, and ready to take fire at the first approach to energetic government,—this is surely enough to tax to the uttermost the principles and capacity of any woman, particularly when she is young and inexperienced in the care of children.

   It is the serious impression of the Author that about as many stepmothers err on the side of indulgence as on that of strictness or severity. Of course, unprincipled and foolish women are to be found in this class as in every other; and in that case, it is usually hard to tell which are the greatest sufferers, her own children or her husband's.

   It is the Author's desire that the present little book may make matters easier for some good women who have assumed the charge of little ones not their own. She hopes, too, that if it falls into the hands of any young girl who has a second mother, it may lead her to consider seriously whether she is not sometimes wanting in the respect and obedience which her own mother would certainly have exacted. Should it accomplish either of these ends, the Author's best wishes for it will be fulfilled.

L. E. G.

   ROCHESTER, N. Y., Oct. 10, 1855.

CONTENTS.

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CHAPTER

I. SCHOOL NEWS.

II. BETSEY.

III. THE NEW MAMMA.

IV. NEW STUDIES.

V. THE BAD COLD.

VI. THE WORDS OF THE TALE-BEARER.

VII. SOPHIE'S GREAT TROUBLE.

VIII. THE BABY.

IX. GAWKY ANNE.

X. CONCLUSION.

Sophie Kennedy's
EXPERIENCE

SOPHIE KENNEDY'S

EXPERIENCE.

CHAPTER I.

SCHOOL NEWS.

IT was recess, and most of the girls in the middle department of Miss Warner's school were gathered on the steps of the portico, as Laura Bartlett, who had not been in school the first part of the afternoon, made her appearance, evidently full of some great piece of information. Laura was news-carrier in general to the school, and Harriet Reed had in consequence given her the appellation of the "Daily Gazette." She was in such a hurry to communicate her tidings that she ran up the steps without holding up her dress, thereby gaining a serious stumble. But her ardor was not damped in the least.

"Oh, girls!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "I have heard such a piece of news. What do you think?"

"I think you have torn your dress nicely," said Harriet Reed.

"What is it, Laura, what is it?" exclaimed three or four voices. "Do tell us what you mean."

"Guess," answered Laura, feeling herself very important. "You shall guess, but you will never get at it, I know."

"I shall not try," said Harriet. "You will be sure to tell, if you are let alone."

Harriet was the oldest of the party, except Greta Carroll. She was a very sensible and steady girl, and had many good qualities. She was very witty likewise, and amused herself quite too frequently by laughing at her companions' faults and failings. Laura's eagerness for gathering and retailing news was a special subject for Harry's ridicule, and she often provoked her by refusing to listen to or credit her stories. She was quite right in this instance, for Laura was too eager to wait for the guesses of her schoolfellows. Out it came.

"Well—but you must never tell. Don't you think, Mr. Kennedy is going to be married again—in three weeks!"

"What a wonderful piece of news!" exclaimed Harry Reed. "I heard it three months ago—to Miss Allston."

"No, indeed, Miss Harry, you are out for once, for it is not Miss Allston. He is not going to marry Miss Allston at all, but a cousin of his first wife down in Virginia. So Sophie will have a stepmother."

"Poor little thing! It is too bad! So fond of her mother as she was too!" said several of the girls at once.

"I wonder if she knows it," said Anne Weston.

"I don't suppose she does yet," returned Laura, "but it is certainly true, and she will feel so bad. I declare it is right hard for her."

"I don't see why it is so hard," said Harriet. "I think it will be very good for her."

"What is a stepmother, Harry?" asked little Emma Gaylord.

"A stepmother is—if Sophie Kennedy's father marries again, the new Mrs. Kennedy will be her stepmother. She will not be her very own mother, you see, but Sophie will have to obey her as if she were, and Mrs. Kennedy will take care of her just the same."

"Then I should think Sophie would like it," said Emma innocently.

"Just as if she ever could be the same!" said Laura indignantly. "I think it is too cruel. It shows how much he cared for his first wife, any way."

"I would not talk so, if I were you, Laura," said Greta Carroll, who had not spoken before. "I am sure Mr. Kennedy did love his wife, and at any rate it is no business of—" Greta was going to say "yours," but she altered her mind and said "ours."

"Sophie is so quick-tempered and has so much feeling, that I am afraid it will not be very easy for her to get on with a stepmother," remarked Carry Woodford. "I know her own mother had enough to do to manage her, and of course a stranger I would not have the same patience with her, nor feel for her the same."

"I know Lydia Mather's mother used to scold her like any thing," observed Martha Pierce. "But then she was the greatest torment that ever was. I am sure she deserved it."

"Well, we shall see," said Laura, not observing that Sophie had come up and was standing just behind her, "but I am sure Mr. Kennedy's new wife will have her hands full with Sophie."

Harriet made her a signal to be silent, but it was too late, for Sophie had caught the words. She was a pale pretty little girl about twelve years old, with dark hair and large black eyes, and her general expression was rather sad, not to say a little peevish. She was neatly enough dressed, but there was a sort of unsuitableness in what she wore, which showed that she had no older person to guide her choice of apparel.

As she caught the words, "Mr. Kennedy's new wife," she turned as pale as death, and would have fallen if Greta had not caught her in her arms.

"See what you have done by your tattling, Laura," said Harriet in a very sufficiently sharp tone, assisting Greta to support Sophie. "Now don't begin to cry, child, but run and get some water. Stand away—do, girls! Let us take her into the dressing-room, Greta."

"I am better now," said Sophie faintly.

She was led and supported into the dressing-room by the two elder girls, and Laura brought her a glass of water, and a bottle of smelling-salts which she had borrowed at the next house.

"Thank you, Laura," said Harriet, repenting already of having spoken so hastily. "Now if you will go up stairs and tell Miss Warner that Sophie is not very well, and ask if Greta and I shall take her home—"

Laura was gone in a moment, and soon returned with the desired permission.

Sophie did not speak a word on the way home, and bidding the girls good night at the gate, she ran up stairs to her own room and locked herself in. She laid down on the bed and tried to collect her thoughts a little.

"Mr. Kennedy's new wife!" Could it possibly be true? She tried to think of every thing that could throw any light on the matter, and the more she considered upon it, the more she felt as if it must be so. She remembered that the house had been newly papered and painted lately, and that her mother's room had been fitted up with new furniture and curtains. She knew that her father had made several journeys lately and expected to go from home again soon, and she had heard Nancy the housekeeper speak of several things which must be done before his return.

The more she thought of it, the more she felt as if it were true. Sophie remembered her mother very well, for she was eight years old when she died, and she had been very much with her. Her mother had taught Sophie herself to read and write, and sew, and many other things. They used to read the Bible together, and Sophie had been carefully instructed by her in religious matters. Now she was going to have a new mother—a stepmother! She felt as if she wanted to die.

Her ideas of stepmothers were derived from certain stories she had read, and from the talk of the girls at school. Stepmothers, she thought, were always cruel and hard-hearted. They always tyrannized over the unfortunate children under their care, and made them work from morning till night. Perhaps the lady would have daughters of her own, and would care a great deal more for them than for her. She imagined a hundred scenes in which she played the part of Cinderella or little Margaret, and wept very heartily, partly over her coming sorrows and partly over the memory of her own mother, so that at tea-time she was ashamed to show her red eyes to her father. However, she bathed them in rose-water, and washed her face, and then went down stairs, hoping that her father would not observe that she had been crying.

But she could not keep her voice from trembling as she spoke, and the evident constraint of her manner, so different from her usual freedom, immediately attracted her father's attention. He asked her tenderly if she were not well.

"Quite well, papa," she replied, with difficulty controlling her voice sufficiently to speak.

"I am sure something is the matter, my love," said Mr. Kennedy anxiously. "Come round to me, and let us see if we cannot find out the difficulty." He put his arm round her as he spoke, and drawing her close to his side kissed her.

Sophie had felt a moment before as if she never could say a word to her father upon the subject which occupied her mind. But the caress, and her habit of confiding every thing to him, overcame her reserve. She burst into tears and sobbed as if her heart would break.

"Oh, papa, are you going to be married?"

"Who told you I was going to be married, Sophie?" asked Mr. Kennedy.

"I heard the girls at school talking about it to-day. Oh, papa, is it true?"

"Quite true, my love," said Mr. Kennedy quietly.

Sophie turned away from her father, and wept more and more bitterly.

Her father tried to persuade her to listen to him quietly and stop crying, but she would not be pacified, and the more he caressed and soothed her the more she cried, until she became really hysterical. At last seriously displeased with her, he called Nancy, and bade her take Miss Sophie to bed.

Sophie rose and went away without saying a word to her father or bidding him good night, the first time she had ever done such a thing in her life. She followed Nancy up stairs and accepted her assistance in undressing. As soon as she was in bed, Nancy, instead of taking away the candle as usual, drew a chair and sat down by the side of the bed.

Nancy was a colored woman about fifty years old. She was tall and large, and always dressed herself very neatly in a figured gingham or calico, with a white apron, and a gay-colored handkerchief tied round her head instead of a cap. She had come from Virginia with Sophie's mother when she was married, and had always remained in the family. Nancy was an excellent servant and a good Christian, and had taken care of Sophie ever since she was born.

"Well, Miss Sophie," said she quietly, "now I should like to know what all this is about. You seem to feel very bad about something, but I haven't found out what it is. Maybe I can help you if I knew."

"No, you cannot, Nancy," said Sophie sobbing; "no one can help me."

"I'm not so sure of that," answered Nancy; "any way, I can try."

"Do you know what is going to happen, Nancy?" asked Sophie mournfully.

"Well—yes. I know something that is going to happen. Maybe it isn't the same though."

"Papa is going to be married, Nancy!" with a fresh burst of grief.

"Well," said Nancy, "and why should you cry about that? I expect, Miss Sophie," she continued, "you have been hearing the girls at school talking some nonsense or other about stepmothers. Now, dear, don't you go to believe a word of it. I know all about it. I have seen a good deal of such things, and my belief is that stepmothers are oftener too indulgent than not kind enough. I know how it was with your dear grandma, my old Missus."

"Why, Nancy, was grandmamma a stepmother?"

"To be sure, child; didn't you know it? She married the old judge, your grandpa, when your mamma was about six years old. And though she was as good a woman as ever lived, she regularly spoiled her at first. It was not till she got so there was no living with her, that she governed her at all, and it came mighty hard at first I can tell you."

"I don't want any one to spoil me," said Sophie, "but I thought stepmothers were always unkind to children."

"That's all nonsense," answered Nancy. "Do you suppose your good papa, after being so kind to you all your life, and doing every thing in the world for you, is going to turn cruel all at once, and bring some one here on purpose to make you miserable? For shame, Miss Sophie!"

Sophie was silent for a few moments, and then said, "But, Nancy, my own mamma is in heaven, and I don't want to forget her. I remember just how she used to look and speak, and how she talked to me when she was sick, and—" Sophie wept afresh at the remembrance of her mother.

And Nancy wiped the tears from her own eyes as she answered—

"Nobody wants you to forget her, child. You ought always to remember her as long as you live. But that need not hinder you from loving your new mamma, and trying to please her. She will be the last person that will want you to forget her, I am sure."

"Do you know my new mamma, Nancy," asked Sophie.

"I haven't seen her since she was seventeen years old," said Nancy. "I used to know her very well then. She is your mamma's own cousin, and used to look very much like her, only her hair was darker and thicker, and she was half a head taller. She used to play and sing beautifully, and she could draw too, and paint beautiful large pictures."

"Perhaps she will teach me," said Sophie, to whom prospects seemed to brighten decidedly.

"I expect she will teach you a great deal if you are willing to learn. And besides, as I was going to tell you, she is your godmother, and you were named after her."

"But I don't remember any thing about her, Nancy, and I always thought I was named for my cousin Sophie."

"Well, so you are. She is your cousin and you were named for her. And it would be strange if you did remember her, when you have not seen her since you were six weeks old. I hope now, Miss Sophie," she continued after a pause, "that you will be more reasonable, and not go into such a fit another time. And above all, I hope you will be sorry that you were so undutiful to your papa as not to bid him good night."

Nancy now took the candle and left the room, leaving Sophie to her own reflections. They were of rather a mixed nature. She was greatly comforted by the picture Nancy had drawn of her dreaded stepmother, and surprised and delighted to learn, that she was the same as her cousin Sophie—her dear godmamma, who had sent her a Bible and Prayer Book. She was ashamed too to think how ungrateful she had allowed herself to be in her thoughts and her conduct towards her kind father.

Then she remembered that she had not yet said her prayers. When her mother lived, she had been very particular about her prayers and reading the Bible, but since her death she had been left much to herself, and had become, I am sorry to say, very negligent in such matters. She got up to say her prayers now, however, with a feeling that she really needed help and protection from her Heavenly Father, as well as forgiveness for her sins. Just as she had finished, she heard her father come into his room.

Hastily slipping on her shoes and her little dressing-gown, she went softly and tapped at his door. He opened it, and stood still, looking somewhat surprised at seeing Sophie, for it was now quite late.

"Is any thing the matter, Sophie?" he asked.

"No, papa," said Sophie softly; "I only came to say good night."

"Good night, my daughter," said Mr. Kennedy kindly. He bent to kiss her, and as he did so, she whispered in his ear, "I am very sorry, papa."

"We will talk about the matter to-morrow, Sophie," replied her father. "It is time you were asleep now. Good night, my love."

Sophie crept back to her bed with her heart much lighter, and was soon fast asleep.

CHAPTER II.

BETSEY.

LITTLE Emma Gaylord had been sitting very still for almost half an hour: a very long while for her, for she was a very lively talkative little girl, and was not often quiet long at a time.

"What are you thinking about, Emma?" asked her mother.

"About stepmothers, mamma," said Emma slowly.

"And what about them? What set you to thinking about stepmothers?"

"The girls in school were talking this afternoon about Sophie Kennedy having a stepmother, and they seemed—some of them at least—to think that it would be very hard for her, but Harry Reed said she thought it would be a good thing."

"Very good, my dear," said her mother. "I am glad Harry is so sensible."

"Who is Harry Reed, Emma?" asked Miss Tilden. "I did not know you had any boys in your school."

"Harry Reed is not a boy, aunt Eliza," said Emma laughing; "she is a very nice girl indeed. Her name is Harriet, but she has a cousin Harriet who is called Hatty, and Harriet Howe is always called Haly; so the girls, and her father too I believe, call Harriet Reed, Harry."

"Did Sophie say any thing about her new mamma, Emma?" asked Mrs. Gaylord.

"No, mamma, she did not have a chance. I do not think she knew of it until she heard the girls talking about it. Then she turned pale and almost fainted away, and when she got better, Harry and Greta took her home. And when Miss Warner heard of it, she scolded Laura Bartlett for talking about it at all. Why do people think that stepmothers are always unkind, mamma?"

"I hardly know, my love. It is an old prejudice."

"Do you think stepmothers unkind, mamma?"

"No, Emma, I have known several who were very kind. But they have to govern their children sometimes like other people, and as children do not like to be governed, they are apt to think themselves cruelly treated."

"There are people, however," remarked Miss Tilden, "who can never be just to other people's children."

"Such persons are not very often just to their own children," said Mrs. Gaylord.

"I do not know," answered Miss Tilden. "There was cousin Louisa. She never could allow that any one else's children were either good or pretty; nay, she was often really offended at hearing them praised, and I do not know that she was unjust to her own."

"Unless you call it injustice to make them useless to themselves and torments to all around them. Between misgovernment and no government I never saw a family of children more thoroughly spoiled."

"Then, mamma," said Emma, "you do not think Sophie's mother will be unkind to her?"

"No, Emma, I presume not. I think perhaps it will be rather hard for Sophie to come into regular habits of obedience and industry, and that her mother will have to be rather peremptory with her sometimes, but that will be the greatest kindness."

"To be sure," said Emma, "Sophie does just as she pleases now, and Nancy does every thing for her. She does not know how to sew as much as I do, I know, for I can mend my own stockings, and I heard Sophie say that Nancy always made and mended all her clothes."

"And I suppose," said Miss Tilden, "you would like to have a Nancy to make and mend all your clothes, would you not?"

"No, aunty, I like to sew very well, when I do not go to school."

"Some one is knocking at the side door, Emma," said Mrs. Gaylord. "I think Jane has gone out. Run and see who it is."

"It is two poor women, mamma, that want to see you very much," said Emma re-entering. "Jane has taken them into the kitchen to sit down."

Mrs. Gaylord went out to see the people who had called, and Emma busied herself with her favorite Hans Andersen's storybook. Presently her mother returned.

"There is a woman in Front-street in great distress, Eliza. She has two children sick—one badly burned, and they are strangers in the city. I think I will take Jane and go round immediately to see what can be done."

"Are you not afraid to go there in the evening, sister?"

"Oh, no," said Mrs. Gaylord smiling. "I know all the people in the block where they live. Nothing has ever yet happened to me, though my visiting duties have led me into some strange places. They may be suffering very much, and I shall not feel easy to wait till morning. There is not the least danger I assure you, my dear," she added, seeing that her sister looked uneasy. "I know both the women well who have come for me. So good night, my daughter: you must be in bed before I return."

"You have no school to-day, have you, Emma?" said Mrs. Gaylord next morning at breakfast.

"No, mamma: why?"

"I should like to have you go with me and see the poor little girl in Front-street. She is just about your age, and you can perhaps do something for her. I wish you would run over directly and see if Mr. Kennedy is willing to let Sophie go with me; I have a particular reason for wishing it. If she will accompany us, I will call for her about ten."

Sophie was at home, and pleased with the idea of going, and they set out together, Emma carrying a little basket full of old linen and other such matters. When they reached the common stair which led up to the room, Sophie shrunk back as if she were rather afraid.

Mrs. Gaylord observed the motion and said, "There is nothing to fear, Sophie. I believe none but respectable people live in this block."

"How many more stairs are there, mamma?" inquired Emma laughing, as they reached the top of the second long flight. "Do your people live in the moon?"

"Not quite, Emma; there is only one flight more. What would you do if you were obliged to carry every drop of water you used up all these stairs?"

"Then why do people live here, mamma?"

"Because the rents are low, and the rooms when you are once in them are warm and light. But here we are at last. I will knock at the door."

At the second knock, a faint voice said "Come in."

Mrs. Gaylord opened the door, and they entered the apartment. It was a small room with an old cooking-stove in it, and two or three equally old chairs. A rickety table made of rough boards and a broken cradle were all the furniture. Some attempt had evidently been made to clean up the floor, but without much success, and the windows were darkened with dirt. On a bed made up on the floor in the corner lay a little girl about Sophie's age, but rather smaller. Her face was bound with an old handkerchief, and one of her hands was also tied up in a bundle of rags. A baby about eight months old lay in the cradle fast asleep. The poor child seemed pleased at the sight of Mrs. Gaylord, and held out her left hand to shake hands with her. Mrs. Gaylord took one of the old chairs, and sat down beside her.

"How do you do, to-day, Betsey?"

"I had a bad night, ma'am," said Betsey in a soft, pleasant voice. "And this morning I was so bad that mother went for a doctor, but I feel better now. The baby slept all night, and mother thinks she is better."

"This is my daughter, Emma, that I have brought to see you," said Mrs. Gaylord; "and the other little girl is Sophie Kennedy. Is there any thing I can do for you before your mother comes in?"

"If you will undo this cloth on my hand, ma'am," answered Betsey. "It is tied too tight, I think, or else my hand gets worse, for it hurts me very much."

Mrs. Gaylord gently undid the dirty rag of a handkerchief, and both the girls shrunk from the sight it revealed. The whole hand was perfectly raw, and very much swelled and inflamed. Mrs. Gaylord cut some soft linen and wrapped it up, separating the fingers from each other as she did so. She then took the bandage from her face and dressed it anew. The operation was evidently painful, but Betsey bore it with great fortitude, though the girls could not bear to witness it.

"Don't it hurt you very much to have it touched?" asked Sophie.

"Very much, miss. But I am glad to have it done before mother comes in, it makes her feel so bad."

Just as she finished speaking, a poorly dressed woman entered, accompanied by the city physician, a great stout German, as kind-hearted and skilful as he was eccentric.

"It shmells meeshrable in here," said he, stopping on the threshold. "What for do you not clean up?"

"I've been trying to do a little," answered the poor woman, "but we only got here last night, and the children were so bad I could not do much."

"Well, well," said the doctor, "that will all be in good time." Then, after speaking to Mrs. Gaylord and nodding to the girls, he sat down on a box by Betsey's side.

"Now, my leetle girl, what is the matter with you?"

"I have got a burn on my face and hand, sir," said Betsey, "and I have a bad cough besides."

"That is bad, indeed; and how did you get burned?"

"Well, sir," said the mother, "I must say, it was partly my fault."

"Now, mother," said Betsey imploringly.

"Hush, little girl," said the doctor gently. "I shall first hear your mother. Tell me now, good woman; how was it?"

"Night before last, sir, at the place where we stopped, it was done. You see, the child has coughed very bad these six weeks, and I own I was fairly beat out watching her, the baby too being worrysome on account of its teeth. So we stayed at a sort of tavern there was there; and the woman of the house was very good to us, I must say, and gave Betsey something that seemed to ease her cough, and said she would sit up all night with her, if I would go to bed.

"So I being so tired, and Betsey too, poor child, saying, 'Do, please, mother,' they over-persuaded me, and I went. But, oh, doctor, see what happened. In the middle of the night, the man of the house came home as drunk as a beast, and stumbled up stairs into the room. Betsey had dropped asleep, and the woman having stepped out a moment, what does he do but take the candle off the table and go to look at the child, and he being drunk dropped the candle on the bed.

"And so," said the poor woman sobbing, "when the child screamed, we both ran in together, and there was the bed all on fire, and before we could put it out, she was burned as you see."

"Now, doctor—now, ma'am," said Betsey eagerly, "was it her fault? How could she know that the man would come home drunk?"

"No, my little child," said the good doctor kindly; "I cannot say I think it was any one's fault, except the drunken toad of a man."

"There, mother," said Betsey triumphantly; "didn't I tell you so?"

"You look very young to be this girl's mother," remarked the doctor. "Is she your own child?"

"All the same as my own, sir. I married her father when she was six years old and never was an own child better, or easier to rule. It's now going on eight months since the father died, and left me with this little one, the first I had, about five weeks old. I did what I could to support them and myself decently, and Betsey worked like a little woman. Somehow she took cold about eight or nine weeks ago, and she has never got over it, but grew worse and worse all the time. The winters in that part of the country are very hard, and having something beforehand, I thought I would come over here, and try to get some quiet country place where I could work for a living, for I've no great love for the city. But when we got here last night, the poor things were so bad, I was glad to get the first corner I could to put my head in. But I hope she will get well, for it would go near to break my heart to lose her."

"I tink you are one very good woman." said the doctor emphatically. "I shall do what I can for your girl, you may depend. What do you say, little child, will you have me for your doctor?"

"Oh yes, sir, that I will thankfully," answered Betsey smiling.

"Dat is good," said the doctor, "now let us see the burned hand."

Mrs. Gaylord again removed the wrappings, and the doctor after examining the burns, with a fresh burst of indignation against "the drunken toad" who had caused the mischief, took his leave, promising to call again in an hour. Mrs. Gaylord rose to go at the same time, being desirous to learn his opinion of the case.

"We must make her as comfortable as we can, madam, but I fear there is no cure possible. She may linger a long time, but she will never be well."

"They seem very destitute of clothes, but those they have are very decent," said Mrs. Gaylord. "I wonder how it happened!"

"The woman has told me that her goods were lost overboard in the storm on the lakes," said Dr. Werner. "Good day, madam, I shall see you again soon."

"I wish I could do something for Betsey, mamma," said little Emma as they walked homeward.

"You can, my love. I shall get some cotton cloth for nightgowns as we go home, and you may help make them. We must get them done as soon as possible."

"May I come and help you, Mrs. Gaylord," asked Sophie. "I cannot sew very fast, but I will try my best."

"Certainly, Sophie, we shall be very glad of your help. Ask your father to let you come over this afternoon."

"I was going out with Laura Bartlett this afternoon," said Sophie hesitating, "but I don't care much about it. I would rather come and sew with you and Emma."

"Did you make an engagement to go out with Laura?" inquired Mrs. Gaylord.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then excuse me, my dear, but I think you should keep your engagement. Promises are not to be trifled with, you know. Laura no doubt will depend upon you, and you should not disappoint her."

"I know very well," said Sophie, "how disagreeable that is. The other day Carry Woodford promised to call for me just after dinner, to go and see Anne Weston before she went away. But she did not come, and I waited and waited till night for her, and so I did not see Anne after all, and Carry had no very good reason either. But this would be different."

"True," said Mrs. Gaylord "but I would do as I had agreed, if I were you."

"I might stop and see Laura, and ask her if she cares about going," said Sophie; "and if she does not, I will come."

"That would do very well," replied Mrs. Gaylord. "If Laura will excuse you, I shall be happy to see you."

When Sophie got home, she related to her father the story of her morning's visit, dwelling particularly on the affection of Betsey and her mother for each other, for Sophie had fine perceptions, and the beautiful in any shape made a great impression on her. Mr. Kennedy listened with great interest, and when she had finished, said quietly,—

"And yet Mrs. Hand is Betsey's stepmother."

"Oh, papa!" said Sophie imploringly, and with crimson blushes. "Please don't talk about that. I am so sorry. I will never be so foolish again."

"I hope not, my pet. But Sophie, if your mamma should be obliged to restrain you or reprove you, how will it be then? You have almost run wild for the last three years. Do you think you can submit cheerfully to be brought into regular orderly habits like other little girls?"

"I don't know, papa, but I think I could. After all, it is pleasanter to be told what to do, than it is to do things and then be sorry afterwards. Nancy has been telling me about mamma, and I think I shall like her very much indeed."

"I hope so, Sophie. Are you going to Mrs. Gaylord's again to-day?"

"Yes, papa, to help make some nightgowns for Betsey. Laura did not care about going out."

"What about Laura?" inquired Mr. Kennedy.

And Sophie repeated the conversation relative to her engagement.

Mr. Kennedy was much pleased. "I am always glad to have you with Mrs. Gaylord, Sophie, and with Margaret Carroll and her cousins. As for Laura, she chatters rather too much."

"Laura does not mean any harm, papa. She likes to hear herself talk, but she is very good-natured after all."

"These very good-natured people often do a deal of mischief," said her father. "You may give this three-dollar bill to Mrs. Gaylord, if you please, Sophie, and ask her to lay it out for Betsey and her mother as she thinks best."

CHAPTER III.

THE NEW MAMMA.

IN about a week, Mr. Kennedy left home to bring back Sophie's new mamma, leaving Nancy and Mrs. Gaylord to make all the necessary arrangements for her reception. He expected to be gone from home about four weeks, during which time Sophie was to go to school as usual. He had at first thought of making it a holiday time, but Sophie herself petitioned against it.

"The time will not seem nearly as long if I am at work as usual, as it would if I were at home all day, with nothing to do but to count the hours."

So Sophie went to school accordingly. And if she was not quite as diligent as usual, and sometimes fell into a reverie over her books, and now and then forgot to answer in the right place, Miss Warner was a reasonable person, and made all due allowances.

"It is perfectly natural," she said, in reply to one of her assistants, who had made some complaint of this state of things. "She will settle again presently. We should any of us do the same under the same circumstances."

"How absent you are growing, Sophie!" said Harry Reed to her one day. "You will soon have no head left."

"I know it," said Sophie; "it is because I am all the time thinking about—" She left the sentence unfinished, and proceeded in a more lively tone: "But I am really getting better, Harry, since I have been sitting with Greta Carroll. She tells me, when she sees me forgetting to study. What a good girl she is!"

"She is, indeed," said Harry, with emphasis. "I wish I were half as good."

"You and she are great friends," proceeded Sophie; "and yet you are as different as summer and winter. But Laura Bartlett says, she sets up for a saint, because she is so particular about prayers, and such things."

"Laura Bartlett is an impertinent chatterbox," said Harry, with great indignation. "She had better be careful what she says, or she may find herself in trouble, some of these days."

"There it is!" exclaimed Sophie, laughing. "Now Greta would never have said that."

Harriet looked a good deal mortified at the comparison. She was quite conscious of her hasty manner of speaking, and often made excellent resolutions in regard to it. These were formed at first with the fullest confidence in her own powers of keeping them, but numerous failures had rather weakened this confidence. She now changed color so much that Sophie thought she had really offended her.

"I beg your pardon, Harry, for being so saucy," she said. "You and Greta are so kind to me that I forget you are grown-up young ladies, seventeen years old, while I am only a little girl."

"I am not angry with you, child," said Harry, trying to speak as if nothing was the matter, but not quite succeeding—"but we must not waste any more time now. I wonder where that French book is that I had this morning. I must look over my lesson before school."

"It is on Miss Field's table, up stairs. I will run and get it for you," said Sophie, happy to do any thing for Harry, of whom she was very fond.

When she came back, she said—

"Anne Western has come back to school, Harry!"

"Has she?" said Harry, finding her place, and not appearing much interested in the news.

"Yes," answered Sophie, "and I stopped to speak to her while Miss Field found your book. She said she had heard that my new mother was very handsome, and asked me if I knew."

"And what did you say?"

"I said I did not know, but I was sure I should like her, whether she was or not."

"Very good," said Harry. "And now let me give you one piece of advice: don't let the girls draw you into talking about your father's affairs. There are some of them just foolish enough to do it, but it is very wrong, and will only bring you into trouble. Now mind what I tell you, and whatever they say, do you say nothing. Now, if you like, you may get your book and study here, and I will tell you the hard words."

As the time drew on for Mr. Kennedy to return home, Sophie grew more and more restless. And when the very day arrived, she felt as if she could never wait till six o'clock in the evening. She awaked much earlier than usual, and got up, because she could not go to sleep again.

When breakfast was ready, she thought, as she sat down alone, "To-morrow papa and mamma will be here." And she tried to fancy how the table would look, when a thought came into her mind which made her feel rather grave. She had been used to make tea and coffee for her father for almost two years, and he had never liked to sit down without her. Now her mamma would take her place, of course, and she herself would be only a secondary person. Sophie had no heart to finish her breakfast after this. She wandered about the house, feeling very sad, she hardly knew why, and quite dreading to have the hour arrive, which she had begun by expecting so impatiently.

Mrs. Gaylord, who had come over to consult Nancy about some final arrangements, noticed the little girl's depression, and suggested the propriety of finding her some employment.

"Suppose mistress should send her to the little sick girl, with some of the apple-jelly I made this morning: there was more than enough to fill the moulds, and I put the rest into a little pot, thinking to run over with it myself, but I see I shall not have time. I suppose there could be no danger in her going down there alone."

"O no!" answered Mrs. Gaylord. "Emma often goes and spends the whole afternoon there. Sophie, will you go over and take some jelly to Betsey, and read to her a while? She had a bad night, and nurse told me she was rather low-spirited this morning."

Sophie looked doubtful.

"Just as you please, my dear; you will be the better for something to do, and Betsey will be glad to see you. You know her mother is away at her work a great deal now, and nurse cannot be with her all the time."

"I will go, to be sure," said Sophie, ashamed of her hesitation. "Will you get the things ready, aunty, while I put my bonnet on?"

Sophie was soon ready, and, with basket in hand, proceeded on her way.

Betsey's friends had removed the family from the dirty attic and noisy street where we first found them, and placed them as boarders with an elderly woman, who was often employed in this way by the charitable society. Nurse Brown's house was in a very quiet and pleasant street, in the outskirts of the city, where invalids would not be disturbed with noise, and where they could enjoy almost as much fresh air as if they were in the country.

The morning was fresh and fine, and the trees in the prime of their October beauty. As Sophie walked on through the leaves, now dropping so fast that no sweeping could keep them from covering the walks, she began to feel her heart much lightened. She stopped under a hard-maple tree, and gathering a handful of its most brilliant leaves, she arranged them into a bouquet.

"I wonder if they have such leaves in Virginia," she thought; "I will arrange some and put in the parlor vases when I go home."

Just then some one called her—and, looking up, she saw Greta Carroll, in her garden bonnet, and with her hands full of flowers, standing at a gate across the street, and ran to speak to her. "Are you going to nurse Brown's, Sophie? Will you take these flowers to Betsey?"

Sophie exclaimed at the beauty of the bouquet. There were verbenas and heliotropes, petunias and dahlias, and variegated snap-dragons, and one monthly rosebud.

"When you come back, I will give you some for yourself," said Greta, enjoying the little girl's admiration. "The frost will come to take them so soon, that I do not at all mind gathering them; and the garden is overrun, besides."

"We have hardly any flowers, except such as will grow of themselves," remarked Sophie. "Papa has no time to attend to them. I do hope mamma will love flowers, we have such a nice place for them."

"You shall have some for her to-night, at any rate," answered Greta, "and next week I will give you some chrisanthemums, which will blossom till Christmas. Good-by, dear."

Sophie tripped on her way, admiring the beauty of the flowers, and pleased at the thought of having some for her mamma.

When she arrived at nurse Brown's gate, she found good Dr. Werner just entering. Sophie had quite gotten over her fear of him. And though she sometimes smiled at his odd English, and could not help wishing he would not smoke such strong cigars, she was always pleased to meet him. And he, on his part, was much interested in the bright-eyed little girl.

"Ah, ah, my little friend, you come with both hands full. What will you make with the pretty flowers?"

"I am going to give them to Betsey, sir. And Nancy has sent her some apple-jelly." Sophie opened her basket, and displayed her treasures.

"That is good, very good," said the doctor, smacking his lips, and pretending to cast longing eyes towards the dainties, "but now suppose I should steal you while you are going up stairs?"

Sophie smiled.

"Is not that right to say steal?"

"We should say, 'rob you,'" said Sophie, modestly. "We say, one steals something, but one robs a person."

"I think that is all one," said the doctor, good-humoredly, "but I shall never learn English right. Do you wait here now till I shall dress the burns, for it is not good for you to see that done, and then I will call you. I will be the bitter medicine, and you shall be the good sugar to take away the bad taste."

Dr. Werner ascended the stairs to Betsey's chamber, and Sophie remained below.

In about half an hour he came and called her.

"Do you hear, little girl—you must not talk much to her, for she is very weak. You shall only sit by her, and read very softly, and perhaps she will go to sleep."

Sophie, who had not seen Betsey for several days, was struck by the alteration in her appearance. She had grown much thinner; her skin looked like paper, and, on the well cheek, which was not concealed by the bandage, was a round spot of deep crimson. Poor little Betsey seemed to be fast passing away. She opened her eyes, and smiled at the sight of Sophie, but did not appear to have energy enough to speak. The sight of the flowers seemed to revive her: she took them in her hands, and smelt of them with evident pleasure.

"How sweet they are!" she said in a whisper. "I am so glad of them! I thought I should never see any more flowers."

"They came from Greta Carroll," said Sophie, "the young lady who gave you the caps, you know. She is as pretty as the flowers herself, and just as sweet."

"Every one is very good to us," said Betsey. "I am glad we came here, for mother will have some kind friends to help her. I am afraid she will grieve sadly when I am gone."

"DO you think you shall die, Betsey?" asked Sophie, surprised at the way in which she spoke.

"O yes, miss; I have known it this great while. I never say a word to mother about it, for it makes her feel so bad, and she cannot help hoping. But I shall never be any better; and only for leaving mother, I should not mind. I am not afraid."

"God can take care of your mother, you know," said Sophie, timidly, after a little pause.

"I know it," said Betsey; "it is not that. It is only that I feel sorry to leave her. But it will not be long."

"Shall I read to you, Betsey?" asked Sophie, after a few moments' silence. "Dr. Werner said you must not talk much."

"If you please Miss Sophie. I should like to hear the hundred and third and hundred and fourth psalms first."

Sophie read in a low voice, sitting close to the bed. At the verse, "Look how high the heaven is, in comparison of the earth: so great is the Lord's mercy toward them that fear him," Betsey repeated the words and went on to the next herself.

"How beautiful that is!" she murmured. "As far as the east is from the west, so far has he set our sins from us. Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him."

Sophie finished the psalm, and went on to the next.

Betsey lay quietly listening, with her eyes half closed.

At the words, "He sendeth the springs," she roused herself again. "I know where there is just such a place in Canada, where we used to live. There is a little sort of ravine runs up from the river, with high rocks on both sides, and at the end of it there is a clear beautiful spring that runs so cool and sweet over the rocks. I can see how it looks just now, with the red sumach leaves dropping into it. Don't you love to be in the country, miss?"

"Yes, dearly," answered Sophie, "but I have almost always lived in the city. I think perhaps we shall spend next summer in the country."

"If you do," said Betsey, "and if you find any such pretty spring, you may think it is a keepsake to remember me by. Are you tired of reading, dear?"

"Oh, no," replied Sophie eagerly; "I often read two hours at a time to papa. What shall I read next?"

"About, 'Let not your hearts be troubled,' if you please."

Sophie turned over, and read the wonderfully beautiful words of divine consolation. She had never seen half the meaning in them that she found now, as she repeated them for the comfort of the poor dying child, for whom they seemed so full of heavenly peace. Betsey now and then repeated the words after her, and finally fell asleep with them on her lips.

Sophie sat looking at her a few minutes without moving. "After all," she thought, "Betsey does not seem to be unhappy. The only thing that troubles her, is the thought of leaving her mother: and she seems so sure of seeing her again. She is not at all afraid of dying. I suppose it is because she is so good. I mean to ask her about it some day when she is better, and able to talk."

Sophie sat by Betsey till nurse Brown came in, and then went home, not forgetting to call for the flowers Greta had promised her.

When she arrived at home, she filled the parlor vases, and put a beautiful bouquet on her mother's dressing-table. After dinner Nancy asked her to dust and arrange the books in the parlors, and this occupied her until it was time to dress herself. Then feeling very much agitated, but not unhappy, she went down and seated herself by the parlor fire, for the evening was chilly, and a little blaze was very pleasant. She took a book from the table and tried to read, but found it impossible to fix her attention a moment. Finally she gave up all attempt at employment, and sat still by the fire, listening for the railroad whistle, or the wheels of the carriage.

Nancy was almost as nervous in her way. She was one moment in the kitchen where the dinner was cooking, then in Mrs. Kennedy's own room, then she overlooked Sophie's dress to see that all was right, and then she cast a vigilant glance upon the table and its appointments to see that nothing was wrong.

Sophie was sure the cars had run off the track, or else that they were not coming till to-morrow, a dozen times, before they finally announced themselves by a prolonged screech to be within a mile of the city. After that she could sit still no longer, and she stood at the window, or walked up and down the room, wishing and yet dreading to have the meeting over, till the carriage turned into the street and stopped.

Nancy went down to the gate to meet the travellers, but Sophie stood timidly at the door. She heard her father's voice, and then a lady's, speaking to Nancy, and with a strange feeling of anxiety and fear she shrunk aside from the door as they entered.

"Sophie!" called her father. "Why, where is the child?"

"Here, papa," said Sophie, coming forward.

Mr. Kennedy lifted Sophie in his arms, and kissed her more fervently than he had ever done before. Then he took her hand, and put it into that of the lady who stood beside him.

"This is my little girl, Sophia," he said, in a tone of deep feeling. "Sophie, this lady is your mother."

Sophie had fully determined not to cry, whatever happened, but her father's tone and warm embrace quite overset her, and as she threw her arms around her new mamma's neck, she burst into tears. Nobody found fault with her for crying this time, however. Her mamma only pressed her face close to hers, and kissed her over and over again, while her father walked rather hastily to the other end of the hall, and stood for a minute looking out of the window, though it was quite too dark to see any thing.

Then he returned to where they were standing, and said cheerfully,—

"Come, Sophie, have you got a good fire for us? It is really cold this evening."

"Yes, papa," said Sophie, brushing away her tears, and opening the parlor door, "fire and lights, and dinner too, when mamma is ready."

"All very welcome," replied her father; "you are a nice little housekeeper."

"Nancy was the housekeeper, papa; I only helped."

"Did Nancy arrange all these beautiful flowers and leaves?" asked Mrs. Kennedy, speaking for the first time.

"What a sweet voice she has!" thought Sophie.

"No, mamma. Greta gave me the flowers, and I arranged them. I thought you would like to see them."

"You guessed rightly, my love; I am very fond of flowers, and these are beautiful. I am surprised to see such a variety so late in the season."

"The frost keeps off wonderfully!" remarked Mr. Kennedy. "And we have had so much rain that the gardens are in fine order."

"Shall I take your bonnet, mamma?" asked Sophie.

"Thank you, Sophie, I will change my dress, if there is time before dinner. I feel as if I were covered with dust. Will you show me the way?"

Sophie lighted a candle, and led the way to her mother's room.

"Here is your room, mamma; and I believe it is all in order for you. This is the bathing-room, and here are two closets; and here are your trunks, already. I will come and call you when dinner is ready."

"Wait one minute, Sophie," said Mrs. Kennedy, who was unlocking one of her trunks. She removed one or two dresses, and then took out a little morocco box like a watch-case, which she placed in Sophie's hands.

"For me, mamma?" asked Sophie.

"Certainly, my love. Open it, and see if it pleases you."

Sophie opened the pretty little case; and there, on a white velvet cushion, lay a little enamelled Geneva watch, with its key, and a beautifully-worked hair chain.

"Why, mamma!" exclaimed the little girl, hardly daring to trust her eyes. "Not for 'me'! Not a real watch! Oh, how glad I am! Thank you very much, mamma. What a beauty it is! And such a lovely chain! It is just the color of your curls."

"That is not very remarkable, considering how recently they were neighbors," said Mrs. Kennedy, smiling. "I made it for you myself, and I am glad you are pleased with it. It would be thought—the watch, I mean—rather an expensive present for a girl like you, by many people, but I remembered how pleased I was at your age, when your grandmamma gave me one, and with what delight I used to wind it up, and refer to it. Moreover, Sophie, I am very punctual, and always want every one about me to be the same; and you will have no excuse for being behind-hand, now that you have a watch of your own."

"Are you very particular, mamma?" asked Sophie, somewhat timidly.

"I do not think I am very particular, my dear. I am not as neat as that New England lady, who used a white quilt five years without washing."

"I should not call that being very neat."

"But I like to have things nice about me, and I am not fond of having people dilatory, because that wastes so much time. But you need not be alarmed, my child. We shall find out each other's ways by degrees, and if I should ever find fault, it will be because I think it necessary, and not because I like it."

Mrs. Kennedy had finished dressing by this time, and she and Sophie returned to the parlor together. At dinner, Sophie quite forgot to feel bad at not sitting at the head of the table, she was so much occupied in looking at her mother, and admiring her white hands and graceful manners. She began to feel quite unconstrained and at her ease, and talked to her father about her school, and her playmates, and her chickens, as freely as if they had been alone together.

"And how is Betsey, Sophie?" asked her father. "Is she getting better?"

"She is not any better, papa: I do not think she will ever be, for Dr. Werner says she has the consumption. I was there this morning and read to her a long time."

"Who is Betsey?" asked Mrs. Kennedy.

"She is a little English girl, mamma, who is sick at nurse Brown's." And Sophie gave an account of Betsey's adventures and sufferings, ending with—"And for all that, mamma, and though she thinks she will certainly die, she is not at all unhappy; and when she is a little better, she seems to enjoy looking at flowers and pictures, as much as any one. She does not seem to feel bad about any thing except going away from her mother."

"You think, I suppose, you would not be as cheerful as she is under the same circumstances."

"No, mamma, I am sure I do not think I could, especially if I thought so much about dying as she does. But I suppose it is because she is so good."

"I rather think she has some better reason than that, my dear."

"Why, what better reason could she have, mamma?"

"We will talk about it again, Sophie. Perhaps we shall be able to ask her about it some time. Do you go and see her very often?"

"Pretty often, now she is at nurse Brown's," answered Sophie. "She always seems glad to see any of us when we go in. She is alone a good deal, for her mother goes out to work, and nurse Brown is apt to be busy. She will be glad to see you, mamma, I am sure."

"Will you try the piano, Sophia?" asked Mr. Kennedy after dinner.

Sophie looked surprised. She did not know what her father meant by asking her to play, but Mrs. Kennedy rose, and opening the new piano, sat down and ran her fingers over the keys.

"It is a very brilliant instrument," she said, pausing a moment, and then beginning one of Beethoven's waltzes.

Sophie listened perfectly entranced till the last soft tones died away, and then, with a long-drawn sigh, she exclaimed, "Oh, what music! Please, mamma, play another."

Mrs. Kennedy played another and another, and then sang several songs, and still Sophie was not satisfied. She remembered, however, that her mother must be tired with her journey, and forbore to ask for one more.

Mrs. Kennedy left the piano and sat down again by the fire. "Have you ever taken music lessons, Sophie?" she inquired.

"No, mamma, not exactly. Greta taught me the letters, and how to read music a little, and I have learned to play two or three tunes on her piano, for we have never had a piano till lately."

"I should like to hear you play something."

Sophie hesitated, but finally went to the piano and played one or two tunes very prettily. She had a quick ear and a good perception of time, so that she seldom made mistakes.

"I should think you would learn music pretty easily," said Mrs. Kennedy. "You seem to have a good ear, and your touch is light and steady. You cannot do much with music, however, when you go to school."

"Papa said he thought I should not go to school next quarter," remarked Sophie.

"In that case we must see about some music lessons," said her mother. "It is a pity you should not learn, if you have a good ear. But you will need a great deal of patience."

"I am sure I cannot learn then," said Sophie, "for I have not a particle of patience. If I cannot learn any thing directly, I never can learn it at all."

"Perhaps we had better begin with lessons in patience then, which is an acquirement much more necessary than music," remarked Mrs. Kennedy.

"Can any one learn it if they are not naturally patient?" asked Sophie.

"People usually learn it when they are obliged to do so," answered Mrs. Kennedy. "But, Sophie, how do you get on in school, if you have no patience?"

"I don't know, mamma: I contrive to get on somehow."

"I suppose you expect every one to have patience with you?"

"Yes, mamma," said Sophie rather slowly, "but that is different."

"How different?"

"I don't know. We always expect teachers to be patient. It seems easy enough for them."

"Nevertheless, it is as hard for them as for any one else. But they know they must be, and so they learn it. And that is the only way any one learns."

"What time is it, Sophie?" asked Mr. Kennedy.

Sophie produced her watch with great satisfaction. "It is ten o'clock, papa."

"And that is time you were asleep, my dear. You will be complaining of headache in the morning. So take your lamp, and do not forget to wind up your watch."

When Sophie was alone in her room, she began to think over the events of the day which seemed so long to look back upon. She could hardly persuade herself that she had been reading to the sick girl only that morning: it seemed as if it must have been a week ago at least. Her mind was so full of her new mamma's words and looks and music that she could think of nothing else. She said her prayers, however, and then feeling very happy, she lay down and dropped asleep, almost before her head touched the pillow.