CHAPTER IV.
NEW STUDIES.
THE next day, which was Saturday, was occupied by Mrs. Kennedy in making acquaintance with the house, and in unpacking and putting away the contents of her travelling trunks. Sophie was very much interested in this proceeding, and particularly delighted with the sight of her mother's portfolios of drawings and paintings.
"Can you sketch from nature, mamma?" she inquired.
"Yes, my dear; all the pictures in that purple book are sketches from nature. There is a sketch of your grandmother's house there somewhere."
Sophie opened the book and found the sketch. "Oh, what a lovely place!" she exclaimed. "Did grandmamma live in such a place as this?"
"Yes, that is a very good portrait of the house; the two high windows that you see at the corner of the verandah were in your mamma's room."
"Do I look like her, mamma?" asked Sophie.
"Not much, Sophie. Your mother had a very bright color, and brown hair, and her face was very full and round, when I last saw her. Your voice puts me in mind of her sometimes. I hope you will be half as good and sensible. Your mother was one of the steadiest persons I ever saw. If she once made up her mind that any course was right—if she saw her way clear before her, she always went straight forward, at any sacrifice to herself."
Sophie sighed, but made no remark. Presently her mother took out two workboxes, one after the other.
"Are you a good sewer, Sophie?" she inquired.
"No, mamma," said Sophie, blushing, "not very. I don't like to sew."
"Probably because you do not know how. But you must learn to sew, my dear child. It is an art much more necessary than drawing, or playing on the piano. I have brought you a work-box, you see, and I think we must make that one of our first lessons, shall we?"
"Yes, mamma," said Sophie, admiring the pretty box with its complete appointments, but a little alarmed at being set down to sew. "But I would much rather learn to draw."
"Cannot you learn both?"
"I suppose so, mamma, but I do not like to sew or knit, or do any such thing."
"What do you like?" asked her mother. "I like to read, mamma, and to study some things."
"Such as what, Sophie?"
"History, mamma, especially natural history; and I like to translate French, and sometimes to write compositions, when I feel like it."
"Do you like arithmetic?"
"Not much, mamma, it is so hard for me. I have no natural taste for figures."
"You will have to acquire a taste, then, my dear, for figures are almost as necessary as sewing. I suspect the fact is, you like to do what you can do easily."
Sophie smiled. "You are right, I believe, mamma."
"The best natural taste, as you call it, would be a natural taste for work, but that very few people possess. Nothing worth doing can be done without work."
"But, mamma, great geniuses do not have to work so hard."
"Such as who, my dear?"
"Why—people that have a great genius for music or painting, like Mozart or Paganini, or some of the great painters."
"You have chosen your instances rather unluckily: Mozart, who composed and played the most difficult pieces at six years old, was a wonder of study and industry. Paganini often practised for hours at a single strain. Michael Angelo studied unceasingly, as have all the great painters. No doubt other people have had as much genius as Michael Angelo, but wanting the genius for work, their gifts were all in vain."
"Well, mamma," said Sophie, sighing, "I suppose I must learn to sew, but I do not like to. I wish one could get along without it."
"You will like it better when you learn to sew fast and easily. As for the arithmetic, we will see about it. Perhaps you have not begun in the right way; there is a good deal in that. The next week will probably be too much broken up by visits to allow of our doing much, but I hope, after that, we shall both settle to our regular employments."
The next day was Sunday, and Sophie was glad to see the sun shining when she arose. Before she was quite dressed, her mother rapped at her door:
"Are you ready, Sophie? Your father is waiting for you."
Sophie was not quite ready, but she made as much haste as possible, and accompanied her mother down stairs. She found all the servants assembled in the dining-room, and her father sitting with the large Bible and Prayer Book before him. As soon as they had seated themselves, he read a chapter in the New Testament, and a Psalm, and then they had prayers.
Sophie was pleased and affected by the scene, for she had strong religious feelings, though she had never learned to apply them in actions. But she saw the propriety of beginning the day with a solemn appeal to the Disposer and Father of all, and particularly the Sabbath—God's peculiar day. It made her think, too, of the time when her mother was living, and able to join in their prayers; and she prayed that she might be allowed to join her again in that land where there are no more partings.
"Do you go to Sunday school, Sophie?" asked her mother, at breakfast.
"No, mamma, not now," answered Sophie. "I used to go, but my teacher got married and went away, and then I did not care any more about it."
"What do you do all day Sunday?" said Mrs. Kennedy.
"I read, mamma, and write my compositions, and sometimes I learn my lessons. Do you think it is wrong to study on Sunday?" she inquired, seeing that her mother looked rather grave.
"That depends upon what you study, Sophie," answered her mother. "I do not think it is right to use Sunday for lessons which should be learned during the week. As long as we have one day in the week set apart for religious improvement, we should, I think, use it for that purpose."
"But, mamma," said Sophie, "Sunday is such a dull day, if one does nothing but read the Bible. Somehow it is all so familiar, and I have read it so many times that I can never keep my mind fixed upon it."
"What did you study in Sunday school?" asked her father.
"We used to learn two or three verses in the Testament, papa, and say them to Miss Fisher, and she explained them to us. And we learned hymns, and talked about our library books. I liked it very well then, but I do not care about it now."
"We must try to hit upon some new method of studying the Bible, Sophie," remarked Mrs. Kennedy. "Perhaps you may find that you are not as familiar with it as you imagine. I wonder if you can tell me now what countryman Abraham was?"
"He was a Jew, was he not, mamma?"
Mrs. Kennedy smiled, and shook her head. "There were no people called Jews till long after his time, my dear. You may take that for your Sunday's lesson, and see if you can find out."
Sophie was a little vexed at being in the wrong. She was, as the girls at school said, rather "touchy." And when any little thing happened to displease her, she would color and bite her lips and look very unamiable.
Mrs. Kennedy took no notice of these demonstrations of displeasure, but continued, notwithstanding Sophie drew up her head in a manner which she considered very dignified, "We are, perhaps, rather inclined to overrate our stock of knowledge until we are called upon to make use of it."
"But, mamma, how can I find out about Abraham? Does it tell in the Bible?"
"In the Book of Genesis you will find all about him. But we must not sit too long over the breakfast-table, or the girls will not have time to get ready for church."
Sophie was quite delighted with her mother's appearance, when she came down stairs, ready for church. She wore nothing expensive, but all her clothes were so well chosen and put on, that Sophie thought she had never seen any one better dressed. And yet Mrs. Kennedy did not appear to think much about it either, though she was rather anxious to get into church early.
They accordingly arrived at the church-door just as the second bells began to toll, and there were very few people in church. After they had taken their seats, Mrs. Kennedy opened a Bible that was in the pew, and read till it was time for service to begin. A good many people stared rather uncivilly, but she did not seem to pay any attention to them, though Sophie thought she blushed once or twice as she looked up and caught some one's eyes fixed full upon her.
Sophie noticed that she read the Psalm and responses in an audible voice, and that she paid the greatest attention to the sermon.
As they came out of church, several of the school-girls spoke to Sophie, and Mrs. Gaylord came round at the door to shake hands with her father. Laura Bartlett also made her way round; and, while talking to Sophie, she contrived, as she said, "to have a good look at the bride," in order that she might give a description of her dress and appearance to such of her schoolmates as attended different churches, and therefore had not the felicity of beholding her first appearance. It is wonderful to reflect what a talent some people have for collecting information, and melancholy that it is so thrown away. If Laura had turned her attention to the antiquities of Rome, for instance, she might have rivalled the great Niebuhr himself, but her curiosity did not extend itself greatly in the direction of books.
The next week passed away very quietly and pleasantly for Sophie. As her mother had predicted, the time was too much broken up by visits, for any regular occupation.
Mrs. Kennedy was all the time becoming better and better acquainted with her daughter's disposition and acquirements. She perceived that Sophie was a good deal spoiled by neglect and indulgence, and that she had faults which would call forth all her patience and forbearance. She foresaw that she must be contented with small beginnings and long-continued efforts, but she was encouraged by seeing that Sophie had very good qualities to begin upon. She was affectionate, intelligent, tolerably truthful, fond of some sorts of study, and as little selfish as could possibly be expected under her circumstances.
What selfishness she had was negative rather than positive in its character. She was very ready to serve those about her, when it could be done in an active way. For instance, she would run to the farthest corner of the house to bring a book for her father; and, ten to one, she would leave every door in her way wide open, though she knew how much it annoyed him. She would sit for hours beside Nancy when she had a fit of sick-headache, and do every thing she could think of to alleviate her suffering. But she would never take the trouble to put away her bonnet and shawl when she came home, or to overlook her own clothes when they came up from the wash. As some one says, she was capable of great sacrifices, but not of small ones.
"I am afraid you will have great trouble with the child!" said Mr. Kennedy one day to his wife.
"I expected it, when I took the charge upon myself," answered Mrs. Kennedy. "She is just at the age when children are always troublesome, and she would naturally be more so from her peculiar circumstances."
"You must not hesitate to use authority, if necessary."
"I shall endeavor to get along without any contention," answered his wife. "She does not seem to have any very bad faults. In fact, it is not such a difficult matter to keep children from doing what they ought not to do: the trouble is to make them do what they ought to do."
The next week the lessons began. Mrs. Kennedy commenced with music lessons, arithmetic, and drawing. Sophie would gladly have got rid of the arithmetic, but her father was very decided on that point, and she did not like to oppose him. The first two weeks went on smoothly and pleasantly. Mrs. Kennedy was very clear in her explanations, and possessed great patience, and Sophie began to think she was going to have very nice times.
But by and by she began to grow rather tired, and relaxed her efforts. The arithmetic lessons were very carelessly studied; and if her mother were called away, Sophie would spend her practice hour in playing, for her own amusement, easy lessons that she had already learned. One morning she was particularly careless and inattentive. She had a new music lesson, and a very easy and pretty one, but she paid no attention to it, and played so many false notes, that her mother said, "Stop playing, Sophie!" Sophie stopped.
"What note is that in the treble? The next, and the next."
Sophie told them all correctly.
"Then why do you not play them so? You have struck them wrong every time."
"I cannot help it," exclaimed Sophie petulantly. "I do as well as I can. I shall never learn music, I am sure."
"Cannot you help playing C instead of D?" inquired her mother.
Sophie did not reply.
"Whether you can learn music or not, remains to be seen," continued Mrs. Kennedy. "That is not the question now. Begin at the beginning, and be sure you know the name of every note before you strike it."
A little awed by her mother's tone and manner, Sophie managed to get through the lesson without any more blunders.
Then came the arithmetic. Her sum to-day was one in Compound Addition. She understood the rule perfectly, and the sum required only patience and care. But neither care nor patience was Sophie inclined to exercise this day. After two or three trials, she got entirely out of humor, and throwing the slate down on the floor, she exclaimed:
"I never can do it, and that is all about it." And she burst into a flood of tears.
Her mother waited a few minutes, until the storm had subsided, and then, taking up the slate, said:
"Don't you understand the rule, Sophie?"
"I understand it well enough," sobbed Sophie, disconsolately, "but I cannot do that old sum. I never shall get it right, I know."
"What is the trouble with it? It is a long sum, I know, but not at all difficult, and you have done several like it. But you can never do any thing as long as you are such a baby. Take the slate and try again. You must really do this sum before dinner, my child," she continued, seriously, but calmly. "It requires nothing but patience, and it must be done. I shall sit here till I see it finished."
Mrs. Kennedy said no more, but went on quietly with her work. Sophie sat crying for some time, but as her mother took no notice of her tears, she grew rather ashamed of them, and, finally, wiping her eyes, she took up her slate, and in ten minutes did the sum correctly.
"It is quite right this time," said her mother, looking it over. "You had better put away your books now, and get ready for dinner. You will have no time to draw to-day."
Sophie found she had much better have preserved her temper, as she gained nothing by losing it. Her mother did not seem to be even ruffled, and she went to her room feeling very much ashamed of herself. She had lowered herself in her own eyes and her mother's, and deprived herself of a real enjoyment in losing her drawing lesson. She appeared at dinner with flushed cheeks and swollen eyes, but her father did not seem to notice them; for he laughed and talked just as usual. Before he left the table, he said:
"I saw nurse Brown this morning, Sophie, and she said Betsey was wondering what had become of you. I told her you had been very much occupied, but would come and see her soon."
"Suppose We go this afternoon?" said Mrs. Kennedy to Sophie. "You know I have never seen your little friends yet."
"If you please, mamma," said Sophie.
"Then you may ask Nancy to put up some of her nice potted chicken, and we will take it round. A delicate appetite is often tempted by something which is made away from home."
A little while after dinner, Mrs. Kennedy and Sophie set out on their walk. It was a mild afternoon: the trees were now quite bare, and the grass had begun to look brown, but the air was filled with the peculiar sweetness of Indian summer. As they passed the school-house, several girls were standing at the gate, among whom were Laura Bartlett, Greta Carroll, and Harry Reed. And Mrs. Kennedy stopped for Sophie to speak to them.
When they went on—"Sophie has been crying," remarked Laura, who as usual had her eyes about her. "I wonder if she has had a fuss with her stepmother already?"
"It is nothing remarkable for her to cry," said Carry Woodford. "She often did that in school, especially over her arithmetic. I have seen her shed any quantity of tears over a sum in fractions, which after all she did in two or three minutes."
"I wonder if she studies at home?" continued Laura. "I think it is too bad for her mother to make her work out of school."
"You speak as if you thought that her mother made her study for her own pleasure and convenience, instead of for Sophie's own good," remarked Greta. "I don't think Mrs. Kennedy can find it very amusing, to sit down two or three hours in the morning with Sophie over scales and exercises and little easy tunes, when she plays so splendidly herself or to spend ever so long over arithmetic and grammar lessons."
"Why does she do it, then? She might just as well send her to school."
"No doubt she thinks it will be better for Sophie, she has been to school so much. I am sure Sophie ought to be grateful to her for taking so much pains with her."
"Well, I don't see why we need be so wonderfully grateful to our teachers. They are paid for all they do, and they need not teach unless they choose."
"I suppose then if you had the smallpox, and a doctor should save your life, you would not feel any gratitude towards him," observed Harry Reed. "He would get his pay for all he did."
"I am sure no money would pay Miss Warner for the pains she takes with that poor little Anne Jenkins," said Greta; "she is both dull and mischievous, and yet Miss Warner and Miss Lee are never weary of trying to teach her."
"She has improved very much since she came here, though," remarked Carry Woodford. "She is really beginning to learn something; and she has got over that trick of rolling her eyes and twitching her mouth when she talks. I should not wonder if she becomes about as clever as other children, after all."
"I do not believe she will ever be very intelligent," replied Greta. "But even if she should not, think how glad her parents will be, if she only learns to read and write and to behave properly. Do you think, Laura, that money will ever pay Miss Warner for the pains she takes with her?"
"Oh no, indeed," acknowledged Laura. "I did not mean, you know, Greta, that one ought not to be grateful at all to teachers; only not so 'very' grateful."
"I rather think you did not consider much about it, Laura. But I know a great many girls feel just so about their teachers. They seem to take every thing done for them just as a matter of course, and never think of making any return; and it is something so even to their parents."
"Oh, well, Greta," said Laura, carelessly, "we cannot all be as good as you, even if we try."
"Suppose you should try, Laura?" said Harry.
"It is quite too much trouble for me," replied Laura. "But Harry," she added, mischievously, "why don't you try yourself? I am sure there is room for improvement. I don't set myself up for a pattern, as Greta does, but I never should have answered Miss Lee as you did this morning."
Harry colored very much, but made no answer in words, though a very angry one flashed from her eyes.
While Greta said smiling, "I assure you, Laura, I don't set up for a pattern at all. But I don't think you really do want Harry to improve."
"Why not?"
"Because if you did, you would not try to provoke her. Besides you don't know how much she does try."
"I am sure she does not succeed very well," persisted Laura, who seemed to take a malicious pleasure in seeing Harry's indignation rise.
Harry turned and went into the house, without saying a word. She was beginning to try very hard to get the better of her temper, and in such cases as the present, she found it the best policy to get out of the way of provocation.
"There she goes, as grand as Juno," continued Laura laughing, "and I must go too, if I don't want to be marked. Come, Miss Pattern, it would never do to be late, you know."
And the girls accordingly went into school.
When Mrs. Kennedy and Sophie arrived at their destination, they found Betsey sitting up in bed, supported by pillows. She had passed a week of comparative ease and comfort, and was very cheerful. Her mother was seated beside her, sewing on a fine linen shirt. A bright flush of pleasure passed over Betsey's face as they entered, and she held out her thin hand.
"I am so glad to see you again, miss," she said. "I was almost afraid you had forgotten me, but I suppose you have been very busy. Is this your mamma?"
"Yes," answered Mrs. Kennedy smiling. "I have been trying to come and see you before: but you may imagine, Mrs. Hand," she continued, turning to her, "that I have been pretty busy. It takes some time to settle one's self in a new home."
"It does indeed, ma'am," answered Mrs. Hand, "especially for one like you. No doubt you found every thing ready to your hands too, and that makes a great difference. When I was married, and went home with my husband, I had every thing to do. The woman who pretended to keep house had neglected every thing, and the child, poor thing, had not a whole garment to put on, nor a stocking to her foot. The first week I was there, I knitted her two pairs of stockings."
"Red ones," said Betsey; "how well I remember. And I remember too, mammy, how you cleaned up every thing and how different the house looked."
"Do you recollect how I would not let you play in the water, and how you cried over the first sewing I set you?"
"Yes, mammy, and how you made me sit still till I had finished it: I thought you were very hard upon me then. And how you let me make the biscuits one day: I got my hands covered with dough, and could not get it off, and ran out in the front yard, to ask you what I should do next."
Betsey grew quite animated over her reminiscences, and her mother smiled to see her so gay, but the smile was followed by a sigh.
"The most I cared about growing up, since I began to think about it, was that I might do something for you, mother. But never mind," she continued cheerfully; "I have tried to do something, and we shall not be long apart, and you will have little Mary. So don't cry, mother, please."
Mrs. Hand laid down her work and left the room, while Betsey looked after her and sighed in her turn. "Poor mammy," she said. "Miss Sophie, you must try and comfort her when I am gone."
"The only thing you think about is leaving your mother, Betsey," said Sophie, after a few moments' silence. "You do not seem at all afraid of dying. I suppose it is because you are so good."
"Oh no, indeed, Miss Sophie, it is not that. I do not believe any one is good enough, not to be afraid of dying: do you, ma'am?"
"No, Betsey," answered Mrs. Kennedy. "I told Sophie before I saw you that I thought you must have some better reason than that. Perhaps you will feel able to tell her what it is."
"It is because I have a Friend in heaven that loves me, and will take care of me, Miss Sophie. I know that God is my Father, and that he sent His dear Son, our blessed Saviour, to die and rise again for me, that I might be saved. And I know that for His sake, God will forgive my sins, and take me to live with Him; and by and by mammy will come too, and then we shall all be together, mammy and father and all."
"You are sure, dear child, that God has forgiven you for Jesus Christ's sake, and that He will hear your prayers!"
"Oh yes, ma'am," said Betsey, with animation; "he has heard me so many times already. I cannot say I ever thought much about such things till my father died, though he and mammy both used to teach me about God and heaven, but somehow, when he died, he seemed to carry my heart right up with him. We were a great deal poorer after daddy was taken away; and when I saw how mammy worked, I felt as if I must work too. So I asked God, night and morning, to give me strength and sense to work for mammy and Mary, and He did."
"I have no doubt of it, my love," said Mrs. Kennedy.
Sophie listened with fixed attention; she was much interested.
"But I am afraid you are tiring yourself. Does it not hurt you to talk?"
"No, ma'am, not at all to-day. I love to talk about those times. So, then, I began to try and take the best care I could of Mary and the house, while mother was away at work. Mary was a very good baby, and needed little nursing. And by and by, I thought I might get some sewing or knitting to do too. So I went to our minister's wife—she was a good, good lady—and told her about it, and showed her some sewing I had done. She said she would help me all she could, and gave me some work herself. I never told mother a word about it, till I had earned almost ten shillings."
Sophie glanced at her mother, who had seated herself by the bedside, and taken up Mrs. Hand's work.
Mrs. Kennedy returned the glance with a smile.
"So much for knowing how, Sophie. But what did your mother say, Betsey, when you gave her the money?"
"She was very much surprised and pleased, ma'am, and asked me how I came to think of it. Then I told her how I had asked God to help me, and show me some way to work for her. After that, I did a great deal of work. I think, Mrs. Kennedy, it is a great deal easier to do hard and disagreeable things, when one thinks one is doing it for God."
"You have found the true philosophy of life, my child. And no doubt the same feeling helps you to bear your suffering as patiently and cheerfully as I am told you do. Do you ever think that you drink of the same cup that your Saviour drank of, and are baptized with the baptism that he was baptized withal?"
"Of suffering, do you mean, ma'am?"
"Yes, my dear."
"But my pains are nothing to His?"
"That is true, but it is great for you, and you cannot tell how much good it will do."
"It has done me good already, I know, and some one else, too. Oh, Mrs. Kennedy, the poor drunken man that burned me—that dropped the candle on me, you know—he has never drank one drop since. His wife told him, when he was sober, what he had done. And he was so shocked, and felt so sorry, that he declared he would never taste another drop as long as he lived, and he went and took the pledge directly. He came all the way here to see me, yesterday, and to ask me to forgive him."
"And did you?" asked Mrs. Kennedy.
"Oh yes, ma'am," replied Betsey. "Indeed, I had nothing to forgive, for he did not mean to do it. I expect it was harder for mother than for me. Of course it would be, you know. But I think she has forgiven him, for she said the Lord's Prayer with me last night. So my being burned has done some good."
"Well, Betsey," said Mrs. Kennedy, rising and laying down the work, now nearly completed, "I think you are happier than a great many well people I know. I shall come and see you again, very soon, my dear."
Sophie was very quiet and thoughtful all the way home. When she arrived, she put away her bonnet and shawl without waiting to be told as usual, and then sat down with her arithmetic and slate to learn her lesson for to-morrow.
"What do you think it is that makes it so hard for me to learn arithmetic, mamma?" she asked, after working in silence a while.
"I think this is one reason, Sophie," replied her mother. "You acquire some things much more easily than people in general, for you have a naturally quick memory. But you think rather slowly, and you are not much accustomed to exercise your reflective powers. So when you bring them to bear upon your arithmetic, you are impatient of the slowness of the operation, and at your progress in it, compared with other studies. It is really no harder for you than for any one else, except that you are more unused to reflection."
"I know I am, mamma; I never can sit down and think steadily."
"But, my dear, I sometimes see you sit an hour without speaking or moving: what do you do then?"
"I don't know, mamma; I dream, I believe," said Sophie; "I think what I would do if I had such and such things, or how I would live if I were very rich, like Miss Eustace. I think how I would have a fine place, and travel all over, and such things."
"A very bad way of employing your mind, or rather your time, for your mind has not much to do with it."
Sophie looked incredulous, and her mother continued:
"I know all about it, my dear, for I had the same habit myself for a great many years, and had to make great efforts to rid myself of it. Tell me honestly, do you not sometimes build castles in the air that are not so very pleasant? When any one vexes you a little, for instance, do you not sometimes imagine a train of circumstances in which you are very much abused, and made to endure all sorts of hardships?"
Sophie assented silently. She was conscious that she had been doing something of the sort that very morning.
"And do you not come out of such a reverie, feeling still more uncomfortable, and unwilling to be pleased?"
Sophie nodded again.
"That is one bad effect of this habit of reverie," continued her mother. "Another is, that it tends to make you impatient of every sort of mental exertion; and that is the case, more or less, with almost every thing which occupies the mind without exercising it. I think if you will make an effort to break off this habit, you will find your lessons all the easier for it."
"But, mamma, it is so pleasant to imagine one's self able to have all that one wants, and to think of all the good one might do with so much money. I was thinking, yesterday afternoon, that if I were as rich as Mr. Astor, I could do so much for the poor people here. I would build them such nice houses, like Prince Albert's model cottages, you know, and—" Sophie paused, for she saw a smile on her mother's face.
"I heard Nancy asking you why you had not dusted the books in the parlor, as you promised her. Was that when you were imagining all these fine things?"
Sophie colored scarlet. In fact, she had started about her work, and actually taken the duster in hand, but finding a paper containing an account of the prince's model cottages, she had fallen into the reverie aforesaid, and had not only forgotten to dust the books, but finally went out, leaving duster and brush in the middle of the room.
Mrs. Kennedy saw she had guessed rightly, and continued:—
"You have no reason to suppose that you would do any good with Mr. Astor's means, or even more, if you neglect the opportunities now in your power. 'He that is faithful in that which is least is faithful also in that which is much: and he that is unjust in the least is unjust also in much.' What do you think would have become of Betsey and her mother, if the latter had sat down to cry over her misfortunes, and to imagine what a fine education she would give them, if she were only, rich. Or suppose Betsey had spent the hours she devoted to sewing, in thinking, 'Now if I could only sing like Jenny Lind, how nicely I could support mother!'"
Sophie allowed that her mother was in the right as far as Betsey was concerned, but she thought her own case very different. She took too much pleasure in her reveries to be very willing to abandon them. But the conversation had so much effect upon her that for once, she applied her whole mind to her lesson in figures, and therefore found it much easier than the preceding one had been.
CHAPTER V.
THE BAD COLD.
SOPHIE'S lessons went on more smoothly for a few days, and she made abundant resolutions to be more steady and industrious, but she relied on her own strength to keep them, and asked no help from above. As two or three weeks passed without any particular temptations, she began to flatter herself that she had no more reason to fear, and began to relax her guard. Of course it was not very long before she learned how much her self-reliance was worth.
Winter had now fairly set in, and the weather was very cold. Sophie's favorite pets—her chickens—were shut up in their house at the barn, and she always went out to feed them morning and evening. She was provided with a warm wadded sack and hood for these occasions, but though she was subject to ear-ache and pain in her face on the least cold, she had never been taught by what she suffered to take care of herself. Sometimes her hood and sack were up stairs, or elsewhere out of place, and she could not stop to find them; or her overshoes were cold, and it was not worth while to warm and put them on, "just to run out to the barn."
"Put a shawl over your sack, Sophie," said her mother to her one evening, as she came in with her basket of provisions; "and do not stay out long. It is very cold."
"Yes, mamma," answered Sophie, quitting the room rather hastily, and as usual leaving the door ajar.
But instead of wearing any thing additional, she did not put on her sack at all. The truth was, she could not find either that or her hood, which she had left out of place in the morning: so she hastily threw on an old shawl of Nancy's, which she found in the kitchen, and without stopping to warm and put on her overshoes, she ran out to the barn.
On entering the chicken-house, she found the water frozen, and another journey to the house for some hot water became necessary. Then a new arrangement of troughs and basins was entered into, and the end of the matter was, that she returned to the house thoroughly chilled. When she entered the kitchen, Mrs. Kennedy was there, and at once perceived the state she was in.
"Why, Sophie!" she exclaimed. "You have not been out all this time with nothing but that shawl! Where is your sack?"
"I could not find it, mamma. I am not very cold," answered Sophie, though her chattering teeth, and the way in which she hung over the stove contradicted her words.
"Run up stairs, Jane, and get a pair of warm shoes and stockings for Miss Sophie," said her mother. "Sit down here, Sophie, but do not put your feet very near the fire. How could you go out so, my dear? I should think you had suffered enough this winter to make you more careful."
"Why, mamma, I very often go out so without getting cold. I was out longer last Saturday without its doing me any harm."
"I thought you had the toothache all day Sunday, Sophie, so that you could not go to church."
Sophie could not deny it.
"But there is no use in talking about it," continued Mrs. Kennedy. "If you cannot learn to be more prudent, you must take the consequences."
"At any rate," murmured Sophie, as she followed her mother into the parlor, "if I do have the toothache, I will not tell any one."
This was a resolution much easier to make than to keep, for Sophie was impatient of pain and very irritable under it. A good many sharp twinges in the course of the evening made her aware that she had incurred the usual penalty. True to her resolution, however, she said nothing about it, but taking a bottle of laudanum into her room, she bound some upon her face, and got into bed as soon as possible, to try and forget her pain in sleep.
She passed a restless and uncomfortable night, and was awakened early by the pain in her face and ear. When she came to rise, she found her limbs stiff and aching, and her throat very sore. She dressed herself, however, and taking care to wash the stain of the laudanum from her face, she descended to the breakfast-room, still firm in her resolution to say nothing about it.
Her mother observed that she ate little, and was very silent.
"Do you not feel well, Sophie?" she asked.
"Yes, mamma, very well," answered Sophie, though she felt very much like crying as she spoke.
A feeling of depression and irritability made it very difficult for her to attend to her lessons: the pain in her face and throat increased every moment, and she felt as if she were choking.
Her mother took no notice of the numerous mistakes she made in her music lesson, though she said before the lesson was half finished—"That will do for this time; you may get your slate and arithmetic now."
Sophie brought them, and set herself, languidly enough, about an interest sum. She did not succeed the first time; and when she brought the sum to her mother, it was again wrong.
"Why, what is the matter, my child? You did this very sum yesterday, and several others like it. Do you not understand it?"
"I am sure I don't know," said Sophie, completely overcome by pain and vexation, and bursting into tears: "my face aches so, I cannot think of any thing, and my throat is so sore, I can hardly breathe."
"I thought you were not well," said Mrs. Kennedy. "How long has your throat been sore?"
"It was sore last night, but not as bad as it is now."
"Why did you not speak of it, and have something done for it immediately?"
Sophie was silent.
"You will pay pretty dearly for your carelessness, if you have the quinsy and a gathering in your face at the same time. But don't cry, my dear, you will only make the matter worse. Come and let me put some cold camphor on it, and perhaps we may prevent its swelling. You must be very careful not to get more cold."
Sophie lay down on the sofa in her mother's room, for she did not feel able to sit up any longer. All that day she suffered very much, and when night came, her face was much swelled. She had severe pain in all her limbs, and such a high fever that Mrs. Kennedy thought it necessary to send for the doctor.
Dr. Werner came, felt her pulse, and made many inquiries as to how she had been exposed. Mrs. Kennedy told him the story of the chicken feeding expedition.
"So!" said the doctor. "Your chickens are wiser than you, my child; they do not go out barefooted in the snow."
"I never saw them put any shoes on, doctor," said Sophie, laughing.
"Oh well, it is all one; they do not go out at all in the snow, but stay in their house. But you have, indeed, caught one very bad cold, do you hear, and you will have to stay in the house two or three weeks, perhaps. I tell you, my child, you must be more obedient and careful, or you will be sick like Betsey, and then you can never be cured any more."
"How is Betsey, doctor?" asked Mrs. Kennedy.
"She is getting no better very fast," answered the good doctor seriously. "I think she can now live but a few days longer. I was coming this very night to tell you she wanted to see Miss Sophie again. But you must not go out to-morrow, child, do you hear?"
"Not if I am a great deal better, doctor?" asked Sophie anxiously. "Not if I am quite well? I want to see her so much!"
"You must not go out to-morrow, or the next day either for you will not be well enough. You shall give her this powder, madam, and put her feet in some boiling water when she goes to bed, and she must have some boiling gruel, and be covered warm. To-morrow I shall come again."
"Nancy," said Sophie to the nurse, who entered as Mrs. Kennedy went out with the doctor, "Dr. Werner says I must put my feet in boiling water to-night, and have some boiling gruel!"
"I reckon he didn't mean just 'boiling,' dear," said Nancy, after some consideration. "The doctor talks kind of outlandish, you know. I reckon he meant pretty hot. Does your face get any better, dear?"
"No, it gets worse every minute, and my throat aches so I don't know what to do. I wish the chickens had been in the Red Sea, I am sure."
"I don't see how the chickens were to blame," said Nancy. "If you had only gone and found your cloak and hood—"
"Well, I don't want to hear all that old story over again," interrupted Sophie, pettishly. "I think it is bad enough to be sick, without being scolded by every one. You always say just so!"
"If people will not mind what is said to them when they are well, they must hear of it when they are sick," answered Nancy, calmly. "I think it is bad enough for little girls to make themselves sick, and give so much trouble, without being cross at the same time. I am very sorry your face aches, my dear, and I would do most any thing to help you, but I don't like to see you trying to lay all the blame on some one else."
In spite of the doctor's boiling water and powders, Sophie's face continued to swell, and she rested very little during the night.
For the next three days, she was unable to be up, and suffered a great deal. Mrs. Kennedy hardly left her during the time. She tried her best to relieve her and make her forget her pain, and Sophie felt as if she could never do enough to repay her mother for her kindness.
"After all," she thought, "it is a very good thing to have a stepmother to take care of one. But I suppose they are not all alike."
When Sophie began to get better, and to sit up a little, her mother found it very difficult to keep her from exposing herself. As long as she did not feel uncomfortable, she never noticed whether she were properly covered or not. She was very anxious to go down stairs, and her mother yielded to her entreaties, on condition that she should wear a large shawl through the passages, and not go out of the parlor. But Sophie was no sooner established in an arm-chair by the side of the fire, and left alone, than she remembered that she had left her book up stairs. There were plenty of other books in the room, and she had the bell at hand. But instead of ringing for Nancy, or employing herself about something else for a little while, she went back to her room without her shawl, and found what she wanted. The windows were all open, and she remained some time exposed to the cold air. She congratulated herself on getting back without discovery, but found she might better have kept quiet. For the pain in her face came back as bad as ever for several hours.
"You may consider yourself well off in escaping so," said her mother, when she had, by dint of questioning, extracted the truth from Sophie. "I am sorry that you cannot be trusted by yourself for five minutes. You promised me you would not leave the parlor fire."
"I should not have gone, only for my book," answered Sophie, very angry at being told she could not be trusted. "There was no one here to get it for me."
"What you went for is of no consequence, my child. You promised, and you should have kept your word. It is not the first time that I have noticed the same thing, Sophie. The other day you promised me that if I would let you go out with Laura Bartlett, you would learn your lesson next morning before breakfast, but you did not learn it at all."
"Because I did not get up in time."
"Precisely, but you ought to have been up after making such a promise. The habit of making promises carelessly is a very bad one to fall into: it leads directly to lying. You look very indignant, my dear, at the idea of being betrayed into any such thing, but it would be much better for you to guard carefully against it. You are no more secure than any one else, and you must look to the same means to keep you in safety."
When Sophie was again left alone, she thought very earnestly upon what her mother had said. "I am sure I never told a lie in my life." Here she stopped. For she remembered that two or three times lately she had so far departed from the truth as to give a false excuse for the omission of a lesson—even going so far as to say that she had practised an hour, when she had spent half the time in reading a magazine. "But that was not a lie," she continued—
"But it 'was' a lie," said Conscience. "I told you so at the time, and you were very much afraid of being found out."
"Well, at any rate, I am very sorry," said Sophie, "and I mean to ask forgiveness to-night in my prayers."
But when night came, Sophie had forgotten the matter altogether, and went to sleep without saying her prayers at all. She thought of it when she waked in the morning, but satisfied herself with the idea that the room was too cold, and she must go down to the fire as soon as possible.
She did not care about going out this day or the next, for she felt quite weak, and was willing to be quiet. But when Saturday came very bright and pleasant, and she saw the street full of sleighs and walkers, she felt very uneasy at staying in the house. She was sitting by the front window, looking at the passers-by, when she saw Laura Bartlett running up the steps. She was just going to meet her, when she remembered her promise not to expose herself, and kept quiet until Laura came in, breathless as usual.
"Come, Sophie," she exclaimed, "but put on your bonnet and cloak, and be ready. James is coming with the sleigh to take us to the green-house, and then down to the lake shore. The roads are beautiful, and it is so clear and cold—so pleasant, you can't think. Run and get ready."
"I don't believe mother will let me, Lolla," said Sophie. "You know I have been sick."
"Oh, well, but you have got over it. You are as well as ever now, are you not? Your face does not ache now. I will ask your mother for you. But here comes James. What on earth are you stopping for, James?" she called, opening the window to speak to her brother.
"I must go up town on an errand for mother," he answered. "I shall be gone about half an hour, and will call for you when I come back."
"Well, come, Sophie, where is your mother?" asked Laura, closing the window again. But she had hardly spoken, before Mrs. Kennedy entered, dressed for going out.
"Oh, Mrs. Kennedy," began Laura, without giving that lady time to speak, "I have come to take Sophie out to the green-house, and then mother wants her to come to our house to tea. It is a beautiful day to ride."
"It is, indeed," said Mrs. Kennedy, "and I wish Sophie were able to go, but—"
"Oh, please don't say but," interrupted Laura. "I hate that word."
"I should like to go very much, mother," said Sophie anxiously. "I am sure it would not hurt me, it is so pleasant, and I have not been out of the house in a week."
"I know it," replied her mother, "but I am afraid, Sophie. You have narrowly escaped being very sick, and a little cold would make you worse than ever. I think you will have to content yourself with staying by the fire a few days longer. I am sorry for your disappointment, but I cannot have you sick again."
"But it is so pleasant, mother; and I could wrap myself up very warm."
"Not to-day, my dear. If you keep on getting better, and it is pleasant on Monday, I will try to let you have a ride. But to-day you must try to amuse yourself at home. I am going out for a little while, and will find you something to read."
Mrs. Kennedy had hardly closed the door, when Sophie burst into tears.
"I declare it is too bad," exclaimed Laura. "I think she might let you go."
"It is always just so," sobbed Sophie. "I never can do any thing I want to. She has kept me shut up in this room this whole week. She found fault with me for going into the study to find a book."
"I don't believe Harry Reed would say it was such a nice thing to have a stepmother, if she knew about it," continued Laura. "If it had been your own mother, she would have let you go, I know."
Sophie sobbed more than ever.
"Why don't you ask your father, Sophie? I dare say he would let you go."
"It would be just the same," answered Sophie. "He would only ask me what mother said. He always does just as she says."
"I think you were better off when you had no one but Nancy to ask," continued Laura. "Then you could go where you liked. I am sure I hope I shall never have a stepmother. It is just as mother says—they never have any feeling for their husband's children."
It may seem strange that Sophie could allow Laura to speak this of her kind mother, but she was too angry herself to think of the impropriety of it. As for Laura, she was ready for any thing, if there were only a chance of finding something to talk of.
"Does she make you learn long lessons, Sophie?" asked Laura.
"Not very," said Sophie, "but then I always must have them exactly, and at just such a time. The other day I did not have my arithmetic lesson in the morning, and she made me stay at home and study all the afternoon."
Sophie did not think fit to tell why she had stayed at home all the afternoon. She had neglected to commit to memory an important rule, and her mother had told her she must learn it after dinner. It did not take fifteen minutes when she fairly applied her mind to it, but she was offended at being treated like a baby, as she said, and it was her own choice to remain at home.
"There comes James with the sleigh," exclaimed Laura. "Good by, Sophie. I am right sorry you cannot go. I shall call for Anne Weston."
After Laura had gone, Sophie continued crying a long time, persuading herself that she was very ill-used and very unhappy. Then she began to reflect that it would be as well not to let her mother see that she had been crying. So she went up stairs and bathed her face with rose-water until the traces of tears had disappeared, and then set herself down to practise a new waltz. She soon became very much interested in it, and had nearly forgotten her ill-humor, when her mother appeared, with her arms full of books.
"Why, mamma, what a load!" exclaimed Sophie.
"I have brought you some books to comfort you for the loss of your ride," answered Mrs. Kennedy, piling the large volumes on the table. "There is 'The Tyrol,' and there is a volume of 'Wilson's Birds,'—you must be very careful of that,—and here is the very volume of costumes you were so desirous of seeing. I felt as if it was rather an extravagant purchase,—it is a second-hand copy, you see,—but the figures are very spirited, and good studies for you—so I stretched my purse-strings a little."
"Did you really buy it for me, mamma?" asked Sophie, delighted. "Where did you find it?"
"All the way up at Lawson's, my dear. They would have sent it at tea-time, but I thought you would like it now, as you were unable to go out. I will put my bonnet away, and then we will look over them together."
"I have another reason for not caring to have you go out with Laura," said her mother, as they sat down together at the table. "She is not a very safe person for you to be intimate with."
"Why not, mamma?" asked Sophie.
"She is such a news-carrier, my dear. I have observed her closely, and I perceive she never comes here without a story to tell of some one; and her stories are very apt to vary a little from the truth, as is almost always the case with such persons. Her mother is very much so. The first time she called upon me, she gave me a history of almost every family in the street; and when I returned the call, she was equally communicative in regard to her own neighbors. Such persons are not very safe."
Sophie now began, with some alarm, to think over what she had said to Laura: "Do you think, mamma, that Laura would really tell any thing that was said to her?"
"Why, my dear, you can judge for yourself. You know she was here the day before yesterday to see you: how many things did she tell you that the girls in school said about Mrs. Warner, and ended every one with—'But don't repeat it for the world, for I promised I would never tell.'"
"I remember she did," said Sophie, "but I did not think of it at the time."
"I am always glad to have your friends come and see you," continued Mrs. Kennedy, "but it will do you no harm to put you on your guard a little. A great many people have an idle way of repeating conversation, without meaning any harm, but it is a bad habit, and mischief is very likely to grow out of it. Even a harmless remark sounds as differently as possible when it is repeated."
Some visitors coming in, the conversation was interrupted, but Sophie did not forget it. She sat with her pretty new book at the window, and turned over leaf after leaf, but she did not pay much attention to the gay figures. She was trying to remember every word she had said to Laura, and the more she thought of it, the more uneasy she felt. She could not but see how improperly she had spoken, and how much she had misrepresented her mother. She would have given any thing to recall the words, but it was too late for that. And she could only hope that Laura would hold her peace—a faint hope, indeed, for any one acquainted with her habits.
Her disagreeable feelings returned with double force, when she found herself alone in her own room at bedtime. She repeated over and over again, "What if mamma should hear of it!" Of the ingratitude and want of respect she had shown to her kind mother, she hardly thought at all. She read her chapter, and repeated her prayers, almost without knowing what she said, and lay down to sleep to be tormented with dreams of Mrs. Bartlett telling every one that her mother was very unkind to her, and of Dr. Shelly announcing the same from the pulpit.
CHAPTER VI.
THE WORDS OF THE TALE-BEARER.
"WHAT do you think, girls! But won't you ever tell as long as you live?"
Laura Bartlett had collected a knot of her especial intimates in one of the recitation rooms at noon-time, and prepared herself to be very mysterious and important.
A certain set of girls in Miss Warner's school were very much in the habit of assembling themselves, at noon and in recess, in order to retail such pieces of news and gossip as they could pick up out of school. From these groups an attentive listener might often hear such exclamations as the following:
"Oh, I think he's divine!" "Isn't he so handsome!" "He certainly is engaged, for Mrs. Carter told mother." "I know he isn't engaged, for Mr. King told Louisa." "She is not at home a day in the week, and her mother does not pretend to govern her." "Isn't it shameful for Emma Hart to dress so extravagantly? She has taken a class in Sunday school." "Oh, yes, a great many young ladies have taken classes in Sunday school since Mr. Collins came—" And so on, without end.
Laura was much the youngest of this set of girls, but she was such an excellent gatherer of news, and her stories were so interesting, that she was treated with great favor. Miss Warner looked with no friendly eye upon these meetings, and had made great efforts to put a stop to them, but without success. As she truly said, "As long as the girls were accustomed to the same sort of conversation at home, and were encouraged in repeating every thing they heard, there was little use in her interference."
"Let us go up on the stairs," said Carry Woodford; "Miss Warner will be coming in, and then we shall have to stop."
The garret stairs ascended from a little dark entry which opened out of this recitation room. And as the garret room was not used at all, it was a favorite canvassing room, and a deal of mischief was plotted there.
When the company were fairly seated, Laura opened her budget.
"Isn't it a shame that Sophie Kennedy's mother is so unkind to her?"
"Is she unkind to her, Lolla?" asked one of the girls.
"Yes, indeed she is. I went there last Saturday to take Sophie to ride, you know what a beautiful day it was. Well, Mrs. Kennedy would not let her go, though Sophie wanted to very much. And after she went out, Sophie told me it was always just so whenever she wanted to do any thing. I think it is a real shame."
"But I am sure, Lolla, Sophie does go out. I see her out with her mother almost every day."
"Oh, yes, with her mother, to be sure, but not as she used to before her father was married. She used to run about every where then, and as long as she was at home at meal-times, her father did not know or care any thing about it. She used to visit somewhere every day in the week. I am sure she does not come to our house nearly as often as she used to."
"That is true, to be sure!" said Anne Weston. "But then she goes a great deal to Mrs. Gaylord's, and to see Greta Carroll. I wonder, for my part, that Greta can care so much about her, when Sophie is so much younger."
"Oh, Greta likes some one that she can 'play good' to, and patronize," replied Laura. "That is the reason she has the little girls so much about her. She knows it will not do with us. Harry Reed is growing just like her."
"She will never be just like her in one thing," remarked Carry Woodford; "she will never be so good tempered, if she tries ever so hard. I am sure I do not care, for my part, how good they are, if they will only let me alone. But what else did Sophie tell you, Lolla?"
"Oh, she said that her mother was so particular about her lessons, that if she did not have them in time, she would not let her go out for ever so long; and she must always do just so about every thing. Sophie says there is no use in going to her father about it, for he only says, 'Oh, ask your mother, Sophie,' and will not hear a word of complaint. I know her mother scolded her when she was sick, for Mrs. Mann, the woman that was there washing, heard her tell Sophie it was all her own imprudence, and that she was glad of it."
"How cruel! When she was sick!" exclaimed Carry Woodford.
"But that does not sound at all like Mrs. Kennedy," said Anne Weston. "She is so refined in her expressions."
"Oh, yes, no doubt, when she wants to make people think she is very good. She has taken a class in Sunday school, you know; the one Fanny Bates is in."
"Well, what of it?"
"Well, she noticed that Fanny and two or three of the other girls talked at one of the Lent Lectures. And the next day she talked to them about it in the class, and made the girls cry."
"What did Fanny say?" asked Martha Pierce.
"Why, she did not seem to be angry at all, somehow; she did not say much about it. If I were in her place, I would not go to another lecture."
"She does go all the time," said Anne Weston; "and I know she has been at Uncle Shelby's twice this week. I should not wonder if she should be confirmed at Easter; you know Harry and Greta are going to be."
"Harry Reid!" exclaimed Laura. "She is no more fit to be confirmed—why she cannot keep her temper one day. I don't pretend to be one of the saints, but I would never be confirmed unless I were sure I could live consistently, and keep my resolutions. I would not pretend to be a Christian unless I were a real good one."
"Uncle Shelby says that is not the right way to think about it," replied Anne. "He says no one can tell exactly how they will feel all their lives; and if we depend on our own resolutions, we shall never be good at all. I think it is true, too, but I don't see any other way."
"Oh, well, Anne, we don't want to hear your experience," interrupted Carry. "You can go and make your confession to young Mr. Collins, if you want to free your mind. You have grown very good since he came."
"I have not, either," said Anne, rather angrily, "but I think I have a right to speak."
"Well, Lolla, what else about Sophie? Do you think her stepmother is really unkind to her?"
"I should call that unkind," replied Laura, "scolding her when she was sick, and not letting her go anywhere unless she was with her. I am sure I should not like it much. We always have to be so particular when we are with grown persons. You know that night we were all there to tea, Mrs. Kennedy staid in the room all the time, and we did not have any fun at all."
"I thought she made it very pleasant, for my part," said Anne Weston. "She sung and played for us, and told us so many stories about the negroes and their queer ways on the plantations, and about things at the South. I liked it very much. Dr. Shelby says—"
"You are always quoting Dr. Shelby, Anne. Are you sure you don't mean Mr. Collins?"
"I do not see what particular difference it would make. They are both ministers, and preach in the same pulpit."
"Oh, yes, of course, it is just the same. But I would not be so very good just yet, Anne; perhaps he is engaged, after all. That's right, now—go away and cry—I would not set up for a saint just yet. How wonderfully grave Anne grows lately," continued Carry Woodford, when Anne had disappeared.
"That is nothing," said Martha Prime. "She does just so every Lent, and gets over it again at Easter. She will be just the same by and by, you will see."
"There is the bell," exclaimed Laura, jumping up. "Now be sure, girls, you don't tell. I am going to see Sophie again to-night, and I mean to find out all I can about it: but don't you say a word."
"What is the matter, Anne dear?" said Greta Carroll in recess, sitting down by Anne's side, and putting her arm around her.
Anne had been sitting in the same attitude ever since the school opened: her book was before her, and her eyes were fixed on its pages, but her thoughts were evidently far away. She looked very sad, and now and then a tear rolled down her cheek.
"What is the matter, dear?" repeated Greta. "Are you sick?"
Anne tried to answer, but the words would not come, so she shook her head in reply.
"Come out into the garden with me," said Greta. "Miss Warner gave me permission, and the girls are all in the playground, so we shall have it to ourselves, and the fresh air will do you good. It is more like spring than winter."
Anne suffered Greta to lead her into the garden without any remark, but when she found herself alone with her friend, she could control herself no longer, and she burst into tears. Greta allowed her to weep without restraint for awhile, till her excitement passed away in some measure, and she was able to speak.
"I am very foolish to cry so, Greta, I know, but I cannot help it. Carry Woodford is so provoking. I do not see how she can take any pleasure in being so. She is always saying that people may be as good as they please, if they will only let her alone, but she does not think so, I am sure, or she would not act as she does."
"How, Anne?"
"Why, she and Laura Bartlett, and that set of girls, were in the recitation room talking—just as they always do, you know—I don't mean to say any thing against them, for I have just been as bad as the rest—and I quoted something Dr. Shelby said, about talking among ourselves, and before grown people, you know."
Greta assented.
"And then Carry said I was always quoting Dr. Shelby, and asked me if I did not mean Mr. Collins; and then she had some nonsense about his being engaged that provoked me—"
"That was foolish in Carry," said Greta, after waiting a moment for Anne to proceed, "but I would not mind it, if that was all. Carry rattles on without thinking what she says. I would not mind her."
"But that was not all, Greta, I was very angry, I confess, and I am such a goose I never can help showing it. And then she told me I had better not set up for a saint until I could keep my temper a little better, and that I was growing very grave all at once. And then Martha Prime said I was always just so in Lent, but that I got over it and was as bad as ever. That was what I cared most about," said Anne, crying afresh, "because I know it is true. Every Lent, when I am going to the lectures, I try to be good and to make myself a Christian, but I never can keep on. I make resolutions upon resolutions, but I never keep any of them, and I don't believe I shall ever be good enough to be confirmed."
"How good are you going to be, before you are confirmed, Anne?"
"Why, I don't know," said Anne, surprised at the question; "I thought we must be very good indeed. Because as soon as one is confirmed, there is the Communion. One must be perfectly good for that, you know."
"I don't know," answered Greta. "The Prayer Book says in the invitation, 'Ye who do truly and earnestly repent you of your sins, and "intend" to lead a new life'—I do not believe it is right to wait till one is 'perfectly good,' as you say."
"But there is the trouble, Greta: I know very well I do not repent. I think over my sins, and try to make myself feel sorry, but I know I do not, after all,—not as I ought. I am sure I wish I could."
Greta was silent a few moments, and then said, blushingly and with hesitation, "I don't want to be impertinent, Anne, but I should like to ask you a question: you need not answer unless you choose."
"I am not afraid of your being impertinent, Greta. You may ask what you please."
"Do you pray, Anne? Are you in the 'habit' of praying?"
"No," said Anne, frankly, "I acknowledge that I am not. I was taught to say my prayers when I was a child, of course, but I have left it off, almost ever since I was old enough to sleep by myself. At one time, I used to repeat the prayers in church, but that seemed only a mockery, and I left it off. Now I do not even put my head down."
"I do not see how you can expect to repent, or be an obedient Christian, unless you do pray."
"But, Greta, ought I to pretend to pray, when I don't care any thing about it?"
"Certainly not," answered Greta. "But I thought you said you wished you could repent and be a Christian, did you not?"
"Yes," said Anne, "I am sure I do.—You will hardly believe me, I suppose," she continued, more earnestly than before, "but I would be willing to do any thing if I could only be saved by it; I would not care what."
"But you know we cannot save ourselves, Anne; you know that nothing we can do can merit heaven."
"What must we do, then? I do not see that we can be saved at all, if that is the case."
"'This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.' If we would be saved, we must give up all hope in our own doings, and trust in Him—we must ask God the Father to forgive and accept us for the sake of his dear Son." Forgetting her embarrassment in her earnestness, Greta spoke with great feeling, and Anne seemed both interested and affected.
"But I am such a sinner, Greta," she said. "You don't know how wicked I have been. It does not seem as if I could come and ask to be forgiven, just as I am."
"If you were sick with the smallpox, Anne, you would send for the doctor at once, would you not? You would not say, 'My skin is too much marked now, I will wait till I look a little better before I send for him.' You never can be cured of your sin in any other way. It is only the blood of Jesus Christ that cleanseth us from all sin. We cannot save ourselves."
"What ought I to do, Greta? I am sure I do wish with all my heart to repent and be forgiven."
"You must pray, Anne, and study your Bible. Read how Jesus Christ came into the world, and took upon Him the nature of man, and was poor and despised; how He was tempted and insulted, and finally crucified for us—for you, Anne. And He does not forget us now, either. He will receive us gladly the moment we come to Him. He is far more ready to give than we to ask. I wish I could make you feel about it as I do," said Greta, wiping the tears from her eyes.
"I am sure I wish you could, Greta," answered Anne in a subdued voice.
"Well, won't you try? Don't give it up, nor let the girls laugh you out of it. I do not believe they will laugh if they see you in real earnest. And what if they do? It will not hurt you if you do not know it. Try to-night not to think of any thing else until you have made up your mind about this: I am sure you will be much happier. And you may never have another opportunity. As Mr. Collins says, if you are not ready to be confirmed, you are not ready to die, only think if you should go to the Judgment without being prepared!"