They were disappointed again. Mary had gone to her aunt's directly after school, and would probably stay all night, as her aunt was more than usually unwell.
"I can't go all the way up to Mrs. Rolfe's, that is certain," said Calista; "and I don't like to leave a message either. Well, let it go. Perhaps you will see her or Miss Meeks to-morrow. If you do, please tell them what Tessy says. Come, I must do Miss Druett's errands."
The errands were accomplished, and then Calista did one for herself. With a part of her dollar she bought a pound of sperm-candles—an article much cheaper and better than the parafine-candles which have taken their place.
"What on earth did you do that for?" asked Mary, as they turned into the street.
Calista laughed, and then became suddenly grave as she said—"I suppose you cannot realize what it is never to be allowed a light when you go to bed, except perhaps a mite of tallow-candle in winter."
"You don't mean to say you never have a light in your own room!"
"Neither light nor fire, except as I told you, in the dead of winter."
"But Miss Druett—"
"Miss Druett helps me all she can; but Aunt Priscilla keeps the keys. Now and then Chloe makes candles, and then she contrives to save one out for me. Good-bye, Mary. Do say a kind word to Mary Burns, if you get a chance. I am just as sure of her innocence as I am of yours or my own."
Calista had just reached the place where the river road turned off, when the rattle of wheels made her look round, and she saw Cassius driving up in his neat, serviceable little Jersey wagon. He stopped as he saw Calista.
"Evening, Missy," said he, taking off his hat as usual; "I heard you was on the road, and so I drove fast to catch up with you. Won't Missy have a ride?"
Calista gladly accepted the offer, and Cassius drove on leisurely, entertaining his companion with various little bits of news.
"Did Missy hear that we are to have preaching at the old meeting-house every Sunday evening now?"
"No," said Calista, very much interested. "I think that will be very nice. Who is to preach?"
"I disremember his name, though I have seen him often when we was both young," answered Cassius. "He is quite an old gentleman now, and has come to end his days with his niece over here at the Mills. So when he heard there was no preaching anywhere rounds here, he said he would see what he could do, and he got leave to use the old meeting-house. I am going round to-morrow to tell all the neighbors. Won't you try to come, Missy? You know what that pretty hymn says—
"'Tis easier work, if we begin
To serve the Lord betimes.'"
"I will certainly try to come," said Calista. "It is very good in you to take so much pains about the matter."
"It ain't much I can do to serve the Lord these times; but I think it a great privilege to be allowed to do the leastest thing for one who has done so much for me," said the old man. "And, bless the Lord, he don't look at how much we do, but how we do it. When that poor woman in the Scripture put in her two mites into the treasury, the good Lord said she had put in more than they all."
"You love him, don't you, Cassius?"
"Yes, bless his name, Missy, I do."
"Well, I wish I did."
"So do I, Missy, for I am sure he loves you. Why don't you?"
"Well, I hardly know, Cassius. I suppose I don't think enough about it. I have not had much chance, you know."
"Ah, Missy, don't say that. You have been to church and heard the minister preach and read about him, and you've heard the Bible read in school. I'm afraid it is as you say, and you don't think enough about it."
"Perhaps so."
"You will think, won't you, Missy?"
"Yes, Cassius, I will," answered Calista, frankly. "And I will go to the meeting if aunt will let me. Thank you ever so much for bringing me home. Good-night."
Calista peeped into the sitting-room. She had come to look on the Philadelphia scheme as quite settled and certain, and she felt a sudden sinking at her heart as she saw Miss Druett and Aunt Priscilla sitting together just as usual. Miss Stanfield was the first to speak.
"Whose wagon was that I heard? Have you taken to hiring carriages to bring you home?"
"Not quite, yet," answered Calista. "Cassius overtook me, and brought me home in his wagon."
"Well, that is well enough. If you were a little sharper, you might often get a ride and save your shoes. But catch you saving anything!"
"Let the child alone, Priscilla," said Miss Druett. "Calista, did you get the things as I told you?"
"Yes, ma'am, they are all here. Shall I leave them in your room?"
"If you please. I am just going up."
"So you have made it up with Aunt Priscilla," said Calista, as they were going up stairs together.
Miss Druett nodded.
"She came to my room, begged my pardon for what she had said, and asked me to stay, and I have said I would for the present."
"And so all our fine plan falls to the ground," said Calista, sadly.
"For the present, as I said; but it may yet come to pass. Meantime, here is something to console you."
She put a bunch of keys into Calista's hand as she spoke.
Calista looked at them in wonder.
"What are these?" she asked.
"Keys," said Miss Druett, smiling. "Look into your room, and perhaps you will find something they will fit."
With a beating heart Calista, opened the door. There in a row at the side stood the three brown leather trunks, marked on the end "Calista Folsom."
CHAPTER TWELFTH.
THE TRUNKS.
"I KNOW it was your doing, Miss Druett. How did you manage it?"
"Why, I thought the present was a good time for some diplomacy, so I made the restoration of the trunks, and several other things, conditions of my remaining. You are my girl now, Calista, and must mind me. I mean to be very harsh and tyrannical, so you must make up your mind to it. I shall take out all my injuries of every sort on you."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that I made it one condition of my staying another day, that you were to be delivered over to my care altogether, Priscilla furnishing your board as long as you stay here, and I being at all the other expenses of your maintenance and education. So mind you don't tear your dresses and spoil your shoes running after flowers and squirrels, or I don't know what will happen."
"It is too much, Miss Druett; more than you ought to do."
"No, I can afford it well enough; as things are, I have not much use for money."
"But you might live so much more pleasantly somewhere else."
"More pleasantly, perhaps, but pleasure is not all, my little girl. Here is my place, and here I must remain for the present. General Stanfield was my mother's friend and helper in her sorest hour of need, and I will stay and watch over his daughter as long as I can do her any good."
"I believe you are the only person who has any influence with her," remarked Calista.
"I think so too, and I don't know how long that influence will last; but while it does, I am bound to use it."
"But about the trunks?" said Calista.
"Well, they are another condition. Of course, I cannot say in what state you may find their contents, but they have never been touched since they were piled up in that room."
"I wonder Aunt Priscilla has not ransacked them long ago."
"She never had the chance," replied Miss Druett. "I mislaid the keys, and did not find them for a long time, and when I did, I thought it just as well not to mention the fact. But now, Calista, I have one or two conditions to impose as you, if this bargain of ours is to stand. The first is, that you shall not go out, visit, or make any new acquaintances, without consulting me."
"I am sure I agree to that," said Calista; "I am only too thankful to have some one who really cares what I do."
"The second is, that you shall never speak disrespectfully to, or of, Priscilla; it is not good for you or her."
"I agree to that, too," said Calista. "I never speak of her at all, if I can help it; never to any one but Mr. Settson or Mary, who know all about her. I never fancied making family matters common property—'setting all your broken dishes out on the fence,' as Chloe says."
"That is the true ladylike spirit," said Miss Druett. "You must come to me whenever you want money, clothes, or books, and you must let me be the judge as to your need of them. When I have time to look over and calculate my resources, I shall try to make you a regular allowance of pocket-money, though it will have to be very small. Take care of your keys; keep the trunks always locked, and the keys in your pocket or under your pillow. Now get yourself ready for supper, and mind you don't say anything to exasperate Priscilla."
Calista obeyed. It required some firmness on her part to resist the temptation at once to open the trunks, which she could hardly believe to be really within her reach. She made herself as neat as she could, taking particular pains with her hair, which Miss Druett said was like her father's. As she entered the sitting-room, Miss Druett sighed, and even Miss Priscilla seemed struck with her appearance.
"Just like her father," said she, half to herself; "just like him, mind and body; and would make the money fly just so, if she could get it; but that won't be in my time. No, no."
Calista thought of her promise just in time to suppress a sharp retort. She took her place at the table, which was rather better furnished than ordinary, and helped herself to bread and butter without receiving the usual rebuke. Indeed, Miss Priscilla seemed rather anxious to conciliate her niece, and actually asked her two or three civil questions.
"Well, really, she got through a meal without snapping at me once," said Calista to herself; "but I suppose it is too good to last."
"Where is the working-case I gave you this morning?" asked Aunt Priscilla, as Calista rose to leave the room after supper. "I want to see it."
"I took it to town to have the knife and scissors put in order so that I could use them, and I did not bring it home," answered Calista, telling the truth, but not quite the whole truth.
"Humph! However, it doesn't matter to me; only I should like to know how you expected to pay for it."
"Why, aunt, you know you gave me a whole sixpence," answered Calista.
"More fool I!" answered Miss Priscilla, gruffly.
"And Miss Druett also gave me a little money—so I was quite rich."
"More fool she!" again ejaculated Miss Priscilla. "However, it is no concern of mine."
Miss Priscilla composed herself for her usual nap.
And Calista, dismissed by a glance from Miss Druett, stole away to examine her treasures.
The keys and locks were alike rusty, but a little grease from her treasured bit of tallow-candle soon removed that trouble; and it was with a feeling of awful delight that Calista opened the long-shut lids, and inhaled the odor of the spices, camphor, and tobacco, with which Mrs. Tom Folsom and Miss Malvina had embalmed their contents so long ago. It almost seemed to her as if she were about to have an interview with her mother.
The first trunk she opened contained only linen—real linen, and of good quality—for, at the time poor Calista Folsom's wedding outfit was provided, cotton was very little worn, except in the shape of chintz. Calista found her own baby-clothes, pinned up in a separate bundle, and shed some tears over the dainty sewing, the beautiful satin stitch, and lace-like cut work with which they were adorned. The next trunk contained dresses and other things of that nature, and Calista opened her eyes wide at the three or four rich silks, the soft gray Canton crape, and the beautiful, unapproachable India camel's hair cloth—such as I remember seeing upon old ladies when I was young. Then there were two er three white dresses, worked in deep patterns, with floss and amazing lace stitches; a large white Canton crape shawl, and another which Calista was sure was an Indian cashmere, of a soft, dusky, almost smoky, red—such as no Western dyer ever attained or ever will—with wide borders at the ends and narrow ones at the sides.
"I wonder whether I shall ever wear any of these things?" said Calista to herself, as she carefully restored them to their neat folds and wrappings. "But, oh, how I wish I could find something which tells more about herself!—some letters or journals. Perhaps they are in the other trunks."
So it proved. The contents of the last trunk were more valuable than any of the others. It contained a gold watch and chain much like that one which Calista had discovered is her grandfather's desk; a box containing an expensive set of ornaments and some beautiful lace—poor Richard's wedding present to his bride; a number of books, among them a Bible and Psalm-book, bound alike and marked with her mother's name. In the inside of the Bible was written, in a legible but unsteady hand:
"I leave this Book—which was given me by my own dear mother, on her death-bed—to my precious and only child, Calista Stanfield. May it be a lamp to her feet and a light to her path, which shall grow brighter and brighter unto the perfect day!"
On another leaf, and evidently by the same hand, was inscribed Richard Crashaw's inscription in a prayer-book:
"It is an armory of light;
Let constant use but keep it bright,
You'll find it yields,
To holy hands and humble hearts,
More swords and shields
Than sin hath snares, or hell hath darts.
Only be sure
The hands be pure
That hold these weapons; and the eyes,
Those of turtles, chaste and true,
Wakeful and wise."
The trunk also contained a work-box and writing-desk each covered with red morocco, and having the key tied to the handle. Calista was just going to lift out the writing-desk, when some one knocked and opened the door. It was Miss Druett.
"Just as I expected," said she. "Do you know what time it is?"
"No, ma'am. Is it late?"
"Only half-past ten—which is rather late for you. Put up your things and lock the boxes for to-night, or you will have Priscilla in here. Where did you get your candle?"
"I bought it with some of the money you gave me. Was that wrong? It does seem so hard not to have a light for anything."
"Not wrong at all. I should have thought of it; but somehow it is only within a few weeks that I have found out you are not a baby. Here, let me help you. In what condition did you find the things?"
"They seem to be all right. I don't think the boldest moth would have ventured into the trunks, they are so filled with tobacco and camphor. I believe I will keep out mother's Bible and Psalm-book. I know she would want me to use them."
"Very well. And, Calista, that reminds me of another thing I wanted to say. Don't read a book in this house—I mean, not a book you find in the house—without asking me. I don't want your young blood poisoned as mine was."
"You don't mean that I shall not read mother's books!" said Calista, a little dismayed.
"Oh, no! I am not afraid of any books your mother was likely to have. There, good-night! And don't burn the house down."
Calista fastened her door and then sat down to look over her treasures. The Bible had evidently been long and carefully used, and was marked from end to end with pencil marks, notes, and references. As Calista turned over the leaves, it seemed to her as if her mother was talking with her, so many of the passages seemed marked with special reference to herself. But the most precious of all was to come. Pinned to the last leaf of the book was a letter in her mother's handwriting, addressed—
"To my dear and precious daughter, Calista Stanfield. To be given her
as soon as she shall be able to read and understand it."
Calista carefully unpinned the letter and looked at it before she broke the seal, and a feeling of anger rose in her heart at the thought that so precious a legacy should have been kept from her hands so long. But this emotion passed away as she read the letter—just such a letter as a loving, tender, Christian mother might be expected to write to a daughter under such circumstances. It began with a slight sketch of the writer's own life, and from it Calista first learned that her maternal grandfather had been a somewhat noted New England minister.
"I wonder whether I have any relations living," thought Calista. "I must try to find out some time."
The letter proceeded to give some judicious counsel as to the guidance of her future life.
"I cannot but feel that I have been hardly treated by your father's
family," the writer went on to say. "Certainly, I never intended to
injure them in any way. Nevertheless, for your father's sake, should
you be brought in contact with your grandfather or aunt, I beg you will
try to make friends with them."
The writer concluded with a most earnest appeal to Calista at once to give her whole heart to her heavenly Father, to put herself body and soul in his hands, and strive to follow the steps of her Saviour into all holiness and godly living, that she might not fail to meet her friends at the right hand of God in the great day of account.
Calista shed many tears over this letter, as was only natural.
"Oh, I will—I will!" she said to herself. "I will try to be a Christian, like my dear mother. I will resolve this minute to serve God, and to put myself into his hands."
So she did, poor lonely child, and that in all sincerity; but she was to find out that the gate was straiter and the way narrower than she had any idea of. The "lion in the way" does not usually lie on the threshold, but just a little way inside.
Calista went to bed thinking that she should not sleep at all; but youth and health do not often lie awake long. She was asleep almost before her head touched the pillow, and did not awake till the robin which lived in the great tree opposite her window began his usual musical morning call.
"It can't be more than four o'clock," said she to herself. "You stupid robin, what did you wake me so early for? Can't you get up yourself without making such a fuss about it? I suppose I had better go to bed again."
She lay down, accordingly, and tried to go to sleep for full ten minutes. Then she decided that there was no use is trying any longer, and she might as well get up and finish looking over the things. She was soon dressed and seated on the ground before her treasures. She opened the work-box first: it contained the usual working implements, and one thing not often seen in these days—a thread-case, stitched into long, numbered compartments, into each of which was drawn a skein of thread or silk, cut at one end.
Calista opened a velvet case with some trouble, and found, as she expected, a miniature picture of her father. Fastened into the lid of the case was a sketch, in water colors, of a sweet, fair, somewhat prim and precise-looking female face, evidently done by no professional hand. It afforded a great contrast, in its thin tints and stiff outlines, to the beautifully painted picture on the other side; but there about it that nameless something which showed it was a likeness. The clear, well-opened, but somewhat hollow blue eyes, with their level, even brows, looked at Calista with love; and the firm, but not stern, mouth seemed as if it might speak. A shadowy remembrance came over Calista of her mother sitting before a glass and painting, while she herself sat on the floor and scribbled with a lead pencil. She kissed the picture again and again.
"She painted it for me—I am sure she painted it for me. My precious mother!"
But the writing-desk was the most interesting and important of all. It was of pretty good size, and was packed full of papers arranged in neat order. There were letters, which had evidently been received from young friends, full of news and gossip about companions and work and books, and also with more serious matters—news of a schoolmate's conversion, requests for prayers, and the like. There were letters from her father, written after he left her mother to go to the wars; manly and tender, and thoroughly devout and Christian in their tone. The last one expressed great regret at the writer's estrangement from his father.
"I have written to him, and I hope you will do the same. I am sure if
he were only to see you, all would be right between you."
This letter was endorsed,—
"The last letter I ever had from my dearest husband. God's will be
done!"
Wrapped up with this letter was a very different one. On the cover was written, in her mother's hand:
"I have been, two or three times, on the point of destroying this
letter; but have refrained, thinking it might, at some time, be of use.
I wish to record my firm belief that General Stanfield never saw it or
ordered it written."
Calista opened the letter. It was in Miss Priscilla's clear, cramped hand, and read as follows:
"Mrs. Richard Stanfield's letter is received. Mrs. Richard Stanfield
is hereby informed that General Stanfield wishes to hold no communication
with her or her husband on any subject whatever; and that no letters
from either of them will meet with any attention.
(Signed) "PRISCILLA STANFIELD,
"For Richard Stanfield."
At the end was written:
"Nevertheless, I wrote to my husband's father and to his sister at the
time when my child was born, but I never received the slightest answer."
Calista sat with burning cheeks, holding this letter in her hands. Her lips were compressed, and her eyes full of trouble. She was not thinking of the loss of property, not at all of herself in connection with it, but of the cruel injury done to her mother.
"Then she did know. She knew all the time. But Mr. Settson said grandfather did not know of my existence, and it would certainly seem so from what Miss Betsy said. She must have contrived some way to keep the letters from grandfather altogether. Oh, how could she—how could she be so cruel! And there was my poor mother working herself to death to support herself and me. I never can forgive her—never. If it had been myself—but my mother—to write so to my mother! If I cannot be a Christian without forgiving Aunt Priscilla, I shall never be one. But there is the bell. I must go down. Oh, how I did want these things, and now I almost wish I had never seen them."
"Forever by the goal are set
Pale disappointment and regret."
As soon as breakfast was over and she could get away, she renewed her examinations. The trunk contained much that was of interest to her—books of various sorts, chiefly religious and poetical; scraps carefully preserved from newspapers; an old-fashioned water-color box, well furnished with colors, brushes, &c.; a white frock, began but not finished; and divers other matters of no interest to the reader. When she had gone through them all once, she locked up the trunks and went to Miss Druett's room, where she was pretty sure to find her alone at this time, when Miss Priscilla, always methodical, was engaged in her daily scolding match with Chloe.
"See here, Miss Druett, what shall I do with these?" said she, showing her the watch and ornaments she had found.
Miss Druett looked at them with great interest.
"I suppose your father gave your mother these things," said she. "You must not keep them here. If Priscilla gets wind of them, she will leave no stone unturned to get them into her hands."
"She will never get them into her hands," said Calista.
"She will try, though. You might give them to Mr. Settson, only he is not at home. I believe the better way will be to leave them with Mr. Fabian, at the bank. I could make an errand for you there, and give you a note to Mr. Fabian. And yet you ought not to walk into town carrying such a treasure, either. Let me think a little. Here, quick, child, let me put them in my desk. I hear Priscilla coming."
Miss Priscilla came in, evidently in a great fume.
"Druey, I want you to go to town," was her salutation.
"What now?" asked Miss Druett, with her usual coolness.
"That man Anderson was to have been here day before yesterday, to pay his interest, and he hasn't come. I want you to go and see about it."
"I can't possibly go to-day. What does it signify? I dare say he will be here to-morrow. He is always pretty punctual."
"But I want the money."
"Nonsense; you are not suffering for it."
"But I want it," said Miss Priscilla, fretfully; "and you don't know whether I am suffering or not."
"I know I am," said Miss Druett. "I had earache all night, and if I should ride to town in this wind, I should have it for a month."
"You can wrap your head up," pleaded Miss Priscilla. "Come, Druey, do; just to oblige me."
"I would if I could, Priscilla. I want to go myself, but I am not able. Why not let the child go?"
"The child, indeed! What good can she do?"
"She can carry a note as well as I, and do my errand at the same time. Let her take the pony. You don't mind, do you, Calista?"
"No, I should like it," said Calista.
Miss Priscilla grumbled and complained, but finally decided that Calista might do the errand, if she would be careful and not drive the pony too fast.
"I should like to see myself doing it," said Calista, laughing in spite of her trouble. "Never fear, aunt; Jeff and I are old friends. I will run and tell David to get up the chaise."
"He knows about it already," said Miss Priscilla. "I counted on Druey's going, but she thinks so much of her precious ears."
"They are all I have, you see, and I might not find another pair to fit me," said Miss Druett. "Never mind, Priscilla, the child will do the errand just as well. Come to me when you are ready."
Calista dressed herself as neatly as she could, and it was with a mingled feeling of pain and pleasure that she hung over her arm a long, soft, gray cloth cloak, which she had found among her mother's things. Miss Druett noticed it as soon as she entered the room.
"That is a very nice, pretty cloak; was it in the trunk?"
"Yes, ma'am. The air is so damp and chilly that I knew I should need something, and my old shawl is all in holes. I thought perhaps mother would like to have me use it."
"No doubt she would like to have you use all the things. Be careful of them, that is all. And, by the way, stop at Mrs. Dare's and see when she can fit your frocks."
"Oh, she cannot do them at all," said Calista; "she has broken her arm, and her niece has all she can do with the girls' examination dresses. But I heard Cassius say that his step-daughter, Drusella Pine, was coming here directly to set up dressmaking. I know Miss Alice had her last summer, and was very much pleased with her. I might find out when she is expected."
"True, and with the horse you will not be afraid to come round that way. If I were a little richer, you should have a pretty white frock. However, we will talk of that another time. Here are your trinkets and a note to Mr. Fabian. Take care you don't lay the bag out of your hand, and go straight to the bank the first thing."
"May I go up to the school and ask for Miss McPherson? She had one of her bad headaches yesterday."
"Yes, but don't stay. I shall feel rather anxious till you are safe at home."
"Why to-day more than any day?"
"Because I am an old fool, child."
"How foolish I have been!" she said to herself. "I believe I have been of some use to the child as it was, but what comfort we might have been to each other if I had not been so determined to nurse my anger and grief all my life! Even now, at my age, I can hardly help being jealous of the dead mother's cloak. Truly, the sorrow of the world worketh death."
Miss Druett did not often quote Scripture, but she had done so once or twice lately. After Calista had gone, she went into her room to see that everything was safely secured. Her eyes fell upon Calista Folsom's Bible, and taking it in her hand, she sat down and read a long time.
"What have you been about all the morning, Druey?" said Miss Priscilla, as they sat down to their twelve o'clock dinner. They were alone, for Calista had not yet returned.
"You would never believe it if I were to tell you, Priscilla," was the answer. "I have been reading the Bible."
"What ails everybody?" was Miss Priscilla's comment. "Here Chloe tells me that old Mr. Alger is going to preach in the old meeting-house every Sunday evening. There must be something in the air. We shall have you turning Methodist and leading a class yet."
"I might do worse," said Miss Druett.
I incline to think Miss Priscilla was right, and that there was something stirring in the air about the Stanfield neighborhood, a-going in the tops of the trees, as it were, which might be a sign that a gracious rain was about to fall on that hitherto dry and barren ground.
CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.
THE OLD MEETING-HOUSE.
CALISTA had truly said that she and Jeff understood each other. To oblige her, he even condescended to trot. Just as she reached the town, she met the delinquent Joseph Anderson, and stopped to talk with him.
"Good-morning, Friend Anderson. I was just coming to bring you a note from my aunt."
"I was on my way to see her," was the reply. "I suppose she is in a fret about her interest, as usual. I have had it by me these ten days, but my poor sister Rolfe was so ill, I did not like to be out of the way."
"I heard yesterday she was not as well."
"She is not long for this world, though she is more comfortable this morning," said the old man, shaking his head. "Well, it will be a glorious exchange for her, that is one comfort."
"A great one, I am sure," said Calista.
"Yes, yes, thee is right; but then thee knows the heart will cling to those it loves. Well, I must go on my errand and get back. Thee had better give me the note, perhaps."
Calista did so, and drove on to the bank, where she found Mr. Fabian, an elderly white-haired man, of precise, polite manners, who shook her by the hand, and complimented her on her growing resemblance to her father.
Calista presented her note, which Mr. Fabian read with interest.
"Quite right, quite right, and very sensible on your part, my dear young lady. Yes, I will take care of the things, and have them put into the vault. I knew your father and grandfather well. Pray, call upon me without hesitation if I can be of any service to you."
As Calista was waiting a moment for Mr. Fabian to write a receipt and a note for Miss Druett, she heard an old gentleman, who had been sitting in the back office, say to him—
"Is not that old Richard Stanfield's granddaughter?"
"Granddaughter and heir, if every one had their rights," answered Mr. Fabian in the same tone. "But the second will, if indeed he ever made one, will never be found."
"It may turn up yet."
"Possibly; and then the girl would be a great heir, for the property has increased tenfold in value. I fear the will will never be found. I suspect some one took care of that."
At another time this conversation would have set Calista off into one of the day dreams in which she had so much delighted; but now her head and heart were full of something else.
She asked at the school for Miss McPherson, and heard that she was better, and had gone out driving with Miss Meeks and Tessy; for Miss McPherson kept a handsome, roomy carriage, and drove out with some of her young ladies almost every day. It was not till she was on her way home, and had turned into the river road, that Calista remembered Mary Burns and the missing working-case.
In fact, Calista's mind and head were full of a new and strange trouble. A fierce contention was going on for that small empire—so small, so great—a human soul.
The night before she had fully determined to follow her mother's counsel—to give herself heart and soul to him who had given himself for her. But since then, she had read Miss Priscilla's letter, and her mother's remarks upon it, and hence arose her trouble. This it was which had waked up the lions which disputed her passage, and if the lions were chained, she saw not the chains. She knew that to follow the footsteps of her Lord she must forgive not only her own enemy—she thought that would be almost easy—but her mother's.
"Forgive if ye would be forgiven," rung in her ears, and she felt the words were true.
"If it had been only myself,—" she said over and over again—"but my mother, my dear precious mother, who never did harm to any one in all her days—no, no! I never can! Oh, why did she keep that letter! She might have known! Oh, what shall I do!—What shall I do!"
In her trouble of mind, she had nearly passed Cassius's modest little house, but was recalled by a cheerful greeting from the old man, who was cutting some wood outside the gate.
"Morning, Missy! Don't you mean to stop and give us a call?"
"Yes, of course," answered Calista, recalled from her abstraction, and pulling up Jeff, nothing loth, at the gate. "I will come in if you will fasten the pony."
Cassius tied the pony, and brought him an armful of fragrant new hay from the next field, with which the attention of that ancient sage was soon wholly engrossed.
Meantime, Calista had alighted, and was receiving a hearty welcome from Aunt Sally, who conducted her to the house and seated her in the best chintz-covered rocking-chair, bringing her a fan, and sending a little girl to the well for cool water.
"Who is that little thing?" asked Calista, as the child disappeared. "Your grandchild?"
"Lord bless you, honey, no. My grandchillen's no such peaked, puny little things as that, thanks to Massy. No, that's poor Maria Jackson's child, that works to Mrs. Dare's, the dressmaker. You see, Mrs. Dare she can't very well have the child round—she can't, really—and Maria boarded the little thing out, down to Gouldtown. But the woman that had her didn't do her justice—made her work far too hard, though Maria paid her regular. Besides, she didn't give her half enough to eat. One day I met Maria in the street, and says she,—
"'Just look at this child, will you!'
"And says I, 'For Massy, Maria, what ails her?'
"So she up and told me, and Sister Wilson, that was with her, said it was all so.
"And says I, 'Maria, you just let me have her a few weeks, and you won't know her. Don't you never send her back to that woman,' says I.
"'But I don't know as I can afford to pay what it is worth,' says she.
"'Never mind,' says I; 'you pay what you can, or don't pay anything. Just let me have her a few weeks, and see what I can do with her. And Cassius says the same.'
"So we brought her home, and she's picked up wonderful in a week."
"But I thought the Gouldtowners were pretty nice people," said Calista, as she fanned herself and admired the cool, cheerful aspect of the room.
"So they are—so they are; but Missy knows there's a black sheep in every flock!"
"They's all middling black sheep up to Gouldtown!" said old Cassius, who had entered in time to hear the last remark.
Calista smiled, and the old woman laughed they heartily.
"So they are, old man—so they are; but that's only the outside. Bless the Master's name, he don't look at their skins. And old Sister Williams, she told me herself that the folks was up in arms about the way this child was treated. But I'm most sorry we took her, for she's such a smart, clever, lively little piece, I sha'n't never want to part with her."
All this time Sally had been, on hospitable thoughts intent, covering a little table with a white cloth, and setting thereon white bread, golden butter, a great pitcher of milk and cream, and various other good things. Having finished her preparations, she invited Calista to draw her chair to the table, excusing herself for having no meat cooked.
"This hot weather we don't do much cooking. We generally eats bread and milk, or some such thing, at noon, and I cooks something for supper. But I can make a fire and boil Missy some eggs in a minute."
"No, thank you," said Calista. "I like this beautiful, cool milk better than anything."
"That's just what Drusella Pine says," replied old Sally, much delighted. "She says, 'Aunt, we can get meat in the city, but we can't get such milk as you have here—not for no price,' says she."
"Philadelphy's pretty well off for milk, too, for a city," remarked Cassius. "Not like New York."
Cassius always spoke of New York with a kind of pitying contempt, as a place which might come to something some time, but could never hope to vie, either in beauty or importance, with "Philadelphy."
"I wanted to ask about Drusella," said Calista. "When is she coming?"
"We expect her to-night," answered Cassius. "I'm going to meet her at the Cohansey stage and bring her out here. She'll stay with us a few weeks, and then, I expect, she'll have to rent a room in Cohansey. It is too far out here for her business."
"I asked because I thought she would, perhaps, do some work for me," said Calista. "Miss Druett wants me to have a couple of dresses made, and she told me to call and see if Drusella could take them home and cut and fit them."
"I'll speak to her about it the first thing Monday morning," said Cassius. "I don't doubt she'll be glad to do the work. I hope Missy means to go to the preaching to-morrow night?"
"Oh, yes, I shall go," said Calista. "Thank you very much, Aunt Sally, for your nice lunch. I only wish I could make you any return for all your kindness to me."
"Law, Missy, don't you think of such a thing!" said Sally. "Your family has done more for us than we can ever pay."
"Well, I'm glad the poor child is going to have some new frocks, for once in her life," she added as Cassius came back to the house. "I only wonder how she came by them. Have a drink, old man?"
"Maybe Miss Priscilla's turning liberal," observed Cassius, accepting the offer.
"Maybe the sky's turning pea-green!" returned Sally, scornfully. "Maybe that milk you're a-drinking is made of melted pearls!"
"Don't taste like it," said Cassius. "Tastes like first-rate cow's milk."
"Much you know how melted pearls taste! There, now, don't go to work in the sun right off. Sit down in the big chair and have a nap. Naps in the middle of the day is good for old folks."
Calista arrived at home just as Friend Anderson and Miss Priscilla had finished their business, which had not been done without some wrangling; Miss Priscilla maintaining that the money was twenty-five cents short.
"Thee is in the wrong," said Jacob Anderson, "but I will pay the money rather than dispute longer. I will thank thee for a receipt."
"What is the use of a receipt when it is endorsed on the bond?" snapped Miss Priscilla.
"I'll trouble thee for the receipt all the same," said the old Friend. "Accidents sometimes happen, and there is so harm in a double security."
"Won't you have a cup of tea, Friend Anderson?" said Miss Druett, struck with the old man's weary expression. "You look very tired."
"No, thank thee, Friend Druett. I am a poor man, but I don't think I could swallow grudged victuals. They would stick in my throat. Thank thee for the offer all the same. Farewell, Priscilla; I hope thee may some day come to a better mind. Remember, if riches don't leave thee, thee will have to leave them. When thee comes to lie on a death-bed, like my poor sister, twenty-five cents won't look quite so big to thee as it does now."
And Jacob Anderson took his departure, having certainly taken the worth of his twenty-five cents out of Miss Priscilla.
"So you had your ride for nothing," remarked Miss Druett.
"Not altogether. I did your errand at the bank, and stopped to see about Drusella Pine. She is coming to-night, and Cassius says he will send her over Monday morning."
"What on earth do you want with Drusella Pine?" asked Miss Priscilla.
"I want her to cut and fit the child's new frocks, and perhaps make one of them. She has not a decent thing to wear."
"She is not coming here to make it, I can tell you that," said Miss Priscilla, in alarm. "I won't have a dressmaker eating more than her day's wages, and telling and tattling about family matters all over."
"Don't alarm yourself, I have no intention of having her here," replied Miss Druett; "she need not come into the house, if you prefer she should not. Calista and I can go over there. Don't you want some dinner, child?"
"No, thank you, Miss Druett. I had a good lunch of bread and milk and gingerbread at Aunt Sally's?"
"Sally makes a great deal of you, it seems to me," said Miss Priscilla. "I dare say she would not offer me so much as a crust."
"Oh, yes, she would, aunt; try her and see."
"Did you hear any news?" asked Miss Druett.
"Only about Mrs. Rolfe; they say she cannot live but a few days, at the outside."
"That will be a great relief to her family," said Miss Priscilla; "it must cost a great deal to have her ill so long."
"I don't believe they feel in that way," observed Calista; "they are all very fond of 'Aunty Rolfe,' as they call her. Can I do anything for you, Miss Druett?"
"No, child, unless you can find a brick to heat for my face. I am going to try to get a little sleep, for I had none last night."
Calista found the brick and heated it, and having done all in her power to make Miss Druett comfortable, she betook herself to her own room.
How she would have liked to set her mother's work-box and writing-desk on the table; but she knew it would never do, though she did venture to arrange her small store of books on two shelves which had long ago been put up in a corner. These books were, as I have said, chiefly religious; but there was a thick, fine-printed but handsome Shakespeare, with her father's name in it, and some volumes of English poetry—Cowper, Goldsmith, Young's "Night Thoughts," and others of that stamp. There was a "Saint's Rest," much used and blotted here and there with tears; a "Pilgrim's Progress," apparently quite new, and the "Life of Mrs. Fletcher," by H. More.
The next morning, Miss Druett was really ill with a severe cold, and Calista, was kept busy all day running and waiting on her. As it came towards night, however, Miss Druett felt better, and insisted on Calista going to the meeting. Calista had felt a dull, miserable pain at her heart all day; she could see no way of deliverance, and she did not hope for much help at the meeting; but she had promised to go, and she went.
She was surprised to see what a large congregation had been collected by the exertions of Cassius and the others who had interested themselves in the matter. Sally and her husband had washed the windows and floor, dusted the benches and pulpit, and really made the poor deserted old sanctuary look bright and cheerful. Cassius, who was acting as sexton, assigned Calista a seat near the desk, where the minister was already seated.
He was an elderly, somewhat hard-featured man, who looked as some one said of another minister, as if he had been through the fire and come out brightened and also a little hardened by the process. He glanced at Calista with peculiar interest, and Calista wondered whether he was thinking that she looked like her father. That, however, was not the case. He was thinking, "That child looks as if she were in some great trouble. I wonder what it is. God help her."
The service began with a hymn, then a chapter in the Bible—the first of St. John's gospel—then a prayer, and then came the announcement of the text, taken from the same chapter:
"Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world."
The style was so plain that a child could have understood it; plain with the simplicity of high cultivation and much reading, and also that of deep feeling. It was evident that the preacher meant every word he said. Calista drank it in as a man dying in the alkaline desert would take in a draught of cool, fair water brought from a mountain spring. Here was the Saviour she needed—he who was called Jesus, because he came to save his people from their sins; because his blood cleansed away sin; because he suffered in their stead; because he blotted out transgression in the past and promised help for the future.
As the preacher went on in his even, mellow voice, so clear, so calm and tender, setting forth Jesus Christ crucified in the place of sinners, Calista's head sank down on the bench before her, and her full heart overflowed at her. The question was no longer with her, "Can I forgive Aunt Priscilla?" but "What, oh, what can I do for him who has done so much for me; who has paid the debt I owed; who has so loved me all these years that I have never thought of him at all?"
Calista's was not the only bowed head in the assembly. There was a universal silence and hush, and even the careless and wild young men whose presence in the back part of the room had caused Cassius and others some anxiety sat hushed and silent.
The sermon was short—too short for Calista, who would have liked to sit an hour longer. The speaker announced that a prayer meeting would be held in the same place on Wednesday evening, and that after the service, he should be glad to converse with any one who wished for further religious instruction. Then a hymn was sung and the congregation dismissed.
Two or three of the better class of neighbors came up to speak to the minister.
And one grave, formal old man, after saying good-evening, turned to Cassius and reproved him, with some asperity, for letting in Tom Edgar and his companions.
"Why, Mr. Heminway, I thought they were just the people who needed the gospel," answered Cassius, no ways abashed. "I suppose Tom Edgar has a soul to be saved, and that the Lord died to save it, and he ain't any worse than the publicans and sinners that same Lord preached to and sat down to table with."
"That was very different," said the old man. "Tom Edgar is a swearing, fighting, drunken sot,—the pest of the whole neighborhood."
"So much the more need of his having the gospel preached to him," returned Cassius. "Ain't that so, Mr. Alger?"
"Certainly," answered the minister, promptly. "Was that tall, dark young man by the door Tom Edgar? I looked at him several times, and thought him quiet and attentive enough. He sings very finely."
"Well, Mr. Alger, all I have to say is, that if you encourage such sort of people, you will have enough of it. That is the worst of these outside and out of the way meetings. They draw in all the riffraff of the community. * If only the respectable people will come, it would be very well."
* This is no exaggeration.
"Inasmuch as there is joy in the presence of the angels over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons who need no repentance, perhaps that may be an effect of outside meetings not altogether displeasing to him who has promised to be in the midst of us," said Mr. Alger, mildly.
Mr. Heminway deigned no answer, but walked away.
"Well, for my part, I was downright glad to see the poor young fellow come in," said Mr. Davis, a small, plain man, who rented one of Miss Priscilla's farms. "Tom Edgar was just one of the nicest little boys that ever lived to begin with, but he hadn't much chance. His father never spoke a kind word to him, and whipped him half to death for every little fault, and his stepmother, who was young and a kind-hearted little thing, thought to make it up by indulging him in everything, and covering up his faults just as far as she could. Tom ain't altogether bad. Don't you remember how he risked his life nursing that poor creature that had the fever up in the woods here?"
"I must try to have a talk with him," said the minister. "Who was that very pretty girl who sat near the desk and seemed so much affected?"
"Oh, that was old Miss Stanfield's niece," said Mr. Heminway, who had rejoined the group.
"That was Miss Calista Stanfield, daughter of Mr. Richard, and granddaughter of old General Stanfield of the mansion house," said Cassius, with a glance of severe rebuke at the first speaker. "She is as fine a young lady as any in the country."
"That she is," rejoined Mr. Davis. "I wish her aunt was only half as much of a lady. I wonder why Miss Druett wasn't down. I kind of thought she would be."
"Oh, she's sick abed with a cold. As to Miss Priscilla, I should think the millennium was coming sure enough if I should see her in a religious meeting. Well, Mr. Alger, I'm sure we have had a profitable time to-night, and I hope it may be the beginning of better things."
Calista went home as it were on wings. She hardly felt the ground on which she trod. The whole world seemed changed to her. Here was the Friend, the Protector, the Helper, the Physician, she needed, all in one. She had been walking in darkness, and here was light; hungry and thirsty, and here was the bread and the water of life; shut in with bolts and bars, and here was the deliverer who had broken the gates of brass and burst the bars of iron asunder, and the guide who would lead and teach her in the way she should go. She had been fighting with what she knew to be sin, and here was one who came before her saying, gently,—
"'Stand still, and see the salvation of the Lord.'
"'I, even I, am he that comforteth you.'"
Calista had, of course, much to learn of the force of temptation, of inbred sin, and of the corruption of her own heart, but of these things she did not think, nor would there have been any wisdom, but quite the contrary, in telling her of them. The traveller who sets out on a long journey knows very well that he will meet many discomforts, trials, and dangers; but he would be a foolish man who should lose the freshness of the morning, and the singing of the birds, and the beauty of flowers and scenery, in pondering over these coming dangers and trials.
Calista went up to Miss Druett's room, and softly opened the door.
"Come in, child, I am not asleep," said Miss Druett. "Come and tell me how you liked the meeting."
"Oh, so much, Miss Druett. How I wish you had been there."
"Then you had a fine sermon?"
"I don't know whether it was fine or not," answered Calista. "I never thought. I knew it was just what I wanted."
Miss Druett drew Calista nearer to her, and fixed her piercing eyes on her face. Then she sighed deeply.
"I see," said she. "You have found him of whom Moses and the Prophets did write."
"You are not sorry, are you, Miss Druett?"
"No, child! Heaven forbid! I found him once, or so I thought; but I lost him again."
"Oh, Miss Druett! Surely he did not forsake you!"
"No: I forsook him. I quarrelled with him because he would not give me the sweets I cried for, and I have never seen him since. I shall never find him again, I fear."
"Perhaps he will find you," said Calista softly. "You know that was what he came for—to seek and to save that which was lost."
Miss Druett had always rather suffered than returned Calista's caresses, but now she drew the girl down to her, and held her in a long, close embrace.
"Get your Bible and read the same chapter the minister read."
Calista obeyed, and Miss Druett listened with evident pleasure and interest.
"To think that any man with a heart could turn that into ridicule, whether he believed it or not!" said she when the chapter was finished. "Now tell me what hymns they sang. Do you know any of them?"
"Yes, ma'am. I know the whole of—"
"'Alas! and did my Saviour bleed,—'
"because we sing it sometimes in church."
"Sing it."
Calista sang the tender, simple old hymn, worth more than whole piles of sentimental stuff which go under the name of hymns in some quarters in these days. Miss Druett listened, and more than one tear stole out from under her closed eyelids.
Miss Priscilla listened as she nodded over her volume of Rousseau, in the parlors below, and made up her mind that she was not going to have that sort of thing going on in the house to please Druey nor any one else.
"Thank you, child. Your voice is like your father's and your grandmother's. There, get me some fresh water, and leave me alone. I dare say I shall have a good night."
CHAPTER FOURTEENTH.
OLD JAEL.
CALISTA rose early as usual, with the feeling that she was entering on a new life. She had lived heretofore for herself—now she must begin to live for him who had live and died, and lived again, for her. She read over again her mother's letter, and saw hosts of new meanings in it. Especially was she struck with these words:
"You must expect to meet with many trials within and without. It may be
that you will no sooner resolve to be wholly a Christian than you will
find yourself assaulted with more ad sorer temptations than you have
ever experienced. This will be partly because you will see things to be
wrong which you never thought to be so before—partly, but not wholly.
Satan makes his fiercest assaults upon those who are just escaping from
his grasp. Be instant in prayer, study your Bible daily, and I would
advise you also to study the 'Pilgrim's Progress.' You will find it a
treasury of help and instruction."
Some persons might have been discouraged by such a warning—Calista was not so.
"Sure I must fight if I would win," she said to herself. "I always did like that hymn."
And she began to sing it, and then instantly checked herself as she considered that might wake her neighbors.
"I believe I will go out and get the flowers I promised Tessy," said she. "When I am out in the woods, I can sing as much as I please."
She put on her oldest frock and shoes—not that there was so very much to choose between oldest and newest—and, crossing the burying-place, was soon in the shady place where she knew the laurel lingered longest. It was a little hollow on the edge of the woods, and was kept green and damp by three or four springs which united their waters to form a rill—a somewhat uncommon sight in those parts. The place was no favorite with the country people. On one side of the dell was a curious grave-shaped mound, from beneath which rose one of the little springs I have mentioned, which was reddened by oxide of iron. It was believed that a murdered man and his murderer had there been buried in one grave, and that the water, in its color, still bore witness to the deed—and that a kind of venomous snake was found there which lived nowhere else.
Calista had no superstitious fears, and she had never seen any of the snakes, so she was not at all alarmed, but went on gathering her flowers, and then, catching sight of a great prize—a fine cluster of yellow moccasin-flowers—she descended to the centre of the hollow, and, stepping lightly and carefully—for the centre of the hollow was dangerously soft and boggy—she secured her prize. As she did so, she was startled by an odd, hollow-sounding laugh, and rose hastily, to find herself face to face with a very tall woman, dressed in indescribable rags, whom she at once guessed to be Old Jael, the fortune-teller.
"Well done!" said the woman, with another mocking laugh. "'Tis a bold young lady who comes alone to the Murderer's Hollow to gather flowers."
"Why, you come here yourself, it seems," said Calista, whose spirit always rose against any attempt to frighten her; "why should I need any more boldness than you?"
"Ah, but I go to many places where the young lady dare not go," answered the old woman; "and in the dead of night, too."
"I dare say," returned Calista; "but you see I come in broad day, and for a good purpose, so I carry the blessing of God with me, and have nothing to fear."
"Nothing!" repeated the old woman. "Not even the snakes!"
"I have often been here and have never seen any snakes," said Calista.
"Well, I like a bold spirit," said the old woman. "Don't pretty Missy want her fortune told? Old Jael can tell her any fine things past and future."
"I know the past for myself, and as for the future, it is in God's hands," answered Calista; "he knows it, and that is far better than knowing it myself."
"Mighty fine words!" said the old woman; "but maybe I can make the proud young lady change her tune, when I tell her where she was—say last Wednesday evening—peeping and looking for the red gold all alone in the secret chamber!"
"I can do as much as that," said Calista, struck by a sudden thought; "I can tell who was climbing up on an old wall, peeping through holes and crannies like a cat."
The old Woman, who had evidently calculated greatly on the effect of her words, drew back as if some one had struck her, and turned more ashy pale than she was before.
"No, Mother Jael, I want none of your skill," said Calista, as she turned to go. "As you have offered to tell my fortune, I will tell you something in return: 'he that believeth on the Son of God hath eternal life, and he that believeth not shall not see life, but the wrath of God abideth on him.' I advise you to go to the meeting Wednesday night, and learn what will do you good. Good-morning."
The woman nodded not ungraciously, and stood looking till Calista was out of sight.
"You are a bold one, anyhow, and I like your spunk; but—Yes, we must have her out of the way, or we shall do nothing."
Muttering thus to herself, she walked away in the opposite direction with more activity than could have been expected.
Calista put her flowers in water, changed her draggled dress and shoes, and then went to see Miss Druett, whom she found, to her surprise, up and ready for breakfast.
"Are you able to go down?" asked Calista. "I was coming to ask if I had better not stay at home and take care of you."
"Nonsense, child! I am not sick; it is only a cold. Where have you been so early?"
"I have been in the Red Hollow after flowers, and I have met the presiding genius of the place."
And Calista recounted her adventure.
"Were you not frightened?" asked Miss Druett.
"Not a bit! I believe I scared her a good deal more than she did me."
"Still, I don't like your meeting her."
"But, dear Miss Druett, I can't stay in the house all the time for fear of Old Jael. Do you think, like Chloe, that she is a witch?"
"I think she is an unscrupulous, wicked woman, and that is bad enough," replied Miss Druett. "I don't like to have you lose one of your few pleasures, but I must say I don't fancy your meeting her. How bright you look!"
"I feel bright; I feel as if I were in a new world. Oh, Miss Druett, if you would only find him too! Why won't you try?"
"There, don't talk about it, child," replied Miss Druett, hastily; "pray that he may find me, and perhaps he will. Come, it is time to go down."
Calista walked somewhat more slowly than usual this morning, and reached the school-room just as the first bell rung. She went directly to her desk and looked into it, half hoping to see the missing needle-case, which she disliked losing, both for its own sake and because she knew the trouble the loss would occasion at home. It was not there, however, and her desk was exactly as she left it.
"It is very strange," thought Calista; "anyway, I am sure Mary did not take it."
Mary Burns and Antoinette Diaments were the last to enter—the latter in her riding-dress, which she had had no time to change. She had hoped to reach school in time to restore the case to its place, but in this she was disappointed; and as she looked at its beauty, she could hardly make up her mind to return it at all.
"Calista is so giddy, Miss McPherson will think she lost it herself; and so will Miss Meeks, if I can only get held of her first."
Mary Burns looked tired and worn with grief and watching, as, indeed, she was; but her face, in all its sorrowful paleness, had a steadfast, settled expression. She knew in whom she had put her trust, and she did not believe he would desert her in the hour of need, however he might suffer her to be tried. For this poor, plain, stammering tailor's daughter had a faith which nothing could shake. She would have faced all the sophistry of all the infidels in the world with the simple unanswerable argument of St. John:
"WE have SEEN him."
It was the custom on Monday morning for each person in the school-room, beginning with Miss McPherson herself, to recite a verse from Holy Scripture. The verses this morning were unusually significant to those who were in the secrets of the past few days. Miss McPherson's was from the thirty-second Psalm and fifth verse:
"'I said, I will confess my transgressions unto the Lord; and thou
forgavest the iniquity of my sin.'"
Miss Jessy's (with a beseeching glance at poor Mary) was:
"'If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our
sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.'" (1 John 1:9.)
Miss Meeks (sharply, and with a glance in the same direction):
"'Be sure your sin will find you out.'" (Numbers 32:23.)
It was Mary Burns's turn next, and she spoke up clearly, and with a bright light in her usually pale blue eyes.
"He shall bring forth thy righteousness as the light, and thy judgment
as the noonday." (Ps. 37:6.)
"How hardened she must be to choose that verse!" thought Miss Meeks.
But Miss McPherson and Miss Jessy exchanged a glance which said, "She is innocent, whoever is guilty."
Antoinette was unfortunate. She had opened hastily to the same Psalm, and, keeping her Bible in her lap (for she had quite forgotten to learn a verse), she read the first her eye fell upon:
"The wicked borroweth, and payeth not again: but the righteous is
merciful, and giveth." (Ps. 37:21.)
Calista's eyes brightened and her color deepened beautifully as she repeated:
"We have found him, of whom Moses in the law, and the prophets, did
write, Jesus of Nazareth." (John 1:45.)
There was a short silence after Miss McPherson's prayer, is which she asked that the innocent might be justified and the guilty led to confession and amendment. Then she made a little speech. She said most of those before her had heard of the loss of the needle-case from Miss Stanfield's desk, and the suspicion which had fallen on one of their number. If the matter had not become public already, she should not have made it so, but she hoped all would suspend their judgment.
Then she asked, "Can any one throw any light on this matter?"
Then, as no one else said anything, Calista spoke modestly:
"Miss McPherson, there is one point at least in which Mary Burns can be cleared. She said that she saw Antoinette come out of the school-room at a quarter to nine, but Miss Meeks thought she must be wrong, because Antoinette went away before eight."
She paused and looked at Antoinette, who gave her a vengeful glance in return.
"Well, what then?" asked Miss McPherson, after waiting a moment for Antoinette to speak.
"Tessy told me that her cousin came back because some accident happened to the horse," answered Calista. "Antoinette staid in Tessy's room till just before the quarter bell rung, and then went to the school-room, or so Tessy thought. So Mary might have seen her, as she said."
"Is this true?" asked Miss McPherson of Antoinette.
"Yes, ma'am," answered Antoinette, temper and the wish for revenge getting the better of her prudence. "I did not mean to say anything, but, since Miss Stanfield seems determined to throw the blame upon me, I must tell the whole story. I was in the school-room a moment, my skirt came untied, and I stepped behind the study door to fasten it. As I stood there, I saw Mary Burns come into the room and look into Miss Stanfield's desk. She turned the things over till she found something, and dropped it into her inside pocket. Then she took a book, shut the desk, and went hastily out."
"You did not see what she took?" said Miss McPherson.
"No, ma'am. It was something pretty heavy, which pulled her pocket down, and jingled a little."
"What do you say to this, Mary Burns?" asked Miss McPherson, turning to her.
"It is not true, Miss McPherson. I did not turn over one thing. I took up the 'Lady of the Lake' and read a little, and then I laid it down, took the volume of Goldsmith, and carried it away. I have no more to say."