The old Stanfield house

Old Stanfield House.
She advanced to the desk and lifted the lid.

"That was my father, I suppose," said Calista to herself. "I am glad grandfather kept his picture, at any rate."

She advanced to the desk and lifted the lid. It was empty, save for a few papers which did not seem to be of any special value; only old bills and leases. There was a recess in which lay an old-fashioned gold seal; Calista took it up, and put her hand back to see if there was anything else. There was nothing; but as she felt about, she touched a spring, a small cupboard door opened, and she saw, lying upon its shelves, half a dozen or more bright gold pieces of different sizes.

A strange feeling came over Calista at this sight—almost like that of a starving man at the sight of food. She saw the gold, and felt as if she must have it at any price—at any risk.

"It is yours by right," something said to her; "that and a great deal more. Take it. Take a part of it, at any rate. Very likely Miss Priscilla does not know of its existence, and will never miss it. She never comes into this room. Take the gold. Who has a better right?"

It seemed afterward to Calista that she stood debating the matter with herself for an hour. In reality, it was not for two minutes. She listened to the voice of the tempter, and stretched out her hand for the gold. She would have taken it in another moment—made the false step which, perhaps, she would never have retrieved. What stopped her?

Merely an old recollection. Merely the words which had come to her mind that night when she had first spoken to her Creator. The remembrance of Miss Malvina's words, "Your mother was a true Christian, and is waiting in her heavenly home for her little daughter."

Calista drew back her hand, like one who had seen a rattlesnake coiled under the fruit he was just going to gather. In all haste she pushed to the cupboard door, closed the desk, and fled to her own room, utterly forgetting that she had left a witness of her presence behind her in the books she had laid aside. Once in her own room, she threw herself on the bed, sobbing hysterically.

"Oh, mother! I didn't take it—I didn't take it!" she cried, as if speaking to an actual presence in the room. "Oh, mother! You saved me! I did not take the gold! I am not a thief! Oh, how glad I am that I didn't even touch it—"

She was still sobbing when she heard the clock strike, and knew that her aunt must soon be at home. She arose, bathed her face and smoothed her hair, and went down to the kitchen just in time to let in Chloe.

"I didn't mean to leave you alone so long, honey," said the old woman. "There's a cake old Sally sent you, to make up for it. But what's the matter?" she asked, looking curiously at Calista. "Did anything scare you?"

"Yes; I was a little frightened at staying alone so long; but never mind. You must hurry and get tea ready, for my aunt will be here directly."

"That's so, and she'll raise old Ned if she's kept waiting. There, put your cake away up stairs, and keep it for yourself. But first run and pick up some chips for me, there's a dear."

Calista was not sorry to get into the fresh air. She picked up the chips, and then wandered across the road to the old graveyard, and read the inscription on her grandfather's monument.

"Twelve years ago he died," she said to herself. "For twelve long years all his money and land have been no more to him. No, not as much as this little wild strawberry is to me. And his life in the other world has hardly begun yet. Twelve years. My mother has been dead longer than that; and what difference does it make to them that one died rich and the other poor!"

"We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain that we carry nothing out." Calista had heard these words many times, till they were as trite to her as they are, perhaps, to you and me; but to-day, sitting by her grandfather's grave, they took on a meaning as new as though an angel had just spoken them in her ear. She saw, as it is given to people sometimes to see, this life and the next in their true proportions and relations. She saw how near that other life lay to hers; how her daily path ran along its very margin, which it might cross at any minute. She saw how immeasurably little—how absolutely nothing—were all the interests of this life compared with that. A few times in almost every person's life, the veil is lifted which hangs between this life and that, and the spectator is shown a glimpse of the fair and dreadful things behind it; and a voice, not of this world, says,—

"These, THESE are the real things!"

The others are but dreams and shadows; or, at most, empty toys, broken before enjoyed, wounding the hand that grasps them. Woe to him if, having seen that sight and heard that voice, he goes on still in his own way, living as if there were no such thing! The other day I saw some sparrows busily making a nest in a building which was at that moment being torn down. The silly little birds were wise compared to such a man.

Calista rose at last, and busied herself in pulling up the weeds and thistles which grew on her grandfather's and grandmother's grave. She would have done the same for that of the first Mrs. Stanfield, Priscilla's mother, but it was overgrown with a poison vine which she dared not touch. She had but just finished her task when she saw the chaise drive up with her aunt and Miss Druett. She gathered a bunch of the fragrant honeysuckle and some of the exquisitely fluted buds of the laurel, and went in.

It was very easy to see that Miss Priscilla was in one of her worst humors. Calista had not exaggerated in saying that at such times she was like some strong wild animal. She glared at Calista when she came in, but said not a word. Calista put her flowers in water and came down to tea. Not a word was spoken till Miss Druett said, not unkindly—

"I saw you come across the road, Calista. Where had you been?"

"Only in the graveyard, Miss Druett."

"And what took you there, child? It is not cheerful place."

"No, indeed. I took a fancy to read the inscription on grandfather's monument. It is terribly out of repair, and will be tumbling down if it is not mended. And, Aunt Priscilla, your mother's grave is all covered with poison ivy!"

Miss Priscilla set down her teacup with shaking hands and stared at Calista, while her cheeks and even her lips became white.

"How dare you go there?" she stammered. "How dare you speak to me of graves?"

"Why, where is the harm?" said Calista. "I wanted to see the monuments. We must all go there some time or other, I suppose. Death seems about the only certain thing one has to look forward to," she continued, musingly, and speaking more to herself than her companions. "We are sure of that, whatever else happens."

"Be still!" almost screamed Miss Priscilla. "I won't hear such words! Druey, make her be still! Send her away! I shall dream of dying—I know I shall—and of the grave!"

"Hush, Priscilla. Don't excite yourself so. The child meant no harm," said Miss Druett. "There, run away, child, and ask Chloe for some supper, or go up to my room if you like. There is something for you on the bed."

Calista obeyed, wondering at the storm she had raised. She did not care for more supper, so she went up to Miss Druett's room, where she found two cheap but pretty new frocks and a straw bonnet such as other girls wore. Miss Druett had evidently carried her point somehow.

She ventured down to the sitting-room after awhile. She found Miss Priscilla asleep in her chair, as usual, and Miss Druett looking out of the window, as usual. Calista stole to a low seat beside her, and Miss Druett laid a hand on her head.

"Thank you ever so much for the dresses, Miss Druett," Calista whispered; "I know they were your buying—were they not?"

"Partly, and partly Mr. Settson's. Calista, you must never again speak to your aunt as you did to-night. I thought she would have a fit."

"I did not mean any harm, Miss Druett."

"I know it, child."

"And surely Aunt Priscilla knows that she must die some time."

"We know a great many things we do not like to think or speak about, child; and Priscilla has a greater horror of death than any one I ever saw."

"I don't see why she should, when she thinks that death ends everything," observed Calista.

"Yes, but you see there is always a terrible perhaps; and then the thought of annihilation is dreadful to most people. But—not to talk any more about that—tell me, Calla have you seen Old Zeke or his wife anywhere about lately?"

"No, not lately; at least, not that I am sure of," said Calista, considering. "I saw a very tall woman on the edge of the woods as I was coming home yesterday, but I was not near enough to see what she was like, only, as I said, she was very tall. Why?"

"Can I trust your discretion if I tell you?"

"I think so," answered Calista—less proudly than she would have said the words in the morning, for she still felt humbled in her own eyes.

Miss Druett put her head down to Calista's and whispered very low—

"Because I am afraid they are getting an influence over Priscilla again. I am much mistaken if she has not had an interview with one or other of them, and she has dropped more than one hint about spies and so on. I want you to keep your eyes and ears open, and tell me if you see anything. Hush, she is waking up. Get your knitting, child. You should not sit idle all the evening."

Miss Druett said these words aloud.

Miss Priscilla glanced sharply at her, but apparently saw nothing to rouse her suspicions, and the evening passed away as usual.

CHAPTER SEVENTH.

MISS MEEKS.

CALISTA waked early the next morning, and lay a long time thinking over what had happened the day before. She shuddered at the narrowness of her escape.

"Oh, how differently I should be feeling if I had taken that money! It was mother who saved me," she said to herself.

And then a sensation of awe came over her as she asked herself the question, "But who was it that sent the remembrance of mother at the critical moment? Did he really care? Did he save me—me, who never did or tried to do one thing for him in all my life? Can it be that Mary is right, and that he really loves 'me?'"

Calista rose, dressed herself, and sat down in her accustomed place in the deep window. She revolved many things in her mind. She went back over her past life, and considered her present situation. She looked herself fairly in the face, so to speak, and she did not find a great deal in the view to flatter her vanity.

It was true, as Mary had hinted: she was in danger of thinking as much of money as Aunt Priscilla herself.

Looking back over the past few weeks, she was astonished to see how much of her time and thoughts had been bestowed on that subject alone. Walking by the way, alone in her own room, in the school-room when her book was before her and her mind should have been on its pages—even in the house of God itself—her one subject of contemplation had been money, or what money would buy; what she would do when Aunt Priscilla was out of the way, and the Stanfield place should be her own; and latterly, how she would find her grandfather's will; how she would confront Aunt Priscilla, and humble her in the dust; how she would take possession of the old mansion, and put it in perfect repair; these had been her dreams day and night. These had led her into temptation—had almost brought her to the commission of an act at the thought of which she still turned cold and sick.

"I am resolved I will do so no more," she said to herself, decidedly and almost aloud. "I will give my whole mind to my lessons, and so prepare myself to make my own way in the world. I will try to be civil to Aunt Priscilla, and not provoke her; but whatever I do, I won't be thinking of nothing but money all the time, I am determined upon that. She can't live forever, that is certain, and—"

And then Calista, pulled herself up short, vexed and ashamed to find her thoughts, even in the very moment of her resolution, going off into their old channels. She would find, as many another has found, that resolutions made in mere human strength are, as opposed to the force of inbred and indulged sin, as a rope of sand to a mountain torrent.

She rose with an impatient movement, and taking her grammar, which she had brought home, she set herself determinedly to commit to memory the notes under the rules, and to frame examples to illustrate them; and she grew so interested in her work as to be surprised when the clock struck seven, the signal for breakfast.

"Oh, Calista, why didn't you stay yesterday?" said Belle Adair, as Calista entered the school-room. "We had such a nice afternoon! Miss McPherson sat with us and told us stories about the time she went to school in Scotland and in Paris."

"That must have been lovely," said Calista. "I wish I had staid."

"Why didn't you?"

"I thought of something I wished to do at home, but I didn't accomplish it, so I might as well have been here, and better, too. What work did you do?"

"I worked at my lace veil, and Tessy began her curtains, and did quite a piece upon one; and Mary Burns has a rug of sewed-on work, and Elizabeth Howell a tucked skirt, and Clary Whitman a painted velvet stool, and I can't tell you all, only we had a lovely time!"

"All but Antoinette!" remarked Emma.

"Why, what was the matter with Antoinette?"

"Well, several things. In the first place, you must know that Miss McPherson has been changing the rooms about. She has put Tessy in the little room that opens from Miss Jessy's."

"Poor Tessy! She will have to learn to keep her things in order."

"Well, Tessy says she doesn't care: she wants to learn to be neat. And Antoinette is in the other little room by herself, next to Miss Meeks. She doesn't like it one bit, because she can't borrow of Tessy now without being found out, and none of the other girls will lend to her. Even Elizabeth Howell said to her, when she wanted some hairpins, 'Thee is just as well able to buy hairpins as I am!'"

"Well, so she is. Now Mary Burns is really poor, but you don't find her sponging!" said Emma.

"Well, but that needn't have spoiled Antoinette's comfort yesterday afternoon. What was the matter then?"

"Oh, Miss McPherson would not let her work the grand picture with the spangled shepherdess that she had set her heart on! She said that such things were going out of fashion, and that this would be so expensive no one would buy it, and she should do something less ambitious. Antoinette said pertly she did not care whether any one bought it or not, she should have the credit of it, and if the picture did not sell, she should have that too. You should have seen Miss McPherson look at her! And then Elizabeth Howell asked Miss McPherson if she did not think it would be better to have the things sent in just from the school, without any individual names at all."

"That is just like Elizabeth—especially as she is doing the prettiest piece of all; I mean her muslin apron. Well, what did Miss McPherson say?"

"She said we could take time and think the matter over, and then we could decide."

"And then Charity Latch—just think, Calista—Charity said for her part she wanted the credit for what 'she' did."

"She works so elegantly," said Calista, and all the girls laughed, for it was notorious that Charity had never learned to sew up a seam decently.

"But how do you like the idea, Calista?" asked Mary Settson.

"Oh, it suits me very well," answered Calista, with a little bitterness, "so long as I have nothing to do at all."

"I am sure your bureau cover will be lovely."

"It isn't mine, it is Miss McPherson's. How do you like it, Mary?"

"Well, I must say, with Charity, I don't see why we should not have the credit of what we do," said Mary. "I know I like to, for one, as well as she does."

"The Bible says we should not let our left hand know what our right hand does, thee knows, Mary," said Elizabeth Howell, who had joined the group in time to hear Calista's question and Mary's answer; "and we are not to love the praise of men."

"Not better than the praise of God," said Mary, quickly.

"And how is one to set a good example, if one's doings are never to be known?"

"I can't say I think much of examples that are set on purpose," remarked Belle Adair. "And I don't believe one ought to be always thinking about them, either. That just comes to thinking, what people will say about you. And I suppose it is just as much loving the world to care too much about being looked up to, as it is to care too much about money, like some folks."

"I suppose it is," said Tessy, thoughtfully, while Mary looked annoyed. "I thought it was every one's duty to set a good example. Have you learned a verse, Emma? This is Bible morning, you know."

"Yes; Miss Jessy showed me a nice one," answered Emma:

   "'Whatsoever he saith unto you, do it.'" (John 2:5)

"Exactly," said Elizabeth, smoothing the little girl's hair; "let us only remember that, and our example will take care of itself."

"I wonder if Belle and Elizabeth think that I do love the world," thought Mary, as she took her seat; "I don't see why they should."

Calista did not find the day altogether a pleasant one. Her desk-mate, Antoinette, was in a desperate fit of the sulks, and she gave her companion the full benefit of it, making herself disagreeable in all the ways which the ingenuity of ill temper could contrive. Calista herself was preoccupied; and though she tried very hard to adhere to the rule she had laid down of thinking of nothing in school but her lessons, she did not succeed very well. She had allowed herself to fall into bad habits in this respect.

And she had, besides, a cause of considerable anxiety. Putting her hand into an inside pocket to find a pencil, her fingers encountered something hard, which her touch did not recognize. She drew it out, and there was the little working equipage she had found in the book-case drawer. She had taken it almost without thought, only considering that the scissors and bodkin would be convenient to use; but as she looked at it she saw that the little bottle, which still smelled of otto of roses, had a gold or gilded stopper, and that all the handles of the implements were the same. The whole was evidently of considerable value. Nor was that all. As Calista looked at it, she remembered the pile of books and magazines she had intended to take to her room, and which she had left lying on the floor by the book-case. Then, too, there was the broken lock to her grandfather's room She did not know whether Aunt Priscilla ever went thither, but if she did, she would be sure to see that some one had been meddling. She would suspect Calista, of course, as she always did suspect her of any mischief that was done in the house.

"Well, if she does, I must just tell her the truth, whatever comes," thought Calista. "After all, where was the harm? She never told me not to go there."

Calista still held the case in her hand when the recess bell struck, and she was roused from her reverie by hearing Antoinette, say,—

"Oh, Calista, what a pretty case! Where did you get it? Let me see it, won't you?"

"It is not mine," said Calista, holding it out for inspection. "I did not know I had it with me."

"Did your aunt lend it to you? How curious it is! Do you suppose those handles are gold? Let me take it, won't you?"

"No, I can't; I told you it was not mine," and Calista put out her hand for the box.

"But you can just lend it to me for a day or two. Come, do. I am going over to Graywich to spend Sunday, and it would be so nice to carry. Come, do."

"I tell you it is not mine," answered Calista; the more angrily because she was vexed with herself. "Give it to me this minute."

"Take it, then," said Antoinette, as angrily as herself. "For my part, I would not carry about such valuable things belonging to other people. Would you, Miss Meeks?"

Now, Antoinette had succeeded in getting on the favorable side of Miss Meeks—an operation which she had never performed with Miss McPherson. Moreover, Miss Meeks did not like Calista, who was somewhat opinionated, and had a way of asking questions and wishing to go to the bottom of things, not always agreeable or convenient to Miss Meeks. Therefore, when appealed to in this way, by Antoinette, she was quite ready to take up on her side.

"What do you say, Antoinette?"

"I say that, if I were Calista, I would not carry about a valuable gold-mounted working-case belonging to somebody else."

"Certainly not. It is very improper," said Miss Meeks, with sharp decision. "I wonder at you, Miss Stanfield—that is, I should if it were any one else. Pray, did your aunt give you leave to take her working-case and bring it to school?"

"It is not my aunt's working-case, that I know of, and I did not mean to bring it to school," returned Calista; answering sharpness with sharpness, and certainly speaking not very respectfully.

"Yes, that is very likely," sneered Antoinette.

"And if Antoinette thinks it so very improper to carry a working-case belonging to somebody else, I think it rather singular she should be so anxious to borrow this one to carry down to Graywich—that is, I should if it were any one else," added Calista, with a very successful imitation of Miss Meeks's manner.

"Miss Stanfield, you are very impertinent. I shall report you."

"Eh, what! What is the matter?" asked Miss McPherson herself, who had a habit of suddenly appearing where she was least expected.

"The matter is, ma'am, that Miss Stanfield is insolent and disobedient, as usual," said Miss Meek; in a tone and manner of irritability so disproportioned to the occasion that Calista looked at her in surprise. The poor lady's lips were white, and the drops stood on her forehead.

"How is that?" asked Miss McPherson.

"Miss Stanfield has brought to school a valuable working-case of her aunt's, as I understand without leave; and when I reproved her, she not only answered me back, but actually mimicked me to my face," said Miss Meeks, in a voice which shook so she could hardly articulate.

"How is that, Calista?"

"I will tell you all about it, Miss McPherson," said Calista, recovering herself a little, but still very angry. "I found this case in a drawer with some old rubbish, yesterday, and I put it in my pocket without looking at it very much; I thought I would ask Miss Druett if I might use it, because I have no scissors of my own. But she was not at home; and when she did come, my aunt was very unwell, and several other things happened, which, altogether, put the case out of my head, and I forgot I had it. I found it in my pocket, just now, and Antoinette wanted to borrow it to take down to Graywich with her when she went to spend Saturday and Sunday. I told her it was not mine and I could not lend it. Then she said she would not carry about valuables which did not belong to her, and appealed to Miss Meeks, who found fault with me, as usual. That is the whole story."

Miss McPherson looked seriously displeased, and her displeasure fell, to begin with, in an unexpected quarter. Antoinette knew how particular was Miss McPherson in exacting respectful treatment towards her subordinates, and particularly towards Miss Meeks, and she waited with ill-concealed satisfaction to hear what would be said to Calista. As it was, however, the principal's first words were addressed to herself.

"Antoinette, did I not strictly forbid your borrowing or asking to borrow anything whatever from your schoolmates?"

Antoinette, surprised at the sudden change of programme, could only stammer something about not meaning to use it in school time.

"Was anything said about school or school time? Did I not positively forbid your borrowing anything from your schoolmates on any pretext whatever? Answer me!"

"I didn't mean—" stammered Antoinette.

"Don't tell me what you meant! Answer my question."

"Yes, ma'am," Antoinette was forced to answer.

"And yet I find you trying to borrow this very working-case from Calista, and that when she tells you in so many words it is not hers. I want no more words. You will take your Racine, learn the first two speeches in Alexander by heart, and recite them to me to-morrow morning before breakfast. No crying," added Miss McPherson, as Antoinette burst into a flood of tears. "I will give you another ten lines for every tear you shed."

"Well, really!" said Miss Meeks.

"Excuse me, my dear Eliza, but had you not better retire to your room and rest a little?" said Miss McPherson in a tone of gentle authority. "I will deal with this rebellious girl, and see that she makes you a proper apology."

Miss Meeks murmured something not very intelligible, and went away rather against her will, as it seemed, and Miss McPherson drew Calista into her own special sanctum, a small, cheerful book-room opening from the school-room.

"Now, Calista," said she, after she had taken her seat and motioned Calista to another one, "I am going to read this article in the paper. I want you to employ the time in thinking over your conduct this morning, and then I shall request you to tell me whether your conduct to Miss Meeks was ladylike or becoming. I think I can depend upon you to be honest both with yourself and me."

Miss McPherson took up her paper and adjusted her double eye-glass, and Calista was left to her own reflections, which were not very agreeable. She was vexed with herself for taking the working-case at all, for bringing it to school, and for having lost her temper, at Antoinette for getting her into the scrape, and at Miss Meeks for her injustice and partiality.

"I need not have spoken so to her, and above all I need not have mimicked her; but it certainly is very vexatious to have some one always ready to see the wrong side of you, and make the worst of everything you say and do. Who would have thought of her getting in such a rage over such a trifle! Her very lips were pale. I thought she was going to faint. Oh dear, I wish I could ever have any peace or comfort in all my life!" thought poor Calista, and the tears rose to her eyes. "I should wish I were dead if it were not wicked, and if I were sure of being better off!"

Miss McPherson finished her article—I am able to inform the reader that it was a critique upon a volume of tales published by one Mr. Irving, then a young author of some promise—and laid down her paper.

"Well, Calista," said she.

Calista could not be obstinate under the kind, penetrating look of those dear motherly gray eyes. She said at once:

"Miss McPherson, I own that I was rude to Miss Meeks this morning. I did repeat her words, and I suppose I mimicked her. I am sorry. But if I am to say all I think—"

"Say on, bairn," said Miss McPherson, using a tender Scotch word, which she seldom did use. "Let me hear all that is in your mind."

"Well, Miss McPherson, I do think that Miss Meeks was unjust to me, as she most always is. She never stopped to hear what I had to say, but jumped to the conclusion that Antoinette was right and I was wrong. And that is the way she always does. I never can do anything right in her eyes, however much I try, and I do try to please her a great many times. I should not have minded so much this morning if I had not been troubled about other things. But, oh, Miss McPherson, I have such hard times at home, and then when I come to school thinking to have some rest and comfort, to be taken up so, I could not bear it."

And Calista burst into passionate tears.

"Hush, hush, my dear lassie! Don't cry so!" said Miss McPherson, gathering the bowed head and shaking form to her bosom as if Calista had been a little child she was comforting. "I know you do have hard times, and I know Miss Meeks is not always very wise; but, Calista, she has hard times too, and is likely to have harder. You, at least, have youth and health; poor Miss Meeks has neither."

"Isn't she well?" asked Calista, interested and diverted for the moment. "I notice she turns very pale sometimes. She did this morning. I thought it was because she was angry."

"I don't think so. She has times of great pain, and they are the harder to bear because she is so determined to keep them to herself. The very suppression makes her irritable. Can you understand that?"

"Yes, indeed!" answered Calista. "But what is the matter with her?"

"I do not know, though I may guess," answered Miss McPherson; "but, Calista, you must not breathe a word of this to any one. She cannot endure to have the subject mentioned."

"I am sure I will not," said Calista. "I am very sorry for her. Has she no friends?"

"Not one that I know of except a half-demented body of a sister who has just sense enough not to be put into an asylum, but not enough to earn her own bread or find for herself in any way. Miss Meeks maintains her almost entirely."

"Poor thing!" said Calista. "I suppose that is the reason she makes her dresses over and over, and wears her bonnets forever. If the girls knew that, they would not laugh at her stingy ways, as they call them."

"If we knew about the hidden life of most people, I dare say we should find more to pity than condemn," observed Mir McPherson. "But now that you know—in confidence, remember—thus much about poor Miss Meeks, I am sure you will go and ask her pardon and make friends with her."

"I will go this minute," said Calista, starting up; "and, Miss McPherson, I am sorry I have made you so much trouble."

"Pardon is granted, my child. As to the bone of contention—the working-case—I do not understand all the circumstances, and so I have nothing to say; only, my dear, whatever happens, never be tempted into being sly or doing anything underhanded. Mind, I don't say you have, but, situated as you are, the temptation is likely enough to beset you. For the sake of your own soul, I beseech you not to yield to it. Now go and find poor Miss Meeks."

Calista knocked at the door of Miss Meeks's room in the third story, and hearing a sound which she took for "Come in," she opened the door. The room was darkened, but she saw Miss Meeks leaning back in the rocking-chair.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Meeks," she began. And then, with a sudden change of tone, "But what is the matter?"

Miss Meeks did not answer except by a feeble motion of the hand and a moan. Much alarmed, Calista sprung to her side.

"Are you faint, Miss Meeks? Shall I call some one?"

"Shut the door!" whispered Miss Meeks.

Calista did so and returned, but Miss Meeks was clearly fainting. Calista had the nursing instinct—the capacity of doing the right thing—which is born with some people, and which others never acquire. She loosened the broad ribbon belt and buckle which Miss Meeks wore, and slipping her hand behind her, unhooked her dress.

"How can she dress so tight? No wonder she is faint!" was her thought.

Miss Meeks wore a thick white cape crossed over the bosom of her low-cut dress—all dresses were cut low at that time. Calista opened it to give the patient air, but with the instinctive delicacy of a born lady she closed it again. She had had a glimpse of poor Miss Meeks's hidden trouble, and a glimpse was enough.

"Poor thing! I won't bring any one to spy on her," her first thought.

She sought on the toilet table for a bottle of cologne, with which she bathed the face of her patient, and soon had the satisfaction of seeing her color come back. Miss Meeks opened her eyes, put her hand up to her neck, and started.

"You are better," said Calista, gently. "Shall I help you to lie down on the bed?"

"No, no; I am better in the chair. My drops—in a little bottle—do you see?"

"Is this it?" asked Calista. "How much?"

"Ten drops, in water."

Calista prepared the medicine and gave it into her hand.

She swallowed it eagerly, and then, looking up, seemed for the first time to understand who her companion was.

"Is this you, Calista? How came you here?"

"I came to tell you that I was sorry for being rude to you this morning," said Calista, blushing; "and then I found you were ill, and staid to wait on you. Are you better?"

"Oh, yes. It is over for this time. But you unfastened my dress!" she added, in a tone of alarm. "Did you see?"

"I saw you had a great trouble," answered Calista, gravely; "but don't be alarmed, Miss Meeks. I shall never mention it, I give you my word. But—excuse me—ought you not to have a doctor?"

"No, no, child. There is nothing to be done—at least, not yet. Oh, what will become of me and my poor sister?" Miss Meeks leaned against Calista, and gave way to a burst of agonized sobs.

Calista wisely let her cry on, supporting her, and looking down on her former enemy with a mixture of pity and reverence which she never thought she could feel for Miss Meeks.

"There is the bell," said Miss Meeks, starting; "I must go down."

"You are not fit," said Calista; "cannot you lie still and rest till dinner?"

"No; there are the little girls' spelling and reading classes; and Miss Jessy is too busy to hear them."

"Could not I hear them, for once?" asked Calista, wondering at herself. "They are all nice little things. I dare say they would be good with me."

"But your grammar lesson?"

"I learned it before I came to school. Do keep still and let me try, Miss Meeks. It won't do any such great harm if I don't succeed as well as you, for once; and I am sure you are not fit to go down. Your lips are white now."

"The pain takes a great deal out of me," said the poor lady, yielding to the temptation and leaning back in her chair. "Well, Calista, if you think you can, and Miss McPherson is willing, you may try. The children are good little things, as you say, and will make no trouble."

"And you will forgive me for being so rude this morning?" said Calista. "Indeed, Miss Meeks, I have my own troubles, too, or I should not have forgotten myself so."

"Oh, my dear, don't mention it. I dare say I was unreasonable. I have been in so much pain all the morning. You won't tell what you have seen—not to any one?" Miss Meeks held her hand and looked imploringly in her face.

"No, indeed," answered Calista, solemnly. "I promise you, Miss Meeks, I never will. Now, can I do anything else for you? For I suppose I should be going."

"Only hand me my Bible from the table. Thank you. Oh, my love, believe me, if you have trouble, as you say, this is the only source of comfort. I should die without it, or go mad. There, there, God bless you! Go."

"Who would have thought,—" said Calista, as, having obtained Miss McPherson's permission, she assumed Miss Meeks's place in the little school-room, and called the children to their lessons—"who would have thought that I, of all people, should be Miss Meeks's deputy?"

CHAPTER EIGHTH.

MARY.

"WHERE have you been all the morning?" asked Mary Settson, as she met Calista just after the noon recess was proclaimed. "I have not had a sight of you."

"You would never guess," said Calista. "I don't know how to believe it myself."

Calista spoke gayly. She felt in better spirits than she had done for a long time. Anything like a quarrel was always an annoyance to her; and she was very much pleased at having at last made friends with poor Miss Meeks.

Then she had thoroughly enjoyed her hour and a half of teaching. Every one likes to be of use, not to say of consequence. The little girls had been very good and orderly. They had read and spelled well, and recited their small portion of Pinnock's "Catechism" without a mistake; and Calista had rewarded them with the story of King Alfred learning to read and afterward watching the cakes. She had a great talent for narration, and had the pleasure of seeing her small audience listening with rapt attention, and of hearing a universal cry of:

"Oh, please, Miss Stanfield, go on. Tell us some more."

She had promised another story "some time;" and had promised to tell Miss McPherson and Miss Meeks how good they had been. So teacher and pupils had parted with mutual satisfaction.

"I am not good at guessing," said Mary.

"Well—but don't look incredulous, however strange my tale may appear—I have been sitting upon the throne of Miss Meeks and wielding her sceptre for a full hour and a half. In other words, I have been keeping order and hearing lessons in the little school-room. I—even I, myself. Think of that!"

Mary did think of it, and it did not please her. For the last year she had been used to being called upon to hear the little ones on emergencies; and though she was not fond of teaching, and often complained of the trouble, she did not dislike the consequence it gave her any more than did Calista. So it came to pass that there was some sharps in her tone as she said:

"How in the world did that happen? I should say you were the last one in the school likely to be called on to help Miss Meeks. I thought you had a quarrel only this morning."

"So we had, and that was exactly the way the wonderful event came to pass."

"You must speak more plainly if you want me to understand you."

"Well, it happened even so: Miss Meeks and I did have—well, not just a quarrel, but an outcome, as Miss Jessy says. It began with Antoinette in the first place, who called Miss Meeks to take her part, which she did, and scolded me as usual. I was vexed, and answered her back. Miss McPherson said I was rude—or, what was still worse, she made me say so,—" continued Calista, laughing and blushing—"and sent me to Miss Meeks's room to apologize. I found the poor thing very ill, and all but fainting away with a pain in her side, or something of the sort. She would not let me call any one, and I waited on her as well as I could, till she was better.

"But she felt very faint and weak after the pain, and so I persuaded her to keep quiet till dinner, and let me hear the little girls. She said I might if Miss McPherson was willing. So I asked her, and she said I might. The children were very good and said their lessons nicely, and I rewarded them with the very new and original narration of King Alfred burning the oat-cakes, with which they were as hugely delighted as if nobody had heard it before. And, in fact, though it is hard to believe it, I suppose a story is new to every child that hears it for the first time;" with which original reflection Calista concluded her own story.

"Well, I must say, I think it was odd in Miss McPherson to send you," said Mary, in a tone which trembled a little in spite of herself. "I wonder what I could have done to displease her?"

"Nothing, I presume," answered Calista, in surprise. "Why should you think so?"

"Because she has always asked me to hear the scholars in the little room before, and I don't see why she should choose some one else."

"Why, goosie, because I went to her. Miss Meeks told me to ask her, and of course she said yes. Besides, you were busy, and I was not. I learned all my lessons before I came to school. What could be more natural?"

"I don't believe it was that," said Mary, her voice shaking more and more. "She is displeased about something. I am sure I have always done my best with the little girls. If I have not told them stories and amused them, I have tried to have them learn, and it is very hard to have anybody put over my head without giving me any reason." Mary was fairly crying.

"Mary, you are too silly for anything," said Calista, vexed for the moment. "Nobody has been put over your head. Don't you see how naturally it all happened? Suppose I had asked Miss McPherson, and she had said, 'No, I prefer Miss Settson should do it;' do you think I should cry about it? Not I. I should just have thought, 'Mary has had more experience; it is natural Miss McPherson should prefer her.'"

"That is just what I say. I have had more experience."

"You had not more experience when you began, I suppose. There must be a first time. I dare say Miss McPherson thought it would be a good lesson for me."

"I am sure Miss McPherson would not have chosen some one else unless she had something against me," continued Mary. "She acted as if she had yesterday. She praised Mary Burns's work up to the skies, though it only a rug made of bits out of her father's shop, and all she said to mine was, 'Yes, very pretty, my dear.'"

"Well, you know Mary is poor, and has very little to give, and I do think her rug is wonderful, considering what it is made of. It looks like a bit of Persian carpet. I have always noticed what a good eye Mary has for colors. She would paint better than Clary Whitman if she had the chance to learn."

"Oh, yes, she is the eighth wonder of the world, no doubt! But I don't think I shall send anything to the table, or go to the meetings any more. If my work is not worth noticing, it certainly is not worth selling."

"Look here, Mary," said Calista, gravely, "you are always lecturing me about loving the world, and now I am going to lecture you a little. You think a great deal too much about being praised—about having people think well of you. Now it seems to me that the praise of men, as Elizabeth Howell says, is just as much one of the things of the world that we are not to love, as money or fine clothes. Of course we all like the good opinion of our friends; but when it comes to being distressed because somebody else is asked to do something, or because some other person's work is praised more than one's own, why I think it is time to take a look and see where one is going."

Mary was silent, and twisted her chair. She felt the words were true, and she did not like them any the better for that. She had always assumed a certain superiority over her friend, to which Calista had humbly assented, and it was not agreeable to be taken to task in her turn.

"Come, don't let's spoil our recess," said Calista, in a lighter tone; "you know you promised to teach me the fan stitch, and I brought my needles on purpose."

"You had better ask Mary Burns to show you," answered Mary, in a tone which was meant to be dignified, but was only stiff; "I don't know that I care about teaching any one who has such an opinion of me as you seem to entertain. I thought I had one friend at least in the school, but it seems I was mistaken!" And Mary's wounded feelings and temper—two things which are apt to get very much mixed up together—found vent in a flood of tears.

"Nonsense!" said Calista, vexed in her turn. "Mary, you are too absurd. You are always lecturing me, and I am content you should; but the minute I say a word to you, you flare up in this way. I should think I had enough to put up with, without your turning on me. I don't know but that is the 'spirit of Christ,'" she concluded, alluding to the verse Mary had repeated in the morning, "but I must say it does not seem much like it to me."

And with this parting shot, which was a sufficiently sharp one, Calista went away and left Mary to her own reflections.

"Dear me!" she said to herself, in some natural impatience. "It does seem as if I never could be comfortable half an hour together. Who would ever have thought of her taking matters in that way!"

If Calista was uncomfortable, Mary was still more so. She was really trying very hard to be a Christian, but on this particular point she had never learned to know herself, or to call things by their right names. She had often said to herself that she did not love money, or fine clothes, or gay amusements—all of which was true—therefore she did not love the world. But "the world" takes a great many shapes, and creeps in at a great many holes and corners; and whatever petty disguises it may put on, it is the same world still, the intimate ally and friend of "the flesh and the devil."

Praise was Mary's "world"—appreciation she called it. She loved to stand well in the eyes of other people, to be called the best scholar and the neatest worker in school, the model member of the catechism class in church. She liked to know that she was pointed out as an example of early piety by the pastor, as a good sister and daughter at home. She loved the praise of men, and that love, as it always does, was beginning to spring up and bear fruit—poison fruit, which, if the vine was not plucked up by the roots, threatened to choke the word and make it unfruitful, as surely as the deceitfulness of riches would have done. It was coming to that with her that she did not like to have any one praised but herself—that she felt all commendation of another as so much taken from her own share.

Miss McPherson had praised Mary's homely work more than her own exquisite netted fringe. That very morning, in the French class, she had told Anabella Adair that she had improved very much in accent and style, and had only included herself in the "very well, my dears," addressed to the whole class. And now, to crown all, she had given the charge of the little ones to Calista, who had not only taught them, but interested and amused them as well. No doubt the ungrateful little things were saying at that moment that they liked Miss Stanfield better than Miss Settson—very likely they would say so to Miss Meeks and Miss McPherson. Mary almost felt as though she could never come to school or speak to Calista again.

John Bunyan, with that wonderful experimental knowledge which seems like inspiration, says that one leak is enough to sink a ship, and one sin to destroy a sinner. There is no doubt at all that one known and acknowledged sin is enough to undermine the Christian character of the best saint that ever lived, if it is indulged or harbored after its true character comes to be known.

Mary had, for some time, had an uneasiness as to this very matter. She felt that here was her weak point, but she did not like to examine and make sure of it, which was as wise as if a ship's captain should refuse to examine a suspected spar or defective cable. She was strong everywhere else, and she did not consider that the weakest link—not the strongest—measures the strength of the chain. Even now she was made aware that she had been unkind to Calista and unjust to Miss McPherson, but she would not acknowledge to herself that the root of the trouble lay in her inordinate love of praise. No, Calista had provoked her and Miss McPherson had taken pains to mortify her, but it was her duty to overlook it, and she would do so by treating Calista just as usual, even by offering to show her the fan stitch—no, she would not do that, either; but if Calista asked her again, she would not refuse.

Smoothing matters over in this fashion was not the way to attain peace, and Mary was destined to have a still harsher lesson.

Calista ran up to Miss Meeks's room and tapped lightly, opening the door in answer to the summons from within. She found Miss Meeks up and dressed. She looked pale and worn, but declared herself quite able to come down stairs.

"I thought I would just tell you that the little girls behaved very well and said their lessons nicely," said Calista.

"Did they? I am very glad. I think they are usually good, though I fear I am sometimes sharp with them. Did they say their English kings?"

"Yes, ma'am, nicely; and I told them about King Alfred and the oat-cakes, to reward them. Was that right?"

"Quite right. I often wish I possessed the talent for narration which some people have. It is quite invaluable in dealing with young children. Will you please fasten my dress, my dear? I am glad you succeeded in interesting the children," continued Miss Meeks. "I shall, perhaps, ask you to help me again, some day. Miss Settson is very good and conscientious, but she has an unfortunate manner with children."

"I am sure I shall be glad to help you at any time, Miss Meeks," said Calista, as they went down stairs together. "But I am surprised to hear you say that about Mary. I thought she did everything better than any one else—let alone poor me."

"It is not to be denied that she does a great many things better than 'poor you,'" replied Miss Meeks, with a smile, which was not at all severe this time. "Keeping her desk in order and copying her exercises, among others. But different people have different gifts, you know."

"I am sure I am glad if teaching is one of mine," observed Calista. "It seems the only way for a lady to earn a living nowadays."

"Surely there will be no necessity for that," said Miss Meeks. "I supposed you were your aunt's heir as a matter of course."

"Oh dear, no," answered Calista. "My aunt barely tolerates my existence. I should not be one bit surprised at her throwing me on my own resources any day. So, Miss Meeks, I shall be glad if you will let me help you at any time, not only because I like to be of use, but because I like to learn all I can."

Unluckily, this speech was overheard by Antoinette Diaments. Antoinette hated Calista with all the venom of a small and mean nature, because of the scrape she had gotten into about Tessy's change; though Calista had nothing to do with the transaction, beyond being an accidental witness of it. Moreover, Antoinette considered Miss Meeks as her own particular property, and had hitherto, as we have said, succeeded in keeping that lady very much in the dark as to her real character. She, therefore, instantly resolved to "put a spoke in Calista's wheel," as she elegantly expressed it.

"Well, Calista, I should think you would be ashamed to ask such a thing of Miss Meeks, after the way you were talking and laughing about her not half an hour ago."

Miss Meeks's pale cheek flushed, and she cast one of her old suspicious glances at Calista.

"Antoinette, what do you mean?" exclaimed Calista. "I have not said a word to any one but Mary Settson about Miss Meeks."

"Just so; and you were laughing with her about Miss Meeks's throne and sceptre. I heard you myself."

"You can ask Mary about it, Miss Meeks," said Calista. "Here she is. Mary, Antoinette says I was laughing about Miss Meeks to you this morning. Is that true?"

Calista spoke with a trust in Mary's uprightness as firm as her trust in the ground she walked on. But even the ground is sometimes shaken. Mary had opened the gate of her heart to the world, and the world in turn opened to its friend the devil. If the ground had, indeed, opened under her feet, Calista could not have been more astounded than she was when Mary answered:

"I don't know, of course, whether you were laughing at her or not. You certainly were laughing when you told me that you had been sitting in her throne and wielding her sceptre, and when you told how you went to her room and found her sick."

Calista's face grew pale, and then flushed with honest indignation and wounded feeling.

"Mary!"

It was all she said. Miss Meeks looked keenly from one to another. She was clear-sighted enough when not blinded by prejudice or by the irritability of suppressed suffering, and she knew Mary's weakness far better than did Mary herself.

"I shall believe what you say, Calista," said she. "Did you mean to turn me into ridicule or not?"

"No, Miss Meeks, I never thought of such a thing—never." said Calista, with emphasis. "I did use those words, as any one might; but I no more thought of turning you into ridicule, or above all laughing about your illness, than I should think of laughing about my own dead mother."

"I believe you," said Miss Meeks. "You have your faults, but I never knew untruth to be one of them. To show you that I trust you, I shall, if agreeable to you, request Miss McPherson to allow you to sit with me in the small room this afternoon and oversee the children's work."

"Thank you, Miss Meeks; I shall like it very much," said Calista, and she turned away and followed the teacher into the dining-room, without so much as looking at Mary.

She usually enjoyed the school dinners, which, if plain, were abundant and dealt out without stint; but to-day her roast mutton and cherry pie tart seemed to choke her. That Mary should use her so! She did not wonder at Antoinette; but Mary—Mary, whom she had looked upon as the very pattern and exemplar of all that was good, and loved with the passionate love of a first friendship. It seemed to Calista as if she would never believe in anybody again.

If Calista was sorrowful, Mary herself was utterly wretched. At first she had tried to excuse herself to herself—to gloss the matter over as she had done with a good many things lately; but it would not do. She felt that she had told a lie, and meant to tell one, though every word she had said had been literally true. Calista had used these words, and had laughed as she did so; but Mary knew well enough that she had conveyed a false impression, and meant to convey one; that Calista had not laughed at Miss Meeks, but on the contrary had spoken of her with the greatest kindness.

Ever since she had first been awakened in religious matters, Mary had cultivated the habit (and a most useful and excellent one it is) of retiring a few minutes at noon for self-examination and prayer. As she entered her room this day, she was strongly tempted to omit her usual exercise, and hurry down stairs; but the habit was too strong for her. She sat down in her usual place, and almost mechanically opened her Bible.

   "If thou bring thy gift to the altar, and there rememberest that thy brother hath aught against thee; leave there thy gift before the altar, and go thy way; first be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and offer thy gift." (Matt. 5:23, 24.)

Mary shut her book almost impatiently, and opened again.

   "Love not the world, neither the things that are in the world. If any man love the world, the love of the Father is not in him." (1 John 2:15.)

There was not much comfort in that, either. She wished to find some "promise" on which she might dwell and meditate or imagine herself into a state of complacency; but One was dealing with her who would allow no such comfortable self-deception. She was, as it were, set down before the mirror of truth and made to see herself, and that in despite of her will to the contrary. What had she done? She had been envious of another's pleasure and honor, and she had allowed herself to indulge in a slanderous misrepresentation to injure her best friend, because that friend had been accidentally preferred before her. Nor was she allowed to take refuge in the idea that she had been overcome by a sudden and irresistible temptation. She knew better. Her fall had not been sudden, as indeed such falls seldom are.

Looking back, she could see that she had been preparing the way for just such a failure. It was true, as Calista said: she had allowed herself to indulge in that envy which eats like a canker. She had not liked to hear any one praised but herself for a long time past. She had done her work in school and at home, not for her Lord and Master, but that she might be seen of men.

The same was true of her charitable work among the poor children whom she taught and helped to clothe. She had been provoked downright when Mrs. Lee showed her the pretty and useful little dress which Belle Adair had made out of one of her own for poor Chloe Jackson's youngest girl, and she turned scarlet as she remembered how she had taken occasion to say that Belle was a very gay girl who would never listen to a serious word.

And now she had wounded Calista to the heart, and disgraced herself in the eyes of her teacher and herself, all for what? Because Calista had been asked to do, and had done well, something which she did not like, and never undertook willingly. Calista had been praised, that was enough.

"Oh, what shall I do! What shall I do!" said Mary, almost aloud, and with bitter tears of grief and self-abasement. She opened her Bible and read again:

   "Remember therefore from whence thou art fallen, and repent, and do the first works." (Rev. 2:5.)

And again:

   "If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness." (1 John 1:8, 9.)

Clearly this was the right and only way to peace. Mary knelt down and then and there confessed this her besetting sin, asked for deliverance and forgiveness, and that cleansing promised to all who seek it. She did not deceive herself now, but called things by right, plain Bible names—envy, emulation, slander, detraction.

There is an old fairy tale found in almost every language, which has always seemed to me to shadow forth a great truth. It is that of a man beset by a demon or malign imp of some sort, for whom he is obliged to perform all sorts of hard tasks and pay all sorts of penalties, till he succeeds in discovering the true name of his tormentor, after which the thing has no more power, but flies discomfited. Mary had called her demons by their right names, and their power was broken for that time, at least.

She was still on her knees when she was interrupted by a knock at the door and a call of:

"Miss Mary!"

"Yes, Miranda; what is it?" asked Mary, without opening the door.

"Oh, nothing, only your pa and Miss Alice have gone out to old Mrs. Skovell's, at Greenwich, and won't be back till night. I thought maybe you wouldn't care about much dinner alone, so I just got you a cup of chocolate and a strawberry short-cake and some sandwiches. But I can cook some meat if you'd rather have it."

"No, thank you, Miranda; I would rather have the chocolate than anything. I am in a hurry to get back to school."

Mary did not feel like eating, but she took a cup of chocolate and a piece of the tempting short-cake, to spare Miranda's feelings, and hastened back to school. She went straight to the little school-room, where she knew she would find Miss Meeks. That lady looked up, when she entered, in surprise and some displeasure. She did not like to have her hour of leisure interrupted.

"Miss Meeks," said Mary, in a voice which trembled a good deal, "I have come to tell you that what I said about Calista this morning was not true. She did use those words, but there was no disrespect in the way she used them, and I am sure she meant none. She was very much pleased because she succeeded so well, and I—" Mary's voice faltered, but she steadied it and went on—"I was provoked because she succeeded, and envious and jealous of her being praised."

"So I saw," said Miss Meeks. "I am very glad you have come to a sense of your fault, Mary. I hope it will be a lesson to you to check the beginnings of a spirit of detraction, and I doubt not it will. I shall have to ask your help this afternoon, after all, for I am not feeling well."

"I am sure I shall be very glad to help you," answered Mary, swallowing a great lump of pride which would rise in her throat at that "after all." "But where is Calista?"

"Oh, she has gone home. Her aunt sent for her. I felt sorry for her, for I think she anticipated something not very pleasant. I fancy her aunt is an odd-tempered woman."

"Odd-tempered is no name for it," said Mary.

"Oh, well, I am sorry for her. I have had some experience. I don't know how it is," added Miss Meeks, musingly, "but all my life long it has been my fate to live with odd-tempered people."

Mary could not help thinking that this fate was one likely to follow Miss Meeks as long as she retained the infirmities of mortality; but she said nothing, and busied herself with the basket of patchwork on which the youngest children were learning to use their fingers. She had had too plain and too recent a view of her own faults and infirmities to be very hard on those of other people.

CHAPTER NINTH.

THE STORM BREAKS.

MISS MEEKS was right. It was with no pleasant anticipations that Calista took her seat in the rickety chaise which her aunt had sent for her. Old David, who drove, was evidently in a state of deep and dire offence, and nothing could be got out of him except that Miss Priscy was in one of her tantrums, and if Chloe was a-going to stand such goings on any longer, he wasn't.

Calista alighted and went straight up the back stairs to her own room, hoping for a few minutes of solitude in which to collect her spirits. She was disappointed. The door of a certain store-room opposite her own, which was usually kept fast locked, was open, and in it stood Miss Priscilla, clearly in a "tantrum" of the worst sort. Her face was flushed, her cap half off her head, and her gray hair all in disorder. Opposite her stood Miss Druett, more disturbed in appearance than was at all usual with her. Miss Priscilla faced round as Calista came across the passage, and caught her by the arm with a grip that seemed to crush the very bone.

"So, here she is," she said, through her set teeth. "This fine young lady, who prowls about the house, prying and meddling, to see what she can steal. A worthy daughter of Richard Stanfield and his low-born scheming wife!"

"Take your hand off my arm, Aunt Priscilla!" said Calista, in a voice which sounded strange to herself. "Do you hear me?"

Miss Priscilla released her arm; but it was only to pour out a renewed flood of abuse, directed to Calista herself, her father and mother, Miss McPherson, and every one else for whom Calista had any regard, or with whom she had any connection. At last, as she paused to take breath, Calista said coolly,—

"Well, now, I should like to know what all this is about?"

"About!" Miss Priscilla fairly gasped. "You dare to ask such a question?"

"It does not take any particular bravery that I know of," answered Calista, whose own blood was up by this time. "When one sees an old lady raving like a mad woman, one naturally likes to know the reason, if she has any."

"Calista!" said Miss Druett, warningly.

"Tell me, you—you spy and traitor—did you not go into the back parlor and pull over the book-cases, and into my father's room? Tell me this instant. Dare you deny it?"

"Why should I deny it?" asked Calista. "Where was the harm? I was here alone, and I went to look for something to amuse myself with, and to see what there was in the house."

"And what did you carry off? What did you steal?"

"As it happened, there was nothing in the book-case I looked into that was worth stealing, unless it were this old working-case," said Calista, producing the article in question from her pocket. "That has a good pair of small scissors in it, and I want a pair, so I took them to use. There they are, if you want them."

Miss Priscilla snatched the case from her hand.

"So, you took it to school, did you? Well, you won't take anything else to school very soon. You have had all the schooling you will get for some time, my fine lady. I will find you plenty of work at home."

Miss Priscilla turned into the little store-room, and began taking down the dusty, moth-eaten garments with which the walls were plentifully hung. Calista followed her into the room, reckless of consequences, for she had caught sight of something which made her forget everything, even her aunt's rage. The something was a pile of two or three trunks—old-fashioned heavy leather portmanteaus—marked on the end "Calista Folsom."

Calista remembered them on the instant. They were the very trunks Miss Malvina had shown her, and on which she had made the little girl spell out the name, so many years ago.

"My mother's trunks!" exclaimed Calista, feeling as if she must have them, whether or no. "My own mother's things! Oh, Aunt Priscilla, let me have them, and I will do anything for you—anything you tell me!"

"Oh, you will!" said Miss Priscilla, with a malicious smile. "You are very submissive all at once. I fancy, before we have done, you will do what I tell you without any trunks."

"For shame, Priscilla!" said Miss Druett's deep voice. "How can you expose yourself so? The child has done no harm. She has not even been disobedient, that I see, though she may have been indiscreet. Let her have her mother's trunks—she has the best right to them—and say no more about the matter."

"How dare you!" said Miss Priscilla, turning furiously upon her. "You are no better than she. Do you think I don't know you? Don't I know how you fell in love with Richard Stanfield and tried to get him, though he cared no more for you than for his old shoes, and so you take the part of his girl now. You shall leave my house. Yes, all of you. I won't have such a crew of spies and thieves about me any longer."

Miss Druett looked straight at Priscilla all the time she was speaking, without uttering a word or moving a muscle of her countenance. Then she said quite calmly, without a tremor in her singular, musically harsh voice:

"Very well, Priscilla; you shall not tell me twice to leave your house after all these years. But I advise you to think again before you disgrace yourself without remedy."

So saying, she went into her own room and shut the door.

Miss Priscilla looked after her a moment. Then she pushed Calista into her own room, and threw after her a heap of the musty-smelling woollen garments which she had taken down from the nails.

"There is some fancy work for you, since you want amusement," said she. "You shall cut every one of them into carpet-rags before you leave that room."

She closed the door, and Calista heard her lock that and the room opposite before she went down stairs.

Calista, though she had been so cool with her aunt, was in a tempest of rage and mortification. She had never met with any personal violence before, except a box on the ear now and then when she was a little girl. And now to be so insulted and degraded before the servants; to hear her father and mother abused and slandered; to see her own mother's property, and not to be allowed to touch it,—it was too much. Her head swam, her eyes seemed full to bursting, and she felt as though she could have killed Aunt Priscilla on the spot. A burst of tears came at last to her relief. She cried passionately for a long time, till her mood calmed itself. And she began to consider her situation and think what she had better do.

Look at it as she would, she could not see that she had done anything very wrong. True, she had put the working-case in her pocket, but she certainly had no intention of stealing it; and though she had been tempted to take the gold pieces, she had not touched them with her little finger. She did not feel that she had wronged Miss Priscilla in any way. Neither could she feel under any obligation to her. Kindness she had had none, and as to support, it was clear from Mr. Settson's story that her grandfather had intended to give her father his share of the estate, which, therefore, owed her much more than the bare maintenance she had received from it.

She felt that she could not stay longer with Miss Priscilla if Miss Druett went away, and that she would go Calista was pretty sure. At last she made up her mind. She would go to Mr. Settson, lay the whole matter before him, and be guided by his advice. At another time she would have looked forward with pleasure to residing in his family, but Mary's conduct in the morning had thrown a cloud over that prospect. Perhaps Miss McPherson would let her live in the school for the help she would give Miss Meeks and Miss Jessie. Miss Priscilla could not keep her shut up always, and as soon as she was at liberty, she would hasten to town, lay the case before her best friends, and be guided by their opinion.