I think even Mrs. Murray would hardly have recognised her own little Nan in an otter-trimmed dark-red coat, with an otter cap and muff to match. Mrs. Fairfax had bought the pretty outfit for her in Paris, and it was wonderfully becoming. Indeed, I believe there was a touch of pride in her bright little smile this morning, but I guess we can forgive it, if the head of this little Moorlow maiden was a trifle turned by the joyous experience of a happy week in New York at the gayest time of the year. Remember, too, that she had been the owner of this beautiful coat scarcely twenty-four hours, and I think you will admit her to be made of different stuff from other little maidens did she not feel considerably elated by it. But Nan is not vain by nature, and never you fear but that she will go back to Moorlow the same dear child that she left it.
At the upper end of the park Mr. Fairfax met two old bachelor friends driving in a low cutter, whereupon the whole sleigh-full favoured them with the most smiling and cordial of bows. Harry and Regie were too fond of the accomplishment of gallantly touching their hats to lose a single opportunity, and Nan “was not going to sit stiff and straight as though she did not know anybody.”
“Fairfax seems to get more out of life than any fellow I know,” remarked one of the old bachelors; “and he's a good sight better-looking than he used to be. I wonder how it is?”
“Well, I'll tell you how it is,” answered the other; “he's a deal happier than he used to be. They say his wife's a real treasure. I suppose that sort of thing goes a long way toward making a fellow get a good deal out of life. Then Fairfax has told me himself how much they enjoy that boy of theirs, and they ought to. It was a mighty kind thing to do. You know they did not have any children of their own, so they adopted that youngster of Will Reginald's.”
“Yes, I know,” replied Bachelor No. 1.; “but who are the other two children?”
“Why, I heard at the club last night that they are a pair of French orphans that they picked up in Paris. They have just returned from abroad, you know. I wonder where they'll stop; they seem to have a passion for adopting.”
Surely the merry party in the Russian sleigh would have laughed harder than ever could they have heard all this.
A pair of French orphans indeed! Nan and Harry Murray; whose every look and accent betrayed them such thoroughgoing little Americans, and for whose home-coming a father and mother were waiting so impatiently. But that's about as straight as the world often gets things.
S soon as Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax returned Sister Julia went back to her work at the great hospital. Mrs. Fairfax begged her to stay through the holidays, and the children coaxed and coaxed, but to no avail, for she knew that “little lame Madeline,” as every one called her, was longing for her to come. Madeline had been in the hospital once before, and for almost a year, but now she had come back to stay. The doctors said she would never be able to leave it again, nor would she be there very long. The best of care and kindest of nursing must soon fail to cage the little spirit in any house that human hands had made.
“I can understand how you feel that you must go,” Mrs. Fairfax had said to Sister Julia at the close of a long talk they had been having about it; “but it does seem too bad that you should take up your hospital work again without having had a vacation.”
“Vacation!” laughed Sister Julia. “Why, I have just come home from the happiest vacation of my life!”
“But you were at work all the time caring for Reginald, teaching the children, and, hardest of all, tending those poor wrecked sailors.''
“Yes, but it was all a pleasure. Every day I was breathing that strong salt air, and taking long strolls on the beach. To have chosen your life work, and to feel yourself hour by hour gaining strength and health that enables you to keep cheerily and steadily at it, why, there is no happiness for me, Mrs. Fairfax, that at all compares with that; and while that state of things continues, no idle vacation, if you please. I should be half miserable all the time.”
Mrs. Fairfax knew that Sister Julia was right in the matter, and bade her good-bye and God-speed with tears in her eyes, but they were tears of loving appreciation, and not because she did not expect to see Sister Julia soon again. Indeed, it had been arranged that she should come down from the hospital the very next Sunday, and go with the children to the afternoon service at Mr. Vale's church.
Sunday came—a clear, cold Sunday, and little Nan woke and gave a sigh as she looked about the little room that had been hers for a week. It was a beautiful room. She was lying in the shiniest of little brass bedsteads, and there were lovely pictures on the walls, and pretty things of one sort or another on every side.
“Dear me!” she thought, a little regretfully; “only one more night, and we must go home,” but at the same time that one word home sent a glad little thrill through her heart. She felt sure that, after all, she would not exchange her own little room, with its wide-reaching view skyward, and landward, and seaward, for the finest room in the city, overlooking only a narrow street, and dreary stone walls and pavements; besides, though everyone had been so kind, and she loved them all dearly, it would be nice to curl up in her own mother's arms again, for even an eight-year-old little woman sometimes clings tenderly to certain comforts and luxuries of babyhood.
Sister Julia came at a quarter of four, and found the children eagerly waiting for her. As they walked down Fifth Avenue people looked with considerable interest at the sweet-faced woman, whose dress betrayed her a member of a sisterhood, and at the three children, who kept up a constant exchange of the place of honour, which consisted in being close to Sister Julia, on one side or the other, where they could have the privilege of clasping whichever hand was in best condition to forego the comfort of her muff.
There was nothing connected with this visit to which Nan and Harry had looked forward with more pleasure than to seeing Mr. Vale's church, and hearing him preach; and with beaming faces they followed Rex to the pew which they were to have quite to themselves, for Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax had gone to spend the afternoon with Grandma Fairfax, in Brooklyn.
“I think the church is beautiful,” whispered Nan to Sister Julia.
“I knew you would like it,” Sister Julia whispered back.
“The stained-glass windows are lovely, with the light coming through them.”
“Yes,” answered Sister Julia, for she did not fancy prolonged conversations in church.
“Must have cost a lot,” Harry remarked to Regie, after staring all about him, and turning his body from side to side, in a take-everything-in sort of fashion.
“Yes, it did,” Regie replied; “Mr. Vale thought the rich men ought to make it as beautiful as their homes.”
“Who do you have to blow your organ, a man or a boy?”
“It's run by water-power, you goosie.”
“What do you mean by that?” Harry asked, with knitted eyebrows.
“I would rather you would not talk any more now,” Sister Julia interrupted, for she could see that the children's stage whispers were audible several pews away.
They were quite willing to be silent, however, for Mr. Vale had come into the chancel, and they felt themselves on their good behaviour; beside, they were too much interested in his every gesture to have eyes or ears for aught else. Indeed, Nan was by nature a most devout little worshipper. She loved everything connected with the service. Long before she knew one letter from another she had her own little prayerbook in the chapel at Moorlow, and would turn from page to page, as though perfectly familiar with the order, and during the responses she would emit certain audible little sounds, which greatly amused other children near her, and yet, to her little ladyship, were perfectly satisfactory. But she entered even more heartily into this afternoon's service than ever before.
Mr. Vale's earnest spirit seemed always to pervade the whole congregation worshipping in the old Tower Church. They knew he never preached a word which he did not faithfully strive to practise, and even little folk feel the power of a consistent life, before ever they can tell what the power is or why they feel it. There was much in this afternoon's sermon that the children could understand, and only once was Nan's attention distracted; that was when a restless little five-year-old, who sat before them, having disappeared for several seconds in the bottom of the pew, suddenly popped up again, dangling her button-boots and stockings over the back of the seat.
Harry and Rex clapped their hands over their mouths to keep from laughing outright. Nan smiled, and touched Sister Julia, who leaned forward and succeeded in inducing her to quietly put them on again. That was the first the little witch's father knew of the transaction, for he had been listening intently to the sermon; but he looked gratefully at Sister Julia when he saw what she had done, and shook his head, as much as to say, “She is a most unruly little maiden.”
After this performance the child leaned her head against the back of the pew, and became absorbed in a study of the stained-glass window over the chancel. No wonder it attracted her childish gaze. At the beginning of the service the light had fallen upon it from without, but now the wintry twilight was gathering fast, and the rims of brass in which the discs of glass were set were brilliantly flashing from the glow of the gas-jets. Ere long the service is over, and people are leaving the church. Reluctant to go, the children linger a moment in the pew, and fortunately too, for Ole, the old Norwegian sexton, is elbowing his way toward them, with a message from Mr. Vale. Quite out of breath he reaches them, explaining that “Mr. Vale would like to have the children come up to the study, and that he said he would see them safely home if Sister Julia must hurry back to the hospital.”
Harry and Nan give Sister Julia a good-bye hug, “real hard,” for they will not see her again before going home to Moorlow to-morrow; and then with happy hearts they follow Ole up the winding stairs that lead to the study.
R. VALE was waiting for the children, holding the study door wide open to light them up the stairway.
“Come right in,” he said; “I am proud to have my first visit from my little Moorlow friends;” then turning to the sexton, he added, “We may be here for some time, Ole, and if you wait for us, it will make you late for your supper, so bring me the keys of the church when you are ready to go, and I'll take them home with me to-night.”
Ole, looking grateful for this thoughtful suggestion, trudged downstairs again, and the children walked into the room. Regie had been there several times before, but even to him it never looked so cosy as to-night. There was a bright fire on the hearth; Ole had been watching and stirring it up, for Mr. Vale had told him he expected to entertain some little folks after service. A cheery lamp was lit on the study table, as by this time it was quite dark out of doors, and near it some loving member of the congregation had placed a vase, full of beautiful roses. On one side of the room were tall book-cases, reaching to the ceiling, and on the Other three sides hung quaint old-fashioned portraits of some of the former rectors of the parish.
As soon as Nan heard Mr. Vale tell Ole that they would probably be there for some time, she quietly walked over to one corner, took off her hat and cloak, and carefully and smoothly laid them across a chair.
“Why, Nan child, who asked you to take off your things?” exclaimed Harry.
“Mr. Vale said we were to stay some time,” Nan replied, not at all disturbed; “and I think it seems cosier to take off your things.”
“I quite agree with you,” said Mr. Vale, heartily; “and these young gentlemen cannot do better than to follow your example, for we are going to draw up to the fire and have a good talk.”
So Harry and Regie, nothing loath, slipped out of their overcoats, and the little party gathered about the fire, the boys seated on either side of Mr. Vale's easy chair and Nan on his knee.
“Well, what did you think of the service?” he asked, taking Nan's little hand in his. “I know you could not have enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed looking into the upturned faces of my little Moorlow friends. It seemed as though you sort of belonged to my congregation, and ought to be there always.
“I wish we could,” sighed Nan, shaking her head thoughtfully. “I knew all the time you must be a lovely preacher, and really I think you are the nicest minister there is.”
“Why, so does everybody with any sense that ever heard him”' said Regie, and in a tone as though there could not be the slightest doubt on that question.
“Oh, Rex! you are a good friend of mine,” laughed Mr. Vale, affectionately, laying his hand over on Regie's knee.
“You love children, don't you, Mr. Vale?” remarked Harry, demurely, as though he had just made the discovery.
“Yes, indeed, Harry, and I hardly see how the old world could get along for a single day without them.”
“I suppose you love 'em all alike, all the little children you know?” Nan said, rather regretfully.
“Do you think I ought to, Nan?”
“No, I guess not. I would like it better if you didn't; if you loved some of your little friends more than others.”
“Why, what difference would it make to you?”
Nan hung her head and looked a little embarrassed.
“I think I know what she means,” Harry said, slowly, who, by a glance toward Mr. Vale, had asked permission to turn the back log, and was at work with the tongs; “I think she means that she'd like to feel sure she was one of those you loved the most. Nan's kind of jealous sometimes.”
“Well, I'm only jealous about nice things, any way, Harry Murray,” and Nan sat bolt upright again; “I do not wish I had other boys' tops and marbles the way you do.”
Harry was on the point of framing a quick retort, but he checked himself. He really was trying to be less of a tease, as far as Nan was concerned. Mr. Vale was the only one who noticed this little act of self-control.
“Good for you, Harry!” he exclaimed, “keep that sort of thing up, and I have no fears for the sort of man you'll make.”
“Keep what sort of thing up?”
Regie and Nan looked at each other rather mystified, and Nan was very uncomfortable; besides, she did not enjoy the novel sensation of having had the last word, and she did wish Mr. Vale had not heard her speak that way to Harry. She wondered if he thought she was a regular little heathen.
“Keep what sort of thing up, Mr. Vale?” asked Regie, after a pause.
“Why, self-control, Rex. You see that remark of Nan's about tops and marbles made Harry feel like speaking back pretty sharply: so much like it that I fairly saw the words shaping themselves on his lips, but you did not hear them spoken, did you, Nan?”
“No,” Nan confessed.
But if you had looked Harry's way just then you would have seen a queer little smile instead, which seemed to say, “Why, Nan's such a dear little thing I ought not to mind what she says.”
“Well, that's just exactly what I was thinking,” said Harry, astonished at Mr. Vale's power to read his thoughts.
“It was not very nice for me to tell that about the tops and marbles,” Nan remarked, slowly. .
“And it was not nice at all,” said Harry, “for me to say that you were jealous sometimes.”
“But I am,” Nan truthfully admitted; “I know that well enough, only I do not like to be told about it.”
“Of course you don't, Nan,” and Mr. Vale drew the honest little, maiden nearer to him. “Of course you don't, few of us like to be told of our faults; but we ought to like it, for often it would be the very best thing that could happen to us. Perhaps we should not go on making the same errors over and over again if somebody would tell us about them, and we could take the telling kindly.”
“Mr. Vale,” said Rex, who had been sitting thoughtful and silent for some time, “were you just a regular little boy?”
“Very irregular sometimes, I fear, only I don't quite know what you mean, Rex.”
“Why, you see, I would like to be like you when I grow up; but I'm afraid I'm too different at the start. I mean did you use to be like other boys and me? Did you often get angry and speak back?”
“Yes, often; and in the sense that you mean I was indeed a regular boy; and do you think I never get angry now, Rex?”
“Perhaps you do now and then, but not often, I warrant, and when you do you keep it under.”
“Keeping under is very hard work,” sighed Nan, as though she had a world of experience in that direction.
“Keeping under is only another name for self-control, you know. And now, Nan,” added Mr. Vale, “I am ready to answer your question, and to tell you that I do not love all the children I know alike by any manner of means. I love them in a dozen different ways. You see no thoughtful man grows to be as old as I am without wondering, whenever he looks into a little face, what sort of man or woman its owner will make. And so if I can I watch the little life closely, and after a while I see good traits and bad traits cropping out here and there, all in the veriest tangle; and by-and-bye, when I see the good traits growing faster and faster, I love that little life very hopefully and joyfully. Then suppose in another little life I see the evil things choking the good things, I love that little life very sadly and fearfully; or if I cannot make out which is getting the upper hand, I love it very anxiously; and so you see I do not love my little friends alike by any means. Now there you have had two sermons, one in the church, and one here in the study, and that is enough for one afternoon. Suppose you go to my table drawer, Nan, and see what you find.”
Nan quickly slipped from his knee and pulled out the drawer.
“Three little boxes,” she exclaimed, with delight.
“And what is written on them?”
How could she tell, this lazy little learner, who only lately had mastered plain printed' letters? With a shy, half-apologetic look she placed them in Mr. Vale's hand.
“Regie, Harry, Nan,” he read, handing each a box. Of course it was a present. With beaming faces they unwrapped them, and in each lay a square-edged, plain gold ring, with four old English C's engraved on the outside.
“One for each of us?” cried Nan, not knowing what else to say.
“Of course,” said Mr. Vale; “I didn't see how I could make one ring do for three people, or I would, you know, for the sake of economy.”
“And what are the C's for?”
“To help your growing up,” Mr. Vale replied, and Nan looked a little mystified.
“Of course they stand for something,” remarked Harry.
“Certainly, and for what do you think?”
“I shouldn't wonder if they stood for control every time,” said Regie, with their recent conversation fresh in his mind.
“Not a bad idea,” answered Mr. Vale, “and we'll let them stand for that altogether; but separately they are intended to stand for these four words, Charitable, Cheerful, Courteous, Consistent. Those are pretty big words for Nan, but I should not wonder if she understands them after a fashion.”
“Yes,” said Nan, with much dignity, for with the exception of the last word, Consistent, they all did convey to her a more or less definite meaning.
“I would like you to look up the exact definition of the words in the dictionary,” added Mr. Vale, “and then I believe when you happen to look down on the four C's you will remember what they stand for, and that they will help you to build up the finest sort of a character. Now I propose that we do not tell anybody what those four C's stand for, keeping it for a little secret among ourselves.”
“I would like just to tell Sister Julia,” said Nan, “but, oh, dear me! I forgot I shall never see her again, perhaps.”
“Why, of course you'll see her again,” answered Regie; “don't you know that you and Harry are going to make me a visit every winter, and that I am coming to Moorlow for a while every summer? Why, I love every foot of the beach and the bluff from your house to the Life-saving Station.”
“But, Mr. Vale, Regie can tell Sister Julia, can't he?” asked Nan; “she would love to know about them.”
“Yes; and I think he might tell Papa and Mamma Fairfax, and Harry and Nan, Papa and Mamma Murray; but besides those five people I think it would be better not to tell anybody.”
“So do I,” said Regie, warmly; “if you told about them, other fellows might think you were setting yourself up to be sort of extra good, and they wouldn't understand.”
“Exactly,” Mr. Vale answered, “and so you see it will be wiser to keep the matter to ourselves, only I shall expect you to candidly report to me, once in a while, if you really are remembering to give those four adjectives a large place in your life.”
“It was very, very kind of you to think of these pretty rings for a New Year present,” said Nan, after a pause.
“And we're very much obliged, Mr. Vale,” chimed in Harry and Regie; but the children's glowing faces showed deeper and more earnest thanks than could find their way into spoken words. Mr. Vale glanced toward the clock.
“I am afraid we must think about going,” he said, “or they may think I have smothered you here in my study, like the poor little princes in the Tower.”
“I wish we could stop in the church a moment and have a look at that organ,” suggested Harry; “I never saw one that was run by water-power.”
“We will then,” answered Mr. Vale, “only hurry into your overcoats so that we shall not lose any time.”
In a minute the little folk were ready, and each of the three gold rings was under cover of a warm silk mitten.
It was quite dark in the church, so that they took hold of hands as they did that morning on the beach, and Mr. Vale led the way down the aisle to the choir-loft at the rear. When they reached the vestibule he went ahead and lit three or four burners, and the children followed him into a little room underneath the organ. Part of the machinery was here, and in a quick, clear manner, Mr. Vale explained its workings; then they went up into the choir itself to see the wonderful keyboard and pedals.
“Couldn't you play just one tune?” Nan asked, so beseechingly that Mr. Vale could not refuse the last request that he should probably hear for many a day from her little lips, so he whipped off his gloves and sat down on the high bench.
Mr. Vale loved nothing better than to play on that grand sweet organ, and to-night with those rapt little faces looking up to his he seemed fairly inspired. Without break or pause he glided from one sweet, solemn air to another, till suddenly realizing how late it was he began to play the German Evening Hymn, the one that Regie had sung at the Thanksgiving dinner at Moorlow. Regie took the hint, and straightway the sweet words rang out in his earnest, boyish voice, and so clearly, you could have heard each syllable in the farthest, darkest corner of the church. When he came to the verse—
“Let my near and dear ones be
Ever near and dear to Thee;
Oh, bring me and all I love
To Thy happy home above,”
he sang it with even a more intense earnestness, so that one could easily guess his thoughts.
Surely Harry and Nan were among Regie's “dear ones,” and since they might not always be near to him, he threw his soul into the prayer, that they might always be near and dear to the Heavenly Father.
Another moment and the church was utterly dark again, there was the sound of the closing of a heavy door and the turning of a ponderous key in its lock; then all was still. Out in the wintry twilight four friends were walking homeward side by side, home through the frosty air; walking briskly, and yet with hearts a little heavy, for three happy months were at an end, and a little King and a faithful body-guard must part company on the morrow.