When Henry Hapley left his sister, after making the promise mentioned in the last chapter, he came to the conclusion, upon a few moments’ reflection, that he had been coaxed into doing a foolish thing. The idea of loving Mrs. Allen seemed absurd; and as to pleasing her, he did not believe he could do it, if he should try as hard as possible. However, as he had made the promise, he finally concluded that he must try to keep it, at least for the week to which it was limited.

Jessie, in her conversation with her brother, had come very near to the true origin of Henry’s troubles, though she knew but little of the facts in the case. The truth was, he did not try to please his mistress, and it was mainly owing to this that he had become so unhappy. Mrs. Allen, like most other people, had her peculiarities. One of the most prominent of these was her extreme neatness. She carried this excellent virtue to excess. A grain of sand in the eye could hardly be more painful to her than was a grain of dirt on her floors. Everything about the premises that would bear contact with soap and water, had to undergo its regular ablution, even to the outside of the house. Her husband, sometimes, while witnessing the terrible scrubbings which were of almost daily occurrence, used pleasantly to remind her, by way of warning, of the good Dutch woman who scoured her floor until she tumbled through into the cellar. But her motto was, that “nothing is clean that can be made cleaner;” and so she patiently scrubbed on, in spite of the warning, wherever there was dirt, or even a “might, could, would or should have been,” upon which to hang a suspicion.

Now there can be no doubt that a boy thirteen years old is capable of bringing a vast deal of dirt into a house. So Mrs. Allen discovered, to her dismay, before Henry had been an inmate of her dwelling twelve hours. Not that he was unusually dirty or careless in his habits, for he was as neat as boys will average; but he had never been trained to that rigid observance of the laws of cleanliness which was the rule in Mrs. Allen’s family. He could scarcely stir an inch in the house, no matter how silently or secretly, but Mrs. Allen, with her keen sight, could track his every step. There would always be snow, ice, water or mud from his boots, hay-seed from his clothing, crumbs and litter from his pockets, or something else, to tell that he had been there, and call for the broom.

Mrs. Allen began at once to combat this alarming evil—at first kindly and hopefully, then despondingly, and then chidingly. Henry thought she made unnecessary trouble about a small matter, and soon began to feel provoked by the measures she deemed necessary to insure greater neatness on his part. Frequently hearing Mr. Allen good-naturedly rally his wife for being so over-nice, Henry soon came to think he had a right to set himself in opposition to this peculiarity of her character. So, after a few weeks, he grew more careless than at first, in regard to making dirt; and, when irritated by the scoldings that were sure to follow, he sometimes even took a sort of malicious satisfaction in the mischief he had done.

Mrs. Allen was really a kind-hearted woman, though everybody did not find it out at first sight. She readily assented to Mr. Allen’s proposal to give Henry a home, and she felt much sympathy for the boy on account of the misfortunes that had overtaken his family. But now her feelings towards him began to change. Henry little imagined that he was closing the door to her heart, and locking himself out; but this he was doing. Mrs. Allen could not help noticing that he took little or no pains to please her, and she soon came to feel that it was of little consequence whether she consulted his wishes and happiness, in her arrangements. So the unhappy antagonism between them grew from day to day.

When Henry reached his home, after his interview with Jessie, he found Mrs. Allen in a rather unamiable mood. She said nothing, but her looks indicated anything but peace within. She was getting supper. Henry usually “set the table,” and assisted in other ways in getting the meals, and clearing away after them; but the table was already spread, and seeing no chance to render assistance, he inquired, after sitting a few moments:—

“Is there anything I can do?”

“You can eat your supper, I suppose,” replied Mrs. Allen; “you’re always sure to be on hand for that. The work is of no consequence—I can do it all—yours and my own too. You haven’t brought a stick of wood into the house to-day—I’ve had to go out twice after some, this afternoon.”

“Oh, there! I forgot all about the wood—that’s too bad,” exclaimed Henry, with a feeling of real regret at his own heedlessness; and he started to get an armful of wood, but was called back by Mrs. Allen, who told him it was not wanted now.

“You went off, as usual,” continued Mrs. Allen, “leaving your coat on a chair, and your old muddy boots right in the passage-way, for everybody to tumble over. I think it is very strange that you should have to change your clothes every time you go out to play. Who do you think can afford to clothe you, if you put on your best clothes whenever you get a chance?”

“I haven’t been playing, this afternoon—I went over to see my sister,” replied Henry.

“There was no need of changing your clothes, to go there,” continued Mrs. Allen.

“Well, I wont do so again, if you don’t want me to,” replied Henry.

This answer, though made in a respectful tone, surprised Mrs. Allen so much, that she looked at the boy a moment, as if in doubt whether he could be in earnest.

“I don’t see how I could have forgotten about the wood,” continued Henry. “I thought of it as I was coming home from school; and I started out to get it, almost the first thing after I got home; but just then I heard the cows making a racket in the barn, and I went to see what the matter was, and I never thought of the wood again. After this I mean to keep enough in the back-room all the time to last two or three days; then if I should happen to forget it, once in a while, you wont get out.”

Henry had usually received the reprimands of Mrs. Allen in sullen silence, and no wonder she was surprised at the spirit manifested in this reply. But her husband came in, tea time had arrived, and the subject was dropped.

Henry was at this time attending school, as Mr. Allen had little for him to do. He was to have from four to six months’ schooling a year, and to devote the rest of his time to work. This was the agreement made with Mrs. Hapley. Of course, while attending school, Henry could have but few play hours, unless he encroached upon time that should have been devoted to work, which he was sometimes tempted to do. The next day, however, after the conversation just reported, he was careful to do his work up thoroughly, although it left him no time for sport. He had the kitchen fire started in the morning before any one else was up—a feat almost without a precedent. Instead of cutting a scanty mess of hay for the day, as usual, he cut enough to last two days. The wood-box in the house was heaped full in the morning, and again replenished at night. And so with all his other work. The yard and roads were very muddy, but Mrs. Allen searched in vain for his tracks on her clean floors, and as she did so, “wondered what was going to happen.”

Thus matters went on for several days. No one appeared to notice that Henry was not doing just as he had done for several weeks. He got no commendation or encouragement, either by words or looks. He was a little disappointed that his efforts to please were not noticed; but then it was some satisfaction that no fault had been found with him, since he began to reform. Even when, while wiping the supper dishes one evening, he had the ill luck to drop a saucer, which flew into fragments, Mrs. Allen did not scold him, but simply remarked that it was fortunate it was an odd one. He also found a good deal of satisfaction in the consciousness that he was trying to do right. He felt on better terms with himself and every one else, than he did a few days before, His moping, homesick feelings were fast disappearing.

When Henry came home from school on Saturday, he mentioned to Mrs. Allen that he had been invited to go over to the sugar camp with his sister and others. As he had been away one afternoon, that week, he did not like to ask for another half day; but he hoped permission would be given him to go, without his request, and he finished up his work as quickly as possible, that he might be ready to start the moment the word was spoken. But when these things were attended to, Mrs. Allen had other jobs for him to do, which he cheerfully performed; and when these were finished, knowing it was too late to join the excursion party, he actually went to braiding husks of his own accord, and so filled up the remainder of the afternoon.

“Why, Henry!” exclaimed Mrs. Allen, as she went into the barn towards sunset, and found the boy at work, “I thought you had gone off to play. You needn’t have done this, to-day.”

“I thought I would be getting the husks out of the way, they have been lying around so long,” replied Henry.

“Well, I think you have got enough braided—you can use the rest for litter,” said Mrs. Allen.

Henry was delighted to hear this, for he was heartily sick of braiding husks. The bin was quickly emptied of its contents, and before the barn was shut up for the night, the two horses were standing knee deep in clean, sweet corn husks.

Henry faithfully kept his promise to Jessie, through the week agreed upon, which ended the next Wednesday afternoon. He expected to have an opportunity to see Jessie, at least for a few moments, that afternoon, and to tell her of his success; but after dinner, Mr. Allen and his wife went away, to be gone until night, leaving the house and their little boy in charge of Henry. So his plans were again frustrated. He did not manifest any ill-humor, however, although for a moment he was inclined to. Willie, Mr. Allen’s only child, was about six years old. He had the hooping-cough, at this time; and as the day was very windy and blustering, his mother wished him to stay in the house during her absence. Instead of fretting at his disappointment, and brooding over his irksome confinement, Henry sat down with Willie, and began to amuse him with stories about the wind. He told him of a whirlwind or tornado he had once heard about, which unroofed several buildings, completely demolished others, and then cut a clean path for itself through a forest, for nearly a mile, prostrating every tree in its course, and tearing up the ground as though an immense plough had run through it.

“Now,” continued Henry, “I’ll tell you something that happened a year or two ago, not a great way from here. There was a stage-coach crossing the mountains, one blustering afternoon, with a number of passengers. They got along pretty well, until they came to a place where the wind blew tremendously. They call it the bellows-pipe of the mountains, the wind rushes through the place so strong.”

“Does it blow there all the time?” inquired Willie.

“No, I suppose not,” replied Henry; “but it blew like everything, that day. The trunks and bundles on the top of the stage blew off, first. When the driver stopped to go after them, the passengers were so frightened that they got out; and then the body of the coach was so light, that the wind lifted it right off from the wheels.”

“What became of the horses?” inquired Willie.

“Oh, they were too heavy to blow away,” replied Henry; “but they must have been pretty well frightened. I suppose some of the men held them. But there was a lady among the passengers that actually blew away into the fields. Some men had to go after her, and help her back, for she couldn’t stand before the wind. The men lost their hats, and you can’t imagine what a time they had of it. They were afraid to travel any further, while the wind blowed so hard. So they went to a tavern that was near, and stayed all night; and the next day they finished their journey.”

“Is that all?” inquired Willie; “I thought you were going to say the house blew down.”

“No, not quite so bad as that,” added Henry. “The man that built the house, knew the winds blew very hard in that place, and I suppose he made his house just as strong as he could, so that it might stand the hardest blows. But I shouldn’t wonder if the house rocked a little that night, after all.”

“Our house is strong, isn’t it? It would take a pretty hard wind to start it, don’t you think so?” inquired Willie.

“Yes, this house is firm enough,” replied Henry; “we don’t feel the wind here at all, to speak of. Now you keep still a few minutes, Willie, and I’ll see if I can’t write you a little song about the wind.”

“Oh, do! do! that’s just what I should like,” exclaimed Willie.

Henry occasionally amused himself by writing rhymes, for which exercise he had quite a knack. So he took his slate, and was soon deeply engaged in his “song,” while Willie amused himself with some little experiments on the power of wind—setting a piece of wood up on end, and then trying to blow it over. In a little while, Henry finished his lines, and read them aloud. They were as follows:

Willie was delighted with this little song, and made Henry repeat it over and over again, which he did in a half singing, half reciting tone. After hearing it several times, Willie was able to repeat it himself, and I can assure you he clapped his hands with glee the first time he reached the “no—no—no!” without tripping over a single word.

Willie now teased Henry to draw some pictures on the other side of the slate—for notwithstanding he had transferred the wind song to his memory, he would not yet risk rubbing it out from the slate. So Henry made several pictures, such as a horse, a cow, a woman, a barn, etc. I would show you a specimen or two of them, if I were not afraid you would laugh at them. But you should remember that it is not for any one person to know or do everything. Because a girl sews beautifully, you ought not to expect that she will sing like a nightingale; and if a boy writes clever rhymes, that is no reason why he ought to draw fine pictures. But Henry’s rude drawings answered their end. They pleased Willie, and that was all they were designed to do.

But Henry drew one picture on his slate that I think you will like to look at. It was a picture of a top, drawn in writing, or rather a little poem arranged in the form of a top, which he had learned to make some time before. Here it is:

“Now tell me another story,” said Willie, after he had looked at the pictures as long as he wished.

“I can’t think of any more stories, now,” replied Henry.

“Yes, do please to think of one more,” persisted Willie.

“Well, I’ll tell you a story I learned a long time ago,” said Henry. “It is this. But you don’t like long stories, do you?” he added, as if a sudden thought had struck him.

“Yes, I do—I like long ones the best,” was the reply.

“Well, then,” resumed Henry, “if I tell you this story, you must try to keep awake till I get through, and you must give close attention, too, so as not to lose any of it.”

“I will—I don’t feel sleepy a bit,” eagerly replied Willie.

“Then I’ll tell you the story,” said Henry. “It is this:

“Pooh! that isn’t any story at all,” cried Willie, with evident disappointment, after a pause. “Come, tell me a real story—you said you would.”

“Yes, that’s a story, and a pretty good one, too, I think,” said Henry. “Come, say it after me, and see if you don’t think so.”

Willie repeated the lines after him, until he had learned them. Though at first vexed with the story, he now seemed rather pleased with it.

Willie sat silently at a window for several minutes, watching the vain attempts of a venerable and solemn cock turkey to maintain his dignity in a wind blowing at the rate of twenty or thirty miles an hour; and then he suddenly exclaimed:—

“Henry, I don’t think we shall have to send you to Marcus, after all.”

“Why not?” inquired Henry, laughing.

“Because you are good enough without going to him,” replied Willie.

“Well, that’s a bran-new idea,” added Henry. “I should like to know how long that’s been—ever since dinner-time?”

“No, a good while longer than that—I can’t tell how long,” replied Willie.

Willie had often heard his parents speak of Marcus, and knew something of his success as a “boy-tamer.” It was a habit with him, whenever he saw a boy who did not come up to the mark of duty, to say he “ought to be sent to Marcus.” One day, while his mother was reproving Henry for some fault, Willie followed up the admonition with the remark, uttered with all soberness:—

“We shall have to send you to Marcus, if you don’t behave better.”

Now although Willie did not mean any harm, Henry thought it was impudent for such a little boy to speak to him in that way; and when Mrs. Allen, instead of reproving her boy, seemed to repress a smile with difficulty, Henry felt angry with both of them. But the matter soon blew over, and Henry never thought of it again until this unexpected taking back of the offensive remark. While he was musing over this gratifying proof that his good resolution had not been wholly in vain, Jessie suddenly made her appearance, to his great joy. She said she could stop only a few minutes, but had run over because she was anxious to hear from him. Through the week she had felt many misgivings about Henry; but now she heard from his lips that he had kept his promise, and saw by his altered appearance the beneficial effect it had exerted upon him; and Willie artlessly confirmed it all by telling what a first-rate time they had had all the afternoon, and repeating the little song Henry had written for him. It was a happy moment to Jessie; and when Henry promised her in the entry, as she was about leaving, that he would keep on in that same way until she saw him again, she went home with a lighter heart than she had before known for several weeks.

When Mrs. Allen got home, she found the tea-kettle boiling, the table ready for supper, and the house in as good order as when she left it—three things which she hardly dared to expect. She was still further surprised, when Willie, at the first opportunity, commenced telling a very long story about what had been going on at home through the afternoon. “Well,” she thought to herself, “Henry can be a good boy, when he pleases to be.”