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GANSEVOORT - LANSINQ 
COLLECTION 






THE 



HO^^ORABLE CLUB 



OTIIEE TALES 



LYNDE PALME Rj^^^^e^^^^ 

AUTHOR OF "the LITTLE CAPTAIN," "HELPS OVER HARD 

PLACES," ETC. 




'pU5i!.TS/l.fer>. ^^ THE 

AMERICAN 'tract SOCIETY, 

117 Washington Street, Boston, 

HURD AND HOUGHTON, 13 Astok Place, N. Y. 

The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass. 



PUDLhJ iJui^ARV 

46490A 

ASTOR. LFNOX A-:d 

riLDSN FvJU'.DAt I'?,:-.;3 

R a 022 L 



Entered, according to act of Congress, in the year 1867, by 

THE AMERICAX TRACT SOCIETY, 

In thft Clerk'3 Office of the District Court of the District of Massa- 
chusetts. 



CONTENTS. 



THE HONORABLE CLUB. 

I. The Code of the Honorables, . . 7 

11. Miss Pringle's Garden, . . . 16 

III. The Arrest, 27 

IV. The Trial, 33 

V. The Verdict, 64 

VI. The Pardon, 69 

MISS PEACOCK'S DIARY. 

L A Step Higher, 89 

n. Unrolling the Napkin, . . .98 

m. The Second Talent, . . . .108 

IV. The Third Talent, . . . .126 

V. Is it I? 142 

VI. The Chief Seat, 153 

Vn. The ]More Excellent Way, . . .160 

Vin. The Coming Feast, . . . .173 

IX. The Lowest Room, . . . .177 



IV 



COXTi:XTS. 



COW-GATE. 



I. The Pink Apron, . 
II. The Burdex, . 



. 205 
. 220 



THE LIGHT UNDER THE DOOR, 
CINDER ELLA, 
CLARIBEL'S PRAYERS, . 



233 
247 
267 



THE HONOEABLE CLUB. 



THE HONOEABLE CLUB. 

CHAPTER I. 

THE CODE OF THE HONORABLES. 

fDOX'T believe it ! " cried Paul Thorn- 
ton, president of " The Honorable 
«# Club ; " while a red spot burned on 
his smooth young cheek. " I know 
Miles Clavering a little too well for that. 
He's the best boy in the whole club. He'd 
cut off his right hand rather than tell a lie." 
" It might make some difference, though, 
if he thought he would never be found out," 
said Jim Fuller ; an ill-natured smile mak- 
ing his small eyes a little smaller, and his 
broad sullen mouth a little larger. 

7 



8 THE HOKOBABLE CLUB. 

" You look like a head on an old cliina 
teapot ! " cried Charley Peterson, the vice- 
president, impetuously. 

" Do I, indeed ? " began Jim ; but Paul 
interposed, — 

" Hush, Charley ! we must attend to busi- 
ness now. — And, Jim," said he, turning, 
" you must not, shall not, say such things 
about Miles, unless you can prove every 
word you say ; unless you — " 

" Well, I can," interrupted Jim. " It 
was one day last February, a cold, snowy 
day. I remember it just as well ; and 
brother Ben and I — " 

" Never mind," said Paul, a little impa- 
tiently ; " you've told it all once. The best 
way of settling it will be to have a trial ; 
and, when all the members are together, 
we will hear your story and his story, and 
judge between you." 

" Oh, yes ! that's the best way. The 
club has never had a trial before ! " cried 



THE CODE OF THE HOXORABLES. 9 

Charley eagerly, and then blushed to think 
he had forgotten in his excitement what a 
mortification it would be to Miles. 

" Yes, that will be the best way," echoed 
Jim Fuller, with the same ill-natured smile ; 
" and then, perhaps, you will see who has 
the best right to be a member of the club, 
and whether you didn't make a mistake 
when you blackballed me." 

" Ah, I see now ! " cried fiery Charley. 
" You're just as jealous as you can be ; 
and you're just getting that up to be re- 
venged on Miles, because — " 

" You'll see more one of these days,'* 
cried Jim, angrily. " How soon will the 
trial be ? " 

" Next Saturday," said Paul, with a sigh : 
" the sooner the better." 

" And where shall we meet ? " continued 
Jim. 

" You needn't say we^^^ muttered Char- 
ley ; but, fortunately, Jim didn't hear. 



10 THE HONORABLE CLUB. 

" At our barn," said Paul, considering. 
" There's a nice room over the stables, 
where we boys have kept our tools. I'll 
clear it up, and have the court sit there." 

" Very well," said Jim ; " and I can tell 
you—" 

" Good-morning, Jim," interrupted Paul, 
with little ceremony. " I haven't looked 
at my Latin yet ; " and he walked rapidly 
away, accompanied by Charley. 

"The Honorable Club" to which the 
boys made such frequent allusion had been 
in existence about a year. The idea had 
been fii^t suggested by Paul's Uncle Harry, 
and had met with immense favor from the 
moment the plan was unfolded. It was to 
be a club for the promotion of everything 
that was noble and honorable ; and no boy 
could belong to it without being willing to 
sign his name to sundry articles of agree- 
ment, among which the folloTving were tlie 
most important : — 



THE CODE OF THE HONORABLE S. 11 

"We, the undersigned, promise, — 

" 1. Always to speak the truth. 

"2. To be strictly honest" (and this 
rule extended even to those small lines of 
trade, — swapping marbles and pocket- 
knives) . 

"3. To be charitable to the faults of 
others ; and never to speak evil of another, 
especially behind his back. 

"4. To be generous in giving to the 
poor, and in helping them, now and then, 
with strong young hands. 

"5. To be courteous and polite ; very 
respectful to the aged; attentive to the 
mothers and sisters ; obliging to all, — even 
to the giving of cold water to the little 
ones. 

"6. In honor to prefer one another. 

" T. To ask daily for God's help to keep 
all these promises." 

A little codicil at the end provided, that, 
in case of any flagrant violation of these 



12 THE HONORABLE CLUB. 

rules, the offending member should be tried 
by a jury of their own number, and ac- 
quitted, or sentenced according to the mag- 
nitude of his offense. 

There was also provision made for the 
admission of new members. A " business- 
meeting" was held at such important sea- 
sons. A table was set before the president, 
upon which was a box, and a liberal supply 
of black and white buttons. The members 
then approached in single file : each made 
choice of a button, and dropped it into the 
box. When the voting was over, the pres- 
ident examined the box. If the buttons 
were all white, the candidate was accepted ; 
but, alas ! if hlach^ he had to retire in great 
mortification. 

Now, it happened, a little more than six 
months before, that Miles Clavering and 
James Fuller moved into Barrytown the 
very same week. They had not been long 
in the village before they found out that 



THE CODE OF THE HONORABLE S. 13 

the young " Honorables," _as everybody 
called them, were greatly esteemed, and 
that kind Uncle Harry was continually 
planning some pleasant surprise for them. 
Sometimes it was a nutting expedition, or 
an excursion to the city ; or, as winter 
came on, tea-parties in his nice old-bachelor 
home, with stories and games in the eve- 
ning. 

Miles and James soon were eagerly re- 
questing admission, and the Honorables 
met to debate thereon. Every one had 
something good to say of Miles, — " gener- 
ous, polite, warm-hearted ; " the white but- 
tons almost jumped into the hat of them- 
selves, and Miles was admitted with cheers. 

Then came Jim's turn. There was an 
ominous hesitation, then a whisper, among 
the Honorables, — "selfish, discontented, 
sullen." The members filed slowly past. 
As the last dropped his button, Charley 
stretched his neck over the president's 



14 THE HONORABLE CLUB. 

shoulder, and peered into the box. " Black 
as a crow ! " cried he. "I declare, not a 
white feather among 'em ! " 

So Jim was rejected, to his bitter indig- 
nation. To live in Barrytown, and not be 
one of the Honorables; not to have one 
of those wonderful blue badges, made by 
Paul's pretty sister, with the letters " H. C," 
in the brightest gold-thread, curiously 
wrought thereon, — it was almost unbeara- 
ble ; it was ignominy to one of Jim's pas- 
sionate nature. 

Poor, unhappy, sullen Jim ! He certainly 
deserved some pity ; but the young " Hon- 
orables " didn't at all realize his misery. If 
they had only given him some encourage- 
ment, some hope that, by good conduct, he 
might some day apply again, and snap his 
fingers at the black buttons ! But no : they 
all passed him by, and went home very 
complacently. It was so comfortable to 
have the little world at Barrytown see that 



THE CODE OF THE HONORABLES. 15 

they were possessed of certain virtues which 
every boy, Jim Fuller for instance, didn't 
have ! They never suspected this little ser- 
pent of vanity, so cunningly coiled up in 
their really brave young hearts. 

As for Jim, he went his way with face 
more sullen than ever. 

" If Jean not wear the blue badge," said 
he bitterly to himself, " I mean to have 
company. Miles shall not crow over me 
long." 

And from that hour Jim was watching, 
with patience worthy of a better cause, that 
he might catch his rival slipping. At last 
the longed-for opportunity came. Miles's 
young feet were led into temptation. Did 
they find the way to escape ? Jim thinks 
not ; and we shall find out at the trial. 



CHAPTER II. 

MISS PEIXGLE'S GARDEN. 

pW, where was Miles this same plea- 
/^^ sant summer day, while friends and 

enemies were so busy with his name ? 

If, when school was out, you had gone 
down that quiet lane, and stood under the 
great elm by Miss Pringle's cottage-garden, 
you would have heard in about five min- 
utes a cheery whistle, and a pair of boots 
keeping lively time thereto. In a moment 
more, the company marching to this im- 
promptu fife and drum would have come in 
sight, — a pair of the merriest blue eyes, 
ditto of bronzed crimson cheeks, and a large 
frank mouth, now a little out of its original 

16 



MISS piiiycLE's garden: 17 

shape, being screwed up for the aforemen- 
tioned musical purposes till it looked like a 
capital 0, just as if it were a kind of an ex- 
clamation beginning a sentence which the 
rest of the merrj face finished, — "Oh,'* 
what a pleasant world ! " Oh," what a 
happy life ! 

The busy feet stopped at Miss Pringle^s 
gate. Miss Pringle was getting old. The 
rheumatism had stiffened her up cruelly 
the past winter, and she didn't seem to get 
thawed out yet. Poor old soul ! it took her 
almost half an hour to get down on her 
knees to weed a bed in her garden, and no- 
body knew how long she was in getting up 
again. Miles had happened to see this per- 
formance one morning a few days ago. 
Some boys would have thought it great 
fun ; but the Honorables did not laugh at 
such things ; Uncle Harry had taught thom 
better. No ! instead of this, he jumped 
right over the fence, gave her his strong 

3 



18 TEE HONOKABLE CLUB. 

young arm, and helped her carefully upon 
her feet again. 

" Why don't you have a gardener, Miss 
Pringle ? " he cried. 

" Why, child," said the panting old lady, 
" I did have one one day this spring ; but 
he charged me so much I couldn't buy any 
meat for a fortnight ; so I am obliged to do 
the work myself." 

Miles knew she was very poor, and yet 
that she couldn't bear to give up her pretty 
garden, with its gay borders. She took 
such a pride in it ! Ic was almost the only 
comfort the poor old lady had. 

Something made Miles very uneasy. He 
couldn't get away, although it was Satur- 
day, and the boys were going to have a 
game of ball upon the green. 

" How much I could do for her in an 
hour ! " he thought. Still, Miles didn't like 
work any better than other boys. Then he 
hesitated a little more, and looked at his 



MISS PBINGLE'S GARDEN. 19 

blue badge, with its letters blazing in tlie 
sun. 

" Pshaw! " said he to himself; " I've no 
right to call myself an Honorable if I 
can't make that little sacrifice ; " and hur- 
riedly, for fear he should repent, he offered 
his services to Miss Pringle. 

The old lady couldn't believe her ears, so 
she thought she would try her eyes. She 
wiped her spectacles, and put them on again, 
and then looked hard into the pleasant, 
frank face. Gradually, as she looked, her 
poor, thin lips began to quiver. It was 
only a smile coming ; but, as it did not come 
very often, it took so long to settle itself 
that it was some time before Miles could 
guess what was the matter with her mouth. 
At last it was a real, unmistakable look of 
pleasure. 

"You are good and honest, my dear," 
said the old lady, heartily. " I know those 
blue eyes. But it seems very strange that 



20 THE HON OT. ABLE CLUB, 

a young, active boy like you should be will- 
ing to leave his j^lay and work for an old 
woman. Thank you most kindly, my dear ! 
May the Lord bless you ' " 

And Miles, feeling very warm all over, 
but very happy withal, did a wonderful 
amount of work in an hour, to Miss Prin- 
gle's great admiration and satisfaction. 

" I didn't know there were any such boys 
left," said the old lady, at the end. 

" Oh, but I belong to the Honorables!" 
cried Miles, pointing a little proudly to his 
blue badge. "Any of our boys would do 
the same thing." And away he went over 
the fence, — he never could stop for a gate, 
— his mouth curled into the capital " ; " 
and he and his whistle were out of the lane 
before Miss Pringle could turn round. 

" He won't come back again," she thought, 
as a day or two passed without him. But 
here, this pleasant June afternoon, school 
just out, and plenty of fun going on, — 



MISS PRIXGLirS GARDEK. 21 

here was her faithful young gardener again. 
The tears came into poor Miss Pr ingle's 
eyes, — she hardly knew why, — and she 
brought her camp-stool and knitting out 
to a dry spot: it was so pleasant to he near 
that fresh young face, and to hear him whis- 
tle at his work ! 

" Did you ever see such handsome tulips 
anywhere ? " said Miss Pringle, at last, as 
he stopped and wiped his forehead. 

" I don't think I ever did," said Miles, 
good-naturedly. 

"You don't know how I like to see 'cm 
holding up their red and yellow cups, so as 
if they wanted the Lord to use 'em for some- 
thing," continued the old lady. 

" They do make a very pretty set of gob- 
lets, that's a fact," laughed Miles. "If 
the fairies should want to give a dinner- 
party now ! " 

But the old laiiy was thinking, and didn't 
seem to hear. " Yes : I love to see 'em 



22 THE HONORABLE CLUB. 

there, so free from weeds," she said, pres- 
ently. " And the lilies and the yiolets, 
too, — how sweet they are! I think the 
Lord loves us, my dear, for helping his flow- 
ers along, and giving them a chance to 
grow so grand and sweet. Besides pleasing 
an old woman, I think you have been doing 
something for the Lord this afternoon." 

" I don't think I understand you, ma'am," 
said Miles, very politely, while his thoughts 
were far away, wondering whether the boys 
were playing ball or going in swimming. 

"It's just my notion," said the old lady, 
smiling; "but, some way, I want to tell 
you about it. Now, suppose you were far 
away from home, and should want to send 
something to your little brother ; and sui> 
po3e you should make him, say, a little ship, 
with cunning little ropes and spars, and 
should paint it very fine, thinking all the 
time, ' How pleased Georgie will be when 
he gets it ! he will think it so beautiful ! he 



MISS PRINGLE'S GARDEN. 23 

"will wonder how I could ever think of such 
clever things.' Then suppose that the per- 
son who was taking your ship home should 
be careless, and should let the spars get 
broken, and the little cord ropes get all in 
a tangle, and knock off the paint, so that 
Georgie would hardly look at the old thing.'' 

" That would be downright mean," cried 
Miles, a little interested. 

" Wait a bit," said the old lady. " Then 
suppose your friend Paul got hold of it, 
painted it, and fitted it all up again, and said 
to Georgie, ' This is the present Miles meant 
to send you.' What would you think of 
Paul?" 

"I'd say that was just like a good, warm 
friend ; and I'd love him for it." • 

" Right," said the old lady, with a pleased 
face. " Now, don't you know that the Lord 
made everything very good, and flowers 
among the rest, so fair and sweet, that we 
can hardly guess how wonderful they were ? 



24 THE HONORABLE CLUB. 

Then sin came, and weeds ; and men wero 
careless, and they let the poor things get 
choked and dwindle away. Now, J think," 
said the old lady vehemently, " that when 
any one loves a flower, and keeps all the 
weeds away, and pnts it in a nice, generous 
soil, and gives it water, and takes care of 
it — like a baby you may say — till it grows 
just as grand as it can be, — like those pan- 
sies there, maybe, with their great purple- 
velvet leaves, — ^/believe the Lord is pleased. 
It seems like honoring him, you know, and 
saying to everybody, ' See ! this is what the 
Lord meant when he first thought of a vio- 
let.' " The old lady laughed softly to her- 
self. " That's just my notion, though ; and 
I never spoke to the minister about it : but 
I just can't help believing that the Lord is 
pleased when we find out his beautiful 
thoughts." 

"Well, now, that is curious," said Miles; 
but, as he looked around the fair little gar- 



MISS PRINGLE'S GARDEN: 25 

den glowing in the snnset, he added, " I 
don't know why it shouldn't be so, either ;" 
and obeying a sudden impulse, at which he 
laughed himself, he took off his hat, and 
made a low bow to the pansies. 

" What are you thinking of now ? " said 
Miss Pringle, as she caught Miles' s merry 
eyes fixed on her face. " Am I the queer- 
est old woman you ever saw ? What do I 
look like ? Come, now ? " 

" Just like one of your old brown roots," 
thourght Miles, casting an involuntary glance 
at a heap of bulbs at his feet. 

" Like that old withered root, eh ? " said 
the old lady, a little sharply. 

" I didn't say so," stammered Miles. 

" Your eyes speak just as plain as your 
tongue, child; but I'm not angry," said she, 
a little more mildly. " Only remember, 
my dear, that the good Lord made the old 
root, and you can't toll what may spring 
from it yet. Some day, when I've been 
transplanted to the heavenly gardens, I ex- 



26 TEE HONORABLE CLUB. 

pect to be beautiful. ' It is sown a natural 
body, it is raised a spiritual body,' " added 
the old lady, softly, to herself. 

" Beautiful ! " echoed innocent, outspoken 
Miles ; " and how will I know you then ? " 

The old lady laughed good-naturedly. 
*' You know the pretty scarlet and yellow 
tulips when they grow out of their old roots, 
and the sweet white lilies when they come 
up so pure out of their brown little bulbs : 
so, when you see me, you'll know me in a 
minute. You'll say, ' That flower could 
only have grown out of the old Pringie 
root.' " 

Miles's look of comical perplexity made 
the old lady laugh again ; and she was just 
beginning to enlarge upon the subject, when 
a voice called, — 

" Miles, Miles ! Oh, here you are ! " and 
six or eight young Honorables suddenly 
appeared at the fence. 

"■ Just ready," said Miles, hurrying on 
bis coat. 



CHAPTER III. 

THE AEREST. 

^HAT'S going on?" asked Miles, 
cheerily, as they walked rapidly 
/(oK ^^^^^ ^^^^ \^\\Q. " Uncle Harry isn't 
getting up his strawberry party al- 
ready, is he ? " 

" No," said Dick Wharton. " Charley 
said he was going to find you, and we just 
came along for the walk." 

''Oh, that's all!" said Miles. "What 
have you all been doing since school was 
out?" 

" I've been working for father," said 
Dick, " to earn money for the Fourth of 
July." 
"How much do you think I've earned 

27 



28 THE HONORABLE CLUB. 

this spring ? " cried Miles. " Almost twenty 
shillings ! The next time mother goes to 
,the city she is going to buy me the best kind 
of books; — a history of the French Revo- 
lution, — they say you could sit up all night 
to read it, — and some wonderful books of 
travels. I'll lend them all to the club 
when I get them." 

" That will be capital," said Dick. 

" And I've worked real hard for them, 
too," said Miles, rubbing his hands. "That 
makes it so much the better. How happy 
I do feel this summer ! " rattled on the boy. 
" Do you know I can't help feeling sorry 
for Jim sometimes ? It must be a dreadful 
trial not to belong to our club. Why, I'm 
so proud of it — What's the matter, Char- 
ley?" cried he suddenly, catching Charley's 
eyes fixed on him with a troubled expres- 
sion. 

" Yes, Charley has hardly opened his 



THE ARREST. 29 

mouth for an hour," said Dick. " What's 
the trouble, old fellow ? '' 

" I have been feeling a little vexed," said 
Charley. " Some one has been accusing 
one of our members of doing something 
very wrong." 

The boys looked in some consternation 
from one to another, and a half dozen ten- 
der consciences hung out a red banner of 
alarm in as many pairs of cheeks. 

" You don't mean me, Charley ? " "It 
isn't I, is it?" resounded on every side, 
for these young Honorables had tlie rare 
grace of suspecting themselves before others. 

" No, no," said Charley ; but Miles in his 
astonishment had not asked the question. 

" I am sent by the president," proceeded 
Charley, slowly, " to tell that boy he is un- 
der arrest, and must give bail to attend 
his trial next Saturday morning at nine 
o'clock." 

There was a profound silence. Charley 



30 THE HONORABLE CLUB. 

turned towards Miles, colored violently, 
then looked down, saying, with a forced 
laugh, " Pshaw ! it's only a kind of a joke, 
but some way it seems so real I can't do it." 

The merry blue eyes were clouded. 
" You can't mean me, Charley ? " said 
Miles, huskily. 

Charley did not speak. 

" Not Miles ! " cried a chorus of voices, 
expressing every shade of surprise, indig- 
nation, and grief. 

" Don't mind it, Charley," said Miles, 
bravely, in a minute ; " I surrender ; I'm 
your prisoner." 

" Who accuses him ? " cried Dick, furi- 
ously. 

"Jim Fuller," said Charley. "He in- 
sists that he has broken the first article. 
Of course I don't believe it, but according 
to our agreement he'll have to be tried, you 
know. Of course he'll come out triumph- 
ant." 



THE ARREST. 31 

"Not a doubt of that," cried Dick, echoed 
by the chorus. " You're not afraid, are 
you, Miles?" 

"No," said he, slowly. "I know what 
Jim means, but I think I can make it all 
right." 

" Hurrah ! " cried Dick. " Miles, you 
must let me be your lawyer; I'll reason 
you out of everything. Yovi don't know 
how clever I am. I'm getting as conceited 
as that old fellow who thought he was the 
key to every lock in creation." 

Miles laughed, and grasped his hand. 

" And I'll go bail ; " " and I ; " " and I ; " 
cried more eager friends. " What is the 
bail, Charley?" 

" Four jack-knives," laughed Charley ; 
and they were speedily handed out. 

" Now let's go and have a game of ball, 
or something. Come, Miles." 

"Not to-night," said Miles, pleasantly, 
waving them off. " I must go home and 
3 



32 THE HONORABLE CLUB. 

prepare for my lawyer. Dick, you mil 
come and see me in the evening ? " 

" Never fail," cried Dick. 

Miles walked away bravely enough, but 
as soon as he had turned the corner his 
head dropped, and a great round tear fell 
plump upon the pretty blue badge. " I 
have been so proud of it," said he, patting 
it tenderly. *' What shall I do if the boys 
say I haven't any right to wear it ? " 



CHAPTER IV. 

THE TRIAL. 

NOTHER June day, fresh and fair, 
with boundless blue sky at its head, 
and sweet, dewy grass at its feet. 
Miles had been up since four o'clock, 
for it was Saturday, the Saturday, the most 
momentous day of his life. Miles thouglit. 
Five long hours before the trial. 

He tried to study, and thought he was 
studying, for half an hour ; then he had to 
look at the back of his book, to see Avhether 
h:j had his algebra or grammar. Then 
Georgie^s shrill voice attracted him to the 
garden : " Who'll mend my horse ? The 
wheel is off." Miles tried, and broke the 
poor animal all to pieces. 

3 33 



34 TEE HON on ABLE CLUB. 

" Don't cry, Georgic ; I'll buy you a new 
one to-morrow, but I'm in such a Imny 
now;" and off he walked at the greatest 
speed a few steps, and then stopped short 
to think what on earth he had started to do. 

Then the breakfast bell rang. Miles 
couldn't eat. " What is the matter? " cried 
sister Minnie. 

" He don't hear you," said Georgie, as 
Miles sat with his eyes fixed on the chan- 
delier ; " he hasn't minded a word I've said 
this morning." 

" Miles," said mischievous Minnie, sud- 
denly, " come in. What makes you stand 
out there in the rain, and bare-headed 
too ? " 

Miles started, clapped his hands to his 
head, looked' in a bewildered way at the 
ceiling, and finally came to himself, amid 
peals of laughter from the whole family. 

In the mean time there was a great com- 
motion in Mr. Thornton's barn. The loft 



THE TRIAL. 35 

had been carefully swept, benclies liad been 
hastily constructed for the jury and the 
public, and one or two kitchen chairs had 
been impressed to accommodate the judge 
and the lawyers. 

There was some trouble in getting up the 
jury. After taking out the judge and law- 
yers. Miles and his guard, there were only 
eleven members left, and it was felt to be 
highly illegal to conduct proceedings with 
less than twelve jurors. 

Charley Peterson at last rather timidly 
proposed making up the deficiency with a 
girl. 

" That would do," said Dick. " There's 
Jenny Seabright ; she's very dignified, and 
would look well upon the bench." 

But Charley Peterson made a mysterious 
communication, to the effect that this young 
lady had just bought some new hoops, and 
probably wouldn't give the least attention 
to the trial, no matter how important it was. 



36 THE HONORABLE CLUB. 

for it took her whole mind to think how she 
should get through doors. Besides, the ac- 
commodations were limited, ' and he was 
quite sure, if she came, half of the jurors 
would have to sit on the floor. " Now I 
propose," concluded Charley, " little Mabel 
Thornton, the judge's sister ; small, but of 
good sense, and no more skirts than a 
hearth-brush." 

Charley's motion was seconded with ap- 
plause, and the small juror was picked up 
in the back yard, pink sun-bonnet and all, 
and conveyed to her responsible post, with 
admonitions to look as wise as possible, and 
only stir when she couldn't possibly help it. 

Now everything was complete, and Paul 
took his seat behind the table, covered with 
his mother's old shawl. 

" Steady, boys ; sit light ! " cried Charley 
to the jurors, as the old bench creaked om- 
inously. 

*' Silence !" cried Paul, and rang his big 



THE TRIAL. 37 

bell for the guard to bring in the pris- 
oner. 

At sight of the pleasant blue eyes, the lit- 
tle court, entirely out of order, burst into a 
storm of applause. 

Jim Fuller, coming in, heard it with a 
bitter heart. " That's just the way of the 
world," said the young cynic to himself. 
" I never told a lie in my life, but no one 
thinks of giving me a pleasant word. I am 
not thought fit to associate with the Hon- 
orables;" and he glanced contemptuously 
at Miles. 

Alas, poor Jim 1 Could he not see that 
there were other articles of the honorable 
code which he had never thought of keep- 
ing, and that this truth upon which he 
prided himself was often so unnecessarily 
told, with such mean motives behind it. 
that it only made him more unlovable than 
ever ? 

But to return to the trial. The room 



S8 TUE HONOR ABLE CLUB. 

was quite rapidly filling up with sisters and 
cousins, ^7ho, in some way, had got wind 
of the matter ; even Jenny Seabright, hoops 
and all, had managed to squeeze in, and 
was talking volubly to her next neighbor. 

" I'll never believe that dear Miles could 
do anything mean. Why, one day, in a 
pouring rain, he carried our little Susy all 
the way — " But the bell rang again, and 
you might have heard a pin drop. 

Then Jim arose with some embarrass- 
ment, for every one in the house looked 
frowningly upon him, with the sole excep- 
tion of faithful little brother Bennie, whom 
he held tightly by the hand. 

" It all happened last February," began 
Jim, doggedly, " the very last of the month. 
It was cold and snowy, and Ben and I were 
walking down the street. As we were pass- 
ing old Rinkel's store, Ben saw a great 
pyramid of figs and oranges in the window, 
and tvoidd stop to look at them. Just then 



THE TRIAL. 39 

Jack, the store boy, looked out, and asked 
Me if I wouldn't come in and stay a min- 
ute, while he ran somewhere, I couldn't 
make out for what. I told him no, for I 
was in a great hurry ; and, besides, I didn't 
think it was right for hhn to leave the store 
when old Rinkel was away. He began to 
abuse me, and call me disobliging, and 
other hard names. That's all the reward 
I ever get for trying to do right." 

" Humph ! " said Charley. 

*' Stick to the point," cried Paul. 

" Well," continued Jim, in an aggrieved 
tone, "just then Miles came strolling along, 
and Jack asked him. Of course Miles said 
' yes,' because it was easier ; he never has 
the courage to say ' no.' " 

" That has nothing to do with your story," 
cried Paul, impatiently. 

Jim scowled. " I'm telling it as fast as 
I can. — Then Miles went in; they had 
some talk, and Jack flew out the back door. 



40 THE HONORABLE CLUB. 

Pretty soon back he came with — what do 
you think ? — a shovelful of live coals ! I 
thought I'd better look into the matter a 
little, and went into the store." 

*' I thought you were in a hurry," inter- 
posed Charley ; and a titter ran along the 
jury. 

The judge rapped, and Jim continued : 
" Jack was whispering again to Miles as I 
came in, and I just caught a few words : 
* Through the barn, — shortest cut, — and 
I stumbled, — spilled half my coals.' 

" Miles looked a little frightened. 

*" Don't be uneasy,' said Jack. 'I got 
them up safe again, every one, though I 
burned my whole ten fingers. I looked 
sharp, I can tell you.' 

" All very well," continued Jim, telling 
his story with infinite relish ; " but whose 
barn was on fire just half an hour after ? " 

" How should we know ? " growled Chax'- 
ley. 



THE TRIAL. 41 

" You remember well enough," retorted 
Jim. " I hurried right back with Benny at 
the first alarm, and there was Miles work- 
ing away like mad. He knew well enough 
who was to blame, but he couldn't work 
hard enough to wipe out that mistake. I 
was glad I'd had sense enough to keep out 
of the scrape. 

" Old Rinkel arrived just as the barn 
burned clean down to the ground, and oh ! 
how he did storm ! He said he knew it was 
set on fire, and he'd find out who did it. 
Whoever did it should spend his summer 
in jail, if there was any law in the land. 
Tliere stood Jack, pale as a ghost, leaning 
up against a barrel, and Miles was in the 
door, looking pretty white too. Now, thinks 
I, Miles will tell the whole truth, especially 
as he is a member of the Honorable Club. 
But no, not a word. Instead of that, — 
would you believe it? — he actually let old 
Rinkel praise him up ! ' There's a brave, 



42 THE HONORABLE CLUB. 

honest boy,' said the old fellow ; ^ they tell 
me he worked like a young tiger, and got 
my horse out safe too. There's many a 
man wouldn't have had the pluck and good 
sense ; ' and old Rinkel, who is tight as the 
bark of a tree, actually gave Miles a cracker 
and a tumbler of cider, and ordered me to 
get up and give him my chair. I thought 
some day he would find out what a mistake 
he was making." 

" How everybody loves him ! " whispered 
Jenny Seabright, while the small juror was 
preparing to get down and kiss the prisoner, 
to Charley's pretended horror, who with 
great difficulty recalled her to the dignities 
of her position. 

Jim was not at all pleased with the im- 
pression he was making. " I haven't come 
to the worst yet," said he, hurriedly, while 
Miles bit his lip. " Old Rinkel went out to 
mourn over his barn again, and Jack, creep- 
ing up to Miles, began whispering ; I 



THE TRIAL. 43 

couldn't hear what he said, but I suppose 
he was promising Miles something if he'd 
only keep dark." 

" You've no right to suppose anything 
about it," cried Dick. " Tell the bare facts, 
and get done." 

Jim swallowed his indignation, and went 
on. " Pretty soon old Rinkel was back, 
storming harder than ever, saying he had 
lost a great deal, — he didn't believe the 
insurance would half cover it, and he meant 
to find out who played him this mean trick. 
Tlien he asked Jack if there was any one 
hanging around the barn while he was 
gone. 

" ' No, sir,' said Jack. 

" ' You were right here all the time ? ' 

" ' Yes, sir,' said he. 

" '• Was anybody in the store while I was 
gone ? ' 

" ' The Doctor, and Mrs. Carey's girl, 
and Miles ; that's all,' said Jack. 



44 THE HONORABLE CLUB. 

"■ ' How long were you here. Miles ? ' said 
old Rinkel. 

" ' About a quarter of -an hour,' said he. 

"'You didn't see anything out of the 
way, did you ? ' 

" Miles gave a little faint answer. ' Hey ? ' 
said old Rinkel, turning sharp around ; 
* you haven't the least notion how it hap- 
pened, have you ? ' 

"Jack gave a little cough, and turned 
whiter than chalk, and Miles looked square 
mto old RinkePs face, and said, — 

" ' No, sir.' 

" That's all I've got to say," said Jim, 
sitting down, and wiping his red face. 

There was consternation in the little court 
for a minute. The jurors looked at Paul, 
and Paul looked at the ceiling ; Miles turned 
red and white twenty times in a minute. 
The small juror's white apron quivered with 
a deep, deep sigh, and half the company 
were just ready to cry, it seemed so serious, 



THE TRIAL. 45 

when tlicre was a sudden crash and shriek. 



and the jurors' bench and the dignity of the 
court all came to grief together. Jenny 
Seabright almost went into hysterics to see 
the bewildered pink sunbonnet emerging 
from such a tangle of arms and legs. In 
fact, every one had a hearty laugh, and felt 
better after it. 

" That monkey of a Charley Peterson did 
it on purpose," muttered Jim ; but nobody 
seemed to hear, and as soon as order was 
restored, Paul motioned to lawyer Dick to 
open the case for his client. 

" Boys," began the vehement Dick, — " I 
beg your pardon, your honor., and gentlemen 
of the jury, — I beg to state the true cir- 
cumstances under which my honorable 
friend was brought into this unpleasant po- 
sition. I will not deny that my client was 
walking down street that February day, just 
as Mr. James Fuller, being pressed for time, 
and oppressed with a sense of duty, had re- 



46 THE HONORABLE CLUB. 

fused to oblige Jack Carter. So far Mr 
Fuller is perfectly correct ; but it iiiight in- 
terest the court to know the reasons Jack 
(who is a faithful boy) gave for wishing to 
leave the store. The fire had gone out in 
the stove, — Jack had forgotten to shake it 
down or something, — and it was quite a ca- 
lamity. Old Rinkel was such a close man, 
he only let Jack have just so much kindling 
in the morning, and the rest he locked up. 
He'd been trying most an hour with bits of 
paper to start it up again, but it wouldn't 
go, and old Rinkel would scold terribly 
when he came back all chilly and found 
no fire to warm himself,- so he begged 
' wouldn't one of the boys just keep store 
while he ran through the alley to his moth- 
er's and got a few light sticks ? ' Of course 
my kind-hearted client stayed for shaky, 
little, nervous Jack. 

'' Pretty soon, sure enough, back comes 
Jack with a shovelful of hot coals. Miles 



THE TRIAL. 47 

was frightened. ' How could your mother 
let you do so ? ' said he. 

" ' She wasn't in the kitchen,' said Jack, 
* and the coals looked so nice, as if they'd 
start the fire in half a minute, I just took a 
shovelful and ran. Now, if I can only get 
the fire nicely going before he comes, ivonH 
I be a lucky dog ? ' 

" ' But, Jack,' said Miles, still looking 
alarmed, ' I hope you didn't bring them 
through the barn ? ' 

" ' I had to,' said Jack ; ' there's no other 
door to the alley.' 

u i "Were you very careful ? ' 

" * I guess you would have thought so,' 
said Jack, *for, to tell the truth, I stum- 
bled, and spilt one or two, and I stayed and 
hunted till there wasn't a spark loft as big 
as a fire-fly.' 

" ' I think I'd better go out and look at 
the barn,' said Miles. 

" ' Nonsense ! ' said Jack ; ' you couldn't 



4:8 THE HONORABLE CLUB. 

look sharper than I did ; ' and Miles went 
home. 

" About half an hour afterwards, as Jim 
says, the barn was burned to the ground. 

" Miles was there the first one. He went 
right into the smoke and blaze, wrapped his 
coat around old Dolly's head, and led her 
out. Then he worked away at the engine 
as hard as any grown man, and I say he 
deserved every bit of praise old Rinkel gave 
him." 

An approving murmur ran along the 
back seats. 

" As for what Mr. Fuller said afterwards, 
urged on by his sense of duty, I suppose," 
continued Dick, intending to be very sar- 
castic, " I have only to say, that when Jack 
stole up to Miles in the store there, the 
mysterious words that the plaintiff's long 
ears didn't catch were these : — 

"'Don't tell it. Miles! Don't tell it, 
dear Miles. We are so poor, and mother is 



THE TRIAL. 49 

half blind. Oh, if he sJiould turn me out ! 
but that is not the worst, — I shall be sent to 
jail ! Oh, Miles, it will kill mother, and 
me too ! ' 

" The rest is very much as Mr. Fuller 
told it. Miles did say, 'No, sir ! ' but I 
contend that it wasn't a lie. Hadn't Jack 
picked up every speck of coal ; and how 
could Miles know that the barn hadn't taken 
jBire in some other way ? He hadn't the least 
notion how it happened, of course, and he 
said so." 

"That's it!" cried one or two jurors, 
looking much relieved. " I knew it was a 
mistake." 

" Wait a minute," said Miles, hurriedly. 
" I am much obliged to Dick, but he has 
forgotten something I told him. I felt so 
uneasy about the barn that I came back be- 
fore there was any alarm, and thought I 
saw smoke coming out of the door. So I 
rushed in, and there was fire coming right 



50 TEE HONORABLE CLUB. 

up from the middle of the floor. I don't 
suppose any one would have chosen such a 
place to set it on fire — " 

" Hush ! " whispered Dick ; " that's ille- 
gal. You needn't condemn yourself : why 
don't you leave it to me ? " 

"No," said Miles, firmly, though there 
was a mist over the blue eyes ; " I'm afraid 
I know very well how it happened." 

The friendly jurors and sympathizing 
public looked blank. 

" Why won't he let himself be cleared ? " 
whispered Jenny. " What a dear goose he 
is ! " and then some one, with no sense of 
propriety, cried, " Three cheers for Miles ! " 
and that outrageous little court nearly 
brought the roof down. 

" The Honor ahles are applauding a lie," 
said Jim Fuller, grimly. 

"Not at all," cried Charley. "Can't 
you see — " 

"The case isn't finished," said Paul, 



THE TRIAL. 5 1 

rapping. " We will examine witnesses, if 
there are any." 

" Will any one be angry if I move a lit- 
tle, Charley ? " interposed the small juror, 
who hadn't dared to stir for a whole hour. 
The request nearly upset the gravity of the 
court again, and poor little Pink Sunbonnet 
was appointed a special committee to find 
out exactly what time it was by the hall 
clock. 

Back again with exceeding promptitude 
panted the little messenger to announce 
that it was '' half-past ten by the hall clock, 
which was slow, and a quarter of eleven by 
the parlor clock, which was fast, and grand- 
mother thought that just the right time 
might be twenty-one minutes and twenty 
seconds of eleven." 

Another burst of laughter rather grieved 
the innocent little heart, but Charley handed 
her gallantly to her seat, wliispering that 
he had heard " truth lay at the bottom of 



52 THE HONORABLE CLUB. 

a well, but he should always know after 
this that she wore a white apron and pink 
sunbonnet." 

Then followed a short examination of 
witnesses. The prosecution only brought 
forward Benny, who repeated everything 
Jim had told like a parrot, and said he had 
heard Miles tell the lie. 

" Are you sure you know what the truth 
is ? " said Charley, impatiently. 

" Yes, he does," answered Jim. " He 
can tell you some too. What did you hear 
that day you went to play with Phil Peter- 
son, Benny ? " 

" I heard Mrs. Peterson talking to Char- 
ley, because he'd eaten all the gingerbread, 
and hadn't left a bit for Susy or Phil. She 
said, ' Oh, Charley, that's sel— ' " 

" Shame, Jim ! Shame, Benny 1 " cried 
several voices. 

" I don't deny it," said Charley, crimson 
to his hair. *' I was mean that day." 



THE TRIAL. 53 

" Don't he say it's true himself?" asked 
Jim, sullenly. 

" Yes," said Paul, " I suppose it was 
the truth, but it wasn't at all necessary to 
tell it. Indeed, I think nothing can be 
meaner than to tell anything to injure 
another boy's character." 

An approving murmur rose from the 

jury- 

" Then it would have been mean for Miles 
to have told the truth and injured Jack," 
retorted Jim. 

" I don't say Miles ought to have told 
about Jack," cried Paul, " but he was 
asked a direct question, and should have 
answered truly for himself. Your case is 
very different, can't you see ? Nobody 
asked you or Benny about Charley's selfish- 
ness. It would have been a great deal no- 
bler, and no lie at all, if you had kept that 
to yourself. Uncle Harry says it is only 
when a square question knocks at the door 



54 THE HONORABLE CLUB. 

that you must either send the truth or a lie 
to open it." 

" Or else refuse to open it at all," said 
Uncle Harry, who had stolen in unperceived. 
" It is quite right to keep the door shut 
sometimes, when, for instance, a very im- 
pertinent question knocks. I haven't much 
patience with such visitors, and generally 
pretend not to hear them. Silence isn't 
always untruth by any means. But what's 
going on here this morning ? " 

The case was rapidly unfolded to Uncle 
Harry, who looked a little grave. 

"■ Don't say we oughtn't to let him off," 
whispered Dick: "just hear my witnesses ; " 
and one after another was marched up to 
prove what was already well known before, 
that Miles was the kindest-hearted, politest, 
best boy in town. 

Sister Minnie, who had arrived breathless 
about five minutes before, gave testimony 
to his unselfishness at home. Friend after 



THE TRIAL. 55 

friend had something to tell of his courtesy, 
patience, generosity to the poor ; in short, 
the indefatigable Dick proved him the 
brightest ornament of the club, in spite of 
poor Miles' s protestations and burning 
cheeks. " I have also communicated with 
Miss Pringle," said Dick, " who regrets that 
she can not be with us, but sends her testi- 
mony to our client's character — " 

^' Don't, Dick," pleaded poor Miles. 

But Dick remorselessly unfolded the bit 
of paper and read : " The best boy I have 
ever known since I laid my dear young 
brother in the grave more than fifty years 
ago." 

Minnie and Jenny wiped their eyes. 

"There-!" said Dick triumphantly, "the 
best boy of the last half century ! I think I 
have proved that he has a better right to be 
an Honorable than any of us. Let him 
that is without sin cast the first stone," 
concluded he magnificently. 



56 THE HONORABLE CLUB. 

" Have you proved lie didn't tell a lie ? " 
said Jim, coming in like a wet blanket. 

" If he did make a little mistake just 
once," cried Dick warmly, " I think it ought 
to be overlooked. All the boys who read 
their Bibles know that the very best of men 
— Jacob and King David and Peter, all — 
well, made a mistake^ when they were 
brought into temptation, and yet the Lord 
seemed to specially love and honor them." 

"Hold, my boy!" cried Uncle Harry. 
" Not quite so fast. The Lord loved and 
honored them for other virtues, but those 
little ' mistakes,' as you call them, were 
great sins, and had a severe punishment. 
Jacob deceived his father, and by and by 
his sons deceived 7izm, and sold his favorite 
son Joseph away from him. In fact, he had 
so many troubles that in looking back upon 
his life he could only say his days had been 
* few and evil.^ 

" As for David, what sorrow he must have 



THE TRIAL. 57 

felt when he prayed in vain for the dear 
little boy dying on his mother's knees, or 
when God took from him his beautiful 
grown-up son Absalom! Besides, don't 
you remember, the Lord wouldn't let him 
have the honor of building the temple ? 
"What a disappointment that must have 
been ! Then who would have been in Pe- 
ter's place when the grieved Saviour turned 
and looked on him ! just looked^ that was 
all, as if he could not believe his friend 
could so dishonor him. That look almost 
broke Peter's heart ; he went out and wept 
bitterly. Was it a little ' mistake,' do you 
think, boys?" 

" No ! no ! " cried the young jurors, look- 
ing very sober, while the red drifted out of 
Miles's cheeks. 

Dick rallied in a minute. " But it's 
right sometimes to tell a lie, Uncle Harry" 
(all the club called him Uncle Harry) ; " I 
heard father say so once." 



58 THE HONORABLE CLUB. 

"When was that, Dick?" said Uncle 
Harry, smiling. 

" Why, that day when crazy Joe came 
into Mrs. Simmons's house with a gun, and 
told her she was too good to li^e in this 
world, and he was going to send her to a 
better one. She was all alone in the farm- 
house, and he'd just driven her into a cor- 
ner, when her brother happened to come 
back from the field. ' That's just as you 
say, Joe,' said he ; ' she'd better go : but let 
me take that gun a minute ; your lock isn't 
just right. I'll fix it for you.' 

" So Joe handed it over, as innocent as a 
baby, and Mr. Brown just fired it out of 
the window, and then caught Joe and tied 
him up with the clothes-line. Now suppose 
he hadn't cheated him, but just tried to 
snatch the gun, Joe would have killed Mrs. 
Simmons before he was half across the room. 
Would that have been better ? " 

" Ycry well done, Dick," said Uncle 



THE TRIAL. 59 

Harry. " I suppose you think you have 
caught me now. Of course it was right 
and very clever in Mr. Brown to say what 
he did. But this is one of the exceptions, 
a peculiar case. You can not reason with 
a crazy man, and it is certainly right to use 
any means in your power to prevent him 
from committing a crime." 

"Then, again," said Dick, a little flushed 
with his triumph, " let's suppose another 
case. Suppose there was a sort of King 
Herod, who sent out to kill all the little 
girls six years of age. Then suppose you 
had Mabel hid away under the bed, and 
men should come and say, ' Is there a little 
girl here ? we've come to kill her ! " wouldn't 
you say, ' No ! there's no such girl here '?" 

Dire dismay looked out of poor little Ma- 
bel's wide blue eyes at such a supposition. 

" Never mind," whispered Charley ; " they 
shall never get up to your room. I'll trip 
them up on the stairs." 



60 THE HONORABLE CLUB. 

" That's a very terrible case, Dick," 
laughed Uncle Harry, '' and I'm rather 
afraid I should dodge a little. Time enough, 
though, when I find myself in such a tight 
spot. You know with every temptation the 
Lord has provided a way of escape, and I 
should look around for a chink somewhere. 
These, however, are most unusual cases, and 
don't come under general rules. But I'll 
tell you something to guide you a little, 
boys : in every temptation try to think what 
Christ would do in your place. Anything 
that would be wrong for him would be 
wrong for you." 

Miles sighed heavily, and the boys looked 
irresolutely at one another. 

" As for Miles' s case," said Uncle Harry, 
kindly, " I can not see that it comes under 
any of these exceptions. I love him as 
much as any of you," continued he, in an- 
swer to an appealing look from Dick, " but 
for that very reason I want this young jury 



THE TRIAL. 61 

to be very careful now. Some one has said 
that all the first appearances of poisonous 
plants are the same as healtliy ones, and we 
must. look out for them. I don't want any 
false ideas to take root in these fresh young 
hearts. For instance, my dear boys, never 
let this belief grow, that the strongest temp- 
tation or kindest of motives can make a lie 
right. 

" If a hoy hasn't the courage to tell the 
truth, he will grow up a man whom nobody 
respects or depends upon. A lie is fatal to 
true manliness ; as some one has said, ' a 
lie is like a worm-track in a stick of timber, 
— it makes it weak and unsound.' 

*' As for Miles, he had great temptation. 
It was a very disagreeable position. I know 
he looked everywhere for escape, and then 
— oh, what a pity! — jumped into a lie, — 
from the frying-pan into the fire." 

"Oh, Uncle Harry!" cried Miles, who 
couldn't keep still any longer; "it wasn't 



62 THE honohable club. 

because I was afraid for myself at all. I'd 
have told the whole truth in a minute ; but 
if you ha.d only heard Jack — " and there 
was something very like a sob smothered in 
a sudden fit of coughing. 

A sympathetic murmur arose from the 
tender-hearted public. 

"I know it, my boy ; I believe you," said 
Uncle Harry ; "but it was a mistake never- 
theless. How would it have done, do you 
think, if you had encouraged Jack to tell 
the whole story and throw himself on Mr. 
Rinkel's mercy ? The old gentleman would 
have stormed a little, I haven't a doubt, but 
I think he would have known how to value 
a boy who had courage to tell the truth. 
I'm pretty sure he would have kept him 
after all, and had more confidence in him 
than ever. At least, you and Jack would 
have been a great deal happier. I think 
the experiment was worth trying, don't 
you?" 



THE TRIAL. 63 

" Yes," said Miles, regretfully. " Jack 
has told me he was unhappy about it a great 
many times, but we didn't know exactly 
what to do. Besides, Mr. Rinkel likes the 
new barn he is building so much better that 
* o he told Jack he was glad the old one had 
burned down, and then we felt a great deal 
better about it. It didn't seem so wrong, 
but I suppose our fault was just the same ; " 
and poor Miles sighed heavily again. 

" I want to get down and kiss poor 
Miles," whispered tender-hearted Pink Sun- 
bonnet again. 

Charley opened his astonished eyes. " I 
never in all my life heard of a juror going 
to kiss the prisoner. Don't think of it ; " 
and poor, patient little Pink composed her- 
self again. 

" Well, gentlemen of the jury," said Un- 
cle Harry, " you must retire to consult upon 
your verdict. It is a hard case. Try to do 
right." 



CHAPTER Y. 

THE VERDICT. 

(^^HE jurors had a most stormy debate 
^^ out iu the back yard. Some of them 
^<' declared that they never would say he 
was guilty, no matter what Jim Fuller, 
or even Uncle Harry himself, said ; he had 
been such a kind, obliging boy. Each one 
had something pleasant to remember, and 
it seemed so mean to turn against him. 

" But what else can we say ? " said Char- 
ley Peterson, mournfully. " Miles acknowl- 
edges it himself, and Jim Fuller will always 
sneer, and say that our name ' Honorables ' 
is a sham." 

Finally, with heavy hearts, they came 
back all agreed, except the obstinate small 

64 



THE VERDICT. 65 

juror, wlio declared she would never say 
anything against dear Miles. 

" What is your verdict, gentlemen ? " 
said Paul. 

" Guilty I " said foreman Charley, trying 
to laugh, " but strongly recommended to 
mercy." 

''Not guilty! " interposed little Sunbon- 
net, bursting into tears. 

" It's a lie in the second degree, aay way," 
grumbled Dick; '' a sort of truth-slaughter; 
not an out-and-out murder." 

" It is just right," said Miles, with a brave 
effort at a smile. " What is the sentence ? " 

Paul was anxiously communing with 
Uncle Harry. 

" You must confess to Mr. Rinkcl that 
you told him a falsehood," said Paul, pres- 
ently, " and you can ask him to excuse you 
from telling how the fire happened, if you 
please, though we think it will be better if 
you persuade Jack to tell his story too." 



66 TEE HOXORABLE CLUB. 

" Yes, I'll tell him, if Uncle Harry says 
it's right," said poor Miles, eagerly. "It's 
hard to do it, but of course I ought to 
have some punishment. Oh, I'll be careful 
after this, boys ! You'll see I'll never dis- 
grace my badge again ! " and he fastened 
the blue ribbon a little more securely. 

"But there's something more," said Paul, 
turning away his head, and speaking very 
fast. '.' You are to be suspended from the 
club for a month ! " 

Miles started. This was a cruel blow, 
as his white lips plainly showed. Still he 
managed to smile again, and said, faintly, 
" It is all right." 

" And the badge is to be taken off," said 
Paul, desperately, beckoning, with a red 
face, to some of the members. 

No one stirred, and Miles himself un- 
pinned it, with shaky fingers, and laid it on 
the table. 

Then such an uproar ! The Honorables 



THE VERDICT. 67 

crowded around liim witli sj^mpatliy, hand- 
shakings, and offers of friendship. Surely 
never was prisoner, just sentenced, so hon- 
ored before. Jim strode away angrily, to 
ponder over the matter in bitterness of 
heart. " Why was it that such good luck 
always followed Miles, and turned even his 
disgrace into a triumph ? " Unhappy Jim ! 
was it only good luck ? 

But Miles was very far from being so ex- 
ultant as Jim thought him. He escaped 
from his friends as soon as possible, and 
spent the afternoon closely locked in his 
room, keenly realizing that his precious 
badge was gone. At tea-time, when sister 
Minnie knocked at the door, there was some 
delay while he tucked away a suspiciously 
damp handkerchief; and when she came in 
with a tray of most wonderful dainties she 
had been concocting all the afternoon, poor 
Miles had not the heart to eat a morsel. 

Perhaps some boys will think the punish- 



68 THE HOXOnABLE CLUB. 

laent too hard ; but could anything be too 
hard which taught Miles and those young 
Honorables the deceitful nature of a lie, and 
made them remember — wandering thought- 
fully through the June day — how displeas- 
ing it was to Him who said that he who 
maketh or loveth a lie should in no wise 
enter into the holy city ? 



CHAPTER YI. 

THE PARDON. 

WEEK passed by. Mr. Riiikel had 
been told, and, as Charley Peterson 
said, had proved himself an " old 
trump." He forgave Miles, and for- 
gave Jack, who came out like a man, and 
told his story, though weeping and trem- 
bling with penitence and fright. 

" 1 guess you've been unhappy enough, 
boys," said old Rinkel, who'd been talking 
with Uncle Harry. " I'll let you off this 
time ! " 

But Miles had other trials still in store. 
Upon another of those loveliest June Satur- 
days, Georgie came pattering into Miles's 
room. 



70 THE HONORABLE CLUB. 

" Uncle Harry is going to give tlie club 
a strawberry party this afternoon. An't you 
glad, Miles ? When are you going ? and 
when will I be old enough to be an Honor- 
able? Say, Miles! Why don't you speak ? " 

Miles was thinking, " Why, I met Char- 
ley this morning, and he didn't say a word 
about it. How strange ! Oh ! " — and his 
head dropped into his hands, — "I know 
now ; I don't belong to the Honorables ! " 

" What's the matter. Miles ? " persisted 
Georgie. 

" Go away, that's a good boy, Georgie ! 
I've got to take a great long walk this morn- 
ing, — too long for you, Georgie," as the 
boy began to plead. " Now, be good, and 
I'll help you finisli your wheelbarrow this 
afternoon, and show you how to paint it." 

" And not go to the party ? " said Georgie, 
with big eyes. 

" No ; my head aches," said Miles, which 
was indeed the truth. 



THE pardon: 71 

Rapidly through the streets went Miles, 
towards the open country^ He wanted to 
cut across the fields, and take a long, long 
tramp by himself. He had a nervous fear 
that he should meet some of the boys, and 
they might look as if they pitied him. He 
couldn't bear that. 

Well out in the suburbs, to his great an- 
noyance he stumbled upon Jim Fuller, 
accompanied by his little satellite, Benny, 
both looking heated and tired. 

*' He who has a thousand friends has not a friend to spare, 
But he who has one enemy shall meet him everywhere," 

said Miles, a little bitterly, and was sorry 
the minute after. 

" I'm not a bit better pleased with the 
meeting than you are," retorted Jim, in his 
surliest mood. 

"• I beg your pardon, Jim," said Miles, 
frankly. " You'd forgive me if you knew 
how my head ached. But what's gone 



72 THE HONORABLE CLUB. 

wrong with you this morning ? Can I do any- 
thing to help you ? " 

"Well, now, that's quite brotherly," said 
Jim, with an unpleasant laugh ; " but I 
don't know but it's natural enough, since 
we both belong to the D/s-honorables now." 

Miles bit his lip. "I don't know that. 
I'm very anxious to help you," said he, 
walking away coldly. 

" I don't know that anybody asked you 
to, parson," said Jim, mimicking the tone, 
as he too went his way. 

But Benny ran back in a minute. 

"We've lost our cow. Miles," said he, 
hurriedly. " She got out some way in the 
night, and father is so angry with poor Jim ; 
thinks he didn't put the bars up or some- 
thing. You haven't seen her, have you. 
Miles ? " said he, anxiously. 

" No, indeed ; and how tired you look, 
poor Benny ! " 



THE PARDON. 73 

" We've been tramping since five o'clock," 
Baid Benny, beginning to cry. 

" Here, Ben," cried Jim, with an angry 
beckon, and frightened Ben ran after his 
tyrant. 

Miles went wearily on, thinking that the 
June sunshine was sickly, and the birds 
sang a great deal too loud, — made too much 
of a fuss over their happiness. Poor sick- 
hearted Miles ! 

On and on he walked, scarcely heeding 
where he was going, with only a dull idea 
in his head that he was getting very tired, 
when he was suddenly brought to his sen- 
ses by a long " Moo-oo ! " To be sure, 
there, at the edge of the wood, composedly 
whisking her tail, stood Mr. Fuller's cow, 
two or three miles from home. 

" What shall I do now ? " thought Miles, 
putting his hand to his perplexed, aching 
head. "If I go and tell Jim, perhaps 
before he gets here she will stray off some- 



74 THE nOKOBABLE CLUB. 

where else. Besides, Jim was very tired, 
and that poor Benny, — he'd make him 
come too. I must try to drive her back 
myself." 

It would be too long a story to tell how 
painfully Miles labored with the stubborn 
old cow ; how sometimes she wouldn't go 
at all, and then again would suddenly start 
full trot down some little by-path, the June 
sun all the time mounting higher and high- 
er, and shining with a blinding glare on 
the dusty road. 

" One would almost think it was Jim 
himself," said poor Miles in despair. " It 
seems just like a nightmare ; I shall never 
get home ! " 

And indeed it would have been some- 
what doubtful — with his head aching as 
if it would split — if it had not occurred to 
him to go through Mr. Brown's farm, and 
cut off half the distance at least. 

It was very hard to keep mischievous old 



THE PARDON. 75 

;3usan just in the narrow track tlirougli the 
nicely planted fields ; but everything must 
have an end, and at last the feat was accom- 
plished, and Miles thankfully found himself 
almost home. 

As he turned the last corner into the 
long village street, he was startled by a 
rough exclamation, and there again was 
Jim, coming rapidly towards him, with poor 
draggled Benny limping in the rear. 

" Indeed ! " cried Jim, his face in a blaze. 
" So I'm indebted to you for this morning's 
tramp ! You let her out ; I was almost sure 
of it from the first, just for revenge, eh? 
Oh, what a deceitful — " 

" Hush, Jim," said Miles, wij^ing his fore- 
head with a trembling hand ; " you don't 
know what you are saying. I've driven 
old Susan all the way from Pine Hollow, 
just to save you the trouble, and this is the 
way you thank me." 

" I don't believe a word of it ! " cried 



70 THE HONORABLE CLUB. 

Jim, ashamed to be convinced. " You drove 
her home because you thought you'd get 
into trouble if you kept her any longer." 

" Oh, Jimmy, don't talk so to poor good 
Miles ! " cried little Benny. 

" Are you going over too, Ben ? " said 
unhappy Jim, bursting into passionate grief; 
and leaving Benny to make his peace as 
best he could, Miles went staggering home. 

In at the garden gate he stumbled, almost 
blind. " I never can get up stairs," he 
thought, and tottering a few steps further, 
he threw himself down under a great elm 
tree by the garden fence. 

Now the little breezes whispered together, 
" Let us fan his hot head ; " the mother 
birds overhead scolded the baby robins lest 
they should twitter too loud, and the flowers 
elbowed each other, and said, " Let him lay 
his head on my breast." 

So poor Miles, utterly exhausted, fell into 
a sweet sleep, — dreamed that he was an 



THE pajrdo:n: 77 

Honorable again ; dreamed that liis twen- 
ty shillings bought a perfect library of his- 
tories and travels, — and finally came slowly 
back to consciousness, greatly comforted 
and refreshed. 

" A quarter of the time is passed, any 
way," said Miles hopefully, remembering 
his dream. " In three weeks I shall be a 
member again." 

But what were those angry voices just 
outside the fence ? Miles rose on his elbow 
to listen. 

" It was you ; don't try to cheat me I " 
said farmer Brown, angrily. " My Sam saw 
you. He thought it was bold in you, any 
way, to go through our field, but he thought 
of course you weren't such a heathen as to 
leave the bars down. There were pigs and 
cows, — I couldn't count the cattle trampling 
down my yo\mg corn, ruining my crops; 
you shall pay for it, you scamp ! " 



78 THE HONORABLE CLUB. 

"I — I didn't do it," stammered a voice 
that seemed very familiar. 

Could it be Jim Fuller's ? Miles sprang 
to his feet, put his eye to a knot-hole, and 
sure enough, there was farmer Brown with 
his hand wound in Jim's collar, while 
wretched little Benny, in an agony of grief, 
clung to his coat behind. 

" Come along ! " cried Mr. Brown, as Jim 
hung back, clutching at every rail of the 
fence. " You shall go before a lawyer, and 
if you've got a cent of pocket-money you 
shall pay it for damages. I've scolded you 
youngsters enough ; it's time you had a les- 
son you'll remember ! " 

Miles had a dozen thoughts in as many 
seconds. Could it have been I who left the 
bars down ? I'm always so careful ; and 
yet my head ached so — I can not be sure. 
If it was, though, I needn't speak. Let 
that sulky, ungenerous Jim suffer a little ; 
he didn't spare me any. Nobody is asking 



THE pardon: 79 

me anything about it. I needn't send either 
a lie or a truth to the door. Didn't they 
say it was better to keep silent sometimes, 
and quite right too ? " 

" Ah, yes, Miles !" said his better angel. 
" It is right not to tell evil of another un- 
necessarily; but how is it when through 
your not speaking another is to suffer un- 
justly ? What is your silence tlien ? " 

" A cowardly lie ! " said Miles, putting 
his foot on the fence ; but he drew back. 

" I've had enough disgrace," said he, bit- 
terly. ^' If I should be taken before a real 
lawyer now, what will the whole town think 
of me ? I shall never get over it." 

" Don't take poor Jim's money," sobbed 
Benny. '^ He's worked so hard to earn it 
for the * Fourth.' He's only got two dol- 
lars— " 

"Hush, you ninny!" cried Jim; "you 
don't know that I've got a cent." 



80 THE HOXORABLE CLUB. 

" Two dollars, eli ? " said Farmer Brown. 
" Well, that's bettor than nothing." 

A wail arose from Benny. '' Then we 
won't have any cannon, Jim ! " 

Just then a boy dropped down at !Mr. 
Brown's feet as if he came out of the clouds, 
saying,— 

" It was I did it. Let him go." 

" You! " said farmer Brown, looking into 
the honest blue eyes. "Did you drive a 
i)lack and white cow througli — " 

'' Yes, yes ! " cried Miles hastily, '' I did. 
I don't know how I happened to leave the 
bars down. I'm sorry, and here's all my 
money," said he with a little gulp, emptying 
his pockets, and counting out by ten cent? 
and five cents the " History " and " Travels " 
into Mr. Brown's horny hand. " There," 
said he, with a heavy sigh, " it's all I have. 
Please don't take me to the lawyer." 

" Well," said M-r. Brown, carefully count- 
ing it, " twenty shillings, eh ? Perhaps that 



THE PARDON. 81 

will cover damages. You seem an honest 
boy, and I'll let you go this time. I would 
not take it," continued he, turning the 
money a little uneasily from one hand to 
another, " but you see I've let off a good 
many with only a scolding, and it's no good. 
I must try something else, my young gen- 
tlemen, if I mean to have any crops this 
year ; " and farmer Brown went his way. 

Jim came up to Miles, who was leaning, 
very pale, against the fence. 

" I suppose," said he, " according to all 
the old Sunday-school books, I ought to get 
down and lick the dust off your shoes, and 
say that I'm the meanest boy in creation, 
and you're a saint, and ask very humbly if 
you'd condescend to shake hands with me, 
and teach me how to be good as you are ? 
But I can't do it," said Jim, fiercely. "It's 
just as much as I can do to stand all this. 
I suppose it's kind, but I'd rather you'd 
have knocked me over twenty times. I can't 

6 



82 THE HONORABLE CLUB. 

thank you ; but I'll say this, I won't meddle 
with you again, if you tell a hundred lies. 
Come, Benny ! " and unhappy Jim went on 
his way. Let us hope that he came to a 
better mind. 

Miles was still leaning disconsolately 
against the fence, when he suddenly felt 
something thrust into his listless fingers. 
If he had turned quicker he might have 
caught Benny's meager little hand. As it 
was, the boy was a dozen paces ofi" in a 
twinkling. " I wish I had more, Mies," 
he sobbed, "but I haven't;" and Benny 
was gone, while Miles was much distressed 
to find two little crumpled postage stamps 
left in his hand. 

Afternoon came, and Miles faithfully per- 
formed his promise to Georgie. The wheel- 
barrow was fast approaching completion, 
and they were just discussing the best color 
to paint it, when Georgie started to his feet. 
"What's that noise, Miles?" and away he 



THE pardon: 83 

clattered to the gate, to be back in a minute. 
— " Oh, Miles, it's the Honorables on their 
way to Uncle Harry's ! " 

Miles shrunk back, for there was a clatter 
of many feet, and a perfect hubbub of happy 
voices. 

" It's cruel in them to all march past 
here," thought the poor boy. ^' They often 
go the other way." 

" Miles, I believe they're coming here," 
cried Georgie, excitedly. 

Miles went farther back in the shrubbery. 

"Oh, if they want that flag sister Minnie 
was going to make, tell them it isn't quite 
done. Hurry, Georgie ! " For the Honor- 
ables had halted in front of the house, and 
now there were loud cries of " Miles 1 " 
"Miles!" 

Miles wouldn't stir. 

" Here he is ! " cried Georgie, flinging 
wide the gate, and the happy group poured 
quickly in. 



84 THE HONORABLE CLUB. 

At the head walked, or danced, little Ma- 
bel Thornton, bearing a basket of flowers, 
in the center of which lay a new blue badge, 
with the letters " H. C." glittering in un- 
usual magnificence. 

Miles, trying to escape, was surrounded 
by the whole tumultuous party. There were 
hand-sliakings and hurrahs that brought 
Minnie and Jenny Seabright out on the 
piazza. 

" You didn't jump the wrong way this 
time, did you, old fellow?" cried Paul. 

" Don't look so innocent and bewildered," 
laughed Charley. " We know all about it. 
Didn't Ben tell little Phil, and Phil tell me, 
and we all tell Uncle Harry ? " 

" And you're pardoned out," cried Dick, 
turning a most undignified somersault. 
"Dear old fellow, you are an Honorable 
again ! " 

" Be careful with that big mouth of yours 



THE PABDON. ' 85 

when you smile, Dick," cried Charley. " I 
declare it most met behind just now ! " 

The happy Honorables burst into light- 
hearted laughter, while Pink Sunbonnet 
gave Charley a timid pull. " To be sure," 
said Charley, lifting her in his arms, " and 
here's Miss Pink, whose sister has made you 
a brand new badge, because the old one 
looked as if you'd been caught in the rain 
some time. Allow us — " and Pink's little 
fingers carefully fastened it in its place. 

Miles's blue eyes were all in a mist. He 
opened his mouth, but couldn't speak. 

" Hurrah ! " cried little Georgie. 

" Hurrah ! " cried sister Minnie and Jen- 
ny from the piazza. 

" Hurrah ! " cried the young Honorables 
in deafening chorus. 

The small juror conferred anxiously with 
Charley. 

"Not the least objection now in the 
world," said Charley, lifting her again. 



86 THE HONOBABLE CLUB. 

" Dear Miles," said she, softly patting his 
cheek, " I've saved all my strawberries for 
2/oit;".and little Pink Sunbonnet hissed 
him ! 



MISS PEACOCK'S DIAEY. 



DEDICATED TO SOME YOUNG PERSONS WHO JMAY 

LIKE TO SEE HOW THEIR PRIVATE 

THOUGHTS WOULD APPEAR 

IN PRINT. 



87 



MISS PEACOCrS DIAEY. 



CHAPTER I. 

A STEP HIGHER. 

IVERSIDE, June 7. I have found 
out lately that a great many very dis- 
tinguished people have kept diaries, 
and it has occurred to me that it is a 
duty I owe myself, and perhaps the world, 
to keep a record of my daily life. Aunt 
Jane always told me she knew I was born 
to be famous, — such beauty and talents 
could never be hid under a bushel. She 
was sure I would make the whole family 
celebrated. Poor, awkward old soul ! she 
never made any figure in the world herself, 

89 



90 MISS PEACOCK'S DIARY, 

but she had very good sense, and great i3en- 
etration, as one may see from her estimate 
oime. 

It is a great comfort to me to think I was 
always so kind and considerate to Aunt 
Jane, now that she is gone, poor creature ! 
To be sure, that very impertinent Fanny 
Blythe said to me one day, — 

"Lotty" (she always calls me "Lotty,'* 
although she knows I prefer to be called by 
my whole name," Charlotte Adelaide"), — 
" Lotty, I shouldn't think you would ask 
for another new dress while your aunt's 
best bombazine looks so rusty and thin. 
Why don't you insist on her buying some- 
thing once in a while for herself? " 

I was very angry with Fanny, but I am 
never unlady-like, and did not forget my- 
self then. I had been reading in a lovely 
volume of poems that very morning this 
line, — " The lady rose and stabbed him with 
her angiy eyes." So I rose, and tried the 



A STEP HIGHER. 91 

same thing upon Fanny. (I have splendid 
eyes !) I must confess, however, that Fanny 
didn't seem to feel it. She only laughed, and 
asked me if I " had a stitch in my side." 

It is very disagreeable to associate with 
low-bred, unsympathetic people. Now she 
could never understand, though I told her 
a thousand times, that Aunt Jane's high- 
est gratification seemed to be in seeing me 
dressed like a lady. Often on a Sunday 
morning when I put on my green silk, and 
my lace bonnet with drooping white lilies, 
she looked as if she could hardly contain 
herself with pride and delight. How glad 
I am I was always kind to her. I always 
used to let her dress me on Sundays, or any 
great occasion, it gratified her so ; and then 
when we walked to church, — for I never 
was too proud to walk with her even in her 
old bombazine, — how pleased she was with 
the notice we attracted. I remember learn- 
mg at school the moon had no brilliancy of 



92 MISS PEACOCK'S DIARY. 

her own, but shone with a reflected light 
from the sun. In the same way, I think I 
may describe Aunt Jane as a kind of moon, 
all her importance being reflected from me. 

As I said before, I am very glad I was so 
kind to her. I remember I always told her 
that her name should go down to posterity 
with mine ; when I wrote a history of my 
life, I would certainly put her in : and if 
that wasn't noble and generous in me, when 
you remember how awkward and plain and 
commonplace Aunt Jane was, then I should 
like to know what generosity is ! 

But I have talked enough about my past 
life. I have spoken of Aunt Jane as I 
promised, and I will say still further that 
she was obliging and good-natured, and I 
suppose I might say generous, for she never 
denied me anything if she had a cent. But 
why she didn't lay by a sum for me every 
year, when she knew I was a penniless or- 
phan, and her annuity expired at her 



A STEP HIGHER. 93 

death, I can not see. She certainly did 
not do me justice there, but I have tried to 
forgive her. I forgive Fanny too, who 
says, — 

" I don't see that you have any one to 
blame but yourself. It took all your aunt 
could rake and scrape to buy your green 
silks, and blue silks, and ribbons, and folde- 
rols." 

How blunt she is ! One would have cer- 
tainly thought siie would have had a little 
tenderness and sympathy when I had just 
met with such a loss. 

I was quite heart-broken the day Aunt 
Jane died, but I now see it was all for the 
best, and ordered for my highest good. My 
Uncle Willoughby, to whom Aunt Jane 
wrote the week before she died, came for 
me yesterday, and brought me to his own 
home at Riverside. 

It is just the loveliest place ! a beautiful 
old-fashioned house, but with every modern 



94 MISS PEACOCK'S DIARY. 

comfort: broad piazzas on two sides, and 
beautiful grounds, with flowers and green 
lawns, vases and statues. I feel as if I were 
a princess just come home to my true in- 
heritance. It almost seems as if I should 
have been here years ago, and Aunt Jane 
had been a little unfair in living so long. 
However, I will not say anything evil of the 
dead, no matter what reason I have. When 
I think of what might be called her selfish- 
ness in keeping me with her in that hum- 
ble life, I must also remember her tempta- 
tions ; how she idolized me, and how I was, 
in short, her sun. 

Now, I feel that my true life is beginning 
at last. As soon as I get a little more set- 
tled in my pretty room, I shall begin to 
think how I shall best work out my destiny, 
and make myself famous. 

There is only one thing disagreeable at 
Uncle Willoughby's, and that is the number 
of children. I never could bear children, 



A STEP HIGHER. 95 

and I do not intend to be troubled witli 
these. I shall not take the slightest notice 
of the four or five younger ones, for with 
the least encouragement they are sure to be 
always teasing and hanging around. 

There is Fred, just about my own age. I 
think I had better make friends with him, 
for there is a look about his eyes that re- 
minds me of Fanny Blythe, as if he might 
be saucy, and a dangerous enemy. Yes, I 
certainly shall be very polite to him. 

Then Ida is a little younger, but seems 
amiable, and I think could be easily led. 
She can probably be made very useful help- 
ing me dress, and sewing on some of my 
buttons and tapes. 

Louis is the next, — a little deformed 
boy, to whom I shall give candy once in a 
while, but shall not encourage him so that 
he will ever expect me to read to him 
or tell him stories as the rest of the family 
do. I wonder if they don't know they are 
spoiling him and making him very selfish. 



96 MISS PEACOCK'S DIARY. 

As for tlie rest of the children, they are 
not worth describing. Oh, I forgot Sey- 
mour, but then he isn't here. He is at 
college, and some day will be a minister. 
How stupid ! That one thing has set me 
against him. If he were going to be a mer- 
chant, or lawyer, or member of Congress, 
and live in a grand house, and be some- 
body ! and yet Ida seems to think him a 
wonder, and I never tell her any stories 
about my heroes who have done anything 
very brave or noble, but she will exclaim, — 
" That's just like Seymour ! " 

I don't believe he is anything but a great 
awkward booby, with tolerably good inten- 
tions. I wonder if he will not be surprised 
when he sees me with what Fanny will call 
my " company manners ; " I am very grace- 
ful, and have a great deal of style. Per- 
haps I shall be able to do him a great deal 
of good when he comes home in vacation. 
I think it will be a great advantage to all 



A STEP HIGHER. 97 

the children to have any one so graceful 
and lady-like in the house ; and how pleas- 
ant it will be, by and by, when Uncle 
comes to thank me for the liappy influence 
I have had in his family T 

That disagreeable Fanny Blythe tried to 
make me think the obligation was all on 
my side, and that uncle was wonderfully 
kind to adopt me, and promise me the 
same allowance he gave Ida. But I think 
in a year's time he will feel himself more 
than paid, and will know that he has taken 
a treasure into the house. Besides, when 
I become famous, only think what honor I 
shall confer upon the whole family ! The 
debt will be on the other side then, beyond 
question. People ^vill come from all around 
to see the plixcG where I live, just as they 
now visit tlie home of Charlotte Bronte, 
and all uncle's family will bless the day 
when I came to Riverside. 
7 



CHAPTER II. 

UNROLLING THE NAPKIN. 

fUNE 24. I am very unliappy indeed, 
and my only consolation is in knowing 
'^{^ that all gifted persons have been subject 
to fits of depression, and have always 
been a mark for the envy and ill-treatment 
of the world. 

I just begin to realize what I lost in Aunt 
Jane. No one here seems to think I am 
anything remarkable, while she never had a 
doubt that I could do whatever I had a 
mind to. The only obstacle to my becom- 
ing very famous, we both thought, was be- 
cause I had so many gifts it was hard to 
tell which to cultivate first. Sometimes 
I've quite decided to be a great musician, 



UNROLLING THE NAPKIN. 99 

and play so splendidly that everybody would 
be enchanted and melted to tears, and I 
haven't given that up yet, although Fanny 
Blythe has tried in every way to discourage 
me. 

Now Fanny plays on the church organ, 
in that little one-street village where Aunt 
Jane lived, and though it is only a big 
music-box with a make-believe swell, she 
is just as conceited about it as if it had 
four banks of keys and no end of pedals. 
I won't say but what Fanny plays very well 
for a girl of her age, but I have exquisite 
musical taste, and she never satisfies me. 

One Sunday I thought I would sliow her 
what good playing really was. I had been 
reading an account of a great organist over 
in Germany, who could tell a story in 
music. First he imitated a storm, tbe wind 
coming up, the pattering of the rain, the 
thunder, and then made his audience under- 
stand, just by music, that a little child was 



46490A 



100 MISS PEACOCK'S DIART. 

lost ill the woods and was crying. It was 
so natural that they all were in tears before 
they knew it. 

I hadn't the least doubt but I could pro- 
duce the same effect upon our organ. I 
practiced a little upon the piano, and got 
the wind and thunder very well, and thought 
I would leave the rest to the inspiration of 
the moment, as most geniuses do. So I pro- 
posed it to Fanny, thinking she would be 
greatly pleased. 

" You will see the congregation in tears," 
said I, " before I am half through." 

" I shall see th'em run out of the house 
before you're a quarter through," said she, 
in her blunt way. 

" You are envious, Fanny," said I quietly, 
" but that is what we must always expect." 

" Who are * we,' pray ? ' said Fanny. 

" The geniuses, the eagles who soar out 
of sight of the common barn-yard fowls." 

Fanny laughed till she was like a lobster. 



UNROLLING THE NAPKIN. 101 

I stood quiet and lady-like till she was quite 
through. 

" Maybe you know nothing about the nat- 
ural history of eagles." 

"I've heard of them," gasped Fanny, 
" but how about the peacocks ? " 

Then it was my turn to get red. I burst 
into tears, the joke was so exceedingly coarse 
and heartless. Could I help my unfortu- 
nate name ? 

" Forgive me, Lotty," cried Fanny, sober 
in a minute, when she saw what she had 
done. 

If she had had any tact at all, she would, 
at such a moment, have called me " Char- 
lotte Adelaide" (my first name is certainly 
very aristocratic and pleasing), and I told 
her so. 

" Forgive me, Charlotte Adelaide, then," 
said she, but her eyes twinkled, and I 
would not be consoled till she had promised 
to let me play. 



102 MISS PEACOCK'S DIABY. 

Sunday morning I was there bright and 
early. 

" Won't you practice a little first ? " asked 
Fanny, anxiously. She always has to prac- 
tice, poor soul ! but I felt confidence in my- 
self, and declined. 

The people assembled, the minister was 
in his place ; there wasn't a sound beyond 
a June bug bumping his head against the 
wall, and I began. 

The organ didn't sound quite as well as 
I expected. I suppose I shouldn't have 
thought of producing such grand effects 
upon such a miserable instrument, but I 
did my best. The wind had risen, and 1 
had thundered once, when Fanny gave my 
sleeve a pull. 

" You are making dreadful discord," she 
said. 

I had expected she would be jealous of my 
success, and so took no notice of the inter- 
ruption. 



UNROLLINQ THE NAPKIN". 103 

" Everybody is looking around," said 
Fanny again. 

" Nothing more than I expected,'* said I. 

" Do stop ! they'll think it is I." 

" So much the better for you," said I, go- 
ing on with the crying of the child, which I 
would have finished to my entire satisfac- 
tion if that stupid organ-boy hadn't stopped 
blowing the bellows. 

I was a little disappointed in the effect, 
for no one was in tears, but I had evidently 
made a sensation, for people were exchang- 
ing looks, and there were one or two whis- 
pers. 

I said no one was crying, but I ought to 
have excepted Fanny Blythe, who was be- 
hind the organ, breaking her heart. I was 
quite disgusted with her want of generosity, 
and said to her, — 

" Fanny, do you know what is the mat- 
ter with you ? " 

" Yes, Charlotte Adelaide," said she, dis- 



104 MISS PEACOCK'S DIARY. 

agreeably ; " I shall be very much blamed 
for letting you play on the organ, when you 
didn't know anything about it. Why, if 
our cat had walked over the keys she would 
have played a better voluntary than you 
did." 

I didn't get angry with her, but only 
said quietly, — " Hadn't you better tell the 
truth, my dear ? You are envious, that is 
all, and I will tell you a good definition of 
envy I have lately read : ' Envy is that feel- 
ing by which we punish ourselves for being 
inferior to others.' Doesn't that exactly 
suit your case ? " 

She wouldn't answer, she was so sulky. 

" Well," said I, thinking perhaps I had 
better say something to comfort her, " I'll 
promise you this, if the committee come 
this week to ask me to take your place at 
the organ, I promise you I'll decline their 
proposal." 

Instead of being touched by this generos- 



UNROLLING THE NAPKIN. 105 

ity, she only gave a little giggle, and said, — 
" What an absurd girl you are ! " 

I remember the sermon that morning 
was something about not thinking more 
highly of ourselves than we ought to think, 
and it did seem so appropriate for Fanny, 
though I'm not at all sure she took it to 
heart. 

I don't know why I keep going back to 
that humble life, but that Fanny Blythe 
just seems to haunt me. I'm so glad she 
wasn't here yesterday, for I know she would 
have enjoyed a little mortification I had. 

I had been telling uncle about my very 
fine voice ; I could sing on the high notes 
like a bird, and if I had a few lessons I 
was sure I should be a second Jenny Lind 
or Patti. I should soon earn a thousand 
dollars a night, and not only take care of 
myself, but make the whole family wealthy. 
Uncle laughed, and said I should take les- 
sons immediately of Ida's teacher, Mr. Mo- 



106 MISS PEACOCK'S DIABT. 

rensi, who would come that very day, — 
that was yesterday. 

He didn't come till afternoon, and by 
that time I had quite made up my mind to 
become famous as a singer. I should have, 
bouquets thrown at my feet with diamonds 
for dew-drops, I should dress like a queen, 
I should give away great sums in charity, 
and be universally beloved. 

Imagine my disappointment, then, when 
Mr. Morensi tried my voice, and said I could 
never be more than an ordinary singer. My 
voice was thin and of small compass, noth- 
ing to be compared to Ida's ; still he thought 
he could improve it very much. 

I thanked him, and said if I couldn't be 
a great singer I wouldn't be any at all, and 
then ran away to my room, and cried all 
the afternoon. It is so vexatious, too, that I 
told Fred anything about my brilliant plans. 
He has called me nothing but "Patti" 
ever since, and it is so disagreeable, now 



UNROLLING THE NAPKIN. 107 

that I have given it all up. Yes, I have 
determined to think no more about it. That 
little quarter of a talent shall be wrapped 
up in its napkin again, out of sight. Thank 
fortune, though, I have more gifts than 07ie. 



CHAPTER m. 



THE SECOND TALENT. 



npUNE 27. I have had another great 
w) grief. I have often heard that every 

is* rose must have its thorn. I wish it 
were, just as true that every thorn must 
have its rose. Now I only have one big 
thorn of a mortification after another, and 
nothing pleasant with it. Ever since giv- 
ing up being a great singer I've been think- 
ing, — " Why not be a sculptor like Harriet 
Hosmer, or a painter like Rosa Bonheur?" 
Seeing one of Fred's drawings lately, re- 
minded me that Aunt Jane always thought 
I had wonderful talent in that direction. I 
took several sketches of our neighborhood, 
which, when I told her what they were, she 

108 

/ 



THE SECOND TALENT. 109 

recognized in a minute, with tears of pride 
^and delight ; besides, many and many a doll 
I have made out of putty and dried in the 
sun, showing tliat I could easily learn to 
make models out of clay. However, after a 
great deal of thought, I made my final de- 
cision, this morning, to be a painter. 

1 didn't begin the day very pleasantly, 
for when I came down stairs, full of my new 
plans, aunt wanted me to dust the parlors, 
because Ann was sick, and then she said I 
must do a little sewing, and not spend all 
my days so idly. 

It never seems to occur to aunt that I am 
not an ordinary girl, and should not be 
kept hemming handkerchiefs when I could 
be doing something of so much more im- 
portance. So I just let the parlors go, and 
carried the sewing up to Ida. 

" Why, mamma has given me some of 
my own to do," said she. 

" Well, you'll have time for it all, I 



110 MISS PEACOCK'S DIARY. 

guess," said I, very pleasantly, for I am al- 
ways good-natured. 

" It makes my shoulder ache to sew so 
much," said the disobliging child. 

" Don't fret now, my dear," said I, " that's 
such a bad habit. Just keep right on sew- 
ing, and the first thing you know it will be 
done. You must cultivate a habit of look- 
ing on the bright side ; it will be worth ev- 
erything to you." But seeing she still hes- 
itated, I concluded to flatter her by taking 
her into my confidence. " You must know," 
said I, " that I am going to be a great art- 
ist, and now, while you are just pulling 
your needle in and out through this easy 
work, I shall be down on the back piazza, 
working very hard at my drawing. I shall 
be very famous one of these days, and with 
the first money I earn I'll buy you a gold 
watch!" 

I am generous to a fault, and one would 
suppose she might have appreciated this 



TBS MEW YORK 
PlfBUC LIBRARY 



ASTOn, LENOX 




SKETCHING 



I 



THE SECOND TALENT. Ill 

utter forgetfuliiess of self, but she is a dull 
child, fond of present ease, and never sees 
an inch beyond her nose. So she only- 
looked as if she were going to cry, — so tire- 
some ! and I ran off and left her. Discon- 
tented people are so disagreeable ! I am al- 
most always cheerful. 

But now about my drawing. I went to 
Fred's room, took some of his pencils and 
paper, and then settled myself on the piaz- 
za. As Rosa Bonheur is so celebrated for 
her animal paintings, I thought I would 
follow her example, and make my first at- 
tempt on the cat. I made Louey come out 
and hold her, for she wouldn't keep still a 
minute. 

I may as well say here that Louey is 
perfectly fascinated with me, thinks I know 
everything, and am the most beautiful per- 
son in the world. I ayn a great contrast to 
him, poor little Humpy ! He is generally 
only too happy to do anything for me, but 



112 MISS PEACOCK'S DIARY. 

this morning he must needs be unreasonable 
too, and try me ahuost beyond endurance. 

We had just got nicely settled, with the 
cat in the very best position, when he must 
want to move, — said the " sun was creeping 
around." 

Now Ida, who always spoils him, would 
have jumped right up and moved him. But 
/ thought it was a good time to teach him 
self-control. So I moved his crutches out 
of his reach, and forbade him to stir a fin- 
ger till I had sketched the entire cat. 

He was very still about five minutes, not 
a second more, and then he interrupted me 
again. 

''Cousin Charlotte Adelaide" (I have 
taught him to be very particular with my 
name, and he doesn't dare disobey me), "it 
makes my head ache dreadfully to sit in the 
Bun." 

I didn't take any notice at first, but after 
a while I began to tell him a story of a 



TEE SECOND TALENT. 113 

Spartan boy who had been taught to despise 
suffering. He had stolen a fox, and when 
he was in danger of being discovered he 
hid it inside his vest. There it gnawed his 
breast, and almost tore out his heart, but 
the brave boy didn't cry out, nor move a 
muscle of his face. " That was splendid," 
said I, "but it is very babyish and unmanly 
to make such a fuss over a little pain." 

Louey colored very much, and then I for- 
got all about him till I had the cat almost 
done. Then I heard a step coming, and 
thinking it might be aunt, and knowing she 
doesn't always think as I do about govern- 
ing the children, I jumped up and moved 
Louey. It tm^ned out to be only Fred. 

" What are you about now, Miss Char- 
lotte Adelaide Patti ?" said he. 

I didn't take any notice of his impudence, 
but held up my cat a little triumphantly, 
perhaps, for I had every reason to be proud 
of it. 

8 



114 MISS PEACOCK'S DIARY. 

"What in the world is it?" said Fred, 
turning it every way, upside down, side- 
ways, till I was quite out of patience. 

" Don't be so disagreeable, Fred ; you 
know well enough what it is." 

" Oh, yes," drawled he at last, " I see 
now. It's a study of vegetables, — a crook- 
neck squash set up on four radishes, — and 
very good too, now I see it." 

Louey gave a half laugh, ending in a lit- 
tle sob, while / burst into tears. 

Of course Fred didn't pay the least atten- 
tion to me if he thought anything ailed 
Louey. They make such a baby of the 
child ! 

" Why, what's the matter, small boy ? " 
said he, so tenderly. " How white you are ! 
What have you been about ? " 

Louey gave a little look at me, and I just 
said, as if to myself, — "let the fox tear 
his heart out, and never complained." 

" What ? " said Fred, turning very quickly ; 



THE SECOND TALENT. 115 

but I pretended to be looking for something, 
and Louey shut his little mouth very firmly 
and wouldn't say a word. 

" Seems to me you're both very stupid," 
said Fred, who hasn't much patience, " but 
it's plain enough Louey is sick, and I shall 
carry him mto the house." 

As they passed me, Louey whispered, " I 
didn't complain, did I, cousin Charlotte 
Adelaide?" 

I shook my head. 

" Am I like the Spartan boy now ? " he 
cried, just as they were going into the door ; 
but I was busy with my drawing again, and 
didn't take the trouble to answer him. 
What plagues children are ! I suppose he 
will bother me about that for weeks. 

But I'm not half through with my trou- 
bles. Just after they had left me in peace, 
out came aunt, looking greatly displeased. 
Some company had been in, and there had 
been two grains of dust on the center-table, 



116 MISS PEACOCK'S DIARY. 

and a chair out of place I siij^pose. Such 
a trifling thing for aunt to be angry about ; 
but she knew I hadn't minded her, and so 
she read me a long lecture on selfishness 
and disobedience, and I, not wishing to lose 
my temper, just thought about something 
else till she got through. 

They say that getting in a passion injures 
the complexion, and I am very careful 
about it on that account, for I have tlie 
fairest skin in the world, with a little pink 
color in my cheeks like a sea-shell. 

Well, in the end Aunt Willoughby sent 
me up to my room to stay till dinner-time. 
Not so much of a punishment as she sup- 
poses. I spent at least an hour very pleas- 
antly looking at myself in the glass, and 
trying on all my pretty ribbons. Colors 
are very becoming to me, and it's very pro- 
voking to have to wear black for Aunt Jane. 
But, thanks to my good disposition, I don't 
fret about it, as some w ^uld, especially as, 



TEE SECOND TALENT. 117 

at times, wlicn I ])ni on my pensive expres- 
sion, I think it makes me more interesting. 

After I had looked at my pretty eyes and 
hair and cheeks as long as I wished, I 
stole across to Ida's room, and found she 
hadn't much more than half my work done. 
I just made some little remark about her 
laziness, and she was all ready to cry again. 
How hard it is to live with people so easily 
upset. 

As I was leaving her I chanced to see 
the corner of a book peeping out under a 
handkerchief, and guessed how the time 
had gone. 

I slipped it into my pocket. "• I shall take 
this away, Ida," I said, " till your work is 
done." ^ 

When I was back in my room I settled 
myself in the big chair, and thought I 
would read a while. I certainly needed 
rest after my morning's walk. I thought, 
of course, it was some good novel Ida was 



118 MISS PEACOCK'S DIARY. 

hiding so carefully, but there, when I drew 
it out it was only the Bible ! so I threw it 
down, and have been writing in my journal 
ever since. 

How poky it makes girls to be always 
reading the Bible and trying to be good ! 
Now Ida is no companion at all for me, and 
I have disliked Fanny Blythe a hundred 
times more than ever since she joined the 
church. 

But I won't think any more about these 
disagreeable things. To-morrow we expect 
yisitors, and a very fine artist will be among 
them. I intend to leave some of my sketches 
around carelessly, and see how he is affect- 
ed when they first catch his eyes. I must 
dress myself c^^efully in case he insists 
upon seeing the person who has shown so 
much talent. 

June 28. I am not half so happy here as 
I was at Aunt Jane's. There is so much 
envy and ill-feeling in the family, such con- 



THE SECOND TALENT. 119 

stant determination to mortify and break 
my spirit. 

For instance, this morning I had just ar- 
ranged my drawings on the center-table, 
when in came aunt to see that everything 
was in order. Now I don't like to call 
aunt ill-natured, but how else can I describe 
her when she said, — 

" Why, Ann, how came you to leave this 
rubbish here ? Take it away to the nursery. 
Oh, are they yours, Charlotte ? " she said, 
as I sprang forward. " Carry them up to 
your own room." 

But I didn't ; I put them in a portfolio 
of choice engravings, which I knew would 
be turned over in the course of the day. 
How differently she would have acted if 
they had been Fred's ; she only wants her 
cvn children to be noticed. 
^ The company came, aiid I had one mo- 
ment of triumph when the painter first 
caught sight of me. I was dressed all in 



120 MISS PEACOCK'S DIARY. 

white, except a black sash, and a ribbon at 
my throat, and my soft light hair was curled 
in beautiful ringlets. It had taken me 
ever since breakfast to arrange it. I stood 
on the piazza, leaning gracefully against 
the railing, with one hand on Ida's shoul- 
der. I kept Ida by me because she is sal- 
low and round-shouldered, and I knew I 
should look so much prettier by contrast. 

Pretty soon there were steps on the piazza, 
but I didn't look up, even when some one 
exclaimed (it was Mr. Barnard, the art- 
ist),— 

" What a lovely girl, and what rare hair ! 
it is like the halo in some of the old pic- 
tures of the saints ! " 

" Hush ! " said my disagreeable aunt ; 
*' she knows it too well already." 

She didn't suppose I heard that, but I 
did, and I heard Mr. Barnard say, in a lower 
tone, — 

"Is it possible ? and she looks so uncon* 



THE SECOND TALENT. 121 

scious. I should like to paint her some 
day, though ; she is almost perfect." 

I still pretended not to hear, but soon 
stole away up stairs to look at myself. He 
certainly was right about it ; I was very 
lovely. But this shows how envious every 
one else is in the house. No one but that 
little goose Louey has told me I was even 
pretty, since I came. 

But now comes my mortification. "When 
I came down again, they were just turning 
over the engravings, and I hid behind the 
curtains of the nearest window. 

" What's this ? " said Mr. Barnard, hold- 
ing up my Roman warrior done in crayons 

" That," said that disgusting Fred, who 
hasn't forgiven me for taking his drawing- 
paper without leave, — " that seems to be a 
likeness of our charcoal peddler, when he 
hadn't washed for a week ; and this," said 
he, taking up my " sleeping infant," " is a 
faithful copy of Mrs. Green's youngest, who 



122 MISS PEACOCK'S DIART. 

has the rickets, — all head, you see ; and 
here, I declare, is the squash and radishes 
too ! Oh, cousin Charlotte Adelaide ! " and 
he burst into one of his horse laughs. 

Mr. Barnard laughed too, and aunt 
said, — 

" Why, I told her to put away that rub- 
bish, but the poor child seems to have an 
idea she's a genius, and that these scrawls 
have wonderful merit." 

I was just burning up with shame, but I 
didn't dare to come out. 

*' How old is she ? " asked Mr. Barnard. 

" Almost fifteen," said Fred. 

" The case isn't very encouraging then," 
said Mr. Barnard, laughing again. " These 
miglit have been done by a child half that 
ago." 

The worst of it is, he went on flattering 
Fred greatly about some of his sketches, and 
the boy, who was conceited enough before, 
will be just intolerable now. He is going 



THE SECOND TALENT. . 123 

to take lessons of Mr. Barnard, and I sup- 
pose the house will be filled with his daubs 
and scrawls. 

1 am not at all convinced but what I 
could be a fine artist yet, but I shall meet 
with such ridicule if I go on now, that I am 
determined to give it up for the present. 
Perhaps, after all, my true career is to be 
that of an author. I have always written 
with the greatest ease and fluency. I won- 
der I haven't thought of it before. I shall 
write a book immediately : I wpuld begin 
to-day, but I am a little low-spirited. 

Aunt has been very much troubled about 
Louey, who has been feverish and restless 
all day, and does not seem at all well. I 
went in to see him a little while ago, to tell 
him how much more I should respect him, 
how much more manly it would be, if he 
didn't tell about sitting in the sun, and fret 
and make a great fuss about a little head- 
ache. 



124 MISS PEACOCK'S DIARY. 

" I haven't complained at all, cousin 
Charlotte Adelaide," said he. " Will you 
think I'm anything like that brave Spartan 
boy ? " How bright and eager his eyes 
looked. 

" Yes, a little, but remember, if you tell 
about the sun, that will be downright baby- 
ish." 

" I never will," said Loucy ; " but don't 
go away to the company yet. Let me put 
my hand just once on one of your pretty 
curls." 

But I thought he might rumple it, and 
said, — 

" No, I must go now. Don't you know 
I've been very kind to come in and see you 
at all?" 

" Yes, I know it," said he, lying back, 
with a long sigh. 

I wish he hadn't looked quite so dismal 
as I went away. Aunt's children, all but 
Fred, are so low-spirited, and I'm so kind- 



THE SECOND TALENT. 125 

hearted it makes me uneasy. My examj)le 
of constant cheerfulness ought to begin to 
have some effect, I think. 

I wonder what sort of a body Seymour 
will be ? He will soon be home now. 



CHAPTER IT. 



THE THIRD TALENT. 



PpULY 7. We have had a very dull, 
^ tiresome week, on account of Louey's 
S^ illness. One night they even thought 
he would die, and nobody but I and 
the younger children went to bed in the 
house. I am of a very delicate nervous 
temperament, and knew I must take good 
care of myself or I should be sick too. Be- 
sides, loss of sleep is so bad for the eyes, and 
just ruins the complexion. 

Nevertheless, I was not permitted to rest 
in peace. Aunt called me up at one o'clock 
at night, and told me to come into Louey's 
room. 

He was talking in a very wild way about 

126 



THE THIItD TALENT. 127 

the sun burning him, and a fox eating his 
head ; then he'd call my name, and beg me 
to take it away, for he couldn't bear it any 
longer. 

" What does he mean ? What have you 
been putting in his head?" said my aunt, 
very sternly. 

But I was very innocent, and told her 1 
" had never heard of such a thing as a fox 
eating any one's head," which was very 
true. 

Aunt wasn't at all satisfied with what I 
said, and looked at me so suspiciously that 
I felt very uncomfortable indeed. 

" You could tell if you wished to," said 
she, in her coldest tones. " You may go 
back to your room." 

So I went, and only the thought of spoil- 
ing my eyes kept me from a hearty lit of 
crying. 

How I do miss Aunt Jane ! she was the 
only one who fully appreciated me. How 



128 MISS PEACOCK'S DIARY, 

I do wish she were here just one hour, if i\, 
were only long enough to mend my stock- 
ings ! 

Aunt TVilloughby has made such an ab- 
surd rule, that we must learn to do our own 
.iHending. Ida used to do the most of it for 
n e, but this last week she has spent in the 
mirsery, helping keep the children still, for 
the least noise distressed Louey. 

No one knows how lonely I've been, for 
even Fred has been busy, and pays me no 
more attention than if I were a fly buzzing 
on the window-pane. He carries King 
Louey hours- every day, and then is too 
tired to walk with me or listen to a word I 
say. 

It certainly is a very sad world, and I 
have thought a great deal lately that I 
shan't know much more happiness till I 
get to heaven. 

July 7. P. M. Ida has just come in, and 
says there is a decidedly favorable change 



THE THinD TALENT. 129 

in Louey, and on the whole I'm glad. If 
he had died I should always have felt a lit- 
tle uneasy about that morning. 

July 24. Everything looks brighter this 
beautiful summer morning. Louey is al- 
most as well as ever, and Seymour is home 
at last. I have been very agreeably disap- 
pointed in Seymour, who, instead of being 
an awkward booby, is perfectly self-pos- 
sessed, with the most pleasing manners in 
the world ; so different from Fred, and yet 
I believe I am more afraid of him. He has 
such a strange look sometimes, which I 
have studied over a great deal, and can not 
in the least understand. I noticed it last 
evening as Ida and I were walking through 
the shrubbery towards the house, and he sat 
on the piazza, looking miles away into the 
red sunset, with that peaceful far-away 
look. 

"Wliat are you looking at?" said I, al- 
most impatiently. 
9 



130 MISS PEACOCK'S DIART. 

" Hush ! " said Ida, drawing me away 
again, and speaking very low. " I know 
what you mean, but we never trouble him 
when he looks so. The first time we ever 
noticed it was a year ago, when he was so 
sick. He had been studying too hard, and 
came home with brain fever. After he had 
just lived through that, he had the most 
terrible pains in his head and eyes ; neural- 
gia, I believe they called it ; and Dr. Brown 
told him it was very doubtful whether he 
could ever study again, or be a minister, as 
he hoped. This was a thousand times 
worse than the pain. Seymour had talked 
about being a minister ever since he was a 
little boy, and we thought this would just 
break his heart. But he only asked to be 
all alone a little while, and then he was just 
as cheerful and pleasant as ever. But from 
that time I began to notice that look. Some- 
times he wouldn't hear when I first spoke 
to him." 



THE TUinn TALENT. 131 

"But what is it ? " said I again ; " what 
is he thinking about ? " 

" I will tell you what papa wrote to May 
Hampton, who, you know, is Seymour's 
most intimate friend. May wrote first to 
papa, asking all about Seymour, and ' how 
he bore such a cruel disappointment ? ' and 
papa wrote back just these words : ' He en- 
dures as seeing Him who is invisible.' " 

" You mean, then, that when he has that 
look he is thinking so earnestly of God, and 
what will please him, that he almost be- 
lieves he sees him ? " 

" Yes," said Ida, with a ridiculously rev- 
erent air. 

"Oh, pshaw ! " said I ; " don't be so sol- 
emn. I don't believe a word of it. He is 
day-dreaming, building air-castles ; I do it 
myself, often." 

The absurd child colored violently, and 
drew herself up, as if I had hurt her feel- 
ings. I haven't any patience with such 



132 MISS PEACOCK'S DIART. 

over-sensitiveness, and I told her so : but 
she woukhi't talk any more ; she had drawn 
herself in, like a turtle mto its shell. 

But somehow what she said — thoucrh I 
don't believe a word of it — makes me un- 
easy. I know I have a great many excel- 
lent qualities, and I had been thinking how 
pleasant it would be to have Seymour at 
home ; some one who could understand me, 
and sympathize with me fully ; but our good- 
ness seems very different. I know he has 
shown courage and endurance, but there's 
something I don't understand about it. 1 
like the Spartan boy better. 

Nevertheless, I have been quite anxious 
that he should have a good opinion of me, 
and I surprised Louey by reading to him an 
hour this morning, and even letting him lay 
his foolish little head against my clean 
muslin sleeve. I gained my end, however, 
as I knew from a conversation I overheard, 
just outside the window Fred never seems 



TUB THIRD TALENT. 133 

to think I use my ears for any otlier pur- 
pose but to hang my ear-rings in, but I can 
hear through a stone wall. 

" You are very much mistaken, Fred," 
said a voice (it was Seymour's, I knew in 
a minute). '' She is not so utterly selhsh ; 
she is reading to Louey now, when I know 
she would rather be out playing croquet 
with us." 

" It isn't out of goodness or love for 
Louey, though," said that hateful Fred. 
" She has some end of her own, you may be 
sure." 

"■ Don't be so ungenerous, Fred," said 
Seymour, almost sternly ; and then they 
moved so far away that I couldn't hear any 
more. 

How I do begin to detest Fred ! He seems 
to be looking right through me all the time 
with his sharp eyes. But I shall be very 
careful and make Seymour like me in spite 
of him. 



134 MISS PEACOCK'S DIAIiT. 

July 31. I am never without something 
to trouble me, and now I have a bigger 
thorn than usual. 

Last Sunday morning, just as I had set- 
tled myself in the seat at church, who should 
I see, sitting in the middle aisle with the 
Spencers, but Fanny Blythe! I thought 
about it all the time my head was down (I 
always put my head down when I first come 
into church ; I think it is very respectable 
and lady-like) ; but I could not feel any 
more resigned about it. The Spencers told 
me they had a friend coming to see them, 
but I hadn't the faintest idea it was Fanny. 
How provoking ! I know she has just come 
to make me trouble. She will take such 
pleasure in mortifying me, for, of course, 
she will be constantly alluding to Aunt 
Jane, and the small way in which I used to 
live. The Spencers, without a doubt, know 
all about it already, and how we only kept 
one little servant. They will laugh when 



THE THIRD TALENT. 135 

they see me, of course, for I had given them 
to understand that I was always accustomed 
to style, never lifting my finger to do any- 
thing, but, as you may say, sitting in kid 
gloves from morning till night. 

It is very hard to bear, and as I sat there 
in church, and the choir began to sing so 
tenderly, — 

" Gently, Lord, oh gently lead us, 
Through this lonely vale of tears, — " 

I broke right down, and cried very hard. 
It was so true that life was nothing but 
a vale of tears, and I had seen so much 
trouble for one so young. 

Seymour spoke very kindly to me when 
church was out, but I didn't tell him exactly 
what was the matter. He has such queer 
notions, I have to be always on my guard. 
So I only said that I was very lonely, and 
missed Aunt Jane, and didn't feel as if I 
had many friends. 



136 MISS PEACOCICS DIAEY. 

" You hcive met with great losses, cousin 
Lottj," said be (he always says " Lotty," 
and I have concluded not to notice it). " It 
is very sad for a young girl like you to have 
neither father nor mother ; " and then fol- 
lowed some tiresome '-'• good talk," about a 
great Friend who loved me, and would 
*' comfort me as one whom his mother com- 
forteth." 

I knew what was the right thing to say, 
and so, when he finished, I answered, '' Oh, 
yes, that is my only consolation." 

" I am very glad to hear ihat^'' said he, 
•with his bright smile. " These little trou- 
bles here are not much after all, are they, 
cousin ? In such a little while it will all 
be over, and that dear Elder Brother will 
wipe away all tears from our eyes." And 
again there was that strange, sweet look in 
his face. 

I can't help admiring Seymour, and won- 
dering at him too, he is always so happy. 



THE THIRD TALE:^T. 137 

To bo sure he has been sufficiently restored 
to his health to go back to his studies, but 
he has to be very careful, and is constantly 
in fear of another attack. Yet he is never 
depressed or ill-humored, always bright 
and cheerful, ready to enter into any one's 
plans. I thought for a moment, as I looked 
at him that Sunday morning, that I would 
let everything else go, and try to be good. 
In fact, I said to cousin Seymour, — 

" I feel that the only tiling of any impor- 
tance in this world is to be good and un- 
selfish, and — " 

But just then Fred, who overheard me, 
turned around, making the most horrid 
face, with big goggle eyes, and made me so 
angry, I forgot everything else, thinking 
how I should pay him for his impudence. 

He does fairly persecute me ; there is no 
other word for it : and a dreadful thought 
has just occurred to me, — suppose he and 
Fanny Blythe should get together! They 



138 MISS PEACOCK'S DIARY. 

would be kindred spirits, that's certain ; and 
they'd just make me a mark for all their 
ridicule and ill-nature. I must try to pre- 
vent it. I shall not call on Fanny, nor let 
Ida go either. 

I am getting a little comfort from my 
book, which I have been writing for the 
last fortnight. I express myself very hand- 
somely, but I haven't got the plot quite to 
my satisfaction yet. I am writing the ad- 
ventures of a selfish, conceited girl, and I 
will confess to my journal that I have taken 
Fanny Blythe for my model. I wonder if 
she will recognize herself when she sees it 
in print ! 

To give some idea of my facility of ex- 
pression, and also what I have to suffer 
from Fred, I shall record something that 
happened within the last week. 

I had been thinking I would like to give 
Seymour some idea of my talent in this 
line, so I wrote out one or two beautiful 



THE THIRD TALENT. 139 

thoughts, and dropped them, as if by acci- 
dent, in the upper hall, by his room door. 

The first was this, written on my birth- 
day, July 26. 

" Passed, to-day, the fifteenth mile-stone 
in my journey of life. Am I on the King's 
highway, and how many years to heaven 
now?" 

The second idea was very poetical, — 
something about each star being a " bright 
oasis in the blue desert of the heavens." 

I was very much pleased with myself 
when these two brilliant thoughts occurred 
to me. 

Why is it I am so unfortimate ? It was 
just my luck that Seymour was gone all 
the morning, and my precious paper fell 
into the hands of that wretched Fred. 

It was tucked under my door again that 
sj^e evening, with another paper pinned 
to it, with something written in Fred's ugly 
boy hand : "If you really wish for infor- 



140 MISS PEACOCK'S DIARY. 

mation, my dear cousin Charlotte Adelaide 
Patti Rosa Bonlieur, I will tell you that 
you are nowhere near the ' King's high- 
way,' but, according to careful survey, are in 
a dirty little by-path in the wilderness of 
Sin. As for the number of years before 
you reach heaven, I've ciphered all the af- 
ternoon ; my slate's full of figures, and I'm 
nowhere near the answer yet. You have 
studied geometry some, I believe. If you 
can tell me how soon two diverging lines 
may be expected to come together, it will 
help a little on this tough problem. 

"P. S. Your poetical thought I've en- 
closed to Tennyson !" 

Mean, contemptible boy ! I haven't given 
him the satisfaction of knowing that I ever 
found his spiteful paper, but have appeared 
perfectly unconscious when he made any al- 
lusions to the matter. I can see he is dis{\p- 
pointed. He would have been so delighted 
if I had taken it to heart. 



THE THIRD TALENT. 141 

But that wasn't such a bad idea, sendino 
that little gem about the stars to Tennyson. 
.'I wonder what Fred would say if I should 
have a letter from tlie great poet some day, 
thanking me for the beautiful thought, and 
urging me to cultivate my talent ? It makes 
me laugh to think how he may have over- 
reaclied himself this time. 



CHAPTER Y. 

IS IT I? 

UGUST 6. I have been having such 
a disagreeable time with that little 
bother, Louey. He seems to have the 
most passionate admiration for beau- 
ty, and he comes almost every day, begging 
that he may lie on my bed a little while, 
and watch me while I put flowers in my 
hair or try on my ribbons. 

I never let him stay though, unless he 
first sets my room to rights. Aunt is so 
absurd about that. There are plenty of 
servaiits in the house, but she insists that 
Ida and I shall take care of our own rooms, 
and keep them just so neat, and everything 
folded to a thread in the drawers. Now I 

142 



7^ IT I? 143 

am so busy between my diary and my book, 
that I have no time for such little things, 
and Ida has grown so disobliging lately 
that if I get even half my mending out of 
her I think I have done well. 

So I generally have Louey pick up ev- 
erything he can find on the floor, and dust 
the chairs, and every few days put the 
drawers in order. By the time that is done 
he is so tired, crawling around with his lit- 
tle crooked back, that he doesn't talk much, 
but just creeps on the bed, and lies quite 
still. That's one comfort. 

But to-day, after resting a while, he sud- 
denly cried out, — 

" What a beautiful, straight back you 
have. Cousin Charlotte Adelaide, and how 
easy you dance about on your feet ! You 
must be very glad to be so pretty ! " 

I knew he was thinking of the great con- 
trast between us, and I patted his little 
crooked spine in a pitying way, meaning to 



114 MISS PEACOCK'S DIARY. 

be kind, but lie shrank away as if I hurt 
him. 

'' I shall be different some day," said he, 
half laughing, half crying. " Seymour says 
so, and I read about it too. In the twink- 
ling of an eye I shall be changed. How I 
wish the time would come ! " 

'' Don't talk so gloomy, Louey," I cried, 
" or you shall go right away. I don't want 
the time to come, and I don't want to be 
changed either." 

" Don't you suppose you could be pret- 
tier, cousin Charlotte Adelaide?" said 
Louey, very timidly. 

" I don't see how I could," said I ; and I 
don't. I never think of the angels now but 
they seem to have my eyes and hair. I 
can't imagine anything prettier. 

"But what is it about being raised a spir- 
itual body?" said the tiresome child, with 
his eyes so big and bright he hardly looked 
human. 



IS IT I? 145 

"I don't know nor care," said I, quite 
out of patience, " and if you don't talk as 
other children do, you shan't stay in the 
room another minute." 

So I didn't hear anything more for a 
long time. Then he said very low, — 

" Cousin Charlotte Adelaide, would ' otl> 
er children ' talk about pic-nics ? " 
- " That's a little better," said I. 

" Well, then, there's going to be a great 
pic-nic to-morrow, and we're all going ! " 

" Not you, I hope, Humpy Dumpy ! " 
Louey began to cry. 

" This is a little too much ! " said I, feel- 
ing quite nervous with his fretful waj^s. 
" Go right off to your own room ; I only want 
pleasant, cheerful boys around me ; " and 1 
sent him away sobbing like a baby as he is. 

Then I went to find Ida, who says it is 
really so, and that we are all invited. 

How splendid it will be ! The only draw- 
back is, that Fanny Blythe is invited, and 

10 



146 MISS PEACOCK'S DIARY. 

in some way I'm sure her enry and ill-na- 
ture will spoil the day for me. However, I 
won't cross that bridge before I come to it. 
I shall be very dignified with Fanny, and 
put her down if she makes any allusion to 
the past. I shall pretend not to understand 
what she is talking about. 

By the way, when I contrast my old 
humble life with my present splendor, I 
can't help believing that I'm a kind of fa- 
vorite of fortune, and that whenever I need 
anything, specially, it will be brought to 
me. 

For instance, Aunt Jane did very well for 
my baby days, but as soon as my beauty, 
talents, and increasing years, called for a 
more exalted station, Uncle Willoughby 
seems to have been pi^ovidentially raised 
up to place me in it. 

I feel confident some splendid fate is in 
store for me, and I should think those 
around me would see it, and not be always 



IS IT I? 147 

calling upon me and expecting me to spend 
my time in trifles. 

Aug. 6. P. M. Seymour has not been 
quite so kind to me these last few days, and 
I have often caught him looking at me in a 
queer sort of a way, as if he were thinking 
about me and studying me. I don't like it 
at all ; and this afternoon, especially, he has 
made me very uncomfortable. 

About an hour ago I went down to sit 
on the piazza with my book, and there was 
Seymour with Louey on his lap. 

The baby had been crying, and I'm afraid 
telling something, for he grew very red 
when he saw me, and Seymour looked at 
me with a sad sort of a smile. However, 
he didn't say anything, — that is, not to me. 
He was telling Louey little simple stories, 
too simple to repeat, and yet they made me 
uneasy. 

" Now, I'll tell you a story about a con- 
ceited goose," said Seymour. 



148 MISS PEACOCK'S DIARY. 

" Yes, c76>," said that foolish Louey. 

" A goose, who lived in a barn-yard, one 
morning remarked to her sisters, ' It seems 
to me that wo are the most important crea- 
tures in the world. The horse is bigger, 
but he has to work ; the oxen have to plow ; 
the cow is kept just to give milk ; but tve 
live like queens, and do nothing. There 
is man, too, — quite a superior animal, I 
should think, only he looks wretchedly in 
the water, — but he seems to have been 
created simply to mix our food, and bring 
it to our very mouths, and make us com- 
fortable generally. 

" How he must admire and envy us, we 
arc so very graceful and accomplished ; we 
swim as well as we can walk. How supe- 
rior we are, too, in the elegance of our gar- 
ments, to which we never have to give a 
thought. When man is tired he must take 
off his nice coat before he can rest himself; 
but we sleep all night in our snowy feath- 



IS IT I? 149 

ers, aud are ready to make calls at sunrise, 
without spot or wrinkle. Then we have no 
cares of housekeeping, or thinking where 
we shall get our next meal. Man was cre- 
ated to be our slave, and relieve us of eve- 
rything burdensome or disagreeable. We 
are certainly greatly distinguished and fa- 
vored, and I feel that some glorious fate is 
in store for us, especially for me, who am 
the fattest and handsomest goose of you 
all!' 

" But that night, that very goose had her 
neck chopped, and was served up with ap- 
ple-sauce the next day." 

Louey laughed loud in his childish, shal- 
low way, but I wouldn't lift my eyes. 

" Well, if you like that I'll tell you an- 
other about a selfish fly," said Seymour. . 

" There was once a fly who had very 
pretty wings, all rainbow and gold, and be- 
lieved she was very superior to her brothers 
and sisters. This fly always gobbled up 



150 MISS PEACOCK'S DIARY. 

anything nice she came across, without 
ever telling any one else. She chose the 
best places on the mirror and chandelier, 
and grew more disobliging every day of her 
life. 

" One day a very small fly, that could just 
walk alone, crept up to her, and asked very 
humbly, — 

" ' Will you please show me the way to the 
sugar-bowl ? I'm dying with hunger.' 

" ' Not I,' said the selfish fly. ' My time 
is too important for that ; I can't waste my 
strength in such trifles ; I've a great work 
before me.' 

" ' What, pray ? ' said the little fly. 

" ' Tiresome creature,' she replied. ^ Did 
you ever see those shining specks up above 
us,, which men call stars ?' 

"'I saw them for the first time last night,* 
said the little fly, in a weak voice, ' and 
some one said they were big worlds, bigger 
than this.' 



IS IT I? 151 

" ' Nonsense/ said the other, impatiently. 
* I will tell you a secret. There is a race 
of flies with golden wings like mine, who 
are destined to be very famous. They stay 
here a while to grow handsomer and grander, 
and when they are strong enough they fly 
away up there, to be greatly honored for 
ever. Those stars, as men call them, are 
only golden flies crawling on the blue wall 
of heaven.^ 

" That night the proud fly concluded she 
was strong enough for her trip. She set 
out triumphantly, and had almost reached 
the eaves of the house, when she tripped in. 
a spider's web, was all tangled and helpless 
in a minute, and, alas ! was gobbled up long 
before morning ! 

" The moral is, my dear Louey, that when 
we think of ourselves more highly than we 
ought to think, we are not a whit wiser 
than the goose or silly fly. And just as we 
hope we are about to realize our brilliant 



152 MISS PEACOCK'S DIARY. 

dreams, we are pretty sure to have a cruel 
disappointment. ' ' 

I was pretty sure of another thing too, 
and that was, that Seymour was telling 
these silly little stories for we, instead of 
Louey. It made me very angry, and when 
he began again, — 

" There was once a cat who was so fond 
of dress that she wouldn't lay off her furs 
even in the warmest summer weather, — " 
I just picked up my book and ran. 

It is so strange ! Every one in the house 
seems to think I am conceited and selfish, 
though I'm sure I don't see why. It is true 
I have beauty and talent enough to make 
almost any girl in the world vain, but the 
only wonder is that I don't think more of 
myself. 



CHAPTER YI. 

THE CHIEF SEAT. 

UG. 8. Well, the pic-nic is over, and 
I don't believe there was one there 
who didn't have a better time than I. 
In the first place, every one seemed 
to take such a fancy to Fanny Blythe. It 
was perfectly unaccountable, and very pro- 
voking. She isn't in the least pretty, and 
as I stood by Seymour in the grove, I could 
not keep from making fun of her turn-up 
nose. 

Instead of laughing with me, Seymour 

only looked very grave. " Did you ever 

hear," said he, " that ridiculing others is 

only an oblique way of praising ourselves ? " 

This was very disagreeable, especially as 

153 



154 MISS PEACOCK'S DIARY. 

I could not help confessing to myself that I 
had hoped to draw Seymour's attention to 
my own nose, which is a beautiful Grecian. 

" You can't say she is pretty, any way,'* 
said I, shortly. 

" I think she has the very best kind of 
beauty," said he. " She has a remarkably 
bright, intelligent face, and, better than all, 
I can read from her eyes and pleasant 
mouth that she is kind-hearted and self- 
sacrificing. I should like to know her." 

I longed to tell him how he was mis- 
taken, but felt sure I should be misunder- 
stood, and so stood trying to smile, while 
everybody crowded around Fanny and made 
her of the greatest importance. 

In the very beginning of the day it was 
proposed that some one should be queen, 
and decide on all the games, and tell us all 
what to do. 

I thought it was an excellent plan, for I 
was almost sure they would choose me. I 



THE CHIEF SEAT. 155 

helped them make a very pretty wreath, for 
I have a great deal of taste, and then just 
stood smiling, trying to look unconscious 
till they sliould come to crown me. 

To my great surprise and mortification, 
they never seemed to give me a thought, 
but passed right by, and crowned Fanny 
Blythe! 

How dreadful it was ! No one knows 
how hard it was for me to bow down with 
the rest, as they all vowed allegiance to 
their queen. I almost bit my tongue in two 
trying to control myself, and as soon as 1 
thought I would not be noticed I stole away 
into the thickest part of the wood to have a 
good cry. 

But I couldn't have even that comfort in 
peace. All of a sudden some one touched 
my hand, and I looked up, hoping it was 
Seymour, coming to comfort me, and tell 
me they had made a great mistake. But 
no ! it was only that bother ! 



156 MISS PEACOCK'S DIART. 

" Cou&.m Charlotte Adelaide," panted the 
wretched, little, piping voice, " it was too 
bad not to make you the queen" (the little 
crooked mite intied me !) " But J have 
made you a wreath, and will be your most 
faithful subject; " and he tried to put a lit- 
tle snarl of daisies on my head. 

For once in my life I was out of patience, 
and just boxed his ears, and tore off the 
mean little flowers and stamped them un- 
der my feet. 

Loucy looked at me a moment perfectly 
wild, then gave one great sob, and threw 
himself down with his face to the ground. 

I was sorry the minute I did it ; for, as 
ill-luck would have it, Seymour, who liad 
been looking for Louey, just came through 
the trees, and saw it all. 

" Cruel ! " said he, looking at me in a 
way which makes my cheeks burn even to 
remember it. " Take heed how ye offend 
one of these little ones ! " and lifting Louey 



THE CHIEF SEAT. 157 

very tenderly in his arms, he kissed him, 
and carried him away. 

How sweet it must be to be loved ! No- 
body loves me. At that moment I believe 
I would rather have been little, crooked 
Louey, than the beautiful Charlotte Ade- 
laide Peacock. 

Of course I didn't enjoy myself much the 
rest of the day. I cried a while over my 
troubles after Seymour left me, and thought 
how unfortunate I was ; a poor, friendless 
orphan, with everybody trying their best 
to make me unhappy. At last, as liobody 
seemed to think of coming to find me, I 
strolled slowly back. There they were, 
swinging, romping, and playing games ; no- 
body seemed to miss me, or care what had 
become of me. . 

What struck me as particularly disagree- 
able, was, that Fanny Blythe was sitting 
between Fred and Louey, evidently trying 
her best to be entertaining. Louey was 



158 MISS PEACOCK'S DIARY. 

talking very fast too, and it made my heart 
beat to think what his simple little tongue 
might tell about me. He's such a little 
sieve, if he thinks anybody likes him ; and 
I knew Fanny was just the one to flatter 
him, and draw him out. 

I found I was not mistaken : a little later 
in the day, when, rambling in the wood, all 
alone, of course, I slipped and fell down a 
great precipice. I screamed with pain, and 
every one ran. 

" Pshaw ! " said that heartless Fred, jump- 
ing down beside me. " You're not hurt a 
bit ; it's no more than falling off a chair." 

" I'm hurt terribly ! " I cried ; " if the 
pain is one bit harder I shall die ! " and I 
screamed again. 

Then Fanny Blythe bent over, and whis- 
pered, — " let the fox tear out his heart, and 
never complained." 

I screamed louder than ever then. I was 
so angry I would like to have knocked her 



THE CHIEF SEAT. 159 

down. All 1 could do by way of revengo 
was to make a grand fuss, and say that my 
foot was so badly sprained that I must be 
carried home immediately. I was of some 
consequence at last, for I hroke up the 
games, and kept them all waiting on me. 
Some of the boys had to go for a wagon, 
and the girls ran to a farmhouse for cam- 
phor and vinegar, and altogether it took up 
so much time that they all concluded to 
break up and go home when I did. That 
was some comfort, — to break up their hate- 
ful old pic-nic. 

Louey didn't dare to come near me when 
I was hurt ; but I saw the tears in his baby 
eyes, and he made Fanny take his handker- 
chief to bind up my foot. He hasn't a grain 
of spirit. 

To tell the truth, my foot is hardly hurt 
at all ; but I have to keep up appearances, 
and stay in my room, and let Ann bandage 
it up in vinegar. 



CHAPTER YII. 

THE MORE EXCELLENT WAT. 

UG. 10. It is very tiresome to be 
playing sick this beautiful morning, 

If) while they are all out at croquet. No 
one comes near me any more, not 
even Louey, who seems afraid of me. I am 
just as lonely and forlorn as I can be. 

I have been trying to write a little in my 
book, but somehow it won't grow interest- 
ing, and I have almost decided to give it 
up. What does it matter, after all, if I lay 
by this talent for the present with the 
others ? I may become just as famous by 
my beauty as if I wore myself out writing 
books or painting pictures. Perhaps, after 
all, that is exactly what I was made for, — 

160 



THE MOliE EXCELLENT WAY. 161 

just to be beautiful, — a lily of tlie field, 
that toils not, neither does it spin, and yet 
Solomon in all his glory isn't to be com- 
pared to one of us. 

I am wonderfully beautiful, — there is no 
denying it. What if I am not as useful as 
some others ! A lily is a great deal better 
liked than a bed of catnip or a root of rhu- 
barb. Now, it always seems to me that Ida, 
working around in her quiet way, good to 
amuse the babies and keep them still, is 
just like catnip ; and Fanny Blythe, who is 
clever certainly, but so intensely disagree- 
able, is rhubarb. Who wouldn't be the 
lily? 

I am going to lie on the bed a while, and 
look at myself in my little hand-glass. 

Evening. Such a horrid talk as I have 
had with Seymour ! I was lying on the 
bed, looking at myself, and feeling in the 
most pleasant, amiable state of mind, for 
my skin was like satin, and wasn't the least 
11 



162 MISS PEACOCK'S DIARY, 

freckled nor tanned after the pic-nic, and it 
seemed as if my eyes grew larger, and the 
eyelashes longer, every day. It was very 
provoking to be interrupted by a knock at 
the door, though, to be sure, I was better 
pleased to see Seymour coming in than any 
of the rest of the family. I slipped the lit- 
tle glass under the quilt, and tried to look 
as if I were very patient under my suffer- 
ings. I know he thought I was pretty, ly- 
ing there in my white wrapper, for I saw it 
in his eyes, though he tried to look very 
hard and grave, while he asked me very 
coldly if I " felt any better." 

I didn't like his manner at all, and so I 
said, — 

" It can't be of any interest to you, or 
any one else, how I feel. I haven't a friend 
in the world." 

He didn't contradict me, as one would 
have expected, of course, but just a?,ked, in 
his quiet way, — 



THE MORE EXCELLENT WAT. 1G3 

" Do you know what is the reason ? " 

That wp-s a little too much, and I burst 
out crying and sobbing with all my might. 
It has always been a comfort to me that I 
look prettier than ever when I cry, — like 
a rose wet in a shower. My face never gets 
swollen and red as Fanny Blythe's does. 

I might have spared myself all that extra 
exertion, though, for that cold-blooded Sey- 
mour didn't make the slightest effort to 
console me. In fact, I think he looked out 
of the window till I stopped from sheer ex- 
haustion, and then said, in his ordinary 
way,— 

" I am going away on a little sea-voyage, 
for my health, cousin. I shall start to-mor- 
row, and probably be gone all the vacation. 
You will excuse me for troubling you in 
your room ; but you do not come down 
stairs now, and I did not like to go away 
without seeing you once more." 

"Thank you," said I, very stiffly. 



164 MISS PEACOCK'S DIARY. 

"And, cousin," said he, his mouth trem- 
bling a little, " I can not feel easy unless I 
say something before I go. I am afraid 
you will think it is hard and cruel, but it is 
only because I truly love you." 

I felt as if something dreadful was com- 
ing, and was too frightened to say a word. 

" You told me when I first came," con- 
tinued he, " that you were a Christian, and 
I hoped it was so ; but, cousin, you must 
not deceive yourself; you know nothing 
about it. What is it to be a Christian ? 
First, of course, to love God with heart, 
soul, and strength ; and secondly (and the 
command is just as binding), to love your 
fellow-men, your neighbor, as yourself." 

" And how do you know I do not, Mr. Im- 
portance ? " said I. 

He flushed a little. " Forgive me, cousin, 
but you love only one person in all the 
world, and that is your beautiful self." 

" Prove it ! " said I, just choking. 



THE MORE EXCELLENT WAY. 165 

" Well, then, think over your cousins, 
your friends, your neighbors ; if you do 
not actually dislike and despise them, you 
are at least indifferent to them. Their 
plans, wishes, hopes, are of no importance 
to you. You would not turn over your 
hand to oblige them. Then I have noticed 
— I must tell you tlie truth, cousin — that 
you are very haughty and hard-hearted 
with the poor. Poor Mrs. Bingham is as 
much your neighbor as rich Miss Spencer, 
and yet you swept proudly by, and made 
no ofifer to help her, when you met her stag 
gering in the lane a few days ago, having' 
grown faint in the sunshine with her heavy 
load. Then how you mortified her son 
John, the day of the pic-nic. When he made 
his humble admiring bow, you returned it 
with a rude, haughty stare, as much as to 
say, ' How can that fellow have the im- 
pudence to bow to the elegant Miss Pea- 
cock ? ' And yet John and his mother are 



166 MISS PEACOCK'S DIARY. 

devoted, consistent Christians. If you are 
one also, as you hope, they have the very 
highest claim upon you. God has made 
you all of one family, — you are all his chil- 
dren." 

" And yet I suppose one may be allowed 
to choose associ-ates who are congenial even 
among God's children," said I, with proper 
spirit. 

" Yes, to be sure, we may certainly make 
our selections, and choose whom we please 
for our intimate friends, hnt we have no 
excuse for treating any one with contempt 
and unkindness, no matter how inferior he 
may appear. 

" You would not treat a Jcinff as you did 
John, but how do you know what God has 
in store for him ? It doth not yet appear 
what he shall be. 

^' When you meet God's children, re- 
member they are ' kings and priests to 



THE MOItE EXCELLENT WAY. 167 

God ' yet to be. Be very careful you do 
not make some great mistake." 

Seymour gets up such queer ideas, I 
couldn't think for a moment what to say ; 
so he went on : — 

" You are very pretty, cousin, but God 
looks on the heart. Fanny Blythe, quick- 
tongued, but genuinely conscientious and 
self-sacrificing ; little crooked, cheerful Lou- 
ey, waiting patiently to be changed, — are 
fairer in God's sight than you." 

" Cruel ! " sobbed I, in earnest this time. 
" How dare you talk so to me ! " 

Seymour wiped his eyes. He pretended 
it pained him to tell me this, but I know 
he enjoyed it. Everybody likes to torture 
me. In a moment he was at it again. 

" You have told me you hoped to be fa- 
mous some day, and perhaps you have 
talents — " 

" Perhaps, indeed ! " said I, scornfully. 

" Yes, it is by no means certain," said 



168 MISS PEACOCK'S DIARY. 

he, in tliat quiet, detestable way of his. 
" You are very conceited, cousin ; if you 
had been humbler you would not have had 
so many mortifications. He that is down 
need fear no fall. God resisteth the proud, 
and giveth grace to the humble." 

" Proud, conceited, selfish ! " I sobbed ; 
"have you any more pleasant things to 
say?" 

" Only this," said he : " as I said before, 
you are longing to be famous, and I will not 
deny that earthly honor and admiration is 
exceedingly pleasant. If we were to live 
here always I should bend every energy to 
its attainment. But the change must come 
so soon. In that hour when our clinging 
hands must loose their hold of life, when 
we lie helplessly floating between two 
worlds, wlat will comfort us most, — to know 
that we stand high on the earthly roll of 
fame, — a Jenny Lind, a Rosa Bonheur, a 
Tennyson, — or that our names are not mi- 



THE MORE EXCELLENT WAY. 1G9 

known in that great land wliither we are 
going ? — that the Master knows that we, 
that you, have followed him, have gone 
about doing good ; that the sum of human 
misery is less for your having lived; that 
your name is written in the book of life, 
with this most precious record concerning 
you, ' She hath done what she could ' ? Oh, 
what happiness, what never-ending fame, 
were this ! " 

He paused a moment to steady his voice. 
" Is it not better to lead this grand, useful 
life, than just to be seeking your own pet- 
ty advancement ? Think what it must be to 
hear, always making music in your heart, 
' Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the 
least of these ye have done it unto me ! ' 
A kindness done to* me least, the meanest, 
of those He came to save, — He will take 
it as a personal favor. In the humble 
thanks you shall hear Christ's voice, — ' You 
have done it unto me ! ' What a wonderful 



170 MISS PEACOCK'S DIARY. 

honor ! We, so weak, so inferior, may do the 
Saviour a kindness. Cousin, promise me 
you will think of it." 

I covered my face, and wouldn't answer. 
He had heen such a bore ! 

He waited a few minutes. 

" Have you nothing to say before I go ? " 

" If you ivill make me speak," said I, " I 
don't think you have any right to preach 
sermons before you are licensed, and I wish 
you'd go away now, for I'm tired, and want 
to sleep." 

He gave a long, long sigh, and saying, 
" Good-by, then, cousin," stooped to kiss 
me ; but I pushed him away. To think of 
pretendhig affection after insulting me so 
cruelly ! 

Ida came to my room''a little while after- 
wards to tell me that odious Fanny Blythe 
was here to tea, and to ask me if I couldn't 
come down. But I was too unhappy. 

" Sej'mour has been proving to me that I 



THE MOnE EXCELLENT WAY. 171 

am not a fit companion for such excellence,'* 
said I ; " she must excuse me." 

Later in the evening, I heard them all 
out on the piazza, singing and telling sto- 
ries. How happy they were ! 

At last Fanny was going home, and Sey- 
mour was going witli her. What a pleas- 
ant walk she would have through the fields, 
while I sat crying in my dark room ! 

'' I am sorry not to have seen Lotty," 
said the hypocrite, as she tied her hat. 

" What have you done to her, Seymour? " 
laughed Fred. " You might as well have 
let her alone. I should think you'd have 
found out by this time there is no use iu 
wasting the ' good seed ' in that quarter." 

" We shall see," said Seymour, cheerfully. 
" It isn't everything best that blossoms the 
same summer you plant it ! " 

I heard every word in the still summer 
niglit. How cruel and heartless to talk me 



172 MISS PEACOCK'S BURT. 

over in such a public way ! I shall never 
forgive them. 

Oh dear ! I'm tired of my life, and I'm 
tired of this journal ! Such a record of 
mortifications, I can't bear the sight of it. 
I believe I won't write in it any more. 



CHAPTER YIII. 

THE COMING FEAST. 

EC. 15. While stirring up my drawer 
this morning, to find my stockings, 
which some way always get mixed 
up with my collars and ribbons, I 
stumbled across my old diary, and have 
taken a notion to write in it once more. 

How disagreeably it did leave off, and 
how very angry I was with Seymour ! I 
couldn't get that sermon out of my head 
for a long time, and once in a while I used 
to try to be more obliging, but it was a great 
bother, and I've forgotten almost all about 
it now, thank fortune ! 

I haven't had a very pleasant fall and 
winter, aunt's family have grown so cold 

173 



174 MISS PEACOCK'S DIARY. 

and -unsympatlietic. I spend a great deal 
of time in my room, and only come down 
when there are visitors ; strangers always 
admire me greatly, and I have to make that 
console me in my lonely hours. 

We are to have a very large party here 
on Christmas, and among them will be Mr. 
Barnard, who insists upon taking my por- 
trait. He will stay a few days and begin it 
here. I expect to enjoy myself exceedingly. 

I have been out all the morning, seeing 
about some natural flowers, which of course 
are difficult to obtain at this season. I 
overheard Fred telling Ida that Mrs. Bing- 
ham had some splendid scarlet geraniums, 
and a few other flowers, which he could get 
for her to put in her hair, Christmas. 

I thought it was very selfish in them not 
to think of me, when they knew I was go- 
ing to leave off black at the holidays, and 
should particularly need flowers when my 
portrait was taken. So I just slipped on 



THE COMING FEAST. 175 

my hat and cloak, and ran down to Mrs. 
Bingham's myself. Fred will ne^'er know 
but what it was my own idea, for I was in 
the back parlor when he spoke of it, and 
slipped out before he saw me. 

Sure enough, Mrs. Bingham's small win- 
dows were crowded with flowers. How 
they grow so finely in that little poverty- 
stricken hole, I don't know, but there they 
were, and I told her I had come to engage 
every bud and blossom that would be out 
on Christmas day. 

Mrs. Bingham always is very unfriendly 
with me, for some reason, but to-day she 
was positively rude. She only held her 
door open on a little crack, so that I really 
had quite a squeeze getting in. I am sure 
I didn't stay a minute longer than I could 
help in her room, for it had a very disagree- 
able odor ; but it had occurred to me that 
my white dress would be lovely trimmed 
with wreaths of greens, and I wanted John 
to so to the woods and bring me some. 



176 MISS PEACOCK'S DIART. 

The lazy, unmannerly fellow was lying 
full length on a rude lounge at the farther 
side of the room, and didn't stir as I ap- 
proached him. 

" Don't wake him, please, Miss," said 
Mrs. Bingham; '' he isn't well at all." 

Mothers are all alike ; the idea of making 
a baby of that great, strong John ! 

^' But I must speak to him a minute," 
said I, giving his arm a shake ; " John, 
wake up ! " 

He started up, very rod and wild, saying 
queer, jumbled words, while his ill-man- 
nered mother just pushed me right out of 
the room. 

" I wouldn't have had him wakened for 
a kingdom, Miss," said she, putting up her 
apron ; and I ran home, for I hate scenes. 
Why is it that I am always stumbling upon 
something unpleasant ? 

But I shall have a sj^lendid time Christ- 
mas ! 




CHAPTER IX. 

THE LOWEST ROOM. 

AY 10. For the first time in months 
I have been allowed to use my eyes 
more than a few minutes at a time, 
and I have chosen to write a while- 
in my diary. It seems right that this rec- 
ord of my folly and selfishness should be 
completed with the history of my bitter 
punishment. I shall continue my story 
from where I left it just before the Christ- 
mas, which was to have been so brilliant 
and triumphant. 

I remember, after coming home from Mrs. 
Bingham's cottage, I spent the rest of the 
day, and several days following, arranging 
my dress for the great party ; only going 

12 177 



178 MISS PEACOCK'S DIARY. 

OTit to spend my little allowance for ribbons 
and trumpery for my own adornment. 

The children were all happy and eager, 
preparing little surprises for each other, but 
I couldn't spare anything from myself, even 
to buy a toy for the baby. 

All the time, patient, forgiving Louey 
was carving me a bracelet out of different 
kinds of wood. Ida was working my name 
on a pretty embroidered handkerchief, and 
Fred had bought me Jean Ingelow's Poems 
in green and gold. 

I felt very much ashamed on Christmas 
morning when I had nothing to give them 
in return, and I think they saw it, for I re- 
member they said kindly, — 

" Never mind, cousin ; you didn't know it 
was our custom : another Christmas you 
will think of it." 

I was in terror lest they should find out 
how selfish I had been about the flowers, 
but Fred, who went after them for Ida, only 



THE LOWEST ROOM. 179 

said that John was very sick, and the neigh- 
bors advised him not to go to the house, for 
there was a rumor that it was some dread- 
ful and contagious disease, although his 
mother kept very still about it. 

This worried me greatly, especially as I 
had a terrible head-ache, which seemed to 
grow worse every minute. 

As the day advanced I had to lie down, 
although I heard the gay company arriving, 
and Mr. Barnard asking for me. I shall be 
better by evening, I thought, but when at 
last the gas was lighted, and, exerting my 
strong will, I rose and tried to dress, I 
staggered and fell, before the first curl was 
brushed round my finger. Again and again 
did I try, and fail, before I could give up all 
idea of the brilliant parlors and Christmas 
tree, and lie in my little room instead^, 
groaning and crying with pain. 

I remember listening for a while, with a 
bitter, rebellious heart, to the music, the 



180 ^IISS PEACOCK'S .DIARY. 

laugliing and shouting. Then everything 
becomes confused. I seemed drifting away 
into a horrible, blank space, stretching my 
hands in vain to Fred and Fanny Blythe, 
who were far away, safe on a bright cloud 
above me. 

" Save me ! save me 1 " I cried. 

But they only laughed, and I thought I 
heard them say to each other, — " let it 
tear out his heart, and didn't complain. 
Now is a good time to learn self-control." 

Swift as light the scene changed. There 
was a terrible rushing noise, and I was in 
a little boat on the maddest water just at 
the edge of a frightful fall. I stood up and 
screamed wildly. No help ! Over we went, 
down, down, — and then, thank God, I did 
not know any more. 

It might have been the next minute, or 
it might have been ages after, that I opened 
my eyes, and found myself in my bed in 
my own room. The pain was all gone ; 



THE LOWEST ROOM. 181 

only a stray lock of liair on my forehead 
troubled me, and when I wanted to brush 
it off, my hand lay like a log at my side. 
Neither could I turn myself in bed, al- 
though, from some slight noise, I was quite 
conscious some one else was in the room, 
and I wished greatly to see if it were Ida 
or Louey. 

At last, with quite an effort, I managed 
to make a slight noise, and immediately 
an old woman, whom I had never seen be- 
fore, was bending over me. 

" Ah, you are better, poor child ! you will 
live, thank God 1 " 

" Who are you ? " said I, shortly, for I 
didn't like the idea of strangers being so 
free in my room. 

" Hush, my dear ! " said she ; " you have 
been very sick, and I mustn't talk to you 
now." 

Then away she bustled for some gruel, 
which I had to take whether I would or no. 



182 MISS PEACOCK'S DIARY. 

In fact, I was so weak, she had everything 
her own way, and I minded her like a baby. 

A day or two passed, and I grew stronger 
under her care. She was a kindly old wo- 
man, and wonld turn me a dozen times 
that I might keep her in sight, while she 
set the room in order, or warmed my light 
iinner. The idea came in my foolish head 
that she was like a dried-up old fairy min- 
istering to a beautiful princess. In fact, I 
told her so, one day, when I was provoked 
with some of her tyrannical ways. 

She only said, " Poor child ! poor child ! " 
and actually wiped a tear from her eyes. 

I could not understand such an excess 
of pity. What did it mean, when I was 
getting better and stronger every day ? It 
irritated me greatly, and I woiddn't speak 
to the good old woman for half a day. 

In the mean time I began to think it very 
strange that my aunt and cousins had not 
been in to see me. 



TEE LOWEST ROOM. 183 

"Wliere are tliey all?" I asked the 
nurse. 

" Gone to Philadelphia to visit your un- 
cle's sister." 

" Gone to enjoy themselves, while I was 
so very ill ! " said I, bitterly. 

" It was thought best they should go," 
said the old nurse. " Some day you will 
know the reason why." 

This set me to thinking again. Why 
did the old woman look so pityingly at me ? 
What terrible thing was hanging over me ? 
But I could not find out, and the slow days 
passed by without any variation, till one 
morning, when I was washed very carefully 
and dressed clean from top to toej and 
James and Ann came to carry me into an- 
other room. 

" What is this for ? " I asked. 

" To give you a little change," said nurse, 
pleasantly. " You must be very tired of 
seeing those same four walls. Besides, 



184 MISS PU ACOCK' S DIABY. 

your room is to be cleaned before your 
aunt and cousins come back." 

" I don't see why," said I, petulantly. 
" You kept it as neat as a pin." 

Turning suddenly, for I could move now, 
I caught Ann with her hands up, making 
gestures to James. 

" Well, Anuj are you going crazy ? What 
is the matter ? Am I so changed ? " 

" You are very thin. Miss," said Ann, 
and hurried away, pretending some one 
called her. 

" Well, don't act as if I were a hobgoblin," 
said I ; " my cheeks will be full again before 
long." 

Then, being very tired and weak, I fell 
asleep, and didn't think anything more 
of the vexatious subject till the next day. 
Then, as the old nurse was reading aloud 
a chapter from the Bible, as she always 
would, ^vithout asking my permission, she 
came to this verse: — 



THE LOWEST BOOM. 185 

*'' Favor is deceitful, and beauty is vain, 
but a woman that feareth the Lord, she 
shall be praised." 

I never liked that verse much, but she 
read it twice over, and looked at me over 
her spectacles to see if I heard. 

"It is well enough for you to comfort 
yourself with that verse," I thought, " for 
you are as ugly as a toad, but I — " and 
then I thought I would like to look at my- 
self once more. I had spoken of it two or 
three times before, but she had always put 
me off with some excuse, and now she 
jumped up, saying, — 

" Oh ! I hear a carriage ; your aunt has 
come." 

And I was left alone by myself. 

In about half an hour, just as I was try- 
ing in my willfulness to totter across the 
room to the dressing bureau, my cousins 
came trooping in. They all kissed me, 
were so glad I was better, and wanted me 



18G 3nss PEACOCK'S diary. 

to look at the pretty presents they had 
brought me from the city. 

But my suspicions were aroused, and I 
watched them all very narrowly. It seemed 
to me they were all constrained, and little 
Louey kept his eyes fixed on me, with his 
face very red, looking as if he was going to 
cry. 

*' Bring me a glass ! " cried I, excitedly, 
to the nurse. " I ivill have one. I shall get 
it myself, if you won't ! " 

" Bring it," said aunt, in a low voice. 
" There must be a first time." 

Nurse brought it. I seized it eagerly. 
Oh, frightful ! my beautiful face was red 
and scarred ; my pretty hair gone, shorn 
close to my head ! 

" Oh ! it can not be ! It is a horrible 
dream ! Aunt, Ida, tell me ; I am not hid- 
eous ! It is not I ! " and in my rage and 
despair I brought my clenched fist down 



THE LOWEST ROOM. 187 

on the faithful mirror, shivering it into a 
thousand pieces. 

Ida was sobbing aloud, Fred stole out of 
the room, and Louey sank upon his knees. 

" Jesus," he sobbed, " comfort cousin 
Charlotte Adelaide, and tell her if we're 
patient and good you'll make us beautiful 
some day." 

''We!'' " Us!'' I screamed. "Yes, you 
are quite right, Louey. I belong to your 
company now." 

Louey did not seem to hear, but aunt's 
face flushed. " I do not know about that," 
said she, lifting his slight figure tenderly. 

" Oh, how am I ever to bear it ! It is too 
horrible ! I will not have it so ! " I cried, in 
impotent rage. 

" We will all love you more than ever, 
cousin Charlotte Adelaide," said the poor 
little boy, tears streaming down his thin 
cheeks. 

" Never call me that name again ! " I 



188 MISS PEACOCK'S DIARY. 

shrieked. " There is no Charlotte Adelaide ; 
she is dead, gone for ever ! Oh, how I wish 
she were dead ! But this will kill me. Go, 
let me die in peace ! " 

Aunt drew away the children, and I was 
left alone, — alone to sob and mourn inces- 
santly, and to stop my ears when nurse 
tried to comfort me. 

Towards evening Ann came up to let 
nurse go down to tea. I called her to the 
bed. 

'' Ann, what was the matter with Johu 
Bingham ? " 

" Small-pox, Miss." 

" And I had it too ? " I groaned. 

" Yes, Miss." 

" But I was vaccinated ? " 

"Not since you were a baby, and it run 
out they said. But, Miss, don't take on so. 
There was every care taken of you. There 
was wet cloths on your poor face all the 
time, that it shouldn't be marked, and it 



THE LOWEST ROOM. 189 

isn't but v^cry little. If you could see 
John's now ! Besides, Miss, the red will 
leave your face little by little ; you'll look 
quite yourself again in a year's time, — may- 
be less." 

"In a year's time ! " I said, bursting out 
afresh. And so I mourned day after day, 
refusing to be comforted, until I had wea- 
ried the patience of every one in the house. 

" Sin no more," said nurse one day, '' lest 
a worse evil befall you." 

" What can be worse ? " I cried, in my 
wickedness and rebellion. But my question 
was answered. 

Incessant weeping and mourning, with 
refusal to take any food, threw me into a 
low fever, accompanied by acute inflamma- 
tion of the eyes. 

At first, when I knew that I was again 
dangerously ill, I only felt a kind of tri- 
umph. I imagined I had not had sufficient 
sympathy ; they hadn't the faintest idea of 



190 MISS PEACOCK'S DIARY. 

my misery. They didn't believe me wlien 
I said it would kill me, but tliey should see 
I was right. 

But this state of mind did not last long ; 
I roused one day from a sort of stupor to 
the consciousness that several persons were 
kneeling around my bed. What were they 
doing ? 

Was that my cold aunt, pleading so ten- 
derly that I might have one more chance to 
lead a nobler and better life, to the glory 
of God's holy name ? Was that my little 
Louey, speaking to his dear friend Jesus in 
behalf of "cousin Charlotte Adelaide"? 
And the old nurse, too, putting up her strong, 
homely petitions for the same unworthy 
person ? 

I could not see, for the room was per- 
fectly dark on account of my sensitive eyes, 
but I heard only too well. 

So it was really possible, perhaps even 
certain, that I must die ! 



THE LOWEST ROOM. 191 

It was a most overwhelming thought ! I 
could not stir nor speak, even when they 
softly kissed me, and Louey, patting my 
cheek, sobbed with angelic pity, — 

" Poor, poor cousin Cliarlotte Adelaide!" 

They all went out on tiptoe, and left me 
in silence and darkness ; but I could not 
sleep again ; a perfect whirlwind of tliought 
was sweeping through my brain. 

To die so young, so unprepared ! Oh, it 
was horrible ! I must live, live any way ; 
disfigured, deformed, it was no matter, so 
only that I might still cling to life, — sweet 
life ! I had no hope beyond. 

Why hadn't they stayed and prayed longer 
for me, — they who knew God as a friend? 
Why didn't they think what it was to lie 
down in the dark, cold grave, as I must 
soon, and be no more seen ? I didn't dare 
pray for myself, after forgetting God so 
many years. 

" Ida! Louey !" I called faintly, and then 



192 MISS PEACOCK'S DIART. 

almost unconsciously the cry broke from 
me, — "Jesus, tliou Son of David, have 
mercy on me ! " 

It was the cry of the blind man by the 
wayside, and even as his petition was heard, 
so the scales seemed to fall from my inner 
sight, and my soul's eyes were opened. 

My past life was all before me in a new 
light. I saw my patient, loving Aunt Jane 
admiring me as a superior being, sacrificing 
her comfort to my slightest whim, while I, 
ungrateful, received her service only as the 
homage due me, and let her spend her fee- 
ble strength, till Death, more pitiful, gave 
her the rest I begrudged her. 

I saw large-souled, sensible Fanny Blythe, 
laughing at my foibles, but ready to be the 
truest friend, while I insulted and repelled 
her with charges of qiwj and pride, which 
had their dwelling only in my own heart. 

I saw patient little Louey, — with every 
claim upon my tenderest compassion, — 



THE LOWEST ROOM. 193> 

broken-hearted, under my selfishness and 
cruelty. 

There was nothing to relieve the picture-; 
Seymour had told but half the truth. Ut- 
ter selfishness, haughtiness, and vanity! 
Aunt Willoughby, Ida, Fred, Mrs. Bing- 
ham, John, — all the world were witnesses 
against me. 

How had I always sought for the chief 
places at every feast, and now behold ma* 
sent with shame to take the lowest room, — 
the lowest room ! 

In my distress I groaned aloud; nurse' 
was at my side in a minute. 
. " Shall I move you, dear, or change youT 
pillows?" 

How could she think of such trifles in 
this dreadful moment ? 

" I am going to die, nurse ! " I gasped. 
" What will become of me ? I am afraid to 
die!" 

She took my hand and kissed me ten- 

13 



194 MISS PEACOCK'S DIARY. 

derly. " Behold the Lamb of God, who 
taketh away the sins of the world ! " 

" How can I ? " I cried eagerly. 

" Believe on him, trust in him, throw 
yourself on his mercy, ask him to wash all 
your sins away in his blood. He will hear 
you, my dear. He never turned any away." 

I wanted to talk more, but nurse was 
frightened to see me so excited, and forbade 
it. She brought me a sleeping potion, but 
I would not take it. I did not dare to 
waste a moment of the precious time that 
might be so short. 

He who knows the secrets of all hearts 
alone can tell the misery and struggle of 
that night; but at last, towards morning, 
exhausted and almost despairing, I crept to 
the foot of the cross with my burden of sin 
and sorrow. I felt keenly what an unwor- 
thy offering I was bringing, — a poor, wasted, 
feeble wreck ; but if God only would restore 
me, I would cojisecrate to him all I had 



THE LOWEST ROOM. 195 

left, — my youth and the strength he should 
give me. 

After that I grew calmer, and fell mto a 
peaceful sleep, which lasted far into the next 
day, the holy Sabbath. 

" You have had a fine sleep," said nurse 
bending over me with her spoon. " Keep 
up good heart, and all will go well yet. You 
may be up in a fortnight." 

I smiled, and gave silent thanks for this 
proof that my prayers had been heard. 

But my foolish vanity was not dead yet. 
With the hope of life came many sadder 
thoughts : a Shrinking from the time when 
I should leave my room, so terribly changed, 
and perhaps should meet with pity and neg- 
lect where I had been so much admired. 
Mr. Barnard would not want to paint me 
now! 

It was strange that these thoughts must 
come to trouble the sweet peace and happi 



196 MISS PEACOCK'S DIART. 

ness of my new hope, but they returned 
again and again. 

Towards evening, in the Sabbath twilight, 
the children were singing, as is their cus- 
tom. 

" Open the door wide, nurse," I said ; "I 
want to hear the words ; " and, floating up on 
Ida's clear voice, I heard distinctly, — 

*' Jesus, I my cross have taken. 

All to leave and follow thee; 
Naked, poor, despised, forsaken. 

Thou from hence my all shalt be. 
Let the world neglect and leave me. 

They have left my Saviour too; 
Human hopes have oft deceived me; 

Thou art faithful, thou art true." 

I smiled through my happy tears. Was 
that Saviour mine, and should anything 
have power to trouble me ? 

Ida sang on, — 

** Perish earthly fame and treasure. 
Come disaster, scorn, and pain; 
In thy service pain is pleasure; 
With thy favor, loss is gain." 



THE LOWEST ROOM. 197 

Yes, I thought, what are mj troubles, my 
•loss of beauty, the fadhig of my earthly 
dreams of fame, compared to this great 
gain ? Praise the Lord, my soul, and 
all that is within me, bless his holy name ! 

After that day I rapidly improved, and 
should have soon been out of my room 
were it not for the trouble with my eyes. 
Light was exceedingly painful to them, and 
for a long time we feared they were hope- 
lessly affected. But my kind uncle has 
spared no expense. I have had the most 
skillful treatment, and now this sweet, 
spring morning I can see as well as ever. 

My heart is overflowing with gratitude, 
and I hope my new life will prove it. 

Aug. 18. I have been almost too busy 
to think of my journal this happy summer, 
the happiest of my life ; but this morning I 
have something to write. 

Dear little Louey, who follows me about, 
and would wait on me like a slave if I 



198 MISS PEACOCK'S DIARY. 

would let him, came to me yesterday, and 
said, — 

" Do you know you are growing my own 
pretty cousin again ? " 

How foolish I am ! The color rushed to 
my face, and I ran up stairs to take a long 
look at myself, the first since that unhappy 
day when I broke the mirror. 

I was surprised to find he was half right. 
My complexion was clearing, the muddy 
red was almost gone, and my hair had come 
on in short, bright, wavy curls. There were 
only two or three pits on my face to remind 
me for ever of my hard lesson. 

At first, I must confess, I was greatly 
pleased, and then I was frightened. I ran 
down to find Seymour, who is with us again, 
and was sitting on his favorite piazza iu 
the sunset. 

" Seymour," cried I, all out of breath, 
" I am growing pretty again ! " 



THE LOWEST ROOM. 199 

" Yes," said he, smiling ; " almost as 
pretty as ever." 

" But I don't want to be ' Charlotte Ade- 
laide ' again." 

"• I don't see any necessity for that," and 
he smiled still more. " Beauty needn't be 
a curse. It is a gift from God, to be re- 
ceived with thankfulness, and used for his 
glory." 

'' How ? " said I. 

" A pleasant face is always welcome. 
Your beauty may make the cause you pro- 
fess more attractive to a great many, make 
them more ready to listen to you. You 
will have a larger influence. Thank God 
for it." 

And I did, very humbly. 

" Seymour," said I, after a pause, " I 
think I have wonderful blessings. I can not 
understand it. I thought once I never could 
be forgiven for such great vanity and pre- 
sumption. Only think how determined I 



200 MISS PEACOCK'S DIAET. 

have been to have the first places at every 
feast, and thought them only my right! 
Do you think God can really love me ? 
Did you ever know such unbounded selfish- 
ness before ? " 

Seymour smiled brightly. " I remember 
some one who came with his mother and 
brother asking Jesus for the first places in 
heaven, — that one should sit on his right, 
and the other on his left, when he came into 
his kingdom." 

" And that was — " 

*' John, the beloved disciple. Jesus loves 
us through everything," said my kindest 
cousin. 

I wiped away the happy tears. 

" But, Seymour, you haven't the least 
idea how wicked I've been. If you could 
'only see my diary ! " 

Seymour lifted his hands in comical de- 
precation. 

" Wliat are you two talking about ? " 



THE LOWEST ROOM. 201 

said Fred, coming toward us. " You haven't 
been writing that book, have you, Lotty ? " 

I blushed a little. " I suppose you 
mean my book about the selfish, conceited 
girl. No ; I gave that up long ago. I was 
only speaking of my diary." 

'' Are you quite sure you gave that book 
up?" laughed Fred. "What is the diary 
about ? " 

" For shame, Fred ! " cried Seymour. 

" No," said I, forcing myself to look up, 
though my face was all aflame. " Fred is 
right. I have written my book about that 
vainest, most selfish girl in the world ; I 
was writing it all the time, though I didn't 
know it, and the heroine, instead of Fanny 
Blythe, was Charlotte Adelaide Peacock ! " 



CO¥-Ct ATE 



203 



COW-GATE. 

CHAPTER I. 

THE PINK APIiOy. 

f DECLARE, if she hasn't been washing 
it," cried Sandy Dunbar, " and hung 
is it rip;ht out on the frame ! " 

Now Sandy, at the time of the excla- 
mation, was carelessly balanced on the sill 
of an attic window, half in and half out ; and 
as this story is likely to have a good many 
ins and outs, perhaps I had better define 
this first one quite clearly. 

To begin with " m," — a low, raftered 
room with bare floor, three rickety chairs, 
a bed, and, balanced on the edge of the last- 

205 



206 COW-GATE. 

mentioned article, a bundle of rags sur- 
mounted by a mop of tangled hair, to which 
it would have puzzled you to give a name, 
but which Sandy would have triumphantly 
informed you was an unknown quantity 
representing his sister Janet, and " he 
could tell her as far as he could see her." 
Is that all ? Xo ; let me see. There was a 
cracked piece of looking-glass, a sulky par- 
rot in a rough wooden cage, and, as I said 
before, half of Sandy Dunbar. That is to 
say, there was kicking on the floor one 
boot and one shoe, with a pair of thin, sun- 
burned legs, lost just above the knees in an 
old Scotch plaid frock. 

" Out,^'' you looked down and down, and 
saw a narrow street lined on each side with 
tall, dingy houses — would you believe it ? — 
eight and ni7ie stories high ! Every window 
was open, and from nearly every one pro- 
truded one or more heads, — feeble, white- 
haired men, ugly old women with soiled 



THE PINK APRON. 207 

caps, srckly, pale, tired girls, and kicking, 
fighting children and babies, that you 
would almost take for wicked little old men 
and women. Alas! such bad little faces! 
If there were any sweetness or innocence 
left in them, it was buried so deep under 
layers of dirt that you would quite despair 
of finding it. 

Another thing very curious was that from 
the upper windows were pushed out wooden 
frames hung with every imaginable kind 
of half-washed rags, for these tall stone 
houses were what is called tenement houses, 
every window representing some one's home ; 
and when washing day came, and they 
wanted to dry their clothes, all the yard 
these poor people owned was the yard 
square of little frame stretching out from 
their windows. 

Down in the street there was no less con- 
fusion. Innumerable little stands, covered 
with gnarled, unwholesome fruit, crowded 



208 COW'GATE 

the •sidewalks. Then there were Jew shops, 
where old clothes were bought and sold. 
Faded ball dresses hung out at the doors, 
dancing and courtesying away as hard as 
ever; and old bonnets, with dusty, torn 
flowers, were bobbing politely to rows of 
battered beavers. Then there was no end 
of old shirts and coats and dingy shawls, all 
flapping and waving restlessly in the wind. 

Altogether, everything looked so crowded 
and uncomfortable in this fluttering beggar 
street, that you could not help having a 
curious feeling that the dingy houses were 
filled to overflowing ; and from windows 
and doors, bundles of rags, or of human be- 
ings, as it might happen, burst out, as from 
holes in an enormous over-stuffed rag-bag. 

To complete the picture, a carriage was 
passing through the narrow street with 
some frightened ladies, who had come 
from curiosity, but were now afraid to look 
around them, because of the angry, envious 



THE PINK APnON. 209 

looks cast upon their pretty dresses. Now 
and then some girl with a face full of hato 
would make them a mock courtesy, or 
malicious boys would make most frightful 
grimaces. Indeed, these happy people who 
came to take a little look at misery would 
not have been at all safe, were it not for 
the policemen, who were stationed only a 
few steps from each: other. 

So this was "om;^," with the exception of 
a bit of dull sky that was put so far up out 
of the way you would never have thought 
of noticing it. And, oh ! I forgot the other 
half of Sandy Dunbar, — the rest of the^ 
plaid frock, a jungle of silky hair, and a 
pair of large, restless eyes looking down 
into this curious street, the famous " Cow- 
gate," in the far-away city of Edinburgh. 

To tell you just how Sandy and Janet 
came into this dreadful old street would be 
a long story, and I know you are all anx- 
ious to hear what Sandy saw wlien he 

14 



210 COW-GATE, 

looked out of the window. So I shall only 
tell you in a few words that Sandy was 
born in America, but when his dear mother 
died, about two years ago, his father, who 
was a Scotchman, came with his little chil- 
dren back to his native city. At first, they 
lived very comfortably; but after a while 
the father began to drink, and grew worse 
and worse, till at length poverty came upon 
them, and chased them from one miserable 
home to another, and at last she left them 
up eight flights of stairs, in the bare little 
attic I have described to you. Here they 
led a sad life indeed, for the wretched fa- 
ther didn't do much more than pay the 
rent, and often left his little children for 
weeks together ; so that poor Sandy every 
day went working or begging for just enough 
to keep alive Janet and himself and old 
Jack the parrot, who, I forgot to tell you, 
came over the sea with them, and had Ijeen 
their very dearest friend since their mother 



THE PINK APRON. 211 

died. There is one more thing I should 
tell you, and that is, that poor Janet, com- 
ing down the dark, broken stairs, about two 
months before, had fallen and sprained her 
leg badly, and, as there was no one to help 
the forlorn little girl with nice liniments 
and bandages, she had suffered very much, 
and had been a pining little prisoner ever 
since. The days were very long and lonely 
while Sandy was away, for Jack would 
only be sociable when he pleased, and when 
he was hungry would sulk from morning 
till night. So poor Janet would drag her- 
self to the window and look out for hours ; 
and here it was one day that she saw Miri- 
am, the little Jew girl, who lived one story 
lower down, and was quite aristocratic on 
that account, wear a gay little pink ging- 
ham apron that Janet thought was the 
prettiest one she ever saw in her life. " If 
J only had one," thought Janet, "I should 
be perfectly happy." 



212 COW' GATE. 

All day long the little girl thought of it, 
and when Sandy came home, toward night, 
she told him of it eagerly, with tears in her 
eyes. " The sweetest apron I ever saw, 
Sandy ; just the color of a rose." 

" You shall have one just like it as soon 
as I grow to be a man," cried Sandy. 

Janet looked grievously disaj^pointed. 
" I shall be dead before that," she sobbed. 

" Oh ! stop that," cried Sandy, in gruff 
distress 'as he looked at her thin, white 
cheeks. Then, catching up her slight figure, 
he added consolingly to himself, " She's 
such a mite, and they've got so much to do 
in that big other world, they'll forget to 
send for lier. Come, Janet," he cried more 
briskly, " cheer up ! what do you suppose I 
have got in my pocket ? " and with great 
triumph he drew out a piece of dry ginger- 
bread and a moldy orange. 

Janet gave a little cry of pleasure, and 



THE NEW YORK 
PUBLIC LIBRARY 



ASTOn, LENOX 

'.riTjD K M F.n ' ; n© a ttons 




THE DANCING PARBOT. 



THE PINK apron: 213 

the parrot twisted his green head and 
croaked, " Jack wants a cracker." 

" I know it," cried Sandy, in an injured 
tone. " Of course you do ; you always do. 
Didn't I give you half my supper last night ? 
Why can't you be cheerful, and give us one 
good hurrah ? " and Sandy opening the 
cage door. Jack came scrambling to the 
floor. " Dance, Jackie," cried Sandy ; and 
Jack lifted gingerly first one claw, then the 
other, and ended with a great flutter and 
attempt at a courtesy. 

" Good ! " cried Sandy, critically. " Now, 
hurrah ! colonel." 

"Hurrah!" croaked Jack, in a hoarse, 
shrill tone, and filled the breast of his little 
master and mistress with ecstasy. 

" There never was such a cunning bird," 
said Sandy, admiringly. " He could talk 
just as good as folks, if he was a mind 
to ; " and Janet gave him half the ginger- 
bread. 



214 COW-GATE. 

So these little children for a while for- 
got all their troubles, and were really mer- 
ry, till Jack, after some insult to his dignity, 
retired sulkily to his perch, and would play 
no more. 

Then Janet heaved a long sigh, and re- 
membered the apron. 

"Oh, Sandy, I'm so lonely all day while 
you're gone ; and if I only had the pretty 
pink apron, I could play I was queen, and 
when I got tired I could spread it on the 
bed, and have nice dreams about sunsets 
and roses." 

Sandy looked troubled. " If I only could 
earn money, Janet ! but nice people won't 
trust me, because I look like a vagabond ; 
and I get such mean little coppers for run- 
ning my legs off, that I can't but just keep 
you and Jack from starving." 

" Oh ! I knew it was too much," said Ja- 
net, with a long sigh ; ''I knew / could 
never have a pink apron." 



THE PINK apron: 215 

The color fluslicd Sandy's face. Poor, 
sick little sister, — the only thing he cared 
for in all the world ! There was a long 
pause, while the gray seemed to fall out of 
the sky into the room, and then Sandy 
walked irresolutely to the window. He had 
scarcely looked out when he caught sight 
of the identical pink apron fluttering just 
below, and he exclaimed excitedly, " I de- 
clare, if she hasn't been washing it, and 
hung it right out on the frame ! " 

"It is the very one," cried Janet, with 
devouring eyes. " I can almost touch it 
with my hand." 

As she spoke, an idea flashed into Sandy's 
mind. " Yes," he muttered to himself, '' it 
isn't far. How careful she's pinned it on, 
to be sure, and tied the string round and 
round. But I think I can got it. Just 
wait till it's darker, and I'll fasten my knife 
to a stick, and get astride of the window- 
seat, and I think — yes, I'm sure I could 



216 COW-GATE. 

fetch her. Cut the strings on top, give her 
a pull to the side, and off she'll come, and 
the little Jew girl will think the wind blew 
it away. Janet," cried he aloud, " you 
shall have the pink apron." 

" Hurrah, hurrah ! " screamed Jack, wak- 
ing from a doze. 

" What can you mean, Sandy ? " said Ja- 
net, eagerly. 

" I'm going to hook it in for you just as 
soon as it's a little darker, and there comes 
a row in the streets, so the policemen will 
be too busy to be looking up." 

Janet looked dismayed, and the glow 
faded from her cheeks. " Don't you re- 
member ' Our Father,' Sandy ? " she fal- 
tered. 

"Oh, the one mother used to tell us about 
sometimes ? " said Sandy, a little dashed ; 
" well, I think I could explain it all to him, 
how you were sick, and maybe would die if 
you didn't have the apron, and how the Jew 



TEE PINK APRON. 217 

girl had plenty of clothes, and would never 
miss it, but just have a new one to-mor- 
row." 

" But," said Janet, uneasily, " won't 
thieves have to go to some dreadful place 
when they die ? " 

" Well, now," said Sandy, undauntedly, 
settling himself upon an old pail, " I'll tell 
you what I think about it. I don't think 
' Our Father,' as you call him, has ever 
been much of a father to us. We've always 
had to scratch around the best way we 
could for ourselves. Now my notion is, 
that he's a sort of grand policeman, very 
strong, and with very sharp eyes, and when 
he sees any one doing anything wrong, he 
springs on 'em, and shuts 'em up some- 
where. But, Janet, /'w the greatest fellow 
to dodge you ever saw, — just as slippery as 
an eel. There isn't an old ' Buttons ' on 
this street that I haven't dodged over and 
over ; and T guess wlien the right time comes 



218 COW-GATE. 

I can dodge again and slip up to heaven 
somehow. Then my plan is to hide around 
for a time, and when they find me at last 
they won't think it worth while to turn me 
out." 

Janet was lost in admiration of all this 
wisdom. 

" But," added Sandy, " you're a girl, and 
not up to dodges, and perhaps, to make a 
safe thing of it, you'd better be good." 

An hour afterwards, with great peril, the 
gay little apron was dragged through the 
window, and at first Janet laughed with 
pleasure as she put it on over her rags. 
But before long she grew very sober. 

" Sandy," said she, suddenly, " where is 
God?" 

" Up in the sky somewhere, I've heard," 
said Sandy, " but I don't know what holds 
him." 

" Can he sec in here ? " 

'' Maybe so." 



THE PINK APItON. 219 

" Well, please pin the quilt up to the 
window," said she, with her little lips trem- 
bling. " Some way I don't want to have 
him see me with the pink apron on." 

It grew darker. The lead had certainly 
fallen out of the sky into that little room. 
Janet played "queen" but a very short 
time, and found no pleasure in it, and then, 
with a perplexed, disappointed face, she 
folded the apron carefully and put it under 
the pillow. 

Sandy, too, was ill at ease. " Hurrah, 
Jackie," cried he, "just once before we go 
to bed; " but Jack only sunk his head lower 
in his feathers, and croaked like a feeble 
old man in pain. 

Then they were all very still a long time, 
— an age it seemed to Sandy, — till he 
couldn't stand it any longer. 

" Janet," he called, " are you asleep?" 

" Oh, no," sighed she. 

" Well, I feel very queer. I believe I'm 
sorry I sto — took the pink apron." 



CHAPTER II. 

THE BURDEN. 

WEEK passed by, and Sandy and Ja- 
net had never been so unhappy to- 
^^ gether. 

" Everything seems wrong, some 
vray," said Sandy, coming in one day at 
noon, and throwing his old cap on the 
floor. 

'-'- 1 haven't had a decent errand in ever 
so long. Every one looks cross at me, and 
calls me thief and beggar, and they might 
as well say coward too, for, Janet, you canH 
think how queer I'm getting to be. Prom- 
ise me never to tell." 
" Never," said Janet. 
" Well, then, really I don't like to be out 

220 



THE BURDEN. 221 

after dark;" and ho laughed an uneasy 
laugli. " I'm all the time thinking some- 
thing is behind me, and I jump, and think 
I must dodge somewhere." 

Janet came close to him, looking appre- 
hensively over her shoulder. 

" And then I can't think what possesses 
all the old clothes. They carry on as if 
they were going into fits, and last night I 
thought an old policeman was shaking his 
fist at me, and I dodged. What do you 
think, Janet ? Actually dodged an old coat 
with one arm most torn out ! " 

Janet tried to laugh, but it didn't sound 
very merry, and they were very still a long 
time, till Jack broke the silence with the 
most dismal of croaks. 

"- Oh, Sandy," said Janet, drearily, " I 
meant to have told you, I think Jack is 
sick. He sulks all day with his head way 
down in his neck, and he won't say a word. 



222 CO TV- GATE. 

If lie would only hurrah just once, I know 
we'd all feel better." 

^' Jackie, old fellow, I'm afraid you're 
growing rheumatic ; " and Sandy tried to 
stir him up, but Jack only gave a faint 
croak, and half closed his filmy eyes. " May- 
be he don't get enough to eat, poor fellow ! 
rd hate to have him die, because he was 
mother's bird," said Sandy, wiping his eyes. 
" But what a spoon I'm getting to be. 
Come now. Jack," said he, breaking into a 
lively whistle. " Dance your hornpipe, and 
to-morrow I'll bring you a cracker as big 
as your head." But Jack's claws seemed 
glued to his perch. 

" It's no use," said Sandy, gloomily. 
^' Everything goes wrong. Why don't you 
play with your apron, Janet ? " 

Janet hesitated. " It's too pretty to play 
with every day," said she at last, but she 
didn't tell him that it had been laid away 
three whole days in the little bare closet, 



THE BURDEN. 223 

and Janet didn't think of roses and sunsets 
any more when she looked at it. 

Sandy looked at her doubtfully a minute ; 
then, muttering something about getting an 
errand to do, he went heavily out of the 
room, and heavily, heavily down the stairs. 
The lodgers he passed on the way looked 
up with surprise to see only Sandy ; they 
thought it was some one with a heavy load, 
and if they could have borrowed angels' 
eyes they would have seen they were not so 
much mistaken. They would have seen the 
saddest sight, — a little boy carrying a ^roit'/i- 
up sm. 

It was a beautiful day, and Sandy thought 
he could go over to the lovely gardens that 
lie between the old and new town, and see 
the happy people walking there, and per- 
haps he might pick up some cast-away 
flowers to bring home to Janet. But on 
the way Sandy came across something that 
made him more unhappy still. Before I 



224 COW-GATE. 

tell you about it, however, I must first ex- 
plain that in this good city of Edinburgh 
you will often see verses from the Bible 
printed in great big letters, and pasted on 
the walls and fences wherever the crowd is 
greatest. So that sometimes, right in the 
midst of advertisements telling you where 
to get the best coats and hats, you will read 
where to buy the " pearl of great price ; " 
or while, before some flaming handbill, you 
are hesitating whether to go to the concert 
or theater, you will see close by, — "In 
God's presence there \^ fullness of joy, — at 
his right hand there are pleasures for ever- 
more.^^ And you can not think how solemn 
and real the words look, printed right out 
on some great stone page ; very different 
from where they lie half asleep, as it were, 
between the red covers of your little Bible. 
It seems as if they were really meant for 
you^ and were sent to you from heaven that 
very day. 



TEE BURDEN. 22? 

But what happened to Sandy I am going 
to leave for himself to tell. 

It was quite dark when he came clamber- 
ing back to his little attic, and Janet was 
sobbing dismally in a corner. 

"Oh, Sandy," she exclaimed, " I am- 
afraid Jackie is dead ! " 

" Well, he's better off than I am then," 
said Sandy, gloomily, as he looked in the 
cage where poor Jack, a little heap of rum- 
pled feathers, seemed too feeble for even a 
croak. 

" Don't you know what to do for him ? " 
said Janet, anxiously. 

"No, I don't know that, and I'm afraid 
I don't know anything. I've made a mis- 
take about something I thought I'd got 
fixed all right. Oh, Janet : I am very un- 
happy ! " 

" Why, what is it, Sandy ? " cried Janet, 
forgetting Jackie, in a deeper sympathy. 

" Well," began Sandy with an effort, " I'll 

15 



226 COW-GATE. 

tell you all about it. Wlien I was crossing 
over to the new town, I saw something in 
very big letters on the side of the bridge, 
and I asked a man what it was. He was 
laughing at first, but he grew very sober 
when he read it to me : * Prepare to meet 
thy God.' Then I said, * Please, sir, when 
is he coming, and does it mean me ? ' But 
he was in a great hurry, and wouldn't wait 
to hear me. So I went on, and pretty soon 
on a wall I saw more big letters, and I did 
not dare ask what it was, but I heard a wo- 
man reading it to her little girl, — 'Pre- 
pare to meet thy God.' 

" Then I began to feel a little frightened, 
but I went on, and just before I came to the 
gardens I saw more big letters on a house. 
I began to know 'em now, but I hoped it 
was something else, and I was staring away 
at 'em, when a little boy came along with a 
beautiful, bright, plaid kilt, and such clean 
white knees above his pretty stockings. I 



THE BURDEN. 227 

knew he was a rich boy and could read, so 
I said to him very careless, — ' So there is 
going to be a show to-night, is there ? ' and 
I pointed to the big words. First he grew 
very red, then he said, * Oh, maybe you can't 
read, poor little boy,' and he began very 
slow, — ' Prepare — ' ' Never mind,' I said, 
for I couldn't bear to hear it again, ' but 
tell me, what does it mean ? ' ' Mother 
would tell you so well,' said he, a little 
troubled, ' but I suppose it means that ev- 
erybody, and you and I, must meet God 
when we die, and we must try and be very 
good, so we won't be afraid when he sends 
for us, but will be all ready to go up and 
stand before him in heaven.' 

" ' Oh, is that all ? ' said I, and I felt a 
great deal better, and I told him about my 
plan, and how I meant to dodge. But, oh, 
Janet, he told me that it was our souls that 
went up to God, and souls couldn't dodge. 
Besides, God was everywhere, and if they 



228 COW-GATE. 

turned riglit away from him, and went like 
lightning ever so far, when they got there 
God would be there before 'em, and it 
would be just running into his arms." 

" Oh ! " said Janet, in a tone of awe. 

" Then I said, ' Are you afraid, little boy ? ' 
and he smiled so pleasant. 

" ' Oh, no ; mother says God loves little 
children, and carries the lambs in his bo- 
som.' " 

"Oh, how sweet I" said sobbing little Ja- 
net. 

" But that means good children, I sup- 
pose," said Sandy, tremulously, "and we — 
oh, Janet, God may send for us any time, 
for the whole city is full of those dreadful 
words ! What shall we do ? " 

" Try to get ready, Sandy," said Janet, 
solemnly. 

"Yes, I want to," said Sandy, eagerly, 
" but how shall we begin ? I suppose the 
first thing is — " 



THE BURDEN. 229 

" Tlie apron^^ cried Janet. 

" Yes, give it to me this minute, and I'll 
fasten it on the frame, and the little Jew- 
girl will never know where it has been." 

" But one string is cut," said Janet. 

Sandy mused. " Janet," cried he at last, 
in a 4aivering voice, " it's very hard, but 
I'll do it. I've earned one penny to-day, and 
I'll take the penny and the apron, and tell 
the little Jew girl all about it, and give her 
the penny to buy a new string." 

" But," said Janet, anxiously, " won't 
she say you're a thief, and have j'ou taken 
up, and — " 

" I can't help it," said Sandy, excitedly. 
" Some way it seems as if it was right. 
Suppose God should take me up to-night. 
Oh, Janet, I'm going to get ready right 
away. I shall try, oh, how I shall try to be 
good!" 

" And I too," cried Janet. 

"Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!" screamed 



230 COW-GATE. 

a shrill voice that brought Sandy and Ja- 
net to their feet. There was a great stir in 
the old wooden cage, and they rushed to 
the bars. But, alas ! it was Jackie's last 
effort, and he already lay upon his back, 
with his poor legs growing stiff in the air. 

" Well, he hurrahed once more. Dear, 
dear old Jack," said Sandy, the big tears 
rollinar down his cheeks. 

Janet kissed the dim feathers. " And I 
shall always believe," she sobbed, " that he 
knew it was right to take back the apron." 



TUE LIGHT UNDEE THE DOOE. 



231 



THE LIGHT UNDEK THE DOOR. 



fT can't be that father meant me to 
clean every bit of this long walk this 
^> morning ! " pouted Harry Sherman. 
" If he only knew how the weeds cling 
around the bricks, and this old knife slips 
and cuts me every other minute." 

" It's no worse than what I've got to do," 
cried Fret number two, in the person of 
Susy Sherman. " Here's this monstrous 
pan of peas to shell, and I don't know but 
it will take me the rest of my life. There, 
Fifine," said she, flinging her big doll in a 
corner. ^' You're always smirking and smil- 
ing, no matter what trouble I'm in. Now 

233 



234 THE LIGHT UNDER THE DOOR. 

you may go to bed till dinner-time. Oil 
dear ! what horrid times we do have ! " 

" Don't you wish," cried Harry, as Susy 
settled herself disconsolately on the back 
stoop, " that we could wake up some morn- 
ing in a palace, and find that we were prin- 
ces ? " 

" Princesses, you mean," said Susy, 
amending the word to suit her stand-point. 
" Yes, indeed ! I should not get up till ten 
o'clock, and then I wouldn't even put on 
my stockings. Two or three maids, at 
least, should dress me in gold lace and dia- 
monds, and braid flowers in my hair, 
and — " 

" Pshaw ! " interrupted Harry. " Girls 
always think of dress the first thing. Now 
/should first take my breakfast, — chicken, 
soup, ice-cream, buckwheat cakes, and pie, 
and nuts! " 

" And boys," retorted Susy, " are always 
thinking of something to eat." 



THE LIGHT UNDER THE DOOR. 235 

" Wait a minute till I {iiiisli," cried Harry. 
"Then I should have a Duhe — nothing 
less — knock very respectfully at the door, 
and say, ' Will your highness please ride 
on your Arab pony ? Or would you like to 
review the troops, and see them all go bare- 
headed the moment you come in sight, 
while the band plays ' God save the King ' ? 
Or would you like to lie on the divan in 
the court by the fountain, and have a hun- 
dred birds with red and bine feathers, 
singing sweeter than nightingales ? And 
shall I bring your majesty the ' Arabian 
Nights,' with a thousand pictures colored in 
oil, or Robinson Crusoe, with a million 
pictures ? Then I'd choose one, and give 
him a sort of terrible look, and he'd fly to 
get it. Then one slave should fan me, and 
another turn over my leaves, and I wouldn't 
hear any one saying a dozen times a day, 

* Harry, isn't that a little selfish ? ' or, 

* Harry, I'd be ashamed to be so lazy ! ' 



236 THE LIGHT UNDER THE DOOR. 

No, indeed ; it would all be ' your majesty ! ' 
* your highness ! ' Then they'd bow till 
their heads bumped the floor, and whatever 
I did, they'd say, '• How princely ! ' ' How 
graceful ! ' ' How condescending ! ' Oh ! it 
would be great to be a prince ! " 

Susy, absently twisting a pea-pod, gave 
a long sigh of acquiescence. Why she had 
been chosen to open her eyes in an old red 
farm-house instead of a palace, was a piece 
of injustice she couldn't at all understand. 

" Good- morning, little ones," said a 
kindly voice, breaking in suddenly upon 
these meditations. 

'' Oh ! Mr. Benson," cried Susy, a little 
confused, as their old gray-haired pastor 
moved slowly up the walk. " How long have 
you been here ? " 

" Not a great while, child," he said, smil- 
ing ; " but I am going to stay long enough 
to tell you and Harry a little story while 
you are at work." 



THE LIGHT UNDER THE DOOR. 237 

The faces brightened, and he began : — 

" Far across the sea, in the grand palace 
of the Louvre, hangs a picture so sweet and 
so sad, I do not think you, Harry or Sue, 
could look at it five minutes without your 
little hearts trembling up into a great sob. 

"■ Now listen to every word I say, and per- 
haps I can manage to hang it up before 
your eyes. First, you see a room very dim, 
with great black shadows hiding in the 
heavy beams overhead. The narrow win- 
dows are like slits in the thick wall, and the 
small panes are quite black now, for it is 
night, — in fact, very near midnight. Still, 
you can see a bed and two little children 
sitting upon it, for a little light streams in 
under the heavy door, — a dull red light ; 
— what can it be ? " 

" The little children are frightened," 
suggested Sue, " and their mother or Aunt 
Jenny is coming with a candle, to kiss them 
ai.d cover them up." 



238 THE LIGHT UNDER THE DOOR. 

" Alas, no, poor innocents ! " said Mr. 
Benson. " Let us look at them a little 
more crosely. They are two boys, whom 
the artist has dressed very handsomely, 
though I do not know that it is in gold lace." 
Susy blushed again. " Their faces are very 
noble and sweet, and tlie younger boy's 
cheeks are rosy and full, while the elder 
one is sickly and pale as a lily, and lays his 
poor, tired head on his brother's strong 
young shoulder. In his slender hand, so 
small under the broad ruffles at the wrist, 
the sick boy holds a book, — a little prayer- 
book, which they probably were reading the 
last thing before the room grew so dark. 
They didn't seem to have had any slave to 
turn the book, however, although they were 
princes, — royal princes, and born in a pal- 
ace. No, they were all alone, with the ex- 
ception of a faithful little dog, who stood 
on the floor, with his ears pricked up, lis- 
tening, listening to some noise ; some foot, 



THE LIGHT UNDER THE DOOR. 239 

perliaps, coming softly. What do you sup- 
pose he heard ? " 

" It was a duke or a lord, I suppose," 
said Harry, " coming to tell them that their 
father, the king, was willing they should 
get up to the court ball, or to see some 
grand torchlight procession, or something." 

" But their father, the king, was dead ; 
had died very lately." 

" Oh ! " returned Harry, briskly. " Then 
I suppose they were coming to tell that sick 
young prince that he was king, and to ask 
him if he would please be crowned to-mor- 
row." 

" Not with any earthly crown, poor boy ! " 
said Mr. Benson. " This poor prince should 
indeed have been king ; he was the rightful 
King of England, — great, rich England ; but 
he had a wicked uncle, deformed and hump- 
backed, who was determined to have the 
throne for himself. This cruel uncle was 
very deceitful. He pretended to the little 



240 THE LIGHT UNDER THE DOOR. 

princes that he was their very best friend, 
while all the time he was killing all the 
good, honorable men who would have pro- 
tected them. Then, with many fair words, 
he took them away from their poor mother, 
and persuaded them to go into a strong old 
fortress, called the Tower. Little did they 
think when they passed through those 
gloomy gates that they would never come 
out in the sunsliine again, poor babies." 

" Why, he didn't hurt the pretty princes, 
did he ? " cried Sue. " Why didn't some- 
body stop him ? " 

" Nobody dared, for he had made himself 
king, and was very powerful. There was 
only one thing he feared, and that was that 
some day the little princes would get out 
of the Tower, and the people would say, 
'There's the true king! Let us kill the 
Humpback ! ' 

'' So he made up his mind that they must 
die, and he hired some cruel men to go at 



THE LIGHT UXDER THE DOOR. 241 

midnight and kill the little Prince of Wales 
and Duke of York in their beds." 

" Do such things truly ever happen to 
princes ? " said Harry, incredulously. 

'' Indeed they do ! Kings and princes 
have often been the most unhappy and un- 
fortunate men in the world, — have been im- 
prisoned, tortured, beheaded, — have died 
most violent and terrible deaths. Have 
you never heard the saying, ' Uneasy lies 
the head that wears a crown ' ? That is too 
true. The higher one is in life the more 
there are to envy him, and want to pull him 
down." 

Harry gave a low whistle. He had never 
thought of that. It was some comfort that 
no one would care to kill him to fall heir to 
his old knife and weed-digging. 

" But," interposed Susy, " did the mur- 
derers really get in and kill the sweet young 
princes ? " 

"Yes," said Mr. Benson, thoughtfully; 

16 



242 THE LIGHT UNDER THE DOOR. 

"they were smothered in bed wil/i their 
own pillows. It is all over now," said he, 
wiping away a tear ; " the fluttering little 
hearts have been at rest many, many years ; 
but I can never forget that picture, and the 
terrible moment it represented. Think of 
it again, dear children, — the gloomy room ; 
the dog listening so eagerly, bristling with 
anger and terror ; the little princes, with 
sweet, frightened faces, clasped in each oth- 
er's arms, watching that strange light. They 
did not know who was bringing it; they 
could not have imagined what evil was com- 
ing upon them ; but the cruel red light kept 
creeping, creeping under the door, and they 
watched, wondering, one dreadful moment, 
while outside the murderers were coming 
softly, stealthily, nearer, Clearer ! " 

" Don't tell any more, please," cried 
Susy, dropping her peas, a.id sobbing under 
her apron. 

" Well, to be sure. I did not want to 



THE LIGHT UNDER THE DOOR. 243 

trouble the little heart. But just one word 
more," said Mr. Benson, smiling. *' How 
do you suppose the little princes would 
have felt, now, if, when the door opened, 
there had only come a m;essenger to say, 
* The Prince of Wales must weed the gar- 
den-walk for an hour, and the Duke of York 
must shell a pan of peas ' ? " 

Susy laughed hysterically, and Harry 
hung his head. 

"They wouldn't have thouglit it very 
' liorrid^ would they ? "Wouldn't they have- 
danced and wept for joy ? I wonder how 
often the poor princes, in their solemn old 
Tower, torn away from their dear mother, 
would have envied the happy boys boru in 
little red farm-houses, quiet and safe, run- 
ning in the blessed sunshine, with no one to 
grudge them their poor little lives." 

" All princes are not smothered in their 
beds, though," said Harry, half to himself. 

" No," said Mr. Benson, overhearing 



244 THE LIGHT UNDER THE DOOR. 

him ; " but they all have their troubles soon 
or late, just as surely as the little farmers. 
There is no escape. Let us learn, dear 
children, in whatsoever state we are, there- 
with to be content." 



CINDEK ELLA. 



245 



CINDEE ELLA. 



HERE, I thought you'd cry," said 
Regan, angrily. " How unreasonable 
you are 1 I've told you a dozen times 
that you were only asked out of polite- 
ness, and there won't be another such little 
snip as you are there. Nobody will want 
to play with you, and you will just be in 
everybody's way." 

" But I want to go," sobbed Ella. 
" Of course you do," said Babette. " You 
always want to do everything that is selfish 
and contrary." 

" But I won't ask anybody to play with 
me," pleaded Ella, " and I won't be in the 

247 



248 CINDER ELLA. 

way. I'll just look on and keep as still as 
a mouse." 

'' But you're such a fright," persisted 
Regan. " Your face is brown as a berry, 
and such black hands ! I don't suppose 
they'd come clean if you soaked them all 
night. How do you suppose I'll feel if I 
have to tell any one you're my sister? 
Why, you'll look like a toad at a butterfly's 
ball ! " 

Ella's eyes grew large with horror. ''Do 
I look so very bad ? " quivered she. 

" A dirty little thing ! " cried Babette, 
emphatically. " You look as if you were 
dug out of an ash-heap, — black as a cin- 
der ! " 

" Ha ! " laughed Regan ; " that's a good 
idea. ' Black as a cinder ! ' Let's call her 
Cinder Ella ! " 

" Well, you know why I'm dirty now, 
sobbed Ella. " You know you said this 
morning that if I'd only weed all the beds, 



CINDER ELLA. 249 

you wouldn't say a word against my going. 
Just think if I had left yours how father 
would have scolded when he got home. It 
was such hard work too in the sun ! " said 
Ella, bursting into fresh tears, " and now 
it's all for nothing ! " 

" Dear me ! what a plague ! " cried Regan, 
uneasily. " I suppose we'll have to let you 
go. But, Cinder Ella, you must help us 
larst." 

" Oh yes," cried little Ella, joyfully, dry- 
ing her tears. " I'll do anything in the 
world." 

" Curl my hair first," cried Regan. 

" And then braid mine," said Babette. 

" And lace up my shoes," said Regan. 
" It tires me so to stoop over. And then 
fasten my dress, and — " 

" And then you will show me how to 
mend that hole in my white dress, won't 
you ? and how I must baste the lace in the 
neck," said Ella, coaxingly. 



250 CINDER ELLA. 

" Not I, goose !" said Regan, rolling lier 
great eyes scornfully. ''I've no time for 
that!" 

" Nor I," said Babette. 

" It wouldn't take long," pleaded Ella. 

"A day's work at least," snapped Regan; 
" I shan't take the first stitch." 

" But what will I do then ? " said Ella, 
beginning to choke. 

" Oh, no one will look at you, Cinder ; 
you can wear your white dimity." 

" Why, that's almost a baby dress, and 
so small — so small — with a string around 
the neck just like a baby. What shall I do ? " 

" Well, you're a dreadful trial ! " said 
Regan, with a long sigh. " You're never 
satisfied. I'm tired of hearing such fret- 
ting. Come, Babette, let's go." 

" What, without me.^" cried Cinder Ella. 
'' Isn't any one going to help me .^ " 

"Oh, you're too cross and ill-tempered," 
cried Regan ; " and besides, it's getting very 



CINDER ELLA. 251 

late. You know the way well enough, and 
can come when you get ready." 

Cmder Ella saw them go, with stream- 
mg eyes. " Pray, Mrs. Beaver," cried she, 
meeting the housekeeper as she turned 
back into the hall, " will you help me 
dress ? " 

" Not I, Moppet," said she, briskly. '' I've 
got a dozen other irons in the fire ;" and she 
bustled away into the pantry. 

'^ Oh, if mother was only alive ! " sobbed 
Cinder Ella as she again turned away. 

" How now?" cried a loud, clear voice, 
that made Ella jump as if a bugle had 
sounded in her ear. " I declare, if it isn't 
all in a Scotch mist ! I can hardly tell 
whether it's a girl or a rose-bush ! " 

" Oh, dear, dear Miss Cherie ! " cried 
Ella, throwing herself into the arms of the 
queerest dried-up little lady, — homelier 
than any old fairy in her hundred and first 
year,^"I must tell you all al)out it ;" and 



252 CINDER ELLA. 

then Cinder Ella's tongue beat the dis- 
malest kind of a tattoo upon the drum of 
Miss Cherie's ear for about ten minutes, at 
the end of which time that kind old lady 
cried, — 

"Well, my little Cinder Ella, I'll be 
your fairy godmother. I remember how 
these little feet came every day to run my 
errands when I had the rheumatism last 
winter, and now they shall run for their 
own pleasure, if I can help them." 

So the soft golden hair was brushed into 
shining curls, and the plain dimity was 
beautified with a rose ribbon around the 
waist, and some wild flowers, which Cin- 
der Ella had found in the woods, were 
twined in a lovely wreath around her head. 

" There, darling," said Miss Cherie, kiss- 
ing her; "I'm sorry I haven't some mice 
and a pumpkin shell, but I guess your own 
little feet will do as well ; " and Cinder 
Ella, all smiles and dimples, set out for the 



CINDER ELLA. 253 

party. It was almost sunset when she came 
in sight of the house, and saw the garden, 
with its trees, and fountains, and flowers, 
and the happy children flitting in and out 
through the shaded walks. Supper was just 
ready in the arbor, and as she reached it, 
Victor Talbot — the young master of the 
feast — came ushering in his guests, lead- 
ing the pretty Regan by the hand. 

" Who is this ? " he cried, as his eye fell 
upon the little girl standing on tiptoe at 
the end of the arbor, her innocent face 
glowing with delighted surprise. " See her 
cheeks and her hair, all crimson and gold ; 
she must have dropped out of the sun- 
set ! " 

" It is Cinder," said Regan, in an an- 
gry whisper to Babette, who was just be- 
hind. 

" Anything but a cinder wow," retorted 
Babette in a tone of still greater vexation. 



254 CINDER ELLA. 

" Sly little minx ! "What can she have done 
to make herself look so pretty ? " 

" It must be the baby waist that is so be- 
coming. Who would have thought it ? " 
said Regan. 

" No, I'm sure it's the wreath," cried Bab- 
ette. But neither of them was right. 

All this was done in a minute, and then 
Regan turned very amiably to Victor, and 
said, — 

" That is our sister.'''' 

" Oh, said Victor, " I am very glad she 
has come ;" and taking her by the hand, he 
brought her to the head seat at the table, 
and gave her the prettiest bon-bons he could 
find. 

" How kind every one is to me," whis- 
pered the delighted Cinder Ella to her sis- 
ter. 

Regan gave her an angry look, and just 
whispered, " Sly little rat ! " 

" Why, what is the matter ? " asked Cin- 



CIXDER ELLA. 255 

der Ella, piteously, opening her big blue 
eyes. " My hands are very clean. Are 
you ashamed of me ? Did I get in any- 
body's way ? " But Regan only tossed her 
head. 

"■ Where did you get those pretty flow- 
ers ? " asked Babette. 

" In the woods this morning. 

" Are there any more ? Will you show 
me where ? " 

" Oh yes ! " said Cinder Ella, delighted 
to do anything to oblige. " But we'll have 
to hurry, it will be dark so soon." 

" I'll go too," said Regan ; and the two 
sisters could hardly wait till supper was 
over to drag Cinder Ella away into the 
woods. 

They soon found the flowers, and forgiv- 
ing Cinder Ella, who had the most taste, 
was busily making them into wreaths, when 
they heard a groan a little way off. Regan, 
who was a great coward, turned white a? 



256 CmDER ELLA. 

her handkercliief. " Let's run ! " cried she. 
"Never mmd the wreaths." But Ciuder 
Ella parted the bushes, and there, upon 
the ground, lay foolish little Robin Camp- 
bell, with his big mouth all puckered in 
with pain. 

" What is the matter, Robin ? " said Cin- 
der Ella, kindlj. 

" Fall ! " cried Robin, his mouth expand- 
ing big as a cofFee-cup, with a great cry. 
" Broke ! " he continued, piteously, pointing 
to one limp foot. 

" Don't bother with the goose," cried 
Regan. '' Finish our wreaths, and let's 
hurry back to the party. We're losing 
beautiful games, I know." 

"He's afraid," cried Robin. "Take 
him home." 

" Walk home yourself, you little plague ! " 
cried Babette ; " there's nothing the matter 
with you ;" and she lifted him rudely to his 



CINDER ELLA. 257 

feet ; but poor Robin fell down again witb a 
piteous cry. 

" Let's try to carry him home," said 
Cinder Ella ; "it's only a little way." 

" Not I, indeed," cried Regan ; " I should 
soil my dress." 

" And I should make my liands dirty 
and red," said Babette. 

" I'll go and call your mother, poor 
Robin," said Cinder Ella, " and slie will 
carry you home." 

"No! no!" shrieked Robin. "Don't 
leave him ; he's afraid. The dark makes 
faces at him ! " 

Cinder Ella looked imploringly^ at her 
sisters. 

" You needn't say a word," cried Regan, 
gathering up her flowers. " If you must 
be so silly as to prefer staying with this 
half-witted Robin, you can't expect us to 
keep you company. We'll finish our wreaths 
ourselves, and go back to the party. We've 



258 CINDER ELLA. 

lost a great deal of time already;'* and the 
two sisters turned down a foot-path, and 
were soon lost to sight. 

Poor Cinder Ella was in great perplex- 
ity. She couldn't stay there all night, 
and if she ran for help Robin would go 
into a fit with fright, and perhaps die. 
She must just try to carry him herself, for 
he was a little smaller than she, and sickly 
besides, poor fellow ! and couldn't be very 
heavy. So she tenderly lifted the sobbing 
boy, and staggered off through the woods. 
The way was longer than she thought, and 
Robin grew heavier every moment. She 
found herself in a terribly muddy place 
once, and when she at last got out one 
little foot had lost its slipper. But the 
brave heart never lost its courage, and 
at last, all panting, with torn dress, and 
ready to cry with fatigue, she put little 
Robin safe in his mother's arms, and heard 
the poor woman bless her and thank her 



CINDER ELLA. 250 

a thousand times for befriending the poor 
Robin, '' who hadn't the wit of a gosling, 
and might have died with pain and fright 
before his mother could have found him." 

Poor Cinder Ella was in no plight to go 
back to the party, and she stole quietly 
through the by-paths. 

Mrs. Beaver scolded well when she saw 
her. " Dirty little thing ! Had she been 
with the pigs? No wonder they called 
her 'Cinder Ella.' Her two sisters would 
come home looking as if they had just 
stepped out of a bandbox, but as for her 
little dimity — " Mrs. Beaver held up her 
hands in horror, though I don't believe the 
angels saw a spot on it. 

The next day, as the sisters sat in the 
porch, Regan suddenly exclaimed, " Oh ! 
here comes Victor Talbot, and Philo, and 
Max, and two or three others. Run, Cin- 
der Ella, and get my blue ribbons and my 
silk apron." 



260 CIXDEIi ELLA. 

" And my scarlet net, and a clean hand- 
kerchief," cried Babette, " and then run 
away to your own room, and stay till they 
are gone. Of course they don't want to 
see you.'''' 

The orders were all obeyed, and the blue 
ribbons and red net just settled in place as 
Victor came up. 

" Good-morning," he cried. " I haven't 
a minute to lose. We intend having a 
festival of roses while this fine weather 
lasts, and we think it would be pleasant to 
have a king and queen of the flowers. 
I have been chosen king, and have come to 
select my queen." 

Regan rolled her eyes, which were very 
large and handsome, and Babette smiled 
to show her teeth, which were white and 
regular as pearls. 

" Just now, as we came through tlie 
woods," continued Victor, abruptly, " I 
met my old nurse, and she had a long story 



CINDER ELLA. 261 

to tell me of some kind little girl wlio had 
carried her poor simple Robin home, wheii. 
he had hurt his foot, and was almost dying 
with pain and fright alone in the woods. 
She said the dear little girl must have had 
a great struggle to carry him so far, and 
she feared she had lost one of her shoes, 
for she had just found one in the swamp 
hard by. So we boys, who had just been 
talking about our queen, made up our 
minds that the girl who could do such a 
kind act must be beautiful enough, who- 
ever she might be, to be queen of the 
flowers. Here is the shoe that held the 
kind little foot," said he, holding up a 
muddy little slipper, " and I've come like 
the prince in the fairy tale. Whoever can 
wear it shall be my queen ! Is it yours^ 
Regan ? " 

Regan blushed. " I can wear it," she 
said, " but my foot is swollen this morn- 
ing." 



262 CIXDER ELLA. 

Babette gave her an angry look. " You 
know you can hardly get it on your great 
toe," she said in a loud whisper. 

" You were the kind girl, then, Bab- 
ette," said Victor. " Let me fit it on your 
foot." 

" Yes," said Babette, " I did lift the little 
boy, I remember." 

^> Oh, Babette! " began Regan, but Bab- 
ette interrupted with a little scream, as the 
shoe pinched her cruelly. 

" The shoe is on the wrong foot," cried 
Philo, who never did like Regan and Bab- 
ette. " Call Ella, — pretty r^hider Ella 1 " 

Regan and Babette made no haste to go, 
but Philo waylaid Mrs. Beaver, and blush- 
ing little Ella soon made her appearance. 

" How is this ? " cried Max, looking down 
at her feet, just peeping from her dress; 
" one slipper and one gaiter ! Where's the 
mate to this slipper ? " 

Cinder Ella blushed still more. 



CINDER ELLA. 263 

" Here ! '* said Yictor, and kneeling down 
he tried it on, when the foot and slipper 
sprang together like old acquaintances, as 
indeed they were. 

" Here is the queen of the flowers ! " cried 
Victor, kissing the brown hand. 

" Hurrah ! " cried the boys. " Three 
times three for Queen Cinder Ella ! " And 
Mrs. Beaver told Miss Cherie that Regan 
and Babette ran away to the garret and 
" cried their eyes owf," though this might 
have been an exaggeration. 



i\ 



CLAEIBEL'S PEAYEES 



265 



CLAEIBEL'S PEAYEES. 



The day, with cold, gray feet, clung sHveiing 
to the hills. 
While o'er the valley still night's rain-fiinged 
curtains fell ; 
But wakuig Blue Eyes smiled, "'Tis ever as 
God wills ; 
He.knoweth best, and be it rain or shine, 'tis 

well. 
Praise God!" cried always little Claribel. 

Then sank she on her knees. With eager, 
lijfted hands, 
Her rosy hps made haste some dear request 
to tell : 
" Oh, Father I smile, and save this fairest of all 
lands. 
And make her free, whatever hearts rebel. 
Amen! Praise God!" cried Httle Claribel. 



268 CLARIBEL'S PRATERS. 

"And, Father," still arose another pleading 
prayer, 
" Oh save my brother, in the rain of shot 
and shell ; 
Let not the death-bolt, with its horrid, stream- 
ing hair. 
Dash light from those sweet eyes I love so 

well. 
Amen ! Praise God ! " wept little Claribel. 

*' But, Father, grant that when the glorious fight 
is done. 
And up the crimson sky the shouts of fi'ee- 
men swell, — 
Grant that there be no nobler victor 'neath the 
sun 
Than he whose golden hair I love so well. 
Amen ! Praise God ! " cried httle Claribel. 

When gray and dreary day shook hands with 
grayer night. 
The heavy au* was thrilled with clangor of a 
bell. 



CLAlilBEUS PEATEIiS. 269 

" Oh, sliout ! " the herald cried, his worn eyes 

brimmed with light ; 
"'Tis victory! Oh what glorious news to 

tell!" 
" Praise God ! He heard my prayer," cried 

Claribel. 

" But pray you, soldier, was my brother in the 
fight. 
And in the fieiy rain ? Oh ! fought he brave 
and well?" 
" Dear child," the herald cried, " there was no 
braver sight 
Than his young form, so grand 'mid shot and 

shell." 
" Praise God ! " cried trembling little Claribel. 

" And rides he now with factor's plumes of red. 
While trumpets' golden throats his coming 
steps foretell ? " 
The herald dropped a tear. " Dear child," he 
softly said, 
*'Thy brother evermore with conquerors 
shaU dwell." 



270 CLAEIBEL'S PRATERS. 

" Pmse God ! He heard my prayer,'' cried 
Claribel. 

" With victors, wearing crowns and bearing 
palms," he said, 
And snow of sudden fear njwn the rose lips 
fell. 
" Oh ! sweetest herald, say my brother lives," 
she plead. 
" Dear child, he walks with angels, who in 

strength excel : 
Praise God, who gave this glory, Claribel." 

The cold, gray day died sobbing on the weary 
hills. 

While bitter mourning on the night wind 
rose and fell. 
« Oh, child,'" the herald wept, " 'tis as the dear 
Lord wills ; 

He knoweth best, and, be it life or death, 'tis 
well." 

" Amen! Praise God!" sobbed Httle Clari- 
bel 



THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY ! 
REFERENCE DEPARTMENT 


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