selected domestic fiction

Selected Domestic Fiction

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Selected Domestic Fiction

The Wide, Wide World ............................................................................................. 3

Chapter 2: Gives Sorrow to the Winds....................................................................................................................... 3

Elsie Dinsmore ...................................................................................................... 13

Chapter First ............................................................................................................................................................. 13

Little Women .......................................................................................................... 23

PART TWO: Chapter 28—Domestic Experiences ..................................................................................................... 23

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The Wide, Wide World

Chapter 2: Gives Sorrow to the Winds

Not all the whispers that the soft winds utter

Speak earthly things–

There mingleth there, sometimes, a gentle flutter

Of angel's wings.

AMY LATHROP.

SORROW and excitement made Ellen's eyelids heavy, and she slept late on the following morning.

The great dressing-bell waked her. She started up with a confused notion that something was the

matter; there was a weight on her heart that was very strange to it. A moment was enough to bring

it all back; and she threw herself again on her pillow, yielding helplessly to the grief she had twice

been obliged to control the evening before. Yet love was stronger than grief still, and she was

careful to allow no sound to escape her that could reach the ears of her mother, who slept in the

next room. Her resolve was firm to grieve her no more with useless expressions of sorrow; to keep

it to herself as much as possible. But this very thought that she must keep it to herself gave an edge

to poor Ellen's grief, and the convulsive clasp of her little arms round the pillow plainly showed that

it needed none.

The breakfast-bell again startled her, and she remembered she must not be too late down-stairs, or

her mother might inquire and find out the reason. "I will not trouble mother–I will not–I will not,"

she resolved to herself as she got out of bed, though the tears fell faster as she said so. Dressing

was sad work to Ellen to-day; it went on very heavily. Tears dropped into the water as she stooped

her head to the basin; and she hid her face in the towel to cry, instead of making the ordinary use

of it. But the usual duties were dragged through at last, and she went to the window. "I'll not go

down till papa is gone," she thought; "he'll ask me what is the matter with my eyes."

Ellen opened the window. The rain was over; the lovely light of a fair September morning was

beautifying everything it shone upon. Ellen had been accustomed to amuse herself a good deal at

this window, though nothing was to be seen from it but an ugly city prospect of back walls of

houses, with the yards belonging to them, and a bit of narrow street. But she had watched the

people that showed themselves at the windows, and the children that played in the yards, and the

women that went to the pumps, till she had become pretty well acquainted with the

neighbourhood; and though they were for the most part dingy, dirty, and disagreeable,–women,

children, houses, and all,–she certainly had taken a good deal of interest in their proceedings. It was

all gone now. She could not bear to look at them; she felt as if it made her sick; and turning away

her eyes she lifted them to the bright sky above her head, and gazed into its clear depth of blue till

she almost forgot that there was such a thing as a city in the world. Little white clouds were chasing

across it, driven by the fresh wind that was blowing away Ellen's hair from her face, and cooling her

hot cheeks. That wind could not have been long in coming from the place of woods and flowers, it

was so sweet still. Ellen looked till, she didn't know why, she felt calmed and soothed,–as if

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somebody was saying to her, softly, "Cheer up, my child, cheer up; things are not as bad as they

might be; things will get better." Her attention was attracted at length by voices below; she looked

down, and saw there, in one of the yards, a poor deformed child, whom she had often noticed

before, and always with sorrowful interest. Besides his bodily infirmity, he had a further claim on

her sympathy, in having lost his mother within a few months. Ellen's heart was easily touched this

morning; she felt for him very much. "Poor, poor little fellow!" she thought; "he's a great deal

worse off than I am. His mother is dead; mine is only going away for a few months–not forever; oh,

what a difference! and then the joy of coming back again!" poor Ellen was weeping already at the

thought–"and I will do, oh, how much! while she is gone–I'll do more than she can possibly expect

from me–I'll astonish her–I'll delight her–I'll work harder than ever I did in my life before; I'll mend

all my faults, and give her so much pleasure! But oh! if she only needn't go away! Oh, mamma!"

Tears of mingled sweet and bitter were poured out fast, but the bitter had the largest share.

The breakfast-table was still standing, and her father gone, when Ellen went down-stairs. Mrs.

Montgomery welcomed her with her usual quiet smile, and held out her hand. Ellen tried to smile

in answer, but she was glad to hide her face in her mother's bosom; and the long close embrace

was too close and too long: it told of sorrow as well as love; and tears fell from the eyes of each

that the other did not see.

"Need I go to school to-day, mamma?" whispered Ellen.

"No; I spoke to your father about that; you shall not go any more; we will be together now while we

can."

Ellen wanted to ask how long that would be, but could not make up her mind to it.

"Sit down, daughter, and take some breakfast."

"Have you done, mamma?"

"No; I waited for you."

"Thank you, dear mamma," with another embrace; "how good you are! but I don't think I want

any."

They drew their chairs to the table, but it was plain neither had much heart to eat; although Mrs.

Montgomery with her own hands laid on Ellen's plate half of the little bird that had been boiled for

her own breakfast. The half was too much for each of them.

"What made you so late this morning, daughter?"

"I got up late in the first place, mamma; and then I was a long time at the window."

"At the window! were you examining into your neighbor's affairs as usual?" said Mrs. Montgomery,

surprised that it should have been so.

"Oh, no, mamma, I didn't look at them at all,–except poor little Billy,–I was looking at the sky."

"And what did you see there that pleased you so much?"

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"I don't know, mamma; it looked so lovely and peaceful–that pure blue spread over my head, and

the little white clouds flying across it–I loved to look at it; it seemed to do me good."

"Could you look at it, Ellen, without thinking of Him who made it?"

"No, mamma, said Ellen, ceasing her breakfast, and now speaking with difficulty; "I did think of

Him; perhaps that was the reason."

"And what did you think of Him, daughter?"

"I hoped, mamma–I felt–I thought–He would take care of me," said Ellen, bursting into tears, and

throwing her arms around her mother.

"He will, my dear daughter, He will, if you will only put your trust in Him, Ellen."

Ellen struggled hard to get back her composure, and after a few minutes succeeded.

"Mamma, will you tell me what you mean exactly by my 'putting my trust' in Him?"

"Don't you trust me, Ellen?"

"Certainly, mamma."

"How do you trust me?–in what?"

"Why, mamma,–in the first place I trust every word you say–entirely–I know nothing could be truer;

if you were to tell me black is white, mamma, I should think my eyes had been mistaken. Then

everything you tell or advise me to do, I know it is right, perfectly. And I always feel safe when you

are near me, because I know you'll take care of me. And I am glad to think I belong to you, and you

have the management of me entirely, and I needn't manage myself, because I know I can't; and if I

could, I'd rather you would, mamma."

"My daughter, it is just so; it is just so: that I wish you to trust in God. He is truer, wiser, stronger,

kinder, by far, than I am, even if I could always be with you; and what will you do when I am away

from you?–and what would you do, my child, if I were to be parted from you forever?"

"Oh, mamma!" said Ellen, bursting into tears, and clasping her arms round her mother again,–"Oh,

dear mamma, don't talk about it!"

Her mother fondly returned her caress, and one or two tears fell on Ellen's head as she did so, but

that was all, and she said no more. Feeling severely the effects of the excitement and anxiety of the

preceding day and night, she now stretched herself on the sofa and lay quite still. Ellen placed

herself on a little bench at her side, with her back to the head of the sofa, that her mother might

not see her face; and possessing herself of one of her hands, sat with her little head resting upon

her mother, as quiet as she. They remained thus for two or three hours, without speaking; and Mrs.

Montgomery was part of the time slumbering; but now and then a tear ran down the side of the

sofa and dropped on the carpet where Ellen sat; and now and then her lips were softly pressed to

the hand she held, as if they would grow there.

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The doctor's entrance at last disturbed them. Doctor Green found his patient decidedly worse than

he had reason to expect; and his sagacious eye had not passed back and forth many times between

the mother and daughter before he saw how it was. He made no remark upon it, however, but

continued for some moments a pleasant chatty conversation which he had begun with Mrs.

Montgomery. He then called Ellen to him; he had rather taken a fancy to her.

"Well, Miss Ellen," he said, rubbing one of her hands in his; "what do you think of this fine scheme

of mine?"

"What scheme, sir?"

"Why, this scheme of sending this sick lady over the water to get well. What do you think of it eh?"

"Will it make her quite well, do you think, sir?" asked Ellen, earnestly.

"'Will it make her well!' to be sure it will; do you think I don't know better than to send people all

the way across the ocean for nothing? Who do you think would want Dr. Green, if he sent people

on wild-goose chases in that fashion?"

"Will she have to stay long there before she is cured, sir?" asked Ellen.

"Oh, that I can't tell; that depends entirely on circumstances,–perhaps longer, perhaps shorter. But

now, Miss Ellen, I've got a word of business to say to you; you know you agreed to be my little

nurse. Mrs. Nurse, this lady whom I put under your care the other day, isn't quite as well as she

ought to be this morning; I am afraid you haven't taken proper care of her; she looks to me as if she

had been too much excited. I've a notion she has been secretly taking half a bottle of wine, or

reading some furious kind of a novel, or something of that sort, you understand? Now, mind, Mrs.

Nurse," said the doctor, changing his tone, "she must not be excited,–you must take care that she is

not,–it isn't good for her. You mustn't let her talk too much, or laugh much, or cry at all, on any

account; she mustn't be worried in the least,–will you remember? Now you know what I shall

expect of you; you must be very careful–if that piece of toast of yours should chance to get burned,

one of these fine evenings, I won't answer for the consequences. Good-by," said he, shaking Ellen's

hand;–"you needn't look sober about it; all you have to do is to let your mamma be as much like an

oyster as possible; you understand? Good-by." And Dr. Green took his leave.

"Poor woman!" said the doctor to himself as he went downstairs (he was a humane man). "I

wonder if she'll live till she gets to the other side! That's a nice little girl, too. Poor child! poor

child!"

Both mother and daughter silently acknowledged the justice of the doctor's advice and determined

to follow it. By common consent, as it seemed, each for several days avoided bringing the subject of

sorrow to the other's mind; though no doubt it was constantly present to both. It was not spoken

of; indeed little of any kind was spoken of, but that never. Mrs. Montgomery was doubtless

employed during this interval in preparing for what she believed was before her; endeavouring to

resign herself and her child to Him in whose hands they were, and struggling to withdraw her

affections from a world which she had a secret misgiving she was fast leaving. As for Ellen, the

doctor's warning had served to strengthen the resolve she had already made, that she would not

distress her mother with the sight of her sorrow; and she kept it, as far as she could. She did not let

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her mother see but very few tears, and those were quiet ones; though she dropped her head like a

withered flower, and went about the house with an air of submissive sadness that tried her mother

sorely. But when she was alone, and knew no one could see, sorrow had its way; and then there

were sometimes agonies of grief that would almost have broken Mrs. Montgomery's resolution,

had she known them.

This, however, could not last. Ellen was a child, and of most buoyant and elastic spirit naturally; it

was not for one sorrow, however great, to utterly crush her. It would have taken years to do that.

Moreover, she entertained not the slightest hope of being able by any means to alter her father's

will. She regarded the dreaded evil as an inevitable thing. But though she was at first overwhelmed

with sorrow, and for some days evidently pined under it sadly, hope at length would come back to

her little heart; and no sooner in again, hope began to smooth the roughest, and soften the

hardest, and touch the dark spots with light, in Ellen's future. The thoughts which had passed

through her head that first morning as she had stood at her window, now came back again.

Thoughts of wonderful improvement to be made during her mother's absence; of unheard-of

efforts to learn and amend, which should all be crowned with success; and, above all, thoughts of

that "coming home," when all these attainments and accomplishments should be displayed to her

mother's delighted eyes, and her exertions receive their long-desired reward; they made Ellen's

heart beat, and her eyes swim, and even brought a smile once more upon her lips. Mrs.

Montgomery was rejoiced to see the change; she felt that as much time had already been given to

sorrow as they could afford to lose, and she had not known exactly how to proceed. Ellen's

amended looks and spirits greatly relieved her.

"What are you thinking about, Ellen?" said she, one morning.

Ellen was sewing, and while busy at her work her mother had two or three times observed a light

smile pass over her face. Ellen looked up, still smiling, and answered, "Oh, mamma, I was thinking

of different things,–things that I mean to do while you are gone."

"And what are these things?" inquired her mother.

"Oh, mamma, it wouldn't do to tell you beforehand; I want to surprise you with them when you

come back."

A slight shudder passed over Mrs. Montgomery's frame, but Ellen did not see it. Mrs. Montgomery

was silent. Ellen presently introduced another subject.

"Mamma, what kind of a person is my aunt?"

"I do not know; I have never seen her."

"How has that happened, mamma?"

"Your aunt has always lived in a remote country town, and I have been very much confined to two

or three cities, and your father's long and repeated absences made travelling impossible to me."

Ellen thought, but she didn't say it, that it was very odd her father should not sometimes, when he

was in the country, have gone to see his relations, and taken her mother with him.

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"What is my aunt's name, mamma?"

"I think you must have heard that already, Ellen; Fortune Emerson."

"Emerson! I thought she was papa's sister!"

"So she is."

"Then how comes her name not to be Montgomery?"

"She is only his half-sister; the daughter of his mother, not the daughter of his father."

"I am very sorry for that," said Ellen gravely.

"Why, my daughter?"

"I am afraid she will not be so likely to love me."

"You mustn't think so, my child. Her loving or not loving you will depend solely and entirely upon

yourself, Ellen. Don't forget that. If you are a good child, and make it your daily care to do your

duty, she cannot help liking you, be she what she may; and on the other hand, if she have all the

will in the world to love you, she cannot do it unless you will let her,–it all depends on your

behaviour."

"Oh, mamma, I can't help wishing dear aunt Bessy was alive, and I was going to her."

Many a time the same wish had passed through Mrs. Montgomery's mind! But she kept down her

rising heart and went on calmly.

"You must not expect, my child, to find anybody as indulgent as I am, or as ready to overlook and

excuse your faults. It would be unreasonable to look for it; and you must not think hardly of your

aunt when you find she is not your mother; but then it will be your own fault if she does not love

you, in time, truly and tenderly. See that you render her all the respect and obedience you would

render me; that is your bounden duty; she will stand in my place while she has the care of you,–

remember that, Ellen; and remember, too, that she will deserve more gratitude at your hands for

showing you kindness than I do, because she cannot have the same feeling of love to make trouble

easy."

"Oh, no, mamma," said Ellen, "I don't think so; it's that very feeling of love that I am grateful for. I

don't care a fig for anything people do for me without that."

"But you can make her love you, Ellen, if you try."

"Well, I'll try, mamma."

"And don't be discouraged. Perhaps you may be disappointed in first appearances, but never mind

that; have patience; and let your motto be (if there's any occasion), overcome evil with good. Will

you put that among the things you mean to do while I am gone?" said Mrs. Montgomery, with a

smile.

"I'll try, dear mamma."

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"You will succeed if you try, dear, never fear; if you apply yourself in your trying to the old unfailing

source of wisdom and strength; to Him without whom you can do nothing."

There was silence for a little.

"What sort of a place is it where my aunt lives?" asked Ellen.

"Your father says it is a very pleasant place; he says the country is beautiful and very healthy, and

full of charming walks and rides. You have never lived in the country; I think you will enjoy it very

much."

"Then it is not in a town?" said Ellen.

"No; it is not a great way from the town of Thirlwall, but your aunt lives in the open country. Your

father says she is a capital housekeeper, and that you will learn more, and be in all respects a great

deal happier and better off than you would be in a boarding school here or anywhere."

Ellen's heart secretly questioned the truth of this last assertion very much.

"Is there any school near?" she asked.

"Your father says there was an excellent one in Thirlwall when he was there."

"Mamma," said Ellen, "I think the greatest pleasure I shall have while you are gone will be writing to

you. I have been thinking of it a good deal. I mean to tell you everything,–absolutely everything,

mamma. You know there will be nobody for me to talk to as I do to you;" Ellen's words came out

with difficulty; "and when I feel badly, I shall just shut myself up and write to you." She hid her face

in her mother's lap.

"I count upon it, my dear daughter; it will make quite as much the pleasure of my life, Ellen, as of

yours."

"But then, mother," said Ellen, brushing away the tears from her eyes, "it will be so long before my

letters can get to you! The things I want you to know right away, you won't know perhaps in a

month."

"That's no matter, daughter; they will be just as good when they do get to me. Never think of that;

write every day, and all manner of things that concern you,–just as particularly as if you were

speaking to me."

"And you'll write to me, too, mamma?"

"Indeed I will, when I can. But Ellen, you say that when I am away and cannot hear you, there will

be nobody to supply my place. Perhaps it will be so indeed; but then, my daughter, let it make you

seek that friend who is never far away, nor out of hearing. Draw nigh to God, and he will draw nigh

to you. You know he has said of his children: 'Before they call, I will answer; and while they are yet

speaking I will hear.'"

"But, mamma," said Ellen, her eyes filling instantly, "you know he is not my friend in the same way

that he is yours." And hiding her face again, she added, "Oh, I wish he was!"

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"You know the way to make him so, Ellen. He is willing; it only rests with you. Oh, my child, my

child! if losing your mother might be the means of finding you that better friend, I should be quite

willing–and glad to go–for ever."

There was silence, only broken by Ellen's sobs. Mrs. Montgomery's voice had trembled, and her

face was now covered with her hands; but she was not weeping; she was seeking a better relief

where it had long been her habit to seek and find it. Both resumed their usual composure, and the

employments which had been broken off, but neither chose to renew the conversation. Dinner,

sleeping, and company prevented their having another opportunity during the rest of the day.

But when evening came, they were again left to themselves. Captain Montgomery was away, which

indeed was the case most of the time; friends had taken their departure; the curtains were down,

the lamp lit, the little room looked cosy and comfortable; the servant had brought the tea-things,

and withdrawn, and the mother and daughter were happily alone. Mrs. Montgomery knew that

such occasions were numbered, and fast drawing to an end, and she felt each one to be very

precious. She now lay on her couch, with her face partially shaded, and her eyes fixed upon her

little daughter, who was now preparing the tea. She watched her, with thoughts and feelings not to

be spoken, as the little figure went back and forward between the table and the fire, and the light

shining full upon her face, showed that Ellen's whole soul was in her beloved duty. Tears would fall

as she looked, and were not wiped away; but when Ellen, having finished her work, brought with a

satisfied face the little tray of tea and toast to her mother, there was no longer any sign of them

left; Mrs. Montgomery arose with her usual kind smile, to show her gratitude by honoring as far as

possible what Ellen had provided.

"You have more appetite to-night, mamma."

"I am very glad, daughter," replied her mother, "to see that you have made up your mind to bear

patiently this evil that has come upon us. I am glad for your sake, and I am glad for mine; and I am

glad, too, because we have a great deal to do and no time to lose in doing it."

"What have we so much to do, mamma?" said Ellen.

"Oh, many things," said her mother, "you will see. But now, Ellen, if there is anything you wish to

talk to me about, any question you want to ask, anything you would like particularly to have, or to

have done for you, I want you to tell it me as soon as possible, now while we can attend to it, for by

and by perhaps we shall be hurried."

"Mamma," said Ellen, with brightening eyes, "there is one thing I have thought of that I should like

to have; shall I tell it you now?"

"Yes."

"Mamma, you know I shall want to be writing a great deal; wouldn't it be a good thing for me to

have a little box with some pens in it, and an inkstand, and some paper and wafers? Because,

mamma, you know I shall be among strangers, at first, and I shan't feel like asking them for these

things as often as I shall want them, and maybe they wouldn't want to let me have them if I did."

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"I have thought of that already, daughter," said Mrs. Montgomery, with a smile and a sigh. "I will

certainly take care that you are well provided in that respect before you go."

"How am I to go, mamma?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, who will go with me? You know I can't go alone, mamma."

"No, my daughter, I'll not send you alone. But your father says it is impossible for him to take the

journey at present, and it is yet more impossible for me. There is no help for it, daughter, but we

must intrust you to the care of some friend going that way; but He that holds the winds and waters

in the hollow of his hand can take care of you without any of our help, and it is to his keeping above

all, that I shall commit you."

Ellen made no remark, and seemed much less surprised and troubled than her mother had

expected. In truth, the greater evil swallowed up the less. Parting from her mother, and for so long

a time, it seemed to her comparatively a matter of little importance with whom she went, or how,

or where. Except for this, the taking a long journey under a stranger's care would have been a

dreadful thing to her.

"Do you know yet who it will be that I shall go with, mamma?"

"Not yet; but it will be necessary to take the first good opportunity, for I cannot go till I have seen

you off, and it is thought very desirable that I should get to sea before the severe weather comes."

It was with a pang that these words were spoken, and heard, but neither showed it to the other.

"It has comforted me greatly, my dear child, that you have shown yourself so submissive and

patient under this affliction. I should scarcely have been able to endure it if you had not exerted

self-control. You have behaved beautifully."

This was almost too much for poor Ellen. It required her utmost stretch of self-control to keep

within any bounds of composure; and for some moments her flushed cheek, quivering lip, and

heaving bosom told what a tumult her mother's words had raised. Mrs. Montgomery saw she had

gone too far, and, willing to give both Ellen and herself time to recover, she laid her head on the

pillow again and closed her eyes. Many thoughts coming thick upon one another presently filled

her mind, and half an hour had passed before she again recollected what she had meant to say. She

opened her eyes; Ellen was sitting at a little distance, staring into the fire, evidently as deep in

meditation as her mother had been.

"Ellen," said Mrs. Montgomery, "did you ever fancy what kind of a Bible you would like to have?"

"A Bible, mamma!" said Ellen, with sparkling eyes, "do you mean to give me a Bible?"

Mrs. Montgomery smiled.

"But, mamma," said Ellen gently, "I thought you couldn't afford it?"

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"I have said so, and truly," answered her mother; "and hitherto you have been able to use mine,

but I will not leave you now without one. I will find ways and means," said Mrs. Montgomery,

smiling again.

"Oh, mamma, thank you!" said Ellen, delighted; "how glad I shall be!" And after a pause of

consideration, she added, "Mamma, I never thought much about what sort of a one I should like;

couldn't I tell better if I were to see the different kinds in the store?"

"Perhaps so. Well, the first day that the weather is fine enough and I am well enough, I will go out

with you and we will see about it."

"I am afraid Dr. Green won't let you, mamma."

"I shall not ask him. I want to get you a Bible, and some other things that I will not leave you

without, and nobody can do it but myself. I shall go, if I possibly can."

"What other things, mamma?" asked Ellen, very much interested in the subject.

"I don't think it will do to tell you to-night," said Mrs. Montgomery, smiling. "I foresee that you and

I should be kept awake quite too late if we were to enter upon it just now. We will leave it till to-

morrow. Now read to me, love, and then to bed."

Ellen obeyed; and went to sleep with brighter visions dancing before her eyes than had been the

case for some time.

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Elsie Dinsmore

Chapter First "I never saw an eye so bright,

And yet so soft as hers;

It sometimes swam in liquid light,

And sometimes swam in tears;

It seemed a beauty set apart

For softness and for sighs."

—MRS. WELBY.

The school-room at Roselands was a very pleasant apartment; the ceiling, it is true, was somewhat

lower than in the more modern portion of the building, for the wing in which it was situated dated

back to the old-fashioned days prior to the Revolution, while the larger part of the mansion had not

stood more than twenty or thirty years; but the effect was relieved by windows reaching from floor

to ceiling, and opening on a veranda which overlooked a lovely flower-garden, beyond which were

fields and woods and hills. The view from the veranda was very beautiful, and the room itself

looked most inviting, with its neat matting, its windows draped with snow-white muslin, its

comfortable chairs, and pretty rosewood desks.

Within this pleasant apartment sat Miss Day with her pupils, six in number. She was giving a lesson

to Enna, the youngest, the spoiled darling of the family, the pet and plaything of both father and

mother. It was always a trying task to both teacher and scholar, for Enna was very wilful, and her

teacher's patience by no means inexhaustible.

"There!" exclaimed Miss Day, shutting the book and giving it an impatient toss on to the desk; "go,

for I might as well try to teach old Bruno. I presume he would learn about as fast."

And Enna walked away with a pout on her pretty face, muttering that she would "tell mamma."

"Young ladies and gentlemen," said Miss Day, looking at her watch, "I shall leave you to your

studies for an hour; at the end of which time I shall return to hear your recitations, when those who

have attended properly to their duties will be permitted to ride out with me to visit the fair."

"Oh! that will be jolly!" exclaimed Arthur, a bright-eyed, mischief-loving boy of ten.

"Hush!" said Miss Day sternly; "let me hear no more such exclamations; and remember that you

will not go unless your lessons are thoroughly learned. Louise and Lora," addressing two young girls

of the respective ages of twelve and fourteen, "that French exercise must be perfect, and your

English lessons as well. Elsie," to a little girl of eight, sitting alone at a desk near one of the

windows, and bending over a slate with an appearance of great industry, "every figure of that

example must be correct, your geography lesson recited perfectly, and a page in your copybook

written without a blot."

"Yes, ma'am," said the child meekly, raising a pair of large soft eyes of the darkest hazel for an

instant to her teacher's face, and then dropping them again upon her slate.

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"And see that none of you leave the room until I return," continued the governess. "Walter, if you

miss one word of that spelling, you will have to stay at home and learn it over."

"Unless mamma interferes, as she will be pretty sure to do," muttered Arthur, as the door closed

on Miss Day, and her retreating footsteps were heard passing down the hall.

For about ten minutes after her departure, all was quiet in the school-room, each seemingly

completely absorbed in study. But at the end of that time Arthur sprang up, and flinging his book

across the room, exclaimed, "There! I know my lesson; and if I didn't, I shouldn't study another bit

for old Day, or Night either."

"Do be quiet, Arthur," said his sister Louise; "I can't study in such a racket."

Arthur stole on tiptoe across the room, and coming up behind Elsie, tickled the back of her neck

with a feather.

She started, saying in a pleading tone, "Please, Arthur, don't."

"It pleases me to do," he said, repeating the experiment.

Elsie changed her position, saying in the same gentle, persuasive tone, "O Arthur! please let me

alone, or I never shall be able to do this example."

"What! all this time on one example! you ought to be ashamed. Why, I could have done it half a

dozen times over."

"I have been over and over it," replied the little girl in a tone of despondency, "and still there are

two figures that will not come right."

"How do you know they are not right, little puss?" shaking her curls as he spoke.

"Oh! please, Arthur, don't pull my hair. I have the answer—that's the way I know."

"Well, then, why don't you just set the figures down. I would."

"Oh! no, indeed; that would not be honest."

"Pooh! nonsense! nobody would be the wiser, nor the poorer."

"No, but it would be just like telling a lie. But I can never get it right while you are bothering me so,"

said Elsie, laying her slate aside in despair. Then taking out her geography, she began studying most

diligently. But Arthur continued his persecutions—tickling her, pulling her hair, twitching the book

out of her hand, and talking almost incessantly, making remarks, and asking questions; till at last

Elsie said, as if just ready to cry, "Indeed, Arthur, if you don't let me alone, I shall never be able to

get my lessons."

"Go away then; take your book out on the veranda, and learn your lessons there," said Louise. "I'll

call you when Miss Day comes."

"Oh! no, Louise, I cannot do that, because it would be disobedience," replied Elsie, taking out her

writing materials.

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Arthur stood over her criticising every letter she made, and finally jogged her elbow in such a way

as to cause her to drop all the ink in her pen upon the paper, making quite a large blot.

"Oh!" cried the little girl, bursting into tears, "now I shall lose my ride, for Miss Day will not let me

go; and I was so anxious to see all those beautiful flowers."

Arthur, who was really not very vicious, felt some compunction when he saw the mischief he had

done. "Never mind, Elsie," said he. "I can fix it yet. Just let me tear out this page, and you can begin

again on the next, and I'll not bother you. I'll make these two figures come right too," he added,

taking up her slate.

"Thank you, Arthur," said the little girl, smiling through her tears; "you are very kind, but it would

not be honest to do either, and I had rather stay at home than be deceitful."

"Very well, miss," said he, tossing his head, and walking away, "since you won't let me help you, it is

all your own fault if you have to stay at home."

"Elsie," exclaimed Louise, "I have no patience with you! such ridiculous scruples as you are always

raising. I shall not pity you one bit, if you are obliged to stay at home."

Elsie made no reply, but, brushing away a tear, bent over her writing, taking great pains with every

letter, though saying sadly to herself all the time, "It's of no use, for that great ugly blot will spoil it

all."

She finished her page, and, excepting the unfortunate blot, it all looked very neat indeed, showing

plainly that it had been written with great care. She then took up her slate and patiently went over

and over every figure of the troublesome example, trying to discover where her mistake had been.

But much time had been lost through Arthur's teasing, and her mind was so disturbed by the

accident to her writing that she tried in vain to fix it upon the business in hand; and before the two

troublesome figures had been made right, the hour was past and Miss Day returned.

"Oh!" thought Elsie, "if she will only hear the others first, I may be able to get this and the

geography ready yet; and perhaps, if Arthur will be generous enough to tell her about the blot, she

may excuse me for it."

But it was a vain hope. Miss Day had no sooner seated herself at her desk, than she called, "Elsie,

come here and say that lesson; and bring your copybook and slate, that I may examine your work."

Elsie tremblingly obeyed.

The lesson, though a difficult one, was very tolerably recited; for Elsie, knowing Arthur's propensity

for teasing, had studied it in her own room before school hours. But Miss Day handed back the

book with a frown, saying, "I told you the recitation must be perfect, and it was not."

She was always more severe with Elsie than with any other of her pupils. The reason the reader will

probably be able to divine ere long.

"There are two incorrect figures in this example," said she, laying down the slate, after glancing

over its contents. Then taking up the copy-book, she exclaimed, "Careless, disobedient child! did I

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not caution you to be careful not to blot your book! There will be no ride for you this morning. You

have failed in everything. Go to your seat. Make that example right, and do the next; learn your

geography lesson over, and write another page in your copy-book; and, mind, if there is a blot on it,

you will get no dinner."

Weeping and sobbing, Elsie took up her books and obeyed.

During this scene Arthur stood at his desk pretending to study, but glancing every now and then at

Elsie, with a conscience evidently ill at ease. She cast an imploring glance at him, as she returned to

her seat; but he turned away his head, muttering, "It's all her own fault, for she wouldn't let me

help her."

As he looked up again, he caught his sister Lora's eyes fixed on him with an expression of scorn and

contempt. He colored violently, and dropped his eyes upon his book.

"Miss Day," said Lora, indignantly, "I see Arthur does not mean to speak, and as I cannot bear to see

such injustice, I must tell you that it is all his fault that Elsie has failed in her lessons; for she tried

her very best, but he teased her incessantly, and also jogged her elbow and made her spill the ink

on her book; and to her credit she was too honorable to tear out the leaf from her copy-book, or to

let him make her example right; both which he very generously proposed doing after causing all the

mischief."

"Is this so, Arthur?" asked Miss Day, angrily.

The boy hung his head, but made no reply.

"Very well, then," said Miss Day, "you too must stay at home."

"Surely," said Lora, in surprise, "you will not keep Elsie, since I have shown you that she was not to

blame."

"Miss Lora," replied her teacher, haughtily, "I wish you to understand that I am not to be dictated

to by my pupils."

Lora bit her lip, but said nothing, and Miss Day went on hearing the lessons without further remark.

In the meantime the little Elsie sat at her desk, striving to conquer the feelings of anger and

indignation that were swelling in her breast; for Elsie, though she possessed much of "the

ornament of a meek and quiet spirit," was not yet perfect, and often had a fierce contest with her

naturally quick temper. Yet it was seldom, very seldom that word or tone or look betrayed the

existence of such feelings; and it was a common remark in the family that Elsie had no spirit.

The recitations were scarcely finished when the door opened and a lady entered dressed for a ride.

"Not through yet, Miss Day?" she asked.

"Yes, madam, we are just done," replied the teacher, closing the French grammar and handing it to

Louise.

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"Well, I hope your pupils have all done their duty this morning, and are ready to accompany us to

the fair," said Mrs. Dinsmore. "But what is the matter with Elsie?"

"She has failed in all her exercises, and therefore has been told that she must remain at home,"

replied Miss Day with heightened color and in a tone of anger; "and as Miss Lora tells me that

Master Arthur was partly the cause, I have forbidden him also to accompany us."

"Excuse me, Miss Day, for correcting you," said Lora, a little indignantly; "but I did not say partly, for

I am sure it was entirely his fault."

"Hush, hush, Lora," said her mother, a little impatiently; "how can you be sure of any such thing;

Miss Day, I must beg of you to excuse Arthur this once, for I have quite set my heart on taking him

along. He is fond of mischief, I know, but he is only a child, and you must not be too hard upon

him."

"Very well, madam," replied the governess stiffly, "you have of course the best right to control your

own children."

Mrs. Dinsmore turned to leave the room.

"Mamma," asked Lora, "is not Elsie to be allowed to go too?"

"Elsie is not my child, and I have nothing to say about it. Miss Day, who knows all the

circumstances, is much better able than I to judge whether or no she is deserving of punishment,"

replied Mrs. Dinsmore, sailing out of the room.

"You will let her go, Miss Day?" said Lora, inquiringly.

"Miss Lora," replied Miss Day, angrily, "I have already told you I was not to be dictated to. I have

said Elsie must remain at home, and I shall not break my word."

"Such injustice!" muttered Lora, turning away.

"Lora," said Louise, impatiently, "why need you concern yourself with Elsie's affairs? for my part, I

have no pity for her, so full as she is of nonsensical scruples."

Miss Day crossed the room to where Elsie was sitting leaning her head upon the desk, struggling

hard to keep down the feelings of anger and indignation aroused by the unjust treatment she had

received.

"Did I not order you to learn that lesson over?" said the governess, "and why are you sitting here

idling?"

Elsie dared not speak lest her anger should show itself in words; so merely raised her head, and

hastily brushing away her tears, opened the book. But Miss Day, who was irritated by Mrs.

Dinsmore's interference, and also by the consciousness that she was acting unjustly, seemed

determined to vent her displeasure upon her innocent victim.

"Why do you not speak?" she exclaimed, seizing Elsie by the arm and shaking her violently. "Answer

me this instant. Why have you been idling all the morning?"

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"I have not," replied the child hastily, stung to the quick by her unjust violence. "I have tried hard to

do my duty, and you are punishing me when I don't deserve it at all."

"How dare you? there! take that for your impertinence," said Miss Day, giving her a box on the ear.

Elsie was about to make a still more angry reply; but she restrained herself, and turning to her

book, tried to study, though the hot, blinding tears came so thick and fast that she could not see a

letter.

"De carriage am waiting, ladies, an' missus in a hurry," said a servant, opening the door; and Miss

Day hastily quitted the room, followed by Louise and Lora; and Elsie was left alone.

She laid down the geography, and opening her desk, took out a small pocket Bible, which bore the

marks of frequent use. She turned over the leaves as though seeking for some particular passage;

at length she found it, and wiping away the blinding tears, she read these words in a low,

murmuring tone:

"For this is thankworthy, if a man for conscience toward God endure grief, suffering wrongfully. For

what glory is it if, when ye be buffeted for your faults, ye shall take it patiently? but if when ye do

well, and suffer for it, ye take it patiently, this is acceptable with God. For even hereunto were ye

called; because Christ also suffered for us, leaving us an example that ye should follow His steps."

"Oh! I have not done it. I did not take it patiently. I am afraid I am not following in His steps," she

cried, bursting into an agony of tears and sobs.

"My dear little girl, what is the matter?" asked a kind voice, and a soft hand was gently laid on her

shoulder.

The child looked up hastily. "O Miss Allison!" she said, "is it you? I thought I was quite alone."

"And so you were, my dear, until this moment" replied the lady, drawing up a chair, and sitting

down close beside her. "I was on the veranda, and hearing sobs, came in to see if I could be of any

assistance. You look very much distressed; will you not tell me the cause of your sorrow?"

Elsie answered only by a fresh burst of tears.

"They have all gone to the fair and left you at home alone; perhaps to learn a lesson you have failed

in reciting?" said the lady, inquiringly.

"Yes, ma'am," said the child; "but that is not the worst;" and her tears fell faster, as she laid the

little Bible on the desk, and pointed with her finger to the words she had been reading. "Oh!" she

sobbed, "I—I did not do it; I did not bear it patiently. I was treated unjustly, and punished when I

was not to blame, and I grew angry. Oh! I'm afraid I shall never be like Jesus! never, never."

The child's distress seemed very great, and Miss Allison was extremely surprised. She was a visitor

who had been in the house only a few days, and, herself a devoted Christian, had been greatly

pained by the utter disregard of the family in which she was sojourning for the teachings of God's

word. Rose Allison was from the North, and Mr. Dinsmore, the proprietor of Roselands, was an old

friend of her father, to whom he had been paying a visit, and finding Rose in delicate health, he had

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prevailed upon her parents to allow her to spend the winter months with his family in the more

congenial clime of their Southern home.

"My poor child," she said, passing her arm around the little one's waist, "my poor little Elsie! that is

your name, is it not?"

"Yes, ma'am; Elsie Dinsmore," replied the little girl.

"Well, Elsie, let me read you another verse from this blessed book. Here it is: 'The blood of Jesus

Christ his Son, cleanseth us from all sin.' And here again: 'If any man sin, we have an advocate with

the Father Jesus Christ the righteous.' Dear Elsie, 'if we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to

forgive us our sins.'"

"Yes, ma'am," said the child; "I have asked Him to forgive me, and I know He has; but I am so sorry,

oh! so sorry that I have grieved and displeased Him; for, O Miss Allison! I do love Jesus, and want to

be like Him always."

"Yes, dear child, we must grieve for our sins when we remember that they helped to slay the Lord.

But I am very, very glad to learn that you love Jesus, and are striving to do His will. I love Him too,

and we will love one another; for you know He says, 'By this shall men know that ye are my

disciples, if ye have love one to another,'" said Miss Allison, stroking the little girl's hair, and kissing

her tenderly.

"Will you love me? Oh! how glad I am," exclaimed the child joyfully; "I have nobody to love me but

poor old mammy."

"And who is mammy?" asked the lady.

"My dear old nurse, who has always taken care of me. Have you not seen her, ma'am?"

"Perhaps I may. I have seen a number of nice old colored women about here since I came. But,

Elsie, will you tell me who taught you about Jesus, and how long you have loved Him?"

"Ever since I can remember," replied the little girl earnestly; "and it was dear old mammy who first

told me how He suffered and died on the cross for us." Her eyes filled with tears and her voice

quivered with emotion. "She used to talk to me about it just as soon as I could understand

anything," she continued; "and then she would tell me that my own dear mamma loved Jesus, and

had gone to be with Him in heaven; and how, when she was dying, she put me—a little, wee baby, I

was then not quite a week old—into her arms, and said, 'Mammy, take my dear little baby and love

her, and take care of her just as you did of me; and O mammy! be sure that you teach her to love

God.' Would you like to see my mamma, Miss Allison?"

And as she spoke she drew from her bosom a miniature set in gold and diamonds, which she wore

suspended by a gold chain around her neck, and put it in Rose's hand.

It was the likeness of a young and blooming girl, not more than fifteen or sixteen years of age. She

was very beautiful, with a sweet, gentle, winning countenance, the same soft hazel eyes and golden

brown curls that the little Elsie possessed; the same regular features, pure complexion, and sweet

smile.

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Miss Allison gazed at it a moment in silent admiration; then turning from it to the child with a

puzzled expression, she said, "But, Elsie, I do not understand; are you not sister to Enna and the

rest, and is not Mrs. Dinsmore own mother to them all?"

"Yes, ma'am, to all of them, but not to me nor my papa. Their brother Horace is my papa, and so

they are all my aunts and uncles."

"Indeed," said the lady, musingly; "I thought you looked very unlike the rest. And your papa is away,

is he not, Elsie?"

"Yes, ma'am; he is in Europe. He has been away almost ever since I was born, and I have never seen

him. Oh! how I do wish he would come home! how I long to see him! Do you think he would love

me, Miss Allison? Do you think he would take me on his knee and pet me, as grandpa does Enna?"

"I should think he would, dear; I don't know how he could help loving his own dear little girl," said

the lady, again kissing the little rosy cheek. "But now," she added, rising, "I must go away and let

you learn your lesson."

Then taking up the little Bible, and turning over the leaves, she asked, "Would you like to come to

my room sometimes in the mornings and evenings, and read this book with me, Elsie?"

"Oh! yes, ma'am, dearly!" exclaimed the child, her eyes sparkling with pleasure.

"Come then this evening, if you like; and now goodbye for the present." And pressing another kiss

on the child's cheek, she left her and went back to her own room, where she found her friend

Adelaide Dinsmore, a young lady near her own age, and the eldest daughter of the family. Adelaide

was seated on a sofa, busily employed with some fancy work.

"You see I am making myself quite at home," she said, looking up as Rose entered. "I cannot

imagine where you have been all this time."

"Can you not? In the school-room, talking with little Elsie. Do you know, Adelaide, I thought she was

your sister; but she tells me not."

"No, she is Horace's child. I supposed you knew; but if you do not, I may just as well tell you the

whole story. Horace was a very wild boy, petted and spoiled, and always used to having his own

way; and when he was about seventeen—quite a forward youth he was too—he must needs go to

New Orleans to spend some months with a schoolmate; and there he met, and fell desperately in

love with, a very beautiful girl a year or two younger than himself, an orphan and very wealthy.

Fearing that objections would be made on the score of their youth, etc., etc., he persuaded her to

consent to a private marriage, and they had been man and wife for some months before either her

friends or his suspected it.

"Well, when it came at last to papa's ears, he was very angry, both on account of their extreme

youth, and because, as Elsie Grayson's father had made all his money by trade, he did not consider

her quite my brother's equal; so he called Horace home and sent him North to college. Then he

studied law, and since that he has been traveling in foreign lands. But to return to his wife; it seems

that her guardian was quite as much opposed to the match as papa; and the poor girl was made to

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believe that she should never see her husband again. All their letters were intercepted, and finally

she was told that he was dead; so, as Aunt Chloe says, 'she grew thin and pale, and weak and

melancholy,' and while the little Elsie was yet not quite a week old, she died. We never saw her; she

died in her guardian's house, and there the little Elsie stayed in charge of Aunt Chloe, who was an

old servant in the family, and had nursed her mother before her, and of the housekeeper, Mrs.

Murray, a pious old Scotch woman, until about four years ago, when her guardian's death broke up

the family, and then they came to us. Horace never comes home, and does not seem to care for his

child, for he never mentions her in his letters, except when it is necessary in the way of business."

"She is a dear little thing," said Rose. "I am sure he could not help loving her, if he could only see

her."

"Oh! yes, she is well enough, and I often feel sorry for the lonely little thing, but the truth is, I

believe we are a little jealous of her; she is so extremely beautiful, and heiress to such an immense

fortune. Mamma often frets, and says that one of these days she will quite eclipse her younger

daughters."

"But then," said Rose, "she is almost as near; her own grand-daughter."

"No, she is not so very near," replied Adelaide, "for Horace is not mamma's son. He was seven or

eight years old when she married papa, and I think she was never particularly fond of him."

"Ah! yes," thought Rose, "that explains it. Poor little Elsie! No wonder you pine for your father's

love, and grieve over the loss of the mother you never knew!"

"She is an odd child," said Adelaide; "I don't understand her; she is so meek and patient she will

fairly let you trample upon her. It provokes papa. He says she is no Dinsmore, or she would know

how to stand up for her own rights; and yet she has a temper, I know, for once in a great while it

shows itself for an instant—only an instant, though, and at very long intervals—and then she

grieves over it for days, as though she had committed some great crime; while the rest of us think

nothing of getting angry half a dozen times in a day. And then she is forever poring over that little

Bible of hers; what she sees so attractive in it I'm sure I cannot tell, for I must say I find it the dullest

of dull books."

"Do you," said Rose; "how strange! I had rather give up all other books than that one. 'Thy

testimonies have I taken as a heritage forever, for they are the rejoicing of my heart,' 'How sweet

are thy words unto my taste! Yea, sweeter than honey to my mouth.'"

"Do you really love it so, Rose?" asked Adelaide, lifting her eyes to her friend's face with an

expression of astonishment; "do tell me why?"

"For its exceeding great and precious promises Adelaide; for its holy teachings; for its offers of

peace and pardon and eternal life. I am a sinner, Adelaide, lost, ruined, helpless, hopeless, and the

Bible brings me the glad news of salvation offered as a free, unmerited gift; it tells me that Jesus

died to save sinners—just such sinners as I. I find that I have a heart deceitful above all things and

desperately wicked, and the blessed Bible tells me how that heart can be renewed, and where I can

obtain that holiness without which no man shall see the Lord. I find myself utterly unable to keep

God's holy law, and it tells me of One who has kept it for me. I find that I deserve the wrath and

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curse of a justly offended God, and it tells me of Him who was made a curse for me. I find that all

my righteousnesses are as filthy rags, and it offers me the beautiful, spotless robe of Christ's perfect

righteousness. Yes, it tells me that God can be just, and the justifier of him who believes in Jesus."

Rose spoke these words with deep emotion, then suddenly clasping her hands and raising her eyes,

she exclaimed, "'Thanks be unto God for His unspeakable gift!'"

For a moment there was silence. Then Adelaide spoke:

"Rose," said she, "you talk as if you were a great sinner; but I don't believe it; it is only your humility

that makes you think so. Why, what have you ever done? Had you been a thief, a murderer, or

guilty of any other great crime, I could see the propriety of your using such language with regard to

yourself; but for a refined, intelligent, amiable young lady, excuse me for saying it, dear Rose, but

such language seems to me simply absurd."

"Man looketh upon the outward appearance, but the Lord pondereth the heart," said Rose, gently.

"No, dear Adelaide, you are mistaken; for I can truly say 'mine iniquities have gone over my head as

a cloud, and my transgressions as a thick cloud.' Every duty has been stained with sin, every motive

impure, every thought unholy. From my earliest existence, God has required the undivided love of

my whole heart, soul, strength, and mind; and so far from yielding it, I live at enmity with Him, and

rebellion against His government, until within the last two years. For seventeen years He has

showered blessings upon me, giving me life, health, strength, friends, and all that was necessary for

happiness; and for fifteen of those years I returned Him nothing but ingratitude and rebellion. For

fifteen years I rejected His offers of pardon and reconciliation, turned my back upon the Saviour of

sinners, and resisted all the strivings of God's Holy Spirit, and will you say that I am not a great

sinner?" Her voice quivered, and her eyes were full of tears.

"Dear Rose," said Adelaide, putting her arm around her friend and kissing her cheek affectionately,

"don't think of these things; religion is too gloomy for one so young as you."

"Gloomy, dear Adelaide!" replied Rose, returning the embrace; "I never knew what true happiness

was until I found Jesus. My sins often make me sad, but religion, never.

"'Oft I walk beneath the cloud,

Dark as midnight's gloomy shroud;

But when fear is at the height,

Jesus comes, and all is light.'"

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Little Women

PART TWO: Chapter 28—Domestic Experiences

Like most other young matrons, Meg began her married life with the determination to be a model

housekeeper. John should find home a paradise, he should always see a smiling face, should fare

sumptuously every day, and never know the loss of a button. She brought so much love, energy,

and cheerfulness to the work that she could not but succeed, in spite of some obstacles. Her

paradise was not a tranquil one, for the little woman fussed, was over-anxious to please, and

bustled about like a true Martha, cumbered with many cares. She was too tired, sometimes, even

to smile, John grew dyspeptic after a course of dainty dishes and ungratefully demanded plain fare.

As for buttons, she soon learned to wonder where they went, to shake her head over the

carelessness of men, and to threaten to make him sew them on himself, and see if his work would

stand impatient and clumsy fingers any better than hers.

They were very happy, even after they discovered that they couldn't live on love alone. John did not

find Meg's beauty diminished, though she beamed at him from behind the familiar coffee pot. Nor

did Meg miss any of the romance from the daily parting, when her husband followed up his kiss

with the tender inquiry, Shall I send some veal or mutton for dinner, darling? The little house

ceased to be a glorified bower, but it became a home, and the young couple soon felt that it was a

change for the better. At first they played keep-house, and frolicked over it like children. Then John

took steadily to business, feeling the cares of the head of a family upon his shoulders, and Meg laid

by her cambric wrappers, put on a big apron, and fell to work, as before said, with more energy

than discretion.

While the cooking mania lasted she went through Mrs. Cornelius's Receipt Book as if it were a

mathematical exercise, working out the problems with patience and care. Sometimes her family

were invited in to help eat up a too bounteous feast of successes, or Lotty would be privately

dispatched with a batch of failures, which were to be concealed from all eyes in the convenient

stomachs of the little Hummels (a poor family, note added). An evening with John over the account

books usually produced a temporary lull in the culinary enthusiasm, and a frugal fit would ensue,

during which the poor man was put through a course of bread pudding, hash, and warmed-over

coffee, which tried his soul, although he bore it with praiseworthy fortitude. Before the golden

mean was found, however, Meg added to her domestic possessions what young couples seldom

get on long without, a family jar.

Fired a with housewifely wish to see her storeroom stocked with homemade preserves, she

undertook to put up her own currant jelly. John was requested to order home a dozen or so of little

pots and an extra quantity of sugar, for their own currants were ripe and were to be attended to at

once. As John firmly believed that `my wife' was equal to anything, and took a natural pride in her

skill, he resolved that she should be gratified, and their only crop of fruit laid by in a most pleasing

form for winter use. Home came four dozen delightful little pots, half a barrel of sugar, and a small

boy to pick the currants for her. With her pretty hair tucked into a little cap, arms bared to the

elbow, and a checked apron which had a coquettish look in spite of the bib, the young housewife

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fell to work, feeling no doubts about her success, for hadn't she seen Hannah do it hundreds of

times? The array of pots rather amazed her at first, but John was so fond of jelly, and the nice little

jars would look so well on the top shelf, that Meg resolved to fill them all, and spend a long day

picking, boiling, straining, and fussing over her jelly. She did her best, she asked advice of Mrs.

Cornelius, she racked her brain to remember what Hannah did that she left undone, she reboiled,

resugared, and restrained, but that dreadful stuff wouldn't `jell'.

She longed to run home, bib and all, and ask Mother to lend her a hand, but John and she had

agreed that they would never annoy anyone with their private worries, experiments, or quarrels.

They had laughed over that last word as if the idea it suggested was a most preposterous one, but

they had held to their resolve, and whenever they could get on without help they did so, and no

one interfered, for Mrs. March had advised the plan. So Meg wrestled alone with the refractory

sweetmeats all that hot summer day, and at five o'clock sat down in her topsy-turvey kitchen,

wrung her bedaubed hands, lifted up her voice and wept.

Now, in the first flush of the new life, she had often said, My husband shall always feel free to bring

a friend home whenever he likes. I shall always be prepared. There shall be no flurry, no scolding,

no discomfort, but a neat house, a cheerful wife, and a good dinner. John, dear, never stop to ask

my leave, invite whom you please, and be sure of a welcome from me.

How charming that was, to be sure! John quite glowed with pride to hear her say it, and felt what a

blessed thing it was to have a superior wife. But, although they had company from time to time, it

never happened to be unexpected, and Meg had never had an opportunity to distinguish herself till

now. It always happens so in this vale of tears, there is an inevitability about such things which we

can only wonder at, deplore, and bear as we best can.

If John had not forgotten all about the jelly, it really would have been unpardonable in him to

choose that day, of all the days in the year, to bring a friend home to dinner unexpectedly.

Congratulating himself that a handsome repast had been ordered that morning, feeling sure that it

would be ready to the minute, and indulging in pleasant anticipations of the charming effect it

would produce, when his pretty wife came running out to meet him, he escorted his friend to his

mansion, with the irrepressible satisfaction of a young host and husband.

It is a world of disappointments, as John discovered when he reached the Dovecote. The front door

usually stood hospitably open. Now it was not only shut, but locked, and yesterday's mud still

adorned the steps. The parlor windows were closed and curtained, no picture of the pretty wife

sewing on the piazza, in white, with a distracting little bow in her hair, or a bright-eyed hostess,

smiling a shy welcome as she greeted her guest. Nothing of the sort, for not a soul appeared but a

sanguinary-looking boy asleep under the current bushes.

I'm afraid something has happened. Step into the garden, Scott, while I look up Mrs. Brooke, said

John, alarmed at the silence and solitude.

Round the house he hurried, led by a pungent smell of burned sugar, and Mr. Scott strolled after

him, with a queer look on his face. He paused discreetly at a distance when Brooke disappeared,

but he could both see and hear, and being a bachelor, enjoyed the prospect mightily.

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In the kitchen reigned confusion and despair. One edition of jelly was trickled from pot to pot,

another lay upon the floor, and a third was burning gaily on the stove. Lotty, with Teutonic phlegm,

was calmly eating bread and currant wine, for the jelly was still in a hopelessly liquid state, while

Mrs. Brooke, with her apron over her head, sat sobbing dismally.

My dearest girl, what is the matter? cried John, rushing in, with awful visions of scalded hands,

sudden news of affliction, and secret consternation at the thought of the guest in the garden.

Oh, John, I am so tired and hot and cross and worried! I've been at it till I'm all worn out. Do come

and help me or I shall die! And the exhausted housewife cast herself upon his breast, giving him a

sweet welcome in every sense of the word, for her pinafore had been baptized at the same time as

the floor.

What worries you dear? Has anything dreadful happened? asked the anxious John, tenderly kissing

the crown of the little cap, which was all askew.

Yes, sobbed Meg despairingly.

Tell me quick, then. Don't cry. I can bear anything better than that. Out with it, love.

The . . .The jelly won't jell and I don't know what to do!

John Brooke laughed then as he never dared to laugh afterward, and the derisive Scott smiled

involuntarily as he heard the hearty peal, which put the finishing stroke to poor Meg's woe.

Is that all? Fling it out of the window, and don't bother any more about it. I'll buy you quarts if you

want it, but for heaven's sake don't have hysterics, for I've brought Jack Scott home to dinner, and .

. .

John got no further, for Meg cast him off, and clasped her hands with a tragic gesture as she fell

into a chair, exclaiming in a tone of mingled indignation, reproach, and dismay . . .

A man to dinner, and everything in a mess! John Brooke, how could you do such a thing?

Hush, he's in the garden! I forgot the confounded jelly, but it can't be helped now, said John,

surveying the prospect with an anxious eye.

You ought to have sent word, or told me this morning, and you ought to have remembered how

busy I was, continued Meg petulantly, for even turtledoves will peck when ruffled.

I didn't know it this morning, and there was no time to send word, for I met him on the way out. I

never thought of asking leave, when you have always told me to do as I liked. I never tried it before,

and hang me if I ever do again! added John, with an aggrieved air.

I should hope not! Take him away at once. I can't see him, and there isn't any dinner.

Well, I like that! Where's the beef and vegetables I sent home, and the pudding you promised?

cried John, rushing to the larder.

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I hadn't time to cook anything. I meant to dine at Mother's. I'm sorry, but I was so busy, and Meg's

tears began again.

John was a mild man, but he was human, and after a long day's work to come home tired, hungry,

and hopeful, to find a chaotic house, an empty table, and a cross wife was not exactly conductive to

repose of mind or manner. He restrained himself however, and the little squall would have blown

over, but for one unlucky word.

It's a scrape, I acknowledge, but if you will lend a hand, we'll pull through and have a good time yet.

Don't cry, dear, but just exert yourself a bit, and fix us up something to eat. We're both as hungry as

hunters, so we shan't mind what it is. Give us the cold meat, and bread and cheese. We won't ask

for jelly.

He meant it to be a good-natured joke, but that one word sealed his fate. Meg thought it was too

cruel to hint about her sad failure, and the last atom of patience vanished as he spoke.

You must get yourself out of the scrape as you can. I'm too used up to `exert' myself for anyone. It's

like a man to propose a bone and vulgar bread and cheese for company. I won't have anything of

the sort in my house. Take that Scott up to Mother's, and tell him I'm away, sick, dead, anything. I

won't see him, and you two can laugh at me and my jelly as much as you like. You won't have

anything else here. And having delivered her defiance all on one breath, Meg cast away her

pinafore and precipitately left the field to bemoan herself in her own room.

What those two creatures did in her absence, she never knew, but Mr. Scott was not taken `up to

Mother's', and when Meg descended, after they had strolled away together, she found traces of a

promiscuous lunch which filled her with horror. Lotty reported that they had eaten a much, and

greatly laughed, and the master bid her throw away all the sweet stuff, and hide the pots.

Meg longed to go and tell Mother, but a sense of shame at her own short comings, of loyalty to

John, who might be cruel, but nobody should know it, restrained her, and after a summary cleaning

up, she dressed herself prettily, and sat down to wait for John to come and be forgiven.

Unfortunately, John didn't come, not seeing the matter in that light. He had carried it off as a good

joke with Scott, excused his little wife as well as he could, and played the host so hospitably that his

friend enjoyed the impromptu dinner, and promised to come again, but John was angry, though he

did not show it, he felt that Meg had deserted him in his hour of need. It wasn't fair to tell a man to

bring folks home any time, with perfect freedom, and when he took you at your word, to flame up

and blame him, and leave him in the lurch, to be laughed at or pitied. No, by George, it wasn't! And

Meg must know it.

He had fumed inwardly during the feast, but when the flurry was over and he strolled home after

seeing Scott off, a milder mood came over him. Poor little thing! It was hard upon her when she

tried so heartily to please me. She was wrong, of course, but then she was young. I must be patient

and teach her. He hoped she had not gone home he hated gossip and interference. For a minute he

was ruffled again at the mere thought of it, and then the fear that Meg would cry herself sick

softened his heart, and sent him on at a quicker pace, resolving to be calm and kind, but firm, quite

firm, and show her where she had failed in her duty to her spouse.

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Meg likewise resolved to be `calm and kind, but firm', and show him his duty. She longed to run to

meet him, and beg pardon, and be kissed and comforted, as she was sure of being, but, of course,

she did nothing of the sort, and when she saw John coming, began to hum quite naturally, as she

rocked and sewed, like a lady of leisure in her best parlor.

John was a little disappointed not to find a tender Niobe, but feeling that his dignity demanded the

first apology, he made none, only came leisurely in and laid himself upon the sofa with the

singularly relevant remark, We are going to have a new moon, my dear.

I've no objection, was Meg's equally soothing remark. A few other topics of general interest were

introduced by Mr. Brooke and wet-blanketed by Mrs. Brooke, and conversation languished. John

went to one window, unfolded his paper, and wrapped himself in it, figuratively speaking. Meg

went to the other window, and sewed as if new rosettes for slippers were among the necessaries of

life. Neither spoke. Both looked quite `calm and firm', and both felt desperately uncomfortable.

Oh, dear, thought Meg, married life is very trying, and does need infinite patience as well as love, as

Mother says. The word `Mother' suggested other maternal counsels given long ago, and received

with unbelieving protests.

John is a good man, but he has his faults, and you must learn to see and bear with them,

remembering your own. He is very decided, but never will be obstinate, if you reason kindly, not

oppose impatiently. He is very accurate, and particular about the truth a good trait, though you call

him `fussy'. Never deceive him by look or word, Meg, and he will give you the confidence you

deserve, the support you need. He has a temper, not like ours one flash and then all over but the

white, still anger that is seldom stirred, but once kindled is hard to quench. Be careful, be very

careful, not to wake his anger against yourself, for peace and happiness depend on keeping his

respect. Watch yourself, be the first to ask pardon if you both err, and guard against the little

piques, misunderstandings, and hasty words that often pave the way for bitter sorrow and regret.

These words came back to Meg, as she sat sewing in the sunset, especially the last. This was the

first serious disagreement, her own hasty speeches sounded both silly and unkind, as she recalled

them, her own anger looked childish now, and thoughts of poor John coming home to such a scene

quite melted her heart. She glanced at him with tears in her eyes, but he did not see them. She put

down her work and got up, thinking, I will be the first to say, `Forgive me', but he did not seem to

hear her. She went very slowly across the room, for pride was hard to swallow, and stood by him,

but he did not turn his head. For a minute she felt as if she really couldn't do it, then came the

thought, This is the beginning. I'll do my part, and have nothing to reproach myself with, and

stooping sown, she softly kissed her husband on the forehead. Of course that settled it. The

penitent kiss was better than a world of words, and John had her on his knee in a minute, saying

tenderly . . .

It was too bad to laugh at the poor little jelly pots. Forgive me, dear. I never will again!

But he did, oh bless you, yes, hundreds of times, and so did Meg, both declaring that it was the

sweetest jelly they ever made, for family peace was preserved in that little family jar.

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After this, Meg had Mr. Scott to dinner by special invitation, and served him up a pleasant feast

without a cooked wife for the first course, on which occasion she was so gay and gracious, and

made everything go off so charmingly, that Mr. Scott told John he was a lucky fellow, and shook his

head over the hardships of bachelor hood all the way home.

In the autumn, new trials and experiences came to Meg. Sallie Moffat renewed her friendship, was

always running out for a dish of gossip at the little house, or inviting `that poor dear' to come in and

spend the day at the big house. It was pleasant, for in dull weather Meg often felt lonely. All were

busy at home, John absent till night, and nothing to do but sew, or read, or potter about. So it

naturally fell out that Meg got into the way of gadding and gossiping with her friend. Seeing Sallie's

pretty things made her long for such, and pity herself because she had not got them. Sallie was very

kind, and often offered her the coveted trifles, but Meg declined them, knowing that John wouldn't

like it, and then this foolish little woman went and did what John disliked even worse.

She knew her husband's income, and she loved to feel that he trusted her, not only with his

happiness, but what some men seem to value more his money. She knew where it was, was free to

take what she liked, and all he asked was that she should keep account of every penny, pay bills

once a month, and remember that she was a poor man's wife. Till now she had done well, been

prudent and exact, kept her little account books neatly, and showed them to him monthly without

fear. But that autumn the serpent got into Meg's paradise, and tempted her like many a modern

Eve, not with apples, but with dress. Meg didn't like to be pitied and made to feel poor. It irritated

her, but she was ashamed to confess it, and now and then she tried to console herself by buying

something pretty, so that Sallie needn't think she had to economize. She always felt wicked after it,

for the pretty things were seldom necessaries, but then they cost so little, it wasn't worth worrying

about, so the trifles increased unconsciously, and in the shopping excursions she was no longer a

passive looker-on.

But the trifles cost more than one would imagine, and when she cast up her accounts at the end of

the month the sum total rather scared her. John was busy that month and left the bills to her, the

next month he was absent, but the third he had a grand quarterly settling up, and Meg never forgot

it. A few days before she had done a dreadful thing, and it weighed upon her conscience. Sallie had

been buying silks, and Meg longed for a new one, just a handsome light one for parties, her black

silk was so common, and thin things for evening wear were only proper for girls. Aunt March

usually gave the sisters a present of twenty-five dollars apiece at New Year's. That was only a

month to wait, and here was a lovely violet silk going at a bargain, and she had the money, if she

only dared to take it. John always said what was his was hers, but would he think it right to spend

not only the prospective five-and-twenty, but another five-and-twenty out of the household fund?

That was the question. Sallie had urged her to do it, had offered to lend the money, and with the

best intentions in life had tempted Meg beyond her strength. In an evil moment the shopman held

up the lovely, shimmering folds, and said, A bargain, I assure, you, ma'am. She answered, I'll take it,

and it was cut off and paid for, and Sallie had exulted, and she had laughed as if it were a thing of

no consequence, and driven away, feeling as if she had stolen something, and the police were after

her.

When she got home, she tried to assuage the pangs of remorse by spreading forth the lovely silk,

but it looked less silvery now, didn't become her, after all, and the words `fifty dollars' seemed

of 33

stamped like a pattern down each breadth. She put it away, but it haunted her, not delightfully as a

new dress should, but dreadfully like the ghost of a folly that was not easily laid. When John got out

his books that night, Meg's heart sank, and for the first time in her married life, she was afraid of

her husband. The kind, brown eyes looked as if they could be stern, and though he was unusually

merry, she fancied he had found her out, but didn't mean to let her know it. The house bills were all

paid, the books all in order. John had praised her, and was undoing the old pocketbook which they

called the `bank', when Meg, knowing that it was quite empty, stopped his hand, saying nervously .

. .

You haven't seen my private expense book yet.

John never asked to see it, but she always insisted on his doing so, and used to enjoy his masculine

amazement at the queer things women wanted, and made him guess what piping was, demand

fiercely the meaning of a hug-me-tight, or wonder how a little thing composed of three rosebuds, a

bit of velvet, and a pair of strings, could possibly be a bonnet, and cost six dollars. That night he

looked as if he would like the fun of quizzing her figures and pretending to be horrified at her

extravagance, as he often did, being particularly proud of his prudent wife.

The little book was brought slowly out and laid down before him. Meg got behind his chair under

pretense of smoothing the wrinkles out of his tired forehead, and standing there, she said, with her

panic increasing with every word . ..

John, dear, I'm ashamed to show you my book, for I've really been dreadfully extravagant lately. I

go about so much I must have things, you know, and Sallie advised my getting it, so I did, and my

New Year's money will partly pay for it, but I was sorry after I had done it, for I knew you'd think it

wrong in me.

John laughed, and drew her round beside him, saying good-humoredly, Don't go and hide. I won't

beat you if you have got a pair of killing boots. I'm rather proud of my wife's feet, and don't mind if

she does pay eight or nine dollars for her boots, if they are good ones.

That had been one of her last `trifles', and John's eye had fallen on it as he spoke. Oh, what will he

say when he comes to that awful fifty dollars! thought Meg, with a shiver.

It's worse than boots, it's a silk dress, she said, with the calmness of desperation, for she wanted

the worst over.

Well, dear, what is the `dem'd total', as Mr. Mantalini says?

That didn't sound like John, and she knew he was looking up at her with the straightforward look

that she had always been ready to meet and answer with one as frank till now. She turned the page

and her head at the same time, pointing to the sum which would have been bad enough without

the fifty, but which was appalling to her with that added. For a minute the room was very still, then

John said slowly but she could feel it cost him an effort to express no displeasure . . .

Well, I don't know that fifty is much for a dress, with all the furbelows and notions you have to have

to finish it off these days.

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It isn't made or trimmed, sighed Meg, faintly, for a sudden recollection of the cost still to be

incurred quite overwhelmed her.

Twenty-five yards of silk seems a good deal to cover one small woman, but I've no doubt my wife

will look as fine as Ned Moffat's when she gets it on, said John dryly.

I know you are angry, John, but I can't help it. I don't mean to waste your money, and I didn't think

those little things would count up so. I can't resist them when I see Sallie buying all she wants, and

pitying me because I don't. I try to be contented, but it is hard, and I'm tired of being poor.

The last words were spoken so low she thought he did not hear them, but he did, and they

wounded him deeply, for he had denied himself many pleasures for Meg's sake. She could have

bitten her tongue out the minute she had said it, for John pushed the books away and got up,

saying with a little quiver in his voice, I was afraid of this. I do my best, Meg. If he had scolded her,

or even shaken her, it would not have broken her heart like those few words. She ran to him and

held him close, crying, with repentant tears, Oh, John, my dear, kind, hard-working boy. I didn't

mean it! It was so wicked, so untrue and ungrateful, how could I say it! Oh, how could I say it!

He was very kind, forgave her readily, and did not utter one reproach, but Meg knew that she had

done and said a thing which would not be forgotten soon, although he might never allude to it

again. She had promised to love him for better or worse, and then she, his wife, had reproached

him with his poverty, after spending his earnings recklessly. It was dreadful, and the worst of it was

John went on so quietly afterward, just as if nothing had happened, except that he stayed in town

later, and worked at night when she had gone to cry herself to sleep. A week or remorse nearly

made Meg sick, and the discovery that John had countermanded the order for his new greatcoat

reduced her to a state of despair which was pathetic to behold. He had simply said, in answer to

her surprised inquiries as to the change, I can't afford it, my dear.

Meg said no more, but a few minutes after he found her in the hall with her face buried in the old

greatcoat, crying as if her heart would break.

They had a long talk that night, and Meg learned to love her husband better for his poverty,

because it seemed to have made a man of him, given him the strength and courage to fight his own

way, and taught him a tender patience with which to bear and comfort the natural longings and

failures of those he loved.

Next day she put her pride in her pocket, went to Sallie, told the truth, and asked her to buy the silk

as a favor. The good-natured Mrs. Moffat willingly did so, and had the delicacy not to make her a

present of it immediately afterward. Then Meg ordered home the greatcoat, and when John

arrived, she put it on, and asked him how he liked her new silk gown. One can imagine what answer

he made, how he received his present, and what a blissful state of things ensued. John came home

early, Meg gadded no more, and that greatcoat was put on in the morning by a very happy

husband, and taken off at night by a most devoted little wife. So the year rolled round, and at

midsummer there came to Meg a new experience, the deepest and tenderest of a woman's life.

of 33

Laurie came sneaking into the kitchen of the Dovecote one Saturday, with an excited face, and was

received with the clash of cymbals, for Hannah clapped her hands with a saucepan in one and the

cover in the other.

How's the little mamma? Where is everybody? Why didn't you tell me before I came home? began

Laurie in a loud whisper.

Happy as a queen, the dear! Every soul of èm is upstairs a worshipin'. We didn't want no

hurrycanes round. Now you go into the parlor, and I'll send èm down to you, with which somewhat

involved reply Hannah vanished, chuckling ecstatically.

Presently Jo appeared, proudly bearing a flannel bundle laid forth upon a large pillow. Jo's face was

very sober, but her eyes twinkled, and there was an odd sound in her voice of repressed emotion of

some sort.

Shut your eyes and hold out your arms, she said invitingly.

Laurie backed precipitately into a corner, and put his hands behind him with an imploring gesture.

No, thank you. I'd rather not. I shall drop it or smash it, as sure as fate.

Then you shan't see your nevvy, said Jo decidedly, turning as if to go.

I will, I will! Only you must be responsible for damages. And obeying orders, Laurie heroically shut

his eyes while something was put into his arms. A peal of laughter from Jo, Amy, Mrs. March,

Hannah, and John caused him to open them the next minute, to find himself invested with two

babies instead of one.

No wonder they laughed, for the expression of his face was droll enough to convulse a Quaker, as

he stood and stared wildly from the unconscious innocents to the hilarious spectators with such

dismay that Jo sat down on the floor and screamed.

Twins, by Jupiter! was all he said for a minute, then turning to the women with an appealing look

that was comically piteous, he added, Take èm quick, somebody! I'm going to laugh, and I shall

drop èm.

Jo rescued his babies, and marched up and down, with one on each are, as if already initiated into

the mysteries of baby-tending, while Laurie laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.

It's the best joke of the season, isn't it? I wouldn't have told you, for I set my heart on surprising

you, and I flatter myself I've done it, said Jo, when she got her breath.

I never was more staggered in my life. Isn't it fun? Are they boys? What are you going to name

them? Let's have another look. Hold me up, Jo, for upon my life it's one too many for me, returned

Laurie, regarding the infants with the air of a big, benevolent Newfoundland looking at a pair of

infantile kittens.

Boy and girl. Aren't they beauties? said the proud papa, beaming upon the little red squirmers as if

they were unfledged angels.

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Most remarkable children I ever saw. Which is which? and Laurie bent like a well-sweep to examine

the prodigies.

Amy put a blue ribbon on the boy and a pink on the girl, French fashion, so you can always tell.

Besides, one has blue eyes and one brown. Kiss them, Uncle Teddy, said wicked Jo.

I'm afraid they mightn't like it, began Laurie, with un- usual timidity in such matters.

Of course they will, they are used to it now. Do it this minute, sir! commanded Jo, fearing he might

propose a proxy.

Laurie screwed up his face and obeyed with a gingerly peck at each little cheek that produced

another laugh, and made the babies squeal.

There, I knew they didn't like it! That's the boy, see him kick, he hits out with his fists like a good

one. Now then, young Brooke, pitch into a man of your own size, will you? cried Laurie, delighted

with a poke in the face from a tiny fist, flapping aimlessly about.

He's to be named John Laurence, and the girl Margaret, after mother and grandmother. We shall

call her Daisey, so as not to have two Megs, and I suppose the mannie will be Jack, unless we find a

better name, said Amy, with aunt-like interest.

Name him Demijohn, and call him Demi for short, said Laurie

Daisy and Demi, just the thing! I knew Teddy would do it, cried Jo clapping her hands.

Teddy certainly had done it that time, for the babies were `Daisy' and `Demi' to the end of the

chapter.

selected domestic fiction

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