CHAPTER XVIII.

MORE BURGLARS.

"ETHEL, do you know of a good woman who wants a place as seamstress and so on?" asked Anne Burgers, as they met in the school-room, where Ethel still went for her Italian lessons.

They were both very early, and had the ante-room quite to themselves. Ethel answered the question by another.

"Why, what has become of your Mary?"

"Oh, she has gone to work with a dressmaker. You know she has not had a single fit since her accident, and is growing quite strong and well. And so, because we have kept her when nobody else would have her, and taken care of her all through her illness, she is going to leave us the first minute she is good for something. That is not the least like the grateful and devoted servants in the little books; but I am afraid it is something which happens rather often in real life."

"'The man who benefits his fellow-creatures in the expectation of being rewarded by their gratitude, will be often condemned to suffer the pangs of disappointment.' I read that in a book," said Ethel.

"I thought you didn't make it up yourself. But do you know of anybody? For a seamstress we must have, and one who knows how to run the sewing-machine."

"There is Mary Anne Lee, Cathy's sister, you know!" said Ethel. "She understands all sorts of work; and she told me that she had partly made up her mind to go to a place, if Cathy went to the hospital. You might see her. I wish she would go to your mother's; it would be a great deal better for her than, living there alone."

"She seems a nice woman, too," said Anna, reflectively; "and then she could help us about our Sunday-school work."

Ethel laughed. "I heard an editor say once that one trouble of being connected with a paper was that a man came to look upon everything in heaven and earth only as material for articles. I think you and I are in the same danger. We make the universe revolve round that Iron Hill Mission."

"Well, it might just as well revolve round that as anything else, for aught I know. By the way, do you know that Millar girl?"

And hereupon the two girls plunged into a whole ocean of that sort of Sunday-school talk which may be heard whenever two earnest teachers of the same school come together.

"But about Mary Anne: do you think she would come?"

"It would be easy to find out. The chief obstacle in the way seemed to be the want of some place to stow her things."

"She might put them in our garret. They would be safe there, and not at all in any one's way. Well, I will tell mother about her."

"Here are the two missionaries in earnest consultation, as usual!" said Margaret Fleming, as she came in with her cousin, Milly Davis. "What is the great point of interest now? Has Jane Stubbs got the measles, or Johnny Brown torn his new jacket and trowsers?"

"Laugh as much as you like," said Anna, good-humoredly. "If you once got engaged in the school, you would understand the feeling better. Come, Maggy, come and take a class! We want another teacher or two ever so much!"

"I have been thinking of it,—that is, if you want me," said Margaret. "Our school is full enough both of teachers and scholars."

"Oh, do!" exclaimed Ethel. "My infants are running over their room, and I could give you a nice little class directly. I am sure my brother would be ever so much pleased. Won't you come, Milly?"

"No, thank you," returned Milly. "I don't fancy being mixed up with all sorts of children. If one could ever find such poor people as one reads about in books,—English books especially,—there would be some pleasure in it; but one never sees such poor people here!"

"Nor anywhere else, I suspect," said Ethel. "One does not set about any sort of missionary work for pleasure; and just think, Nelly, what the missionaries have to go through. When they go out in the villages round the mission, the ladies very often sleep in the huts with the whole family, goats and buffaloes and all; and sometimes the buffaloes get loose and fight with one another. Fancy being in a room with two fighting buffaloes!"

"That would be a poor place for you, Ethel," said Margaret, laughing.

"Oh, I am not half as much afraid of cows as I used to be," replied Ethel, laughing in her turn. "I can pass a cow in the street with considerable confidence. But, Nelly, what is to become of all the poor people, and all the heathen, if no one is to go near them for fear of entomological specimens?"

"You used to be as much afraid of them as anybody," retorted Nelly. "I remember how you screamed out in Sunday-school because you saw a spider on your dress."

"I don't think I am quite as great a fool as I used to be," said Ethel, candidly. "But if I had been ever so silly, that does not answer my question, Nelly."

"And, besides, Ethel don't scream at insects any more," said Anna. "Do you know, she played through a long hymn and never missed a note, though she had a great June-bug kicking and scratching her neck, under her dress, all the time."

"I did, really," said Ethel.

"But why didn't you take it out?"

"I couldn't get at it," said Ethel. "I assure you, I never played such a long piece of music in my life,—not even our duet at examination last year."

"Well, I don't believe I could have done as much as that," said Nelly, in honest admiration. "But tell me truly, Ethel, do you really like going among those Iron Hill people?"

"I do, honestly," replied Ethel. "I didn't at first. I was afraid of the people, and I did not know how to get on with them. I had an idea that one must adopt some peculiar way of talking,—like something in a book; and that the people ought to be humble, and grateful, and all that. But I soon found out my mistake, by Henry's help; and now I get on pretty well. Of course, one meets with disagreeable things, sometimes; and you have to go when you don't feel like it, and would rather stay at home; but then you know, Nelly, we are not sent into the world just to please ourselves, and to do nothing but what we like."

"What 'are' we sent for," asked Nelly, abruptly. "I am sure 'I' don't know."

"I will tell you what I think about it, if you won't think I am preaching," said Ethel, blushing.

"Preach away," returned Nelly. "I would as soon hear you as any other."

"I think, then, that we are God's servants, and are sent here to do his work," said Ethel. "Not so much his servants, either, as his children. He lays out our work for us, and we are to do it. Sometimes it is easy,—sometimes it is very hard; but hard or easy, he expects us to do it the best we can, with all the helps He gives us; and it is no excuse for us to say that the work is disagreeable, and we don't like it, and so on. We may neglect our work and go pleasure-seeking, but we shall gain nothing by that. We only have to work so much harder, and our work, comes to nothing. It is all thrown away."

"And suppose we fail?" said Nelly.

"That is the beauty of working for Him,—we can't fail," replied Ethel, with animation. "We may fail in accomplishing the very particular thing which we undertake to do,—we may make ever so many mistakes; but if our work is done for him, he accepts the intention, and will bring good out of our very mistakes. But if we go on cautiously, and heedfully, and are willing to be directed by those who have experience, we need not make any such dreadful mistakes. I don't know whether I make you understand, Nelly."

"Oh yes, I understand. Thank you for your sermon, Ethel. It has, at least, the merit of being short and plain."

"If you would only try and act on it, Nelly dear!" said Anna.

"What, you too? That is more than I bargained for," said Nelly, but without any of her usual irritation. "Well, I will think about it."

"I will tell you one very nice thing you might do," said Ethel. "You know we are getting ready a box to send to Miss Beecher's school at O—. Now, if you would paint some of your pretty pictures,—you and Margaret make such lovely little landscapes and flowers,—they would go into the box nicely, and be very acceptable as presents to the girls, and the teachers too."

"Well, I will," said Nelly. "I say, why wouldn't a lot of photographs be nice?—Pictures of public buildings and scenery and so on? My brother would give me no end of them."

"They would be the very thing," replied Ethel.

"And by the way, I can give you ever so many calico pieces for your sewing-school, if you want them. Aunt Nancy gave me a great bagful, which she has been collecting for ever so long. But don't you care about patchwork?"

"Indeed we do!" exclaimed Anna. "We never can have enough. You will be a darling, Nelly, if you can give us some pretty new pieces of calico; and if you could find time to baste some of them—"

"I shall be better yet! Well, I will see what I can do," said Nelly, as she turned away.

"Won't it be a triumph, if we get Nelly Davis at work for the sewing-school?"

"We must be very careful," said Ethel. "If she gets the least notion that we are trying to manage her, she will fly off directly."

"Well, girls, you ought to make great allowance for Nelly," said Margaret Fleming. "She is sometimes a trial,—nobody knows that better than I do,—but she has had a great deal to contend with. Of course, I can't tell family secrets, but she did have a dreadful home before she came to grandmother's. Her father and mother always quarrelled, and whenever one petted her, the other always spited her. It is no wonder her temper was spoiled. It will be a grand thing for her if you can get her engaged in anything, so as to make her forget her own feelings, and leave off watching people to see whether they don't mean to affront her in some way. Well, I will come up next Sunday; but how shall I find the place?"

"I will call for you," said Anna; and so the affair was settled.

Before the end of the week Cathy Lee was safely established in the hospital, and Mary Anne had gone to work at Mrs. Burger's.

"I sha'n't earn so much money," she said to one of her shop acquaintances who wondered at her for "going out;" "but then I shall have a home. I get two dollars a week instead of five, but then I shall have no expenses but my dress, which doesn't cost much, and what I do for Cathy."

"But then, when you work in the shop, you are independent," said the other. "I think a great deal of that. I come and go as I please, out of shop-hours, and am accountable to nobody."

"Independence is not always a good thing," said Mary Anne, severely. "There is another reason why I am willing to live out, and that is that I may have some time to be with Cathy. Mrs. Burgers will let me have two afternoons in the week to spend with her."

It is not to be supposed that Ethel and Anna met with no vexations and disappointments in their efforts upon Iron Hill. They had their full share of naughty children and dull children and unreasonable mothers who whipped and scolded their offspring without mercy, but were furiously angry at their receiving the most gentle reproof from anybody else. But as my object has been to give a history of Ethel herself, and not of her school, I have not thought it best to use up space and time in narrating too many particulars.

There was no doubt whatever that the school had done Ethel a great deal of good. She had lost that excessive timidity which used to make her appear haughty and cold, when she was only shy and awkward. She had learned to talk fearlessly to all sorts of people, and without thinking in the least of her own dignity. She had learned to forget herself. She had learned to face cows, and dogs, and horse-cars, and all the other dreadful dangers which used to make her miserable; and at the end of her day's work she was only too glad to be carried home in the doctor's chaise behind his most spirited horse.

She went up to the hospital to see Cathy Lee, and carried newspapers and fruit to the men in the soldiers' wards, without the slightest hesitation. She had sat up all night with one of her little scholars, the child of a widow on the hill; and when the child died, toward morning, she went bravely the length of two vacant lots to call up Mrs. Trim, and helped her to lay out the poor little corpse. Was this the Ethel who, six months before, had been afraid to go into the garden because Richard Trim, now her faithful ally and devoted servant, was leaning over the rails? Yes, the very same,—with this difference, that she had learned to live to her Master, instead of to herself,—with this difference, that she had some object in life besides living on easily and pleasantly from day to day, avoiding everything irksome or disagreeable, and excusing all her shortcomings and faults by the one apology, "It is natural to me, and I can't help it."

For Ethel all the time kept her great object steadily in view. She had made up her mind to be a missionary; and had put herself on a six months' probation, to see whether it would be a possible thing that she should fit herself for the place. It was for this end that she courted every opportunity of making herself useful at home and abroad, that she strove to learn every sort of domestic work, that she went to market, and learned to bake, and did up her own muslins,—and would have done her own washing, if Mrs. Jones could have been brought to allow it, and resolutely disciplined herself to overcome her fears of insects and other crawling creatures. It was for this that she studied her Bible so diligently, with all the helps she could find, and stored her memory with illustrations of Scripture. Her probation was almost at an end, when her labours at the Hill met with a disagreeable interruption. She sprained her ankle, and the manner of it was this:

Ethel had not quite forgotten her fears of burglars, and she was apt to start at any unusual noise at night. She was doing her best to discipline herself out of these fancies, as she called them, and, as often happens in such cases, she was rather inclined to go to the opposite extreme. Thus it happened, one night, that she absolutely refused for some time to believe, or, indeed, to listen to the report of her own ears, which, about one o'clock, assured her that somebody was walking about under her windows.

"It is just one of your fancies," she said to herself; severely. "You are always imagining some terrible bugbear or other."

But the ears insisting on the correctness of their report, and adding the further information that somebody or something was trying the blinds. Ethel first sat up in bed and listened, and then crept to the window, which, as usual, was open at the top, and did the same; and the more she listened, the more certain she became that there was something very suspicious going on below. She pushed up the sash very softly. The noise stopped for a moment or two, as though the intruders were listening, and then went on again.

Ethel ventured to peep out, and could see distinctly that there were two men at least near the corner of the house, and that they were working at the shutters of the kitchen window. Ethel's heart sprang up into her throat. What was to be done now? She sat down to steady herself a moment and to think. She remembered that the doctor had once said the best thing for any one to do under such circumstances was to make as much noise as possible; and she was just going to give her bell a violent pull, when she thought of Emily. A sudden alarm would be very bad for her: Ethel was cool enough to think of that.

Emily slept up in the third story still,—her room below obstinately insisting on smelling of paint and varnish whenever it was shut up a little while; and the doctor had caused his night-bell to be so altered that it rang in Jones's room. Then Jones would go to the door, and finding out the state of the case, either called Dr. Ray, or else sent the ringer away to a young physician, a friend and protégé of the doctor's, who was only willing to be called up at night. In an instant, Ethel had reflected that if she went down and pulled the office-bell, Jones would come to the door as usual, and she would tell him the story, and send him to call his master, without alarming Emily, or leading her to think that anything unusual was the matter. If Mr. Dalton had been at home, Ethel's natural course would have been to call him; but he was away in New York.

Could she do it? The office was quite on the other side of the house, and there was always a light kept there and in the hall. Suppose the robbers should see her,—suppose they were already in the house? Ethel's heart grew sick with fear,—not for herself, but for Emily, if she should be waked suddenly by the appearance of a burglar in her room (for the doctor never would lock his door).

"It must be done, that's all!" said Ethel desperately, to herself.

She slipped on her dressing-gown, put her feet into her slippers without stopping for her stockings, succeeded in opening her door without noise, and, getting down to the office door, she carefully and softly unlocked it, and gave the bell a sharp and sudden pull. As she did so, she inadvertently stepped off the doorsill. Her slipper turned to one side, and she felt a sudden sharp, sickening pain in her ankle; but she gave the bell another pull, shut the door, and, too sick and faint to stand another moment, dropped on a chair.

She knew the bell had rung, for she had heard the distant tinkle; but it seemed half an hour before Jones, coming down-stairs, opened his mouth for an exclamation, which was nipped in the bud by Ethel's sharp, imperative whisper.

"Hush! Don't make a noise, and alarm Mrs. Ray. There are burglars trying to get into the kitchen. I saw them. Go call Dr. Ray, as quietly as you can."

"Are you sure, Miss?" asked Jones, incredulously. "Wasn't it just a notion of yours?"

"I tell you I saw them, and they are there now," returned Ethel, in the same sharp whisper. "I peeped out through the blinds."

"I'll go and listen," said Jones, evidently still thinking the burglars all a creation of Ethel's fancy. He went back to the kitchen, taking a match from the safe as he passed.

"There's somebody at the pantry, sure enough," said he, returning, after a minute's listening. "Three men, at least, I should say. They are doing nothing now, but listening. I had best call the doctor."

The doctor was called, as if to an ordinary case, and came down yawning, to be astonished by Jones's story, and the sight of Ethel in her dressing-gown. He heard the story, and seemed, at first, disposed to treat the whole as one of Ethel's terrors, until Jones confirmed its truth.

"They will be gone now with all this bustle, no doubt," said he. "Let us go and explore. Dear, are you afraid to stay here?"

"No," said Ethel. "Only go quick."

Then Ethel heard the splutter of a match, and saw the gas lighted in the kitchen; and the next moment somebody ran along the gravel path, and Ethel heard him jump over the fence.

"They are gone now, anyhow," said the doctor, coming back. "You had better go up-stairs to bed, and Jones and I will explore. But what's the matter?" As Ethel tried to rise, and sank back in the chair.

"I have hurt my foot, somehow," said Ethel. "I sprained it, I think, by slipping off the step as I was ringing the bell."

"Whew!" whistled the doctor. "Let me look. I should think you had sprained it! You poor little dear, you have hurt yourself badly. You must let me carry you up-stairs."

And before Ethel had time to object, she was taken up in the doctor's strong arms, and safely deposited in her own bed. The ankle was examined and bandaged, and Ethel made as comfortable as circumstances would admit. Mrs. Jones came to sit with her for the rest of the night.

"You have not been gone long," said Emily, sleepily, as the doctor came back. "What was it?"

"Nothing very serious, I hope," replied Dr. Ray, with an inward thanksgiving that his wife had not been alarmed.

"Only a slight accident. I did all that was necessary without leaving the house."

"I thought I heard you moving about."

"Yes; I went into the kitchen and pantry. Go to sleep now, there's a jewel."

In the morning Emily heard the story, and very much surprised she was.

"We have much reason to be thankful to Ethel," said the doctor. "It was a great exercise of courage and presence of mind for any one, and especially for Ethel. The worst of it is that in going about in the dark, she has sprained her ankle, and I am afraid she will be laid up for a while."

"Poor little dear, what a pity!" said Emily. "Only to think of her going down to the door and ringing the bell herself, to save me. I always told you she had the elements of a fine woman in her. But who would have believed her capable of such an exploit, six months ago?"

"Henry's coming has been the making of her, and I fear it will be the means of losing her as well," remarked the doctor. "I am much mistaken if she is not training herself to go out with him when he returns to the East."

"I have thought of the same thing a good many times lately," answered Emily, sighing. "I know it has always been a favourite plan of Henry's. It would be a great sacrifice to let her go, but I don't know that we ought to discourage her."

"By no means. Let her train herself as much as she likes. It gives her a grand object in life, which is just what she wants. There are three years to spare before she needs to decide, and a great many things may happen in that time. Ethel is a wonderfully pretty girl, and she grows more attractive every day."

"I know what you mean," said Emily; "but, Matthew, if she should at last decide to go, what will you say?"

"Then it will all depend on her health," replied the doctor. "If she is as well and strong as she promises to be, I should not feel justified in holding her back. Do you notice how much better she is than she used to be? We don't hear any more about the heart disease since the sewing-school began."