CHAPTER II.

GOING TO CHURCH.

Weezy was fast learning to talk, and her brother and sister delighted in teaching her long and difficult words, such as "Mexico" and "Constantinople."

Molly was a motherly little girl, always worrying over the shortcomings of Weezy and her young brother. It is true that Kirke was often led astray by a rough little playmate, Jimmy Maguire; and Weezy was perhaps instructed in mischief by a three-years-old neighbor, Kisty Nye: still, it might have been as well if Molly had found less fault with the little ones, and thought more of correcting her own sad failing,--a quick and troublesome temper.

One evening the three children were swinging together in the hammock in their front yard, watching for grandpa Rowe.

"Now sing 'Little Sally Walker,' darling, please do," said Molly, playing with her little sister's flaxen curls.

Weezy had already hummed "Bring back my Bonnie to me," and various other tunes, and was tired.

"Tan't sing; sing's all gone! Loot!" said she, opening her mouth very wide, to show how empty it was of music.

"Grandpa's most here!" shouted Kirke, leaping from the hammock and running to meet an old gentleman walking up the street. Yes, it was grandpa Rowe, a dear white-haired minister, with kind blue eyes, and a face as smooth and pink as a baby's. And the satchel he carried held a written sermon; for he was going to stay over Sunday and preach for the village pastor, Mr. Cutler.

"It isn't every little girl that has such a good grandpa, Weezy, I can tell you," said Molly wisely, as they hastened after Kirke. "Why, if you should be naughty, it would make him want to cry."

The remark seemed to amuse Weezy very much; and when the "good" man took her in his arms to kiss her, she shouted gleefully,--

"Gampa goin' to _ky_! What a keer old gampa!"

Molly was so mortified that she ran into the house, and kept out of the way till tea-time.

Grandpa's visits were always a delight, and it was considered a great treat to hear him preach. The next morning Mr. and Mrs. Rowe both wanted to go to church; but with Lovisa Bran, the housemaid, away, what could be done with Weezy?

"Can't Molly stay with her?" suggested Mr. Rowe, closing the dining-room door for fear of being overheard.

"Of course she might do it, with neighbors so near; but she has been depending upon going to church with her grandfather."

"Yes, I know. She thinks it a high honor to have a minister in the family. I overheard her boasting last night that she was the only girl in her class who had a grandfather that could preach!"

"I would stay at home myself if it was respectful to father," said Mrs. Rowe thoughtfully.

When she went up-stairs by and by, she found Molly trying on the pretty fall hat that she had not yet worn. It was a white felt, trimmed with blue velvet and blue and white ostrich plumes, and suited well her fair complexion and rich auburn hair.

"It is lovely, dear, and I know it will be a sad disappointment to you if you can't wear it to-day," said Mrs. Rowe, coming up behind her daughter at the glass.

"Not wear it? It doesn't rain. Why can't I wear it?" cried Molly in great excitement.

Mrs. Rowe hesitated. It was certainly her own place rather than Molly's to attend church to-day; but she found it hard to crush her little daughter's pleasant anticipations.

"You forget, Molly, that Lovisa is away, and somebody must look out for little sister," said she gently. "Aren't you willing to be the one?"

"No, I'm not, mamma, I'm not willing. I think it's too horrid, hateful mean! I never can go anywhere or do any thing I want to, just because of that little tagging fuss-budget," cried Molly, tearing off the cherished hat and flinging it on the bed in a towering passion.

"That will do," sighed mamma, walking away. "And you need not stay at home, Molly. I should be sorry to trust our little Weezy to the care of a girl who does not control herself."

"Any thing wrong, Mary?" asked Mr. Rowe, meeting his wife in the hall.

"Only Molly's temper again," said she wearily. "She feels so abused at being asked to stay at home with Weezy that I think it wisest not to urge the point, but to leave her to herself, and let her find out how naughty she is."

"Poor Molly, that quick temper of hers is always getting her into trouble; but she is sure to repent bitterly," said Mr. Rowe, as he followed his wife down-stairs.

"Do you know what's in my mind?" said Mrs. Rowe, pausing on the landing, with an air of being about to say something startling. "I'm half inclined to take Weezy to church."

Mr. Rowe whistled.

"There must be a first time," went on Mrs. Rowe; "and she might behave very well."

"I'm willing to risk her if you are," said Mr. Rowe, on reflection; "and I know it would gratify father to see the whole family in the pew."

"Weezy's going to church; oh, goody!" cried Kirke, clapping his hands at the news; whereupon Weezy clapped hers also, though she had no more idea what "going to church" meant than a baby heathen. She was highly pleased to be going anywhere in her cardinal velvet bonnet and cloak, and ready to make any number of promises to be good.

When, at the ringing of the church-bell, Molly stole down-stairs with red eyes and downcast lids, Weezy ran to take her hand; and the three children walked together up the street, the little sister hopping along in the middle, as radiant as a young flamingo. Mr. and Mrs. Rowe in front of them, with grandpa, turned every now and then to smile upon the happy baby.

"I hope she won't disgrace us to-day," remarked papa; "but I must confess I feel somewhat as though we were taking a menagerie to church."

"A menagerie that has good intentions; yes, so do I," laughed mamma nervously, pausing to help Weezy up the steps.

The child's ruff was askew; and while it was being straightened, and secured with a pin, grandpa went on up the broad aisle, and mounted the stairs to the pulpit.

Weezy did not see him go; but, the moment she was seated in the pew with the rest of the family, she missed him, and began to stare about her in every direction. Unfortunately, she was so short, and the pulpit was so tall, that she could not get so much as a glimpse of her grandpa's head behind it.

"Poor gampa's lost hisse'f," thought she, distressed for a moment; but she could not grieve long, where every thing around her was so grand and so strange. It was early yet, and she amused herself for some time in watching the colored light that streamed in through the stained east window. One red ray adorned the crown of Miss Blount's bonnet in the seat in front; another ray of green rested, like a plaster, on Deacon's Crosby's nose. Weezy wanted to laugh; but she didn't laugh, for she meant to be "mamma's goody girl."

All this time people were moving along the aisles and galleries to their pews. Weezy thought these galleries very queer.

"What for do they have such high up _pee-zaz-zas_, mamma?" whispered she.

"Hush, dear," said mamma anxiously; "folks mustn't talk in church."

Weezy puckered up her lips like the rim of a wilted morning-glory, and sat as prim as a little nun till the organ sounded the first notes of the voluntary.

"_Wind blows_," whispered she; then, as the grand music pealed forth, she fairly quivered with delight, and sprang up to lean over the back of the pew, her brown eyes sparkling and her cheeks aglow.

Mr. Rowe looked at her proudly, wondering if there was ever a more bewitching child.

Dear papa! his look of pride soon changed to one of dismay; for as the music ceased and Weezy turned, she saw her grandfather rising in the pulpit, and gave a little squeal of joy.

"I see gampa," cried she, in her ringing, childish voice. "Look, papa; _there's_ gampa, on the manty-piece."

It was rather droll to think of a grown-up minister tucked away on a mantle-piece, and several people smiled; but grandpa Rowe read the hymn as solemnly as though he had not heard a word.

Papa shook his head at Weezy, mamma put her finger on the child's lip, and Molly looked ready to cry; but merry little Kirke could not keep from laughing. He laughed till he had to stuff his handkerchief into his mouth; and of course the more he laughed, the harder it was to control Weezy.

The congregation now arose for the opening hymn; and the moment Weezy heard her papa's voice, she thought she ought surely to sing too. So with the best will in the world she struck up "Little Sally Walker," clear and high.

Dear, well-meaning baby! she had always before been called a goody girl for singing, and why didn't mamma like it _now_? What _made_ mamma drag her out of church in such a hurry? It was so queer!

[Illustration: "WHAT MADE MAMMA DRAG HER OUT OF CHURCH IN SUCH A HURRY?"]

Wretched Molly, left alone at the head of the pew, cowered over her hymn-book, shrinking from the eyes of the congregation.

"O mamma, mamma! don't you see how I felt?" sobbed she, an hour later, in her mother's room, whither she had rushed from church to beg pardon for her angry words in the morning. "I know everybody was thinking, 'There sits that selfish, selfish Molly Rowe. Why didn't she stay at home with her little sister, instead of letting her come to disturb the meeting?'"

"Hush, dear: I don't imagine they thought any such thing," said her mother soothingly. "You were not to blame for Weezy's actions."

"But, oh, mamma, you know you wouldn't have taken her to church if I hadn't been such a naughty, horrid girl. Sometimes, mamma, I can't help being mad to think I'm so wicked."