CHAPTER III

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THE NEW MAMMA.

IN about a week, Mr. Kennedy left home to bring back Sophie's new mamma, leaving Nancy and Mrs. Gaylord to make all the necessary arrangements for her reception. He expected to be gone from home about four weeks, during which time Sophie was to go to school as usual. He had at first thought of making it a holiday time, but Sophie herself petitioned against it.

"The time will not seem nearly as long if I am at work as usual, as it would if I were at home all day, with nothing to do but to count the hours."

So Sophie went to school accordingly. And if she was not quite as diligent as usual, and sometimes fell into a reverie over her books, and now and then forgot to answer in the right place, Miss Warner was a reasonable person, and made all due allowances.

"It is perfectly natural," she said, in reply to one of her assistants, who had made some complaint of this state of things. "She will settle again presently. We should any of us do the same under the same circumstances."

"How absent you are growing, Sophie!" said Harry Reed to her one day. "You will soon have no head left."

"I know it," said Sophie; "it is because I am all the time thinking about—" She left the sentence unfinished, and proceeded in a more lively tone: "But I am really getting better, Harry, since I have been sitting with Greta Carroll. She tells me, when she sees me forgetting to study. What a good girl she is!"

"She is, indeed," said Harry, with emphasis. "I wish I were half as good."

"You and she are great friends," proceeded Sophie; "and yet you are as different as summer and winter. But Laura Bartlett says, she sets up for a saint, because she is so particular about prayers, and such things."

"Laura Bartlett is an impertinent chatterbox," said Harry, with great indignation. "She had better be careful what she says, or she may find herself in trouble, some of these days."

"There it is!" exclaimed Sophie, laughing. "Now Greta would never have said that."

Harriet looked a good deal mortified at the comparison. She was quite conscious of her hasty manner of speaking, and often made excellent resolutions in regard to it. These were formed at first with the fullest confidence in her own powers of keeping them, but numerous failures had rather weakened this confidence. She now changed color so much that Sophie thought she had really offended her.

"I beg your pardon, Harry, for being so saucy," she said. "You and Greta are so kind to me that I forget you are grown-up young ladies, seventeen years old, while I am only a little girl."

"I am not angry with you, child," said Harry, trying to speak as if nothing was the matter, but not quite succeeding—"but we must not waste any more time now. I wonder where that French book is that I had this morning. I must look over my lesson before school."

"It is on Miss Field's table, up stairs. I will run and get it for you," said Sophie, happy to do any thing for Harry, of whom she was very fond.

When she came back, she said—

"Anne Western has come back to school, Harry!"

"Has she?" said Harry, finding her place, and not appearing much interested in the news.

"Yes," answered Sophie, "and I stopped to speak to her while Miss Field found your book. She said she had heard that my new mother was very handsome, and asked me if I knew."

"And what did you say?"

"I said I did not know, but I was sure I should like her, whether she was or not."

"Very good," said Harry. "And now let me give you one piece of advice: don't let the girls draw you into talking about your father's affairs. There are some of them just foolish enough to do it, but it is very wrong, and will only bring you into trouble. Now mind what I tell you, and whatever they say, do you say nothing. Now, if you like, you may get your book and study here, and I will tell you the hard words."

As the time drew on for Mr. Kennedy to return home, Sophie grew more and more restless. And when the very day arrived, she felt as if she could never wait till six o'clock in the evening. She awaked much earlier than usual, and got up, because she could not go to sleep again.

When breakfast was ready, she thought, as she sat down alone, "To-morrow papa and mamma will be here." And she tried to fancy how the table would look, when a thought came into her mind which made her feel rather grave. She had been used to make tea and coffee for her father for almost two years, and he had never liked to sit down without her. Now her mamma would take her place, of course, and she herself would be only a secondary person. Sophie had no heart to finish her breakfast after this. She wandered about the house, feeling very sad, she hardly knew why, and quite dreading to have the hour arrive, which she had begun by expecting so impatiently.

Mrs. Gaylord, who had come over to consult Nancy about some final arrangements, noticed the little girl's depression, and suggested the propriety of finding her some employment.

"Suppose mistress should send her to the little sick girl, with some of the apple-jelly I made this morning: there was more than enough to fill the moulds, and I put the rest into a little pot, thinking to run over with it myself, but I see I shall not have time. I suppose there could be no danger in her going down there alone."

"O no!" answered Mrs. Gaylord. "Emma often goes and spends the whole afternoon there. Sophie, will you go over and take some jelly to Betsey, and read to her a while? She had a bad night, and nurse told me she was rather low-spirited this morning."

Sophie looked doubtful.

"Just as you please, my dear; you will be the better for something to do, and Betsey will be glad to see you. You know her mother is away at her work a great deal now, and nurse cannot be with her all the time."

"I will go, to be sure," said Sophie, ashamed of her hesitation. "Will you get the things ready, aunty, while I put my bonnet on?"

Sophie was soon ready, and, with basket in hand, proceeded on her way.

Betsey's friends had removed the family from the dirty attic and noisy street where we first found them, and placed them as boarders with an elderly woman, who was often employed in this way by the charitable society. Nurse Brown's house was in a very quiet and pleasant street, in the outskirts of the city, where invalids would not be disturbed with noise, and where they could enjoy almost as much fresh air as if they were in the country.

The morning was fresh and fine, and the trees in the prime of their October beauty. As Sophie walked on through the leaves, now dropping so fast that no sweeping could keep them from covering the walks, she began to feel her heart much lightened. She stopped under a hard-maple tree, and gathering a handful of its most brilliant leaves, she arranged them into a bouquet.

"I wonder if they have such leaves in Virginia," she thought; "I will arrange some and put in the parlor vases when I go home."

Just then some one called her—and, looking up, she saw Greta Carroll, in her garden bonnet, and with her hands full of flowers, standing at a gate across the street, and ran to speak to her. "Are you going to nurse Brown's, Sophie? Will you take these flowers to Betsey?"

Sophie exclaimed at the beauty of the bouquet. There were verbenas and heliotropes, petunias and dahlias, and variegated snap-dragons, and one monthly rosebud.

"When you come back, I will give you some for yourself," said Greta, enjoying the little girl's admiration. "The frost will come to take them so soon, that I do not at all mind gathering them; and the garden is overrun, besides."

"We have hardly any flowers, except such as will grow of themselves," remarked Sophie. "Papa has no time to attend to them. I do hope mamma will love flowers, we have such a nice place for them."

"You shall have some for her to-night, at any rate," answered Greta, "and next week I will give you some chrisanthemums, which will blossom till Christmas. Good-by, dear."

Sophie tripped on her way, admiring the beauty of the flowers, and pleased at the thought of having some for her mamma.

When she arrived at nurse Brown's gate, she found good Dr. Werner just entering. Sophie had quite gotten over her fear of him. And though she sometimes smiled at his odd English, and could not help wishing he would not smoke such strong cigars, she was always pleased to meet him. And he, on his part, was much interested in the bright-eyed little girl.

"Ah, ah, my little friend, you come with both hands full. What will you make with the pretty flowers?"

"I am going to give them to Betsey, sir. And Nancy has sent her some apple-jelly." Sophie opened her basket, and displayed her treasures.

"That is good, very good," said the doctor, smacking his lips, and pretending to cast longing eyes towards the dainties, "but now suppose I should steal you while you are going up stairs?"

Sophie smiled.

"Is not that right to say steal?"

"We should say, 'rob you,'" said Sophie, modestly. "We say, one steals something, but one robs a person."

"I think that is all one," said the doctor, good-humoredly, "but I shall never learn English right. Do you wait here now till I shall dress the burns, for it is not good for you to see that done, and then I will call you. I will be the bitter medicine, and you shall be the good sugar to take away the bad taste."

Dr. Werner ascended the stairs to Betsey's chamber, and Sophie remained below.

In about half an hour he came and called her.

"Do you hear, little girl—you must not talk much to her, for she is very weak. You shall only sit by her, and read very softly, and perhaps she will go to sleep."

Sophie, who had not seen Betsey for several days, was struck by the alteration in her appearance. She had grown much thinner; her skin looked like paper, and, on the well cheek, which was not concealed by the bandage, was a round spot of deep crimson. Poor little Betsey seemed to be fast passing away. She opened her eyes, and smiled at the sight of Sophie, but did not appear to have energy enough to speak. The sight of the flowers seemed to revive her: she took them in her hands, and smelt of them with evident pleasure.

"How sweet they are!" she said in a whisper. "I am so glad of them! I thought I should never see any more flowers."

"They came from Greta Carroll," said Sophie, "the young lady who gave you the caps, you know. She is as pretty as the flowers herself, and just as sweet."

"Every one is very good to us," said Betsey. "I am glad we came here, for mother will have some kind friends to help her. I am afraid she will grieve sadly when I am gone."

"DO you think you shall die, Betsey?" asked Sophie, surprised at the way in which she spoke.

"O yes, miss; I have known it this great while. I never say a word to mother about it, for it makes her feel so bad, and she cannot help hoping. But I shall never be any better; and only for leaving mother, I should not mind. I am not afraid."

"God can take care of your mother, you know," said Sophie, timidly, after a little pause.

"I know it," said Betsey; "it is not that. It is only that I feel sorry to leave her. But it will not be long."

"Shall I read to you, Betsey?" asked Sophie, after a few moments' silence. "Dr. Werner said you must not talk much."

"If you please Miss Sophie. I should like to hear the hundred and third and hundred and fourth psalms first."

Sophie read in a low voice, sitting close to the bed. At the verse, "Look how high the heaven is, in comparison of the earth: so great is the Lord's mercy toward them that fear him," Betsey repeated the words and went on to the next herself.

"How beautiful that is!" she murmured. "As far as the east is from the west, so far has he set our sins from us. Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him."

Sophie finished the psalm, and went on to the next.

Betsey lay quietly listening, with her eyes half closed.

At the words, "He sendeth the springs," she roused herself again. "I know where there is just such a place in Canada, where we used to live. There is a little sort of ravine runs up from the river, with high rocks on both sides, and at the end of it there is a clear beautiful spring that runs so cool and sweet over the rocks. I can see how it looks just now, with the red sumach leaves dropping into it. Don't you love to be in the country, miss?"

"Yes, dearly," answered Sophie, "but I have almost always lived in the city. I think perhaps we shall spend next summer in the country."

"If you do," said Betsey, "and if you find any such pretty spring, you may think it is a keepsake to remember me by. Are you tired of reading, dear?"

"Oh, no," replied Sophie eagerly; "I often read two hours at a time to papa. What shall I read next?"

"About, 'Let not your hearts be troubled,' if you please."

Sophie turned over, and read the wonderfully beautiful words of divine consolation. She had never seen half the meaning in them that she found now, as she repeated them for the comfort of the poor dying child, for whom they seemed so full of heavenly peace. Betsey now and then repeated the words after her, and finally fell asleep with them on her lips.

Sophie sat looking at her a few minutes without moving. "After all," she thought, "Betsey does not seem to be unhappy. The only thing that troubles her, is the thought of leaving her mother: and she seems so sure of seeing her again. She is not at all afraid of dying. I suppose it is because she is so good. I mean to ask her about it some day when she is better, and able to talk."

Sophie sat by Betsey till nurse Brown came in, and then went home, not forgetting to call for the flowers Greta had promised her.

When she arrived at home, she filled the parlor vases, and put a beautiful bouquet on her mother's dressing-table. After dinner Nancy asked her to dust and arrange the books in the parlors, and this occupied her until it was time to dress herself. Then feeling very much agitated, but not unhappy, she went down and seated herself by the parlor fire, for the evening was chilly, and a little blaze was very pleasant. She took a book from the table and tried to read, but found it impossible to fix her attention a moment. Finally she gave up all attempt at employment, and sat still by the fire, listening for the railroad whistle, or the wheels of the carriage.

Nancy was almost as nervous in her way. She was one moment in the kitchen where the dinner was cooking, then in Mrs. Kennedy's own room, then she overlooked Sophie's dress to see that all was right, and then she cast a vigilant glance upon the table and its appointments to see that nothing was wrong.

Sophie was sure the cars had run off the track, or else that they were not coming till to-morrow, a dozen times, before they finally announced themselves by a prolonged screech to be within a mile of the city. After that she could sit still no longer, and she stood at the window, or walked up and down the room, wishing and yet dreading to have the meeting over, till the carriage turned into the street and stopped.

Nancy went down to the gate to meet the travellers, but Sophie stood timidly at the door. She heard her father's voice, and then a lady's, speaking to Nancy, and with a strange feeling of anxiety and fear she shrunk aside from the door as they entered.

"Sophie!" called her father. "Why, where is the child?"

"Here, papa," said Sophie, coming forward.

Mr. Kennedy lifted Sophie in his arms, and kissed her more fervently than he had ever done before. Then he took her hand, and put it into that of the lady who stood beside him.

"This is my little girl, Sophia," he said, in a tone of deep feeling. "Sophie, this lady is your mother."

Sophie had fully determined not to cry, whatever happened, but her father's tone and warm embrace quite overset her, and as she threw her arms around her new mamma's neck, she burst into tears. Nobody found fault with her for crying this time, however. Her mamma only pressed her face close to hers, and kissed her over and over again, while her father walked rather hastily to the other end of the hall, and stood for a minute looking out of the window, though it was quite too dark to see any thing.

Then he returned to where they were standing, and said cheerfully,—

"Come, Sophie, have you got a good fire for us? It is really cold this evening."

"Yes, papa," said Sophie, brushing away her tears, and opening the parlor door, "fire and lights, and dinner too, when mamma is ready."

"All very welcome," replied her father; "you are a nice little housekeeper."

"Nancy was the housekeeper, papa; I only helped."

"Did Nancy arrange all these beautiful flowers and leaves?" asked Mrs. Kennedy, speaking for the first time.

"What a sweet voice she has!" thought Sophie.

"No, mamma. Greta gave me the flowers, and I arranged them. I thought you would like to see them."

"You guessed rightly, my love; I am very fond of flowers, and these are beautiful. I am surprised to see such a variety so late in the season."

"The frost keeps off wonderfully!" remarked Mr. Kennedy. "And we have had so much rain that the gardens are in fine order."

"Shall I take your bonnet, mamma?" asked Sophie.

"Thank you, Sophie, I will change my dress, if there is time before dinner. I feel as if I were covered with dust. Will you show me the way?"

Sophie lighted a candle, and led the way to her mother's room.

"Here is your room, mamma; and I believe it is all in order for you. This is the bathing-room, and here are two closets; and here are your trunks, already. I will come and call you when dinner is ready."

"Wait one minute, Sophie," said Mrs. Kennedy, who was unlocking one of her trunks. She removed one or two dresses, and then took out a little morocco box like a watch-case, which she placed in Sophie's hands.

"For me, mamma?" asked Sophie.

"Certainly, my love. Open it, and see if it pleases you."

Sophie opened the pretty little case; and there, on a white velvet cushion, lay a little enamelled Geneva watch, with its key, and a beautifully-worked hair chain.

"Why, mamma!" exclaimed the little girl, hardly daring to trust her eyes. "Not for 'me'! Not a real watch! Oh, how glad I am! Thank you very much, mamma. What a beauty it is! And such a lovely chain! It is just the color of your curls."

"That is not very remarkable, considering how recently they were neighbors," said Mrs. Kennedy, smiling. "I made it for you myself, and I am glad you are pleased with it. It would be thought—the watch, I mean—rather an expensive present for a girl like you, by many people, but I remembered how pleased I was at your age, when your grandmamma gave me one, and with what delight I used to wind it up, and refer to it. Moreover, Sophie, I am very punctual, and always want every one about me to be the same; and you will have no excuse for being behind-hand, now that you have a watch of your own."

"Are you very particular, mamma?" asked Sophie, somewhat timidly.

"I do not think I am very particular, my dear. I am not as neat as that New England lady, who used a white quilt five years without washing."

"I should not call that being very neat."

"But I like to have things nice about me, and I am not fond of having people dilatory, because that wastes so much time. But you need not be alarmed, my child. We shall find out each other's ways by degrees, and if I should ever find fault, it will be because I think it necessary, and not because I like it."

Mrs. Kennedy had finished dressing by this time, and she and Sophie returned to the parlor together. At dinner, Sophie quite forgot to feel bad at not sitting at the head of the table, she was so much occupied in looking at her mother, and admiring her white hands and graceful manners. She began to feel quite unconstrained and at her ease, and talked to her father about her school, and her playmates, and her chickens, as freely as if they had been alone together.

"And how is Betsey, Sophie?" asked her father. "Is she getting better?"

"She is not any better, papa: I do not think she will ever be, for Dr. Werner says she has the consumption. I was there this morning and read to her a long time."

"Who is Betsey?" asked Mrs. Kennedy.

"She is a little English girl, mamma, who is sick at nurse Brown's." And Sophie gave an account of Betsey's adventures and sufferings, ending with—"And for all that, mamma, and though she thinks she will certainly die, she is not at all unhappy; and when she is a little better, she seems to enjoy looking at flowers and pictures, as much as any one. She does not seem to feel bad about any thing except going away from her mother."

"You think, I suppose, you would not be as cheerful as she is under the same circumstances."

"No, mamma, I am sure I do not think I could, especially if I thought so much about dying as she does. But I suppose it is because she is so good."

"I rather think she has some better reason than that, my dear."

"Why, what better reason could she have, mamma?"

"We will talk about it again, Sophie. Perhaps we shall be able to ask her about it some time. Do you go and see her very often?"

"Pretty often, now she is at nurse Brown's," answered Sophie. "She always seems glad to see any of us when we go in. She is alone a good deal, for her mother goes out to work, and nurse Brown is apt to be busy. She will be glad to see you, mamma, I am sure."

"Will you try the piano, Sophia?" asked Mr. Kennedy after dinner.

Sophie looked surprised. She did not know what her father meant by asking her to play, but Mrs. Kennedy rose, and opening the new piano, sat down and ran her fingers over the keys.

"It is a very brilliant instrument," she said, pausing a moment, and then beginning one of Beethoven's waltzes.

Sophie listened perfectly entranced till the last soft tones died away, and then, with a long-drawn sigh, she exclaimed, "Oh, what music! Please, mamma, play another."

Mrs. Kennedy played another and another, and then sang several songs, and still Sophie was not satisfied. She remembered, however, that her mother must be tired with her journey, and forbore to ask for one more.

Mrs. Kennedy left the piano and sat down again by the fire. "Have you ever taken music lessons, Sophie?" she inquired.

"No, mamma, not exactly. Greta taught me the letters, and how to read music a little, and I have learned to play two or three tunes on her piano, for we have never had a piano till lately."

"I should like to hear you play something."

Sophie hesitated, but finally went to the piano and played one or two tunes very prettily. She had a quick ear and a good perception of time, so that she seldom made mistakes.

"I should think you would learn music pretty easily," said Mrs. Kennedy. "You seem to have a good ear, and your touch is light and steady. You cannot do much with music, however, when you go to school."

"Papa said he thought I should not go to school next quarter," remarked Sophie.

"In that case we must see about some music lessons," said her mother. "It is a pity you should not learn, if you have a good ear. But you will need a great deal of patience."

"I am sure I cannot learn then," said Sophie, "for I have not a

## particle of patience. If I cannot learn any thing directly, I never can

learn it at all."

"Perhaps we had better begin with lessons in patience then, which is an acquirement much more necessary than music," remarked Mrs. Kennedy.

"Can any one learn it if they are not naturally patient?" asked Sophie.

"People usually learn it when they are obliged to do so," answered Mrs. Kennedy. "But, Sophie, how do you get on in school, if you have no patience?"

"I don't know, mamma: I contrive to get on somehow."

"I suppose you expect every one to have patience with you?"

"Yes, mamma," said Sophie rather slowly, "but that is different."

"How different?"

"I don't know. We always expect teachers to be patient. It seems easy enough for them."

"Nevertheless, it is as hard for them as for any one else. But they know they must be, and so they learn it. And that is the only way any one learns."

"What time is it, Sophie?" asked Mr. Kennedy.

Sophie produced her watch with great satisfaction. "It is ten o'clock, papa."

"And that is time you were asleep, my dear. You will be complaining of headache in the morning. So take your lamp, and do not forget to wind up your watch."

When Sophie was alone in her room, she began to think over the events of the day which seemed so long to look back upon. She could hardly persuade herself that she had been reading to the sick girl only that morning: it seemed as if it must have been a week ago at least. Her mind was so full of her new mamma's words and looks and music that she could think of nothing else. She said her prayers, however, and then feeling very happy, she lay down and dropped asleep, almost before her head touched the pillow.

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