CHAPTER VI.

THE CONSEQUENCE.

LOLLA walked along under the trees, feeling rather fretful and dissatisfied, though she could not exactly tell why. She fancied the pail grew heavier every minute.

"I wonder if that cover is on tight?" said she to herself. "It wouldn't be very nice for the ice and salt to get into the porridge, or whatever it is. I don't believe it will be good, anyway, when it gets there. It will be all melted."

There are many low stone walls in the village of Dorchester, which are very nice to sit down upon, especially when, as it often happens, there is a large elm-tree exactly in the right place to keep off the sun. Lolla found just such a place in the retired lane through which she was passing, and sat down for a rest. She looked this way and that, and, seeing nobody, she pulled off the cover of the small pail.

The frozen milk porridge looked very nice and inviting, and Lolla could not resist the temptation.

"Nobody will know if I just taste it," said she.

She had no spoon; but gluttons are not apt to be nice. She put in her finger, and, scooping up a large mouthful, she hastily swallowed it. It was certainly very nice,—as good as ice-cream; and, almost without thinking, Lolla took another mouthful.

When I was a little girl and used to gather raspberries, I used to make it a rule not to taste one till I had gathered all that I wanted to take home; because I found by experience that it was much easier not to eat the first raspberry than it was not to eat the second. Lolla discovered the same thing with regard to the iced porridge. Having begun, she found it hard to leave off. She took mouthful after mouthful, intending that every one should be the last. Meantime, the warm air was rapidly melting the porridge, and making it run together as fast as she took it out: so that she did not discover what havoc she was making, till a deeper dig than usual uncovered the bottom of the pail. She was frightened to see that there was not a teacupful left. Then, indeed, she wished she had let it alone.

"What shall I do now?" said she to herself. "There is no use in carrying that little bit to Jessie. She will know that aunt never sent such a small parcel as that; and, besides, the side of the pail shows how much there was in the first, place. Hateful stuff! I wish I never had seen it! Aunt ought to have sent Philly with it. But I may as well eat the rest, now that I have begun; and then what shall I do with the pails? Aunt told me to leave them there at Jessie's; and if I bring them back, she will surely suspect something. Oh, what shall I do?"

Lolla thought and thought, but could come to no conclusion. At last, however, she hid the two empty pails among some weeds and brambles in a corner of the wall, and turned into the street that led to the store.

"My aunt wants you to send her seven lemons," said she to the shop-man; "and I want five cents' worth of nice raisins."

The lemons were done up in a parcel, and the raisins put into Lolla's pocket, from which they were soon transferred to her mouth. Then she undid the parcel, and took out the odd lemon, taking care to select the largest. She had fully intended to keep it for home consumption; but the smell was too inviting, and presently she found herself sucking it as she walked along.

Lolla's stomach had been long accustomed to excesses; but a handful of raisins and the juice of a lemon upon the top of more than a pint of frozen milk was more than it could endure. Before she reached the cottage, Lolla found herself feeling very ill. Her head was dizzy, and she had a strange pain, as though she had swallowed some hot coals. She had hardly strength to open the gate; and it seemed to her that the walk which led up to the cottage was a mile long.

"Oh, Lolla, I am glad you have come. Guess what we are going to have for dinner! Beautiful raspberry ice-cream! I froze it myself, after you went away. But what is the matter?" cried Philly, in alarm, as Lolla dropped on the nearest seat. "Oh, dear! Sarah, come here,—do! Lolla is dying, I do believe!"

"Nonsense!" returned Sarah, sharply. "Don't call out like that, child! Here, Lolla, what is the matter? Why, you do look badly, sure enough! What have you been doing? Call Miss Delight, Philly, as quick as you can! She is in the greenhouse."

Nobody enjoyed the raspberry-cream, or any thing else of the nice dinner Sarah had provided; for every one had their hands full with Lolla. Miss Delight held her in her arms, or rubbed her convulsed limbs; Sarah was busy with the bath and with hot mustard-poultices; and Mr. Locke was gone post-haste for the doctor; for Lolla was in a fit, and for a good while it seemed rather doubtful whether she would ever come out of it.

"Has she eaten any thing more than usual?" asked the doctor.

"Not that I am aware of," replied Miss Delight. "She was accustomed at home to eat every thing she took a fancy to, and at all times and seasons; but I have been careful of her diet since she came to me, and her health has greatly improved. Latterly, however, she has not seemed as well; and I have not been able to find out what was the matter."

Philly heard this conversation, and it threw her into a state of great perplexity. She felt as though she ought to tell Miss Delight what she knew about Lolla's habits; and yet she hated the very name of tattling. At last she did the wisest thing in her power. She asked advice. Meeting Sarah on the stairs, she repeated to her what she had heard, and what she herself knew, of Lolla's habits.

"Do you think I ought to tell Miss Delight?"

"Of course you ought to tell her," returned Sarah. "It might make all the difference in the world. Tell her directly; or, if you don't want to, I will."

"Oh, do!" said Philly, much relieved by the proposal. "That will be a great deal the best way."

It happened, however, that the story told itself, so far as the cause of Lolla's present illness was concerned.

"She must have drunk a quantity of milk, and then eaten something sour on the top of it," said Miss Delight. "But where could she get milk at this time of day?"

"I guess she has been eating up Jessie's porridge," said Sarah. "Lolla is not to be trusted with any thing good to eat. I have been finding that out this long time, but I have not been quite sure till lately. But where could she get raisins? There are none in the house."

"Look in her pocket, and see if there are any more," said Miss Delight.

There were no raisins in Lolla's pocket; but there were the remains of the lemon; and now Lolla's sickness was fully accounted for.

"Now, my little girl, if you can tell me what else you have eaten," said the doctor, seeing that Lolla was able to speak. "Tell me the exact truth, that I may know what to do for you."

"Oh, dear!" sighed Lolla. "I only ate a few raisins."

"And what else?"

"And—and—a lemon!"

"Raisins and a lemon; and what else?"

"Nothing," said Lolla, sullenly.

"Where did you get the milk?" asked Miss Delight.

"I didn't have any milk," said Lolla; and to this story she adhered, in spite of any thing and every thing that could be said to her. She was better for a little while; but in an hour or two she was attacked with illness in another form, and it was not till the next day that Miss Delight ventured to hope that she might be saved. All this time her mind was more or less wandering, and, besides, it was absolutely necessary to keep her quiet: so there was no chance of finding out the truth.

The next evening Lolla was somewhat better; but it was many days before she was pronounced out of danger, and many more before she was able to leave her room and go about the house again. Meantime, Aunt Delight had learned from Jessie that Lolla had not been at her house at all, the day she was taken sick. She tried to make Lolla tell her the truth; but in vain.

Lolla would not say a word. If she were questioned, she would begin to cry, declare that every one hated her and ill-treated her, that Aunt Delight had carried her away from her dear mother only to abuse her, and that as soon as she got better she would go to California, if she had to walk every step of the way. These "tantrums," as Sarah called them, usually ended in a fit of sickness. At last Miss Delight gave the matter up in despair.

When Lolla began to go about the house once more, she found her position very much changed. No one found fault with her, or alluded in any way to the affair of the porridge; but she felt herself distrusted and constantly watched. The store-room was kept locked, and the sugar-bowl put out of reach. She was never allowed to go outside the gate by herself, never sent of errands as before; no one asked her for information about any thing, or paid any attention to her statements.

All this was disagreeable enough; and, to add to her discomfort, she found herself restricted to the plainest food, and a very little of that. If she exceeded in the least, either in quantity or in quality, she speedily found herself in bed as sick as ever. This was a sad plight for a little girl who cared for nothing but eating and drinking.

One evening she was sitting alone in the bay-window of the parlour, feeling very sad and lonely indeed. Her aunt and Philly had gone to church; Sarah had gone up to see Jessie, who was now not expected to live many days: so there was no one at home but herself and Mr. Locke, who had come in not long before and was sitting on the veranda. Lolla felt very unhappy. She thought it was because she was sick and alone, and because every one was unkind to her; but something in her heart told her that was not all. She thought of her dear father and mother, so many, many miles away, and remembered how kind and indulgent they had always been to her, and how often she had been undutiful to them. She thought how pleased she had been with the idea of coming to Dorchester, and how happy she had been for the first few weeks after her arrival, and how different it all was at present. She did not feel like having a "tantrum," but she put her head down on the end of the couch, and cried, quietly, but very bitterly.

"What is the matter, Lolla?" said a gentle voice. Mr. Locke had come silently into the parlour and taken a seat beside her. "What is the matter, Lolla?" he repeated. "What makes you cry?"

"Because I am so very, very unhappy!" sobbed Lolla.

"And what makes you unhappy?"

"A great many things."

"Well, tell me some of these things. Perhaps I can help you to get rid of them. What makes you unhappy just now, for instance?"

"Because I am sick, for one thing," replied Lolla.

"Well, it is very sad to be sick; but sickness does not always make people unhappy. Jessie is very sick. She suffers far more than you do or can; and she will never be any better. I do not think she can live more than a few days; but she is not unhappy. She told me this afternoon that her heart was full of peace and joy; and I am sure her face shows it."

"Then I am so lonely, with my father and mother away."

"That is sad, too; but, Lolla, Philly's father and mother are both dead. She has not a friend or relation in the world out of this house; and she is not unhappy. You yourself, when you first came here, were as merry as the day was long."

"It was very different then; and that is one trouble," said Lolla. "Every one was good to me then, and liked me; and now nobody likes me, or believes a word that I say: and Aunt Delight is as different as can be."

"What do you suppose has made the difference in her?" asked Mr. Locke.

Lolla hung her head, but, somehow, she felt as if she must answer even in spite of herself. At last she stammered out,—

"I suppose it is because I was so naughty."

"Ah, that indeed! I should not wonder if we had now got at the root of the whole matter. How were you naughty, Lolla?"

Lolla would not answer.

"But even the fact of your having been naughty need not of itself make you unhappy," continued Mr. Locke. "I have known many persons who had done very wrong things in their lives, and were nevertheless very happy afterwards. We read of the Apostle Paul persecuting the Christian church and helping at the murder of the martyr Stephen, and many of his converts at Philippi had been very wicked people: yet Paul was far from being an unhappy man amid all his trials, and he tells the Philippians to 'rejoice evermore,' to 'rejoice in the Lord always.' I don't think we have got at it quite yet, Lolla."

"Well, I don't understand," said Lolla, interested in spite of herself. "I thought when people were wicked they always had to be unhappy."

"And you are quite right, my child. As long as you 'are' naughty, you must needs be miserable; but you need not be miserable because you 'have been' naughty. That is quite another thing. As long as the Philippians continued to be wicked and unbelieving, there would be no use in telling them to rejoice; but they had seen their sin, repented of it and confessed it, and turned with their whole heart to God, and therefore they were happy even in the midst of trials such as we know nothing about. Now do you understand?"

"It don't seem as if I could do any different," said Lolla, after a pause, and speaking earnestly. "I think sometimes I will tell aunt all about it; but, then, I can't, somehow. Oh, dear! I don't know what to do!" And again Lolla put down her head, and cried bitterly.

"Lolla," said Mr. Locke, putting his hand upon her head, "there is one wrong thing you can help directly. Tell me, now: have you asked God to help you at these times?"

"No," replied Lolla. "I did not think it would be of any use. I have been so naughty."

"If we could not ask God to help us when we were wicked, we should remain wicked forever," said Mr. Locke,—"since nothing is more certain than that we can never make ourselves good without his help. He did not wait for that when he sent his Son to die for us.

"'God commended his love to us, in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.'"

"Would he really help me, do you think, if I asked him now?—Really and truly?" asked Lolla, in a reverent whisper.

"Yes: if you are honest in desiring it, I am sure that he will."

"How do you know?" asked Lolla. "Is it in the Bible?"

"It is in the Bible; and I know by my own experience, because he has so often helped me. He has enabled me to do things which I could no more have done by myself than I can fly to that bright star up yonder. But, Lolla, do you really want God to help you to be good?"

"I really and truly do, Mr. Locke," replied Lolla; "but I don't believe I can," she added, despairingly. "I have thought a great many nights that I would tell Aunt Delight the very first thing in the morning; and when morning came it was just as hard as ever."

"Ah! There was another mistake. You should have told her that very moment, and not have waited till morning. But, Lolla, there is some one else you should tell first,—some one against whom you have sinned more sorely than against your aunt. Think how you have displeased Him. There is nothing God hates more than a lie,—nothing which he will punish more severely if the liar does not repent. Yet he has spared your life. He would not let you die in your sin, but gives you a chance to repent and be forgiven. You must confess to him first, before you can ask him to forgive and help you.

"'If I regard iniquity in my heart, the Lord will not hear me.'

"'If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us; but if we confess our sins, God is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.'

"God will not only forgive the sin, but he will take it away. He will wash it out, and make your soul clean and pure. Lolla, shall we ask him to do so?"

"Yes, please," whispered Lolla.

Mr. Locke knelt down with Lolla in the recess of the window, and, in a short prayer which she could understand, he asked God to forgive her, to make her a better girl, and especially to give her strength to confess to her aunt.

"Now, Lolla, you must act for yourself," said Mr. Locke. "God has given you the strength, and you must use it. Don't wait a moment. There is your aunt coming in now. Shall I make a beginning for you?" he added, seeing that Lolla was embarrassed.

"Please do," said Lolla.

"Lolla has something to tell you, Miss Delight," said Mr. Locke, as Aunt Delight came into the parlour. "She has made up her mind to tell you what made her sick."

Before Lolla went to bed that night, she had told her aunt the whole story, and had received her forgiveness. When she awoke the next morning, her head ached and her eyes were heavy, but her heart was lighter than it had been for many a day.

All that summer and fall Lolla was very delicate. She was reaping the fruits of her long course of greediness and indulgence; and the doctor said it would probably be a great while before she would be well again. She could eat only the simplest food,—not a particle of fruit or pastry, and the least indulgence was sure to make her sick for several days.

In one way this was an advantage to Lolla. She lost the habit of wanting to eat at all times and seasons, and she learned to find her pleasure in other ways. She could not run about a great deal; and this forced her to turn for amusement to her books and her needle,—means of employment which she had always disliked and never touched except as tasks. She grew very fond of reading, and so skilful with her needle that she was able to give her aunt a great deal of help in her labour in the sewing-school.

Lolla's stay in Dorchester was prolonged from year to year, and now she was a great girl, fifteen years old, well-educated for her age, able to make her own clothes and cook her own breakfast and dinner.

She went to her new home in California, a useful, amiable, sensible girl, prepared to be a comfort to her parents, a pleasant companion as well as a useful example and teacher to the two little brothers she had never seen, and, better than all, a beautiful fruit-bearing branch of that true vine of which God is the husbandman, and Christ the stock, and all true Christians living members. There is nothing of the "little pig" left about her.

Aunt Delight still lives in her cottage at Dorchester. She is an old woman, if one counts by years, but her heart is as young and her mind as bright as ever. She keeps her old servant Sarah, and Philly, now a tall, useful girl, and she has a pleasant companion in a soldier's widow, the daughter of a "far-away cousin," who has no other home.

Mr. Locke is away in Asia, teaching the word of God among the Japanese. Lolla often hears from him. She thinks sometimes she should like to go too; but she has work enough at home to keep her fully employed for the present. Her mother's health is very delicate, and Lolla is nurse, housekeeper, teacher, and lady of the house, all in one: so she does the duty nearest to her, and trusts to God to give her the desire of her heart, if it is best for her to have it, or to make her contented without it, if he sees best to deny.