CHAPTER EIGHTH.

MARY.

"WHERE have you been all the morning?" asked Mary Settson, as she met Calista just after the noon recess was proclaimed. "I have not had a sight of you."

"You would never guess," said Calista. "I don't know how to believe it myself."

Calista spoke gayly. She felt in better spirits than she had done for a long time. Anything like a quarrel was always an annoyance to her; and she was very much pleased at having at last made friends with poor Miss Meeks.

Then she had thoroughly enjoyed her hour and a half of teaching. Every one likes to be of use, not to say of consequence. The little girls had been very good and orderly. They had read and spelled well, and recited their small portion of Pinnock's "Catechism" without a mistake; and Calista had rewarded them with the story of King Alfred learning to read and afterward watching the cakes. She had a great talent for narration, and had the pleasure of seeing her small audience listening with rapt attention, and of hearing a universal cry of:

"Oh, please, Miss Stanfield, go on. Tell us some more."

She had promised another story "some time;" and had promised to tell Miss McPherson and Miss Meeks how good they had been. So teacher and pupils had parted with mutual satisfaction.

"I am not good at guessing," said Mary.

"Well—but don't look incredulous, however strange my tale may appear—I have been sitting upon the throne of Miss Meeks and wielding her sceptre for a full hour and a half. In other words, I have been keeping order and hearing lessons in the little school-room. I—even I, myself. Think of that!"

Mary did think of it, and it did not please her. For the last year she had been used to being called upon to hear the little ones on emergencies; and though she was not fond of teaching, and often complained of the trouble, she did not dislike the consequence it gave her any more than did Calista. So it came to pass that there was some sharps in her tone as she said:

"How in the world did that happen? I should say you were the last one in the school likely to be called on to help Miss Meeks. I thought you had a quarrel only this morning."

"So we had, and that was exactly the way the wonderful event came to pass."

"You must speak more plainly if you want me to understand you."

"Well, it happened even so: Miss Meeks and I did have—well, not just a quarrel, but an outcome, as Miss Jessy says. It began with Antoinette in the first place, who called Miss Meeks to take her part, which she did, and scolded me as usual. I was vexed, and answered her back. Miss McPherson said I was rude—or, what was still worse, she made me say so,—" continued Calista, laughing and blushing—"and sent me to Miss Meeks's room to apologize. I found the poor thing very ill, and all but fainting away with a pain in her side, or something of the sort. She would not let me call any one, and I waited on her as well as I could, till she was better.

"But she felt very faint and weak after the pain, and so I persuaded her to keep quiet till dinner, and let me hear the little girls. She said I might if Miss McPherson was willing. So I asked her, and she said I might. The children were very good and said their lessons nicely, and I rewarded them with the very new and original narration of King Alfred burning the oat-cakes, with which they were as hugely delighted as if nobody had heard it before. And, in fact, though it is hard to believe it, I suppose a story is new to every child that hears it for the first time;" with which original reflection Calista concluded her own story.

"Well, I must say, I think it was odd in Miss McPherson to send you," said Mary, in a tone which trembled a little in spite of herself. "I wonder what I could have done to displease her?"

"Nothing, I presume," answered Calista, in surprise. "Why should you think so?"

"Because she has always asked me to hear the scholars in the little room before, and I don't see why she should choose some one else."

"Why, goosie, because I went to her. Miss Meeks told me to ask her, and of course she said yes. Besides, you were busy, and I was not. I learned all my lessons before I came to school. What could be more natural?"

"I don't believe it was that," said Mary, her voice shaking more and more. "She is displeased about something. I am sure I have always done my best with the little girls. If I have not told them stories and amused them, I have tried to have them learn, and it is very hard to have anybody put over my head without giving me any reason." Mary was fairly crying.

"Mary, you are too silly for anything," said Calista, vexed for the moment. "Nobody has been put over your head. Don't you see how naturally it all happened? Suppose I had asked Miss McPherson, and she had said, 'No, I prefer Miss Settson should do it;' do you think I should cry about it? Not I. I should just have thought, 'Mary has had more experience; it is natural Miss McPherson should prefer her.'"

"That is just what I say. I have had more experience."

"You had not more experience when you began, I suppose. There must be a first time. I dare say Miss McPherson thought it would be a good lesson for me."

"I am sure Miss McPherson would not have chosen some one else unless she had something against me," continued Mary. "She acted as if she had yesterday. She praised Mary Burns's work up to the skies, though it only a rug made of bits out of her father's shop, and all she said to mine was, 'Yes, very pretty, my dear.'"

"Well, you know Mary is poor, and has very little to give, and I do think her rug is wonderful, considering what it is made of. It looks like a bit of Persian carpet. I have always noticed what a good eye Mary has for colors. She would paint better than Clary Whitman if she had the chance to learn."

"Oh, yes, she is the eighth wonder of the world, no doubt! But I don't think I shall send anything to the table, or go to the meetings any more. If my work is not worth noticing, it certainly is not worth selling."

"Look here, Mary," said Calista, gravely, "you are always lecturing me about loving the world, and now I am going to lecture you a little. You think a great deal too much about being praised—about having people think well of you. Now it seems to me that the praise of men, as Elizabeth Howell says, is just as much one of the things of the world that we are not to love, as money or fine clothes. Of course we all like the good opinion of our friends; but when it comes to being distressed because somebody else is asked to do something, or because some other person's work is praised more than one's own, why I think it is time to take a look and see where one is going."

Mary was silent, and twisted her chair. She felt the words were true, and she did not like them any the better for that. She had always assumed a certain superiority over her friend, to which Calista had humbly assented, and it was not agreeable to be taken to task in her turn.

"Come, don't let's spoil our recess," said Calista, in a lighter tone; "you know you promised to teach me the fan stitch, and I brought my needles on purpose."

"You had better ask Mary Burns to show you," answered Mary, in a tone which was meant to be dignified, but was only stiff; "I don't know that I care about teaching any one who has such an opinion of me as you seem to entertain. I thought I had one friend at least in the school, but it seems I was mistaken!" And Mary's wounded feelings and temper—two things which are apt to get very much mixed up together—found vent in a flood of tears.

"Nonsense!" said Calista, vexed in her turn. "Mary, you are too absurd. You are always lecturing me, and I am content you should; but the minute I say a word to you, you flare up in this way. I should think I had enough to put up with, without your turning on me. I don't know but that is the 'spirit of Christ,'" she concluded, alluding to the verse Mary had repeated in the morning, "but I must say it does not seem much like it to me."

And with this parting shot, which was a sufficiently sharp one, Calista went away and left Mary to her own reflections.

"Dear me!" she said to herself, in some natural impatience. "It does seem as if I never could be comfortable half an hour together. Who would ever have thought of her taking matters in that way!"

If Calista was uncomfortable, Mary was still more so. She was really trying very hard to be a Christian, but on this particular point she had never learned to know herself, or to call things by their right names. She had often said to herself that she did not love money, or fine clothes, or gay amusements—all of which was true—therefore she did not love the world. But "the world" takes a great many shapes, and creeps in at a great many holes and corners; and whatever petty disguises it may put on, it is the same world still, the intimate ally and friend of "the flesh and the devil."

Praise was Mary's "world"—appreciation she called it. She loved to stand well in the eyes of other people, to be called the best scholar and the neatest worker in school, the model member of the catechism class in church. She liked to know that she was pointed out as an example of early piety by the pastor, as a good sister and daughter at home. She loved the praise of men, and that love, as it always does, was beginning to spring up and bear fruit—poison fruit, which, if the vine was not plucked up by the roots, threatened to choke the word and make it unfruitful, as surely as the deceitfulness of riches would have done. It was coming to that with her that she did not like to have any one praised but herself—that she felt all commendation of another as so much taken from her own share.

Miss McPherson had praised Mary's homely work more than her own exquisite netted fringe. That very morning, in the French class, she had told Anabella Adair that she had improved very much in accent and style, and had only included herself in the "very well, my dears," addressed to the whole class. And now, to crown all, she had given the charge of the little ones to Calista, who had not only taught them, but interested and amused them as well. No doubt the ungrateful little things were saying at that moment that they liked Miss Stanfield better than Miss Settson—very likely they would say so to Miss Meeks and Miss McPherson. Mary almost felt as though she could never come to school or speak to Calista again.

John Bunyan, with that wonderful experimental knowledge which seems like inspiration, says that one leak is enough to sink a ship, and one sin to destroy a sinner. There is no doubt at all that one known and acknowledged sin is enough to undermine the Christian character of the best saint that ever lived, if it is indulged or harbored after its true character comes to be known.

Mary had, for some time, had an uneasiness as to this very matter. She felt that here was her weak point, but she did not like to examine and make sure of it, which was as wise as if a ship's captain should refuse to examine a suspected spar or defective cable. She was strong everywhere else, and she did not consider that the weakest link—not the strongest—measures the strength of the chain. Even now she was made aware that she had been unkind to Calista and unjust to Miss McPherson, but she would not acknowledge to herself that the root of the trouble lay in her inordinate love of praise. No, Calista had provoked her and Miss McPherson had taken pains to mortify her, but it was her duty to overlook it, and she would do so by treating Calista just as usual, even by offering to show her the fan stitch—no, she would not do that, either; but if Calista asked her again, she would not refuse.

Smoothing matters over in this fashion was not the way to attain peace, and Mary was destined to have a still harsher lesson.

Calista ran up to Miss Meeks's room and tapped lightly, opening the door in answer to the summons from within. She found Miss Meeks up and dressed. She looked pale and worn, but declared herself quite able to come down stairs.

"I thought I would just tell you that the little girls behaved very well and said their lessons nicely," said Calista.

"Did they? I am very glad. I think they are usually good, though I fear I am sometimes sharp with them. Did they say their English kings?"

"Yes, ma'am, nicely; and I told them about King Alfred and the oat-cakes, to reward them. Was that right?"

"Quite right. I often wish I possessed the talent for narration which some people have. It is quite invaluable in dealing with young children. Will you please fasten my dress, my dear? I am glad you succeeded in interesting the children," continued Miss Meeks. "I shall, perhaps, ask you to help me again, some day. Miss Settson is very good and conscientious, but she has an unfortunate manner with children."

"I am sure I shall be glad to help you at any time, Miss Meeks," said Calista, as they went down stairs together. "But I am surprised to hear you say that about Mary. I thought she did everything better than any one else—let alone poor me."

"It is not to be denied that she does a great many things better than 'poor you,'" replied Miss Meeks, with a smile, which was not at all severe this time. "Keeping her desk in order and copying her exercises, among others. But different people have different gifts, you know."

"I am sure I am glad if teaching is one of mine," observed Calista. "It seems the only way for a lady to earn a living nowadays."

"Surely there will be no necessity for that," said Miss Meeks. "I supposed you were your aunt's heir as a matter of course."

"Oh dear, no," answered Calista. "My aunt barely tolerates my existence. I should not be one bit surprised at her throwing me on my own resources any day. So, Miss Meeks, I shall be glad if you will let me help you at any time, not only because I like to be of use, but because I like to learn all I can."

Unluckily, this speech was overheard by Antoinette Diaments. Antoinette hated Calista with all the venom of a small and mean nature, because of the scrape she had gotten into about Tessy's change; though Calista had nothing to do with the transaction, beyond being an accidental witness of it. Moreover, Antoinette considered Miss Meeks as her own particular property, and had hitherto, as we have said, succeeded in keeping that lady very much in the dark as to her real character. She, therefore, instantly resolved to "put a spoke in Calista's wheel," as she elegantly expressed it.

"Well, Calista, I should think you would be ashamed to ask such a thing of Miss Meeks, after the way you were talking and laughing about her not half an hour ago."

Miss Meeks's pale cheek flushed, and she cast one of her old suspicious glances at Calista.

"Antoinette, what do you mean?" exclaimed Calista. "I have not said a word to any one but Mary Settson about Miss Meeks."

"Just so; and you were laughing with her about Miss Meeks's throne and sceptre. I heard you myself."

"You can ask Mary about it, Miss Meeks," said Calista. "Here she is. Mary, Antoinette says I was laughing about Miss Meeks to you this morning. Is that true?"

Calista spoke with a trust in Mary's uprightness as firm as her trust in the ground she walked on. But even the ground is sometimes shaken. Mary had opened the gate of her heart to the world, and the world in turn opened to its friend the devil. If the ground had, indeed, opened under her feet, Calista could not have been more astounded than she was when Mary answered:

"I don't know, of course, whether you were laughing at her or not. You certainly were laughing when you told me that you had been sitting in her throne and wielding her sceptre, and when you told how you went to her room and found her sick."

Calista's face grew pale, and then flushed with honest indignation and wounded feeling.

"Mary!"

It was all she said. Miss Meeks looked keenly from one to another. She was clear-sighted enough when not blinded by prejudice or by the irritability of suppressed suffering, and she knew Mary's weakness far better than did Mary herself.

"I shall believe what you say, Calista," said she. "Did you mean to turn me into ridicule or not?"

"No, Miss Meeks, I never thought of such a thing—never." said Calista, with emphasis. "I did use those words, as any one might; but I no more thought of turning you into ridicule, or above all laughing about your illness, than I should think of laughing about my own dead mother."

"I believe you," said Miss Meeks. "You have your faults, but I never knew untruth to be one of them. To show you that I trust you, I shall, if agreeable to you, request Miss McPherson to allow you to sit with me in the small room this afternoon and oversee the children's work."

"Thank you, Miss Meeks; I shall like it very much," said Calista, and she turned away and followed the teacher into the dining-room, without so much as looking at Mary.

She usually enjoyed the school dinners, which, if plain, were abundant and dealt out without stint; but to-day her roast mutton and cherry pie tart seemed to choke her. That Mary should use her so! She did not wonder at Antoinette; but Mary—Mary, whom she had looked upon as the very pattern and exemplar of all that was good, and loved with the passionate love of a first friendship. It seemed to Calista as if she would never believe in anybody again.

If Calista was sorrowful, Mary herself was utterly wretched. At first she had tried to excuse herself to herself—to gloss the matter over as she had done with a good many things lately; but it would not do. She felt that she had told a lie, and meant to tell one, though every word she had said had been literally true. Calista had used these words, and had laughed as she did so; but Mary knew well enough that she had conveyed a false impression, and meant to convey one; that Calista had not laughed at Miss Meeks, but on the contrary had spoken of her with the greatest kindness.

Ever since she had first been awakened in religious matters, Mary had cultivated the habit (and a most useful and excellent one it is) of retiring a few minutes at noon for self-examination and prayer. As she entered her room this day, she was strongly tempted to omit her usual exercise, and hurry down stairs; but the habit was too strong for her. She sat down in her usual place, and almost mechanically opened her Bible.

"If thou bring thy gift to the altar, and there rememberest that thy brother hath aught against thee; leave there thy gift before the altar, and go thy way; first be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and offer thy gift." (Matt. 5:23, 24.)

Mary shut her book almost impatiently, and opened again.

"Love not the world, neither the things that are in the world. If any man love the world, the love of the Father is not in him." (1 John 2:15.)

There was not much comfort in that, either. She wished to find some "promise" on which she might dwell and meditate or imagine herself into a state of complacency; but One was dealing with her who would allow no such comfortable self-deception. She was, as it were, set down before the mirror of truth and made to see herself, and that in despite of her will to the contrary. What had she done? She had been envious of another's pleasure and honor, and she had allowed herself to indulge in a slanderous misrepresentation to injure her best friend, because that friend had been accidentally preferred before her. Nor was she allowed to take refuge in the idea that she had been overcome by a sudden and irresistible temptation. She knew better. Her fall had not been sudden, as indeed such falls seldom are.

Looking back, she could see that she had been preparing the way for just such a failure. It was true, as Calista said: she had allowed herself to indulge in that envy which eats like a canker. She had not liked to hear any one praised but herself for a long time past. She had done her work in school and at home, not for her Lord and Master, but that she might be seen of men.

The same was true of her charitable work among the poor children whom she taught and helped to clothe. She had been provoked downright when Mrs. Lee showed her the pretty and useful little dress which Belle Adair had made out of one of her own for poor Chloe Jackson's youngest girl, and she turned scarlet as she remembered how she had taken occasion to say that Belle was a very gay girl who would never listen to a serious word.

And now she had wounded Calista to the heart, and disgraced herself in the eyes of her teacher and herself, all for what? Because Calista had been asked to do, and had done well, something which she did not like, and never undertook willingly. Calista had been praised, that was enough.

"Oh, what shall I do! What shall I do!" said Mary, almost aloud, and with bitter tears of grief and self-abasement. She opened her Bible and read again:

"Remember therefore from whence thou art fallen, and repent, and do the first works." (Rev. 2:5.)

And again:

"If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness." (1 John 1:8, 9.)

Clearly this was the right and only way to peace. Mary knelt down and then and there confessed this her besetting sin, asked for deliverance and forgiveness, and that cleansing promised to all who seek it. She did not deceive herself now, but called things by right, plain Bible names—envy, emulation, slander, detraction.

There is an old fairy tale found in almost every language, which has always seemed to me to shadow forth a great truth. It is that of a man beset by a demon or malign imp of some sort, for whom he is obliged to perform all sorts of hard tasks and pay all sorts of penalties, till he succeeds in discovering the true name of his tormentor, after which the thing has no more power, but flies discomfited. Mary had called her demons by their right names, and their power was broken for that time, at least.

She was still on her knees when she was interrupted by a knock at the door and a call of:

"Miss Mary!"

"Yes, Miranda; what is it?" asked Mary, without opening the door.

"Oh, nothing, only your pa and Miss Alice have gone out to old Mrs. Skovell's, at Greenwich, and won't be back till night. I thought maybe you wouldn't care about much dinner alone, so I just got you a cup of chocolate and a strawberry short-cake and some sandwiches. But I can cook some meat if you'd rather have it."

"No, thank you, Miranda; I would rather have the chocolate than anything. I am in a hurry to get back to school."

Mary did not feel like eating, but she took a cup of chocolate and a piece of the tempting short-cake, to spare Miranda's feelings, and hastened back to school. She went straight to the little school-room, where she knew she would find Miss Meeks. That lady looked up, when she entered, in surprise and some displeasure. She did not like to have her hour of leisure interrupted.

"Miss Meeks," said Mary, in a voice which trembled a good deal, "I have come to tell you that what I said about Calista this morning was not true. She did use those words, but there was no disrespect in the way she used them, and I am sure she meant none. She was very much pleased because she succeeded so well, and I—" Mary's voice faltered, but she steadied it and went on—"I was provoked because she succeeded, and envious and jealous of her being praised."

"So I saw," said Miss Meeks. "I am very glad you have come to a sense of your fault, Mary. I hope it will be a lesson to you to check the beginnings of a spirit of detraction, and I doubt not it will. I shall have to ask your help this afternoon, after all, for I am not feeling well."

"I am sure I shall be very glad to help you," answered Mary, swallowing a great lump of pride which would rise in her throat at that "after all." "But where is Calista?"

"Oh, she has gone home. Her aunt sent for her. I felt sorry for her, for I think she anticipated something not very pleasant. I fancy her aunt is an odd-tempered woman."

"Odd-tempered is no name for it," said Mary.

"Oh, well, I am sorry for her. I have had some experience. I don't know how it is," added Miss Meeks, musingly, "but all my life long it has been my fate to live with odd-tempered people."

Mary could not help thinking that this fate was one likely to follow Miss Meeks as long as she retained the infirmities of mortality; but she said nothing, and busied herself with the basket of patchwork on which the youngest children were learning to use their fingers. She had had too plain and too recent a view of her own faults and infirmities to be very hard on those of other people.

CHAPTER NINTH.

THE STORM BREAKS.

MISS MEEKS was right. It was with no pleasant anticipations that Calista took her seat in the rickety chaise which her aunt had sent for her. Old David, who drove, was evidently in a state of deep and dire offence, and nothing could be got out of him except that Miss Priscy was in one of her tantrums, and if Chloe was a-going to stand such goings on any longer, he wasn't.

Calista alighted and went straight up the back stairs to her own room, hoping for a few minutes of solitude in which to collect her spirits. She was disappointed. The door of a certain store-room opposite her own, which was usually kept fast locked, was open, and in it stood Miss Priscilla, clearly in a "tantrum" of the worst sort. Her face was flushed, her cap half off her head, and her gray hair all in disorder. Opposite her stood Miss Druett, more disturbed in appearance than was at all usual with her. Miss Priscilla faced round as Calista came across the passage, and caught her by the arm with a grip that seemed to crush the very bone.

"So, here she is," she said, through her set teeth. "This fine young lady, who prowls about the house, prying and meddling, to see what she can steal. A worthy daughter of Richard Stanfield and his low-born scheming wife!"

"Take your hand off my arm, Aunt Priscilla!" said Calista, in a voice which sounded strange to herself. "Do you hear me?"

Miss Priscilla released her arm; but it was only to pour out a renewed flood of abuse, directed to Calista herself, her father and mother, Miss McPherson, and every one else for whom Calista had any regard, or with whom she had any connection. At last, as she paused to take breath, Calista said coolly,—

"Well, now, I should like to know what all this is about?"

"About!" Miss Priscilla fairly gasped. "You dare to ask such a question?"

"It does not take any particular bravery that I know of," answered Calista, whose own blood was up by this time. "When one sees an old lady raving like a mad woman, one naturally likes to know the reason, if she has any."

"Calista!" said Miss Druett, warningly.

"Tell me, you—you spy and traitor—did you not go into the back parlor and pull over the book-cases, and into my father's room? Tell me this instant. Dare you deny it?"

"Why should I deny it?" asked Calista. "Where was the harm? I was here alone, and I went to look for something to amuse myself with, and to see what there was in the house."

"And what did you carry off? What did you steal?"

"As it happened, there was nothing in the book-case I looked into that was worth stealing, unless it were this old working-case," said Calista, producing the article in question from her pocket. "That has a good pair of small scissors in it, and I want a pair, so I took them to use. There they are, if you want them."

Miss Priscilla snatched the case from her hand.

"So, you took it to school, did you? Well, you won't take anything else to school very soon. You have had all the schooling you will get for some time, my fine lady. I will find you plenty of work at home."

Miss Priscilla turned into the little store-room, and began taking down the dusty, moth-eaten garments with which the walls were plentifully hung. Calista followed her into the room, reckless of consequences, for she had caught sight of something which made her forget everything, even her aunt's rage. The something was a pile of two or three trunks—old-fashioned heavy leather portmanteaus—marked on the end "Calista Folsom."

Calista remembered them on the instant. They were the very trunks Miss Malvina had shown her, and on which she had made the little girl spell out the name, so many years ago.

"My mother's trunks!" exclaimed Calista, feeling as if she must have them, whether or no. "My own mother's things! Oh, Aunt Priscilla, let me have them, and I will do anything for you—anything you tell me!"

"Oh, you will!" said Miss Priscilla, with a malicious smile. "You are very submissive all at once. I fancy, before we have done, you will do what I tell you without any trunks."

"For shame, Priscilla!" said Miss Druett's deep voice. "How can you expose yourself so? The child has done no harm. She has not even been disobedient, that I see, though she may have been indiscreet. Let her have her mother's trunks—she has the best right to them—and say no more about the matter."

"How dare you!" said Miss Priscilla, turning furiously upon her. "You are no better than she. Do you think I don't know you? Don't I know how you fell in love with Richard Stanfield and tried to get him, though he cared no more for you than for his old shoes, and so you take the part of his girl now. You shall leave my house. Yes, all of you. I won't have such a crew of spies and thieves about me any longer."

Miss Druett looked straight at Priscilla all the time she was speaking, without uttering a word or moving a muscle of her countenance. Then she said quite calmly, without a tremor in her singular, musically harsh voice:

"Very well, Priscilla; you shall not tell me twice to leave your house after all these years. But I advise you to think again before you disgrace yourself without remedy."

So saying, she went into her own room and shut the door.

Miss Priscilla looked after her a moment. Then she pushed Calista into her own room, and threw after her a heap of the musty-smelling woollen garments which she had taken down from the nails.

"There is some fancy work for you, since you want amusement," said she. "You shall cut every one of them into carpet-rags before you leave that room."

She closed the door, and Calista heard her lock that and the room opposite before she went down stairs.

Calista, though she had been so cool with her aunt, was in a tempest of rage and mortification. She had never met with any personal violence before, except a box on the ear now and then when she was a little girl. And now to be so insulted and degraded before the servants; to hear her father and mother abused and slandered; to see her own mother's property, and not to be allowed to touch it,—it was too much. Her head swam, her eyes seemed full to bursting, and she felt as though she could have killed Aunt Priscilla on the spot. A burst of tears came at last to her relief. She cried passionately for a long time, till her mood calmed itself. And she began to consider her situation and think what she had better do.

Look at it as she would, she could not see that she had done anything very wrong. True, she had put the working-case in her pocket, but she certainly had no intention of stealing it; and though she had been tempted to take the gold pieces, she had not touched them with her little finger. She did not feel that she had wronged Miss Priscilla in any way. Neither could she feel under any obligation to her. Kindness she had had none, and as to support, it was clear from Mr. Settson's story that her grandfather had intended to give her father his share of the estate, which, therefore, owed her much more than the bare maintenance she had received from it.

She felt that she could not stay longer with Miss Priscilla if Miss Druett went away, and that she would go Calista was pretty sure. At last she made up her mind. She would go to Mr. Settson, lay the whole matter before him, and be guided by his advice. At another time she would have looked forward with pleasure to residing in his family, but Mary's conduct in the morning had thrown a cloud over that prospect. Perhaps Miss McPherson would let her live in the school for the help she would give Miss Meeks and Miss Jessie. Miss Priscilla could not keep her shut up always, and as soon as she was at liberty, she would hasten to town, lay the case before her best friends, and be guided by their opinion.

Having settled this matter in her mind, Calista felt comfortable. She bathed her eyes, arranged her hair and her dress, and looked about for something wherewith to divert herself. She could not perform the task of cutting carpet-rags, even if she had been so disposed, for the very sufficient reason that she had no scissors; so she hung the garments away in a disused closet, after examining the pockets of the coats, in one of which she actually found an old sixpence.

"Really, what a treasure!" said Calista. "I think I will hand it over to Aunt Priscilla; or shall I buy a lead pencil with it?"

There was nothing else to be found except an old pocketbook, which contained nothing whatever.

She took down her treasured "Cecelia" from its niche; but even the story of the silver gauze and the trouble resulting from its purchase could not fix her attention, so she took out her knitting, and found a more effectual diversion in the intricacies of feather stitch.

Calista had almost forgotten her trouble for the moment, when the door was unlocked, and Chloe put her head into the room.

"You are to go down to supper, Miss Calista, if that is any great privilege," said she.

"Who says so?" asked Calista.

"Miss Priscilla. She says you are to come down now. Reckon she's afraid to stay alone any longer. Well, I know one thing—if I didn't believe in the Lord, I wouldn't be so dreadful afraid of the devil."

"Perhaps you would, now," said Calista, as she took up her work and prepared to go down stairs. "I rather think those who fear the Lord most are just those who have fewest fears of anything else."

"I reckon you are about right there," said Chloe. "Anyhow, I know one thing: I ain't a-going to stay here much longer. But I must go and get supper."

Calista descended to the sitting-room, wondering what kind of a reception she should meet, and determining if her aunt laid hands on her again, to leave the house at once. But Miss Priscilla's mood had worked itself out for the time.

"Well, Miss Stanfield—so you have condescended to come down?" said she, in the bitter, sarcastic tone in which she usually spoke to her niece. "And, pray, how many carpet-rags have you cut this afternoon."

"None at all," answered Calista, concisely.

"Oh! I suppose such work is not fine enough for your mother's daughter."

"Neither my mother's daughter nor any one else can cut carpet-rags without scissors, and you know very well I have none," answered Calista.

"Oh! Is it possible? But if you had them, no doubt you would not use them. Of course, Miss Folsom's daughter would not stoop to anything so ungenteel. She must keep her hands white and soft, so that she may catch a rich husband, like her mother."

"Miss Stanfield," said Calista firmly, "if you say another word about my mother, I will leave this house and never enter it again while you are in it!"

Miss Priscilla looked at Calista, as she stood tall and stately in her young beauty, and seemed to think she had gone far enough.

"Don't be a fool, child," said she. "Sit down and be quiet! Who cares for your mother?"

"I do!" said Calista, firmly. "And I will not hear her abused."

"Well, well, sit down! What is that in your hand?"

"The knitting I am doing for Miss McPherson."

Miss Priscilla gave a kind of grunt, and the two sat in silence till Chloe came in to set the table.

Now, setting a tea-table is, in itself considered, an act of a peaceful and even softening nature; but Chloe converted it into a declaration of war by her manner of performing the same. She reproached Miss Stanfield with the bread, upbraided her with the butter, defied her with the milk, and, so to speak, threw at her head every article she put down. She knew that Miss Stanfield detested anything like a clatter, and she hit every spoon against every other spoon and every dish against every other dish on the table. She made separate journeys to the kitchen for everything she wanted, and slammed more doors than would have been supposed to be in the famous palace of the one-eyed Calender.

"Supper is ready!" said Chloe at last, when she could by no possibility spin her preparations out any longer.

"Well, why don't you ring the bell, then?" asked Miss Priscilla, fretfully. "Where is Miss Druett?"

"Miss Druett ain't a-coming down!" answered Chloe.

"Not coming down! Why not?"

"She says she is too busy. And I have took her tea up to her."

"Why, what is she doing?" asked Miss Priscilla.

"She is a-taking of her things out of her drawers and a-looking of them over, and a-laying of them in her trunks," answered Chloe, with great deliberation and an evident enjoyment of her words and of the annoyance produced by them. "David and me has brought her trunks down out of the garret, and David is a-going to take the biggest of 'em over to Cohansey to be mended when he goes in the morning. And I have took her tea up to her room, and she is a-drinking of it there, so there is no use of waiting for her."

Miss Priscilla took her place at the tea-board with an impatient—"Well, there, you may go!"

And Chloe retired, firing off another volley of what Mr. Sydney Smith calls "wooden swearing," on her way to her own quarters.

Miss Priscilla did not like to make her own tea, and that for an odd reason. She liked it very sweet, and she never could bring herself to put in as much sugar as she wanted. However, she poured out the weak beverage and handed a cup to Calista, who received it with a formal "Thank you."

No more was said till, to her surprise, Miss Priscilla asked Calista if she would have another cup of tea.

"If you please," said Calista, with equally formal politeness, determined to give no opening for another outbreak if she could help it.

Not another word was spoken.

Miss Priscilla composed herself for her usual nap, and Calista was about to leave the room when she was recalled by a—

"Don't go. Sit here with your work," which she could not but think had something rather imploring in its tone.

"I wonder whether she really is afraid to stay alone," thought Calista, as she resumed her seat.

She knitted in silence till it was too dark to see; and then, leaning on the window-seat, she meditated on the various things which had happened during the day.

She was gaining the mastery over her own spirit. Mary had treated her not only unkindly, but, what was much worse, treacherously; for she argued with herself that it was impossible for Mary so to misunderstand her as to think that she was really laughing at Miss Meeks. Mary had been at once her idol and her pattern for nearly two years; a pattern unapproachable in its perfection, it was true, but still her model of all that was good and lovely. And now that idol was fallen—a very Dagon—in helpless ruin, and the fair model was chipped and stained—no more to be a model, but only a sad warning. As Calista thought of it, in her girlish exaggeration and passion, she said to herself, more than once, "I wish she had died, like poor little Julia Lawrence, last year."

Calista did not know what death meant, any more than any other young creature who has only seen it at a distance. It is curious, but, I believe, quite true, that young people are apt to think of death just in this way, as an easy method of escape. She did not realize what it would be to have no Mary anywhere within reach; no possibility of explanation or "making up;" no possibility of finding Mary any more, though she should go all over the world to look for her.

She was but a child, after all, with a child's experiences. Still, as she thought of the dead girl, with whom she had had a merry game only the day before she had seen her laid out on her narrow white bed, her heart grew soft toward her friend, and she said to herself that she would try to forgive Mary.

"I am sure she will be sorry when she thinks about it," she said to herself. "I need forgiveness enough myself, for that matter; and Mary has done nothing worse than I was tempted to do. To be sure, I was not overcome by the temptation; but that was no thanks to me."

And then Calista went back to her childish days, and began to recall all she could remember about them and Miss Malvina.

"I am sure those are mother's trunks. I remember Miss Malvina making me spell out the name on the end—'Calista Folsom'—and telling me that it was my dear mother's name, and that those were her things. Oh, if I could only get possession of them! I mean to ask Mr. Settson if there is anything to be done. There, Aunt Priscilla is waking up."

In fact, Miss Priscilla roused herself and Chloe brought in the candles at one and the same moment.

"Druey—why, where is Druey?" asked Miss Priscilla, rubbing her eyes. "Chloe, where is Miss Druett?"

"She is up in her room, and she ain't a-coming down to-night, either," was Chloe's answer, as she slapped down first the candlesticks and then the snuffer-tray. "I've took her up a candle, half an hour ago."

"But she must come down. What does she think I am going to do all the evening? Go up to her, Chloe, and tell her—no, ask her if she isn't coming down to play cribbage."

"Oh, well, I can go, of course," said Chloe, "but it won't do any good."

She departed on her errand, accordingly, and returned with the message that Miss Druett was very tired and must be excused to-night.

Miss Priscilla fretted, and all but cried, like a child deprived of a plaything.

"And you are no good—no good at all," she said to Calista. "I don't suppose you could ever learn cribbage."

"I don't know, I am sure," answered Calista; and then, moved by a feeling of compassion for which she could hardly account herself, she added, "but I will try, Aunt Priscilla, if it will amuse you to teach me."

Miss Priscilla seemed to think even the prospect of teaching Calista better than no game at all, and the board was set out. But cribbage is a difficult game to learn under the most favorable circumstances. Perhaps Miss Priscilla was not a patient or skillful teacher, or Calista was more than usually dull. Certain it is that after a short trial, she abandoned the attempt in despair.

"There, it is of no use, I never could teach anybody anything. Put the things away, child."

"I am sorry," said Calista, and she really was sorry to see the poor withered, peevish woman deprived of one of the very few pleasures she allowed herself; "perhaps if I were to try again—"

"No, no, never mind. Take your knitting. It is very good-natured of you, though, I must allow."

Calista listened in amazement. It was literally the very first word of commendation she had ever received Aunt Priscilla. She took up her work again, and the two sat in silence till Miss Priscilla said, abruptly but not angrily—

"Calista, what made you go into that room?"

"Only curiosity," answered Calista. "I was looking in the book-case, and picked out some old books and papers to read. Then I tried the door of grandfather's room and found it would open, so I went in to see what was there."

"And what did you see there? Come, tell me," said Miss Priscilla, almost coaxingly.

"Surely, aunt, you know what is there as well as I do, or better."

"Well, never mind that. Tell me what you saw."

"A great many moths, for one thing," said Calista; "the carpet is full of them. And I saw a picture which I suppose was one of grandfather's wives; a fair woman, with light hair rolled on a cushion."

"Yes, that is your grandmother. Well?"

"And I saw another picture, a miniature of a young boy, which I suppose was my father."

"Well, and what else?" asked Miss Priscilla, as Calista paused. "My father's desk is there; did you look into it?"

"I did," answered Calista, briefly, determined to tell the truth at all risks.

"Well, what did you find? Don't be afraid to tell me."

"I am not afraid," answered Calista. "I saw a good many old papers—I don't know what they were. Then I saw an old seal lying in one of the pigeon-holes, and took it up to look at it. Then I put my hand back in the hole to see if there was anything else, and in so doing I touched the spring that opened the cupboard door where the gold pieces are. Then I shut it all up and went up to my own room."

"Gold!" said Miss Priscilla, sitting up straight and startled in her chair. "What gold?"

"The gold pieces in the little cupboard, aunt. Did not you know they were there?"

"I! No, indeed! I have never touched a thing in the desk since my father died—never been into the room since he was buried. How much gold was there?"

"I don't know; I did not count it: six or seven gold pieces—English, I should think."

"Where is the cupboard?" demanded Miss Priscilla, her eyes glittering and her face flushed with excitement.

"In the desk, as I told you," answered Calista; "it is in one side of the desk, over the little drawers and shelves. Nobody would think it was there."

"Then I dare say there is one on the other side just like it. I suppose you did not look to see?"

"No, I did not. When I saw the money, I did not wish to meddle any further."

"Calista," said Miss Priscilla, in a low, trembling tone, and laying her hand on Calista's arm, "you need not cut any carpet-rags, unless you like."

"Thank you," said Calista, dryly.

"And—and you may go to school to-morrow, and—and the rest of the term, if you will only go and bring me those gold pieces, and whatever else you can find in your grandfather's desk."

"I would rather not, aunt," answered Calista, proudly. "There might not be quite as many as I said, and then you would think I had stolen them. And, by the way, here is a sixpence I found in the house this afternoon."

Habit stretched out Miss Priscilla's lean fingers to the sixpence, and greed of greater gain drew them back.

"You may keep the sixpence, child—only don't waste it—and perhaps I will give you more some time. No, I won't think you stole anything. Come, do go and bring that gold. It isn't safe. Some one else might find it."

"Why not go yourself, aunt?" asked Calista, surprised at her aunt's pertinacity. "I will hold the light for you, if that will do any good."

"No, no, I cannot, I dare not," quavered Miss Priscilla. "He might not like it—but he would not mind you."

"He! Who?"

"Your grandfather, child. No, no, I can't go in, but you will go. Come, now, I know you will."

"Very well, I will go," said Calista. "Even if my grandfather were there, he has no reason to be angry with me. I have never gone against his will, or kept from him anything he ought to have known. Let me take the candle, and I will go."

Notwithstanding Calista's bold words, she could not restrain a tremor when she found herself alone in the large, lofty, gloomy room. She was, however, no coward to give way to groundless fear, superstitious or otherwise. She set down her candle and opened the desk deliberately enough and began her search for the secret spring. Still she could not get rid of the feeling that some one or something was watching her. She was sure she heard a subdued stir somewhere, and, glancing toward the opening in the shutters, she felt almost certain that an eye was looking down upon her.

She looked again—a straight, steady look. Nothing was to be seen, and she smiled at her own fancy.

"What a goose I am!" she said to herself, as she found and touched the spring which opened the secret cupboard.

The door flew open, and there lay the pieces as she had left them, eight in number.

She felt all round the cupboard, but there was nothing more. Further search, however, developed a corresponding recess on the other side, containing another gold piece, a lady's old-fashioned gold watch, with a heavy chain and seals, and two or three ornaments set with amethyst and pearls—pretty, but of no great value.

Calista collected all in her handkerchief, and, assuring herself by a hasty search that there was nothing more, she closed the desk and took up her candle. At that moment she heard a slight rustle, and looking up she saw, or fancied she saw, the same eye at the hole in the shutters watching her movements. She walked straight toward the window, holding up the candle, but there was nothing to be seen.

"It must have been a reflection in the glass, or perhaps a cat looking in," she said to herself. "One might found a good story on it."

Miss Priscilla was sitting in an attitude of expectation, and started nervously as Calista entered. She gave a childish cry of delight as Calista laid the handkerchief open before her.

"You are a good girl, Calista—a very good girl!" said she, in a fluttered manner. "Let me see—two, four, five; yes, eight guineas—and that is your grandmother's watch. You shall have it when—when you are old enough to wear it properly. School-girls don't wear watches, you know."

"But you might let me keep it, aunt," said Calista, mischievously. "It would be very convenient to have in my room."

"No, no! You would lose it; or some one might steal it. You shall have it when—when you are old enough. And, mind you, don't tell any of the school-girls about these things."

"Then I am to go to school again!" said Calista.

"Why, yes—yes. You can go to the end of this term, and then we will see about it. Call Chloe; I want to go to bed. And don't you think you had better let me have that sixpence to take care of for you?"