CHAPTER ELEVENTH.

THE NEEDLE-CASE.

WHEN Calista arrived at school, she found Mary waiting for her at the gate. The occurrences of the afternoon had almost put those of the morning out of her head; but the sight of Mary renewed the sore feeling in her heart. How could she meet Mary and treat her as if nothing had happened, after her treachery of the day before? Fortunately, she had no time left her to debate the matter. Mary came forward to meet her, with both hands outstretched and her face dyed with blushes.

"Oh, Calista, won't you forgive me? I am so sorry—so ashamed. Do, please, forgive me."

It was not in Calista to resist such an appeal. Silently the two friends embraced and kissed each other.

"I went to Miss Meeks and told her just how it was," said Mary, as, with interlacing arms, after their old fashion, they walked toward the school-room. "And then I wanted to find you, but you were gone."

"Yes; aunt sent for me to go home."

"So Miss Meeks said. Calista, you were right: it was love of the world and its praise that made me act as I did. I saw that when I came to look myself in the face. I think there never was any one so inconsistent as I am," concluded Mary, with a sigh. "And how I have lectured other people!

"Well, you are the least bit given to preaching—that cannot be denied," said Calista, smiling.

Mary was a little piqued, notwithstanding her late resolutions. "Anyhow, I shall never do it again," said she.

"Oh, yes, you will—dozens of times," returned Calista. "If you were to see the state my desk is in, you would give me a lecture on the spot. Come and help me to put it in order before Miss Meeks catches me."

Somehow or other, Mary did not feel quite satisfied. She would have liked to have her penitence made of a little more consequence. So hard is it to put down in our hearts the love of the praise of men. She was, however, conscious of the feeling, and, instead of allowing it a lodgment, she resolutely turned it out and shut the door.

"Oh, Calista! How can you ever find anything in such a chaos?" she exclaimed, as the lid of the desk was lifted.

Then, as Calista laughed, she put down a rising feeling of anger and laughed too.

"Well, there! You see it is second nature," said she. "But seriously, Calista, if you really wish to be a teacher, you must learn to be more orderly."

"I know it; and really, Mary, I am improving. The fact is, I had all the things out of my part of the desk yesterday, preparatory to a grand 'redding up,' as Miss Jessy says; but then came the summons to go home, and I tumbled them back anyhow. Come, let us put it to rights before school."

"Was anything wrong yesterday?" asked Mary, as she collected a dozen quill pens, and set herself to mend them.

The making and mending of pens was a serious business in those days, and took up an amount of time which no teacher at this day can realize.

"Everything was the matter," answered Calista. "I never saw my aunt in such a tantrum. She declared at first that I should not come to school again, but should stay at home and cut carpet-rags. And she actually ordered Miss Druett out of the house."

"I wonder what she thinks she would do without her."

"I don't know, I am sure. She all but cried last night, because she had nobody to play cribbage with her. I tried to learn, to pacify her, but could make nothing of it. However, she was pleased with my trying, and said I was good-natured—the very first time I ever had a word of praise from her—and more than that, she gave me a sixpence."

"Not a whole one?"

"No, it has a hole in it, and I am not sure it is good; but I mean to try at Mammy Bates's, after school. And more than that, she gave me a working-case—the very one that brought down Alexandre on poor Antoinette's devoted head yesterday. See what a pretty, old-fashioned thing it is."

"Very pretty," said Mary, examining the little case. "If I were you, I would have Mr. Parvin sharpen up the knife and scissors. They are very good yet. I wonder what rattles so in the bottom. Does this little velvet tray come out?"

"I don't know; I have not tried. Yes, see, it does lift up, and—well I wonder what will happen next!" said she, as she turned up the case and shook out two English half-crowns. "That is the third sum of money I have found in twenty-four hours. I must be a lucky person, as aunt says. I wonder whether I had not better try my fortune on the pirates' treasure."

"Why, what were the others?"

"Oh, the sixpence, in the first place. That was in the pocket of one of the old coats I was to cut into carpet-rags. Then I was looking in an old drawer, and I found some gold pieces of grandfather's that Aunt Priscilla did not know of. That was a lucky find for me, for it put her in a good humor and gained me permission to finish my term at school. But there, Aunt Priscilla told me not to speak of it," said Calista, vexed at herself. "How careless of me! Please, Mary, don't say anything about it, will you?"

"Of course not," said Mary. "But do you really think Miss Druett will go away? How will you get on without her?"

"I shall not try," said Calista. "She has a plan for herself and me which she told me to talk over with your father."

"I am afraid you will not have the chance to-day," said Mary. "Father has gone up to Princeton, and will not be back till after commencement. Cannot you tell me? Would it be wrong?"

"No, I don't think so. She did not tell me not to tell," said Calista, considering. "Of course, I would not want the affair talked over, at least, not till it is all settled; but so long as I was to tell your father, I don't see any harm in telling you."

Calista then detailed her friend's plan; busying herself, meantime, in polishing the handles of the different implements in the equipage with a bit of chamois leather which she kept to wipe pens on.

Mary listened with great attention to the end. Then she said, gravely:

"Have you thought, Calista, how much this plan involves? If you leave your aunt in that way, will she not be very much displeased?"

"There is no telling whether she will be or not. One thing is certain, I cannot and will not live alone with Aunt Priscilla. I don't think your father would advise it. As to the estate, if that is what you are thinking of, I try to give up all thought of it."

"That is the best way, I suppose. And yet, do you think you shall like living with Miss Druett? Is she not very odd-tempered?"

"She is odd-tempered, but not ill-tempered, if you understand the difference," answered Calista. "She sometimes says very sharp and sarcastic things; but she does not delight to hurt and mortify one, like Aunt Priscilla; and she is very just. You always know where to find her. And she has not one way of Aunt Priscilla's which is particularly exasperating—that of taking up some perfectly harmless word or observation, and twisting and turning it into a great offence. Then, I know all her ways and she knows mine. We are used to each other, and, as old Mrs. Graves said the other day, when her husband died,—

"'We have lived together so long that we have got kind of wonted to each other.'"

"Would not you rather come to us, Calista, if it could be arranged so?" said Mary. "You know my father spoke of it the other day."

"Of course I should, for most reasons," answered Calista. "But then, you see, Mary, I owe a great deal to Miss Druett. She was my only friend for a great many years. I should never have had any education but for her; and now that I look back at it, I can see how she stood between me and Aunt Priscilla's stinginess and tyranny. I verily believe I should never have been anything but a down-trodden drudge of a servant girl but for her. She is very fond of me, in her way, too, and she has no one else. So, if she wants me to go with her, I think I ought to do it."

"But don't you owe any duty to your aunt, Calista?"

"No, Mary, I do not," said Calista, flushing. "I believe, at this moment, my aunt is keeping me out of my inheritance, and enjoying—no, not enjoying, but holding—what is my rightful property. She owes me a great deal more than the bare support she has given me. But there, I don't want to talk or think about that; it does me no good. See how beautifully these handles polish. I believe they are gold, and not gilded, after all."

"I should think so, but I am no judge. I dare say Mr. Parvin can tell you. See, I have rubbed up the velvet and morocco so that it is almost as good as new. You ought to take great care of this case, Calista."

"Yes, indeed; I mean to. I believe I won't take it out to the play-ground, but leave it here in my desk, behind these books. My pocket is worn so thin, it is not very secure. Come, let us go and see what the girls are all about. Oh, by the way, will you go out with me at noon recess? I have some errands for Miss Druett, and I ought to have done one as I came along, but the shop was shut. It was about her trunk that was sent in this morning. The rest can wait till afternoon."

"Oh, Calista," said Mary Burns, meeting her at the school-room door, "may I go to your desk and take out Miss McPherson's 'Deserted Village?' She said you had it, and I want to learn a piece out of it."

"Of course," answered Calista. "Why didn't you take it at once?"

"I didn't want to open your desk without asking you," answered Mary Burns.

"What a terrible thing if you had done so!" said Calista, merrily. "Who knows what dark and dreadful mysteries you might have discovered? However, I will say, Mary, I wish all the girls in school were as particular about such things as you are. It would save lots of trouble."

"Allow me to remind you, Miss Stanfield, that 'lots of trouble' is not a very genteel expression," said Miss Meeks, who was standing near.

"I know it, Miss Meeks, and I stand corrected," answered Calista. "You must allow that the sentiment was correct, though the expression was awkward, as you say."

Miss Meeks glanced sharply at the speaker, as if suspecting ridicule, which she always was suspecting, poor lady. But Calista's smile and glance disarmed her, and she said pleasantly:

"I quite agree with you there. I hope your desk is in order, Calista. You know I must mark you if it is not."

"Indeed it is, Miss Meeks; I have just put it all to rights."

"Then perhaps I had better look at it before you go back to it," said Miss Meeks, smiling, as she turned away.

"Just think! Miss Meeks made a joke," said Calista. "What is going to happen? It is as great a wonder as Aunt Priscilla's making a present. What is the matter, Mary?"

"Nothing," answered Mary Settson, resolutely bruising the head of a little serpent of envy and annoyance which had popped up and hissed in her heart at hearing another praised. "How does your work get on?"

"Nicely. I should have finished the middle last night but for taking a lesson in cribbage from Aunt Priscilla. I think I will knit the border in rosebuds."

"Do you think they wash well? You know you want to do up a bureau cover pretty often."

"Oh, yes; just as well as any other."

Two or three other girls now came up, and the conversation diverged to patterns, stitches, and other similar mysteries. Then Mary Burns brought "The Deserted Village," * and asked Calista's opinion as to what part she should learn.

* If, as I much fear, some of my readers have not read this exquisite poem of Goldsmith's, I advise them to do so without delay.

"Take the character of the pastor," said Mary Settson.

"Begin at the beginning and go straight through," suggested Calista. "It is all worth remembering. I am doing that by the 'Lady of the Lake.' It is very nice to know plenty of pretty verses, especially if one has not many books."

Meantime, some one else had been at Calista's desk. Antoinette Diaments had not expected to go down to Graywich till Saturday morning, but her uncle from Philadelphia had called for her, and Miss McPherson had excused her in consequence. She had seen Calista with the coveted working-case in her hand, and had seen where she put it in her desk. Finding herself alone in the school-room, the temptation to examine the little equipage was too strong to resist. Just as she was about opening the desk, Mary Burns entered, and Antoinette stepped behind an open closet door watched Mary Burns as she examined two or three books, stopped to read a page or two in the "Lady of the Lake," and then, closing the desk, walked away with the book she had come in search of. Then she herself went to the desk and took out the working-case. It was prettier than ever.

"What hurt will it do for me just to take it down to Graywich with me? Nobody will know who took it, and I can slip it into the desk when I come back. It would be serving her right if I kept it altogether."

Antoinette dropped the case into her pocket and went away, first tumbling over Calista's papers and throwing the whole orderly desk into confusion. It was with a malicious smile that she saw Miss Meeks come into the room, open the desk, and frown as she observed the contents.

"I will teach you to interfere and get me into a scrape, Miss Stanfield," said she. "I should like to be by when your aunt asks you what you have done with her working-case."

"Miss Stanfield, what did you mean by telling me that your desk was all in order?" asked Miss Meeks, coming to Calista as soon as the school was opened.

Calista looked surprised, as well she might.

"See here," continued Miss Meeks, opening the desk. "Do you presume to call that order?"

"Why, who in the world has been at my desk!" exclaimed Calista, too much surprised to answer the question, or to modulate her voice to the proper pitch required by the school-room etiquette, which Miss McPherson and her assistants strictly enforced.

"Miss Stanfield, are you aware how loudly you are speaking? You forget yourself."

"I beg your pardon, Miss Meeks," said Calista. "But I was so surprised, I forgot myself, as you say. I assure you, I left it in perfect order, as Mary can bear witness."

"Indeed she did, Miss Meeks," said Mary, who had asked and obtained permission to occupy Antoinette's vacant place.

"Don't you believe me, Miss Meeks?" asked Calista.

"Certainly I do, Calista," answered Miss Meeks, in a more friendly tone. "But it is very singular. Who could have meddled with your things?"

"Mary Burns looked into the desk for a book she wanted," said Calista. "Mary is apt to keep her own things rather at loose ends, but I hardly think she would turn mine upside down in this way, especially as the book she wanted lay directly in front, on the shelf. Don't you remember, Mary? You put it there yourself."

"She might have accidentally displaced the books, if she were in a hurry," said Mary.

Now, it was an undeniable fact that Mary Burns, with all her good qualities—and they were many—was decidedly careless and untidy in her habits; and being so, she was a continual cross and annoyance to Miss Meeks. Consequently, she was no favorite with that lady, and it was with some sharpness that she called:

"Miss Burns!"

Mary rose from her seat and came to Calista's desk.

"Yes, Miss Meeks."

"What did you do to Miss Stanfield's desk this morning?"

"Nothing," said Mary, coloring scarlet as she met Miss Meek's severe glance, and the surprised looks of the other girls.

"What do you mean by saying, 'nothing'? Did you not open the desk and take something out of it?"

Mary was a shy girl and easily disconcerted; and she stammered from sheer nervousness as she answered—

"Yes, ma'am; I took out a book that Calista—that Miss McPherson—" and here she stopped from absolute inability to articulate another word.

"You mean that you took out the book of Miss McPherson's which she told you to ask me for," said Calista's clear, reassuring voice. "Did you notice then whether the desk was in order or not?"

"It was, I know," answered Mary, recovering herself a little.

"Allow me to manage this matter in my own way, and do not take the words out of my mouth, Miss Stanfield," said Miss Meeks, sharply—jealous for her own dignity, as usual. "Did you or did you not meddle with the other contents of Miss Stanfield's desk, Miss Burns?"

"I didn't meddle with anything; only, I took a book and read a little," said Mary. "The book I wanted was Miss McPherson's 'Goldsmith.' Calista had it, and I asked her if I might go to her desk and get it; you heard me."

"I am aware of that. What then?"

"Then I did go and get it. It lay on the shelf. I did not touch anything else, only the 'Lady of the Lake.' I took that up and read in it a little and put it back. The desk was all in order then, I am sure."

"Well, it is very odd, that is all I can say; and a great shame," said Calista, "to go and cheat me out of a credit-mark for order, when I get so few. I don't mean you, Mary."

"Allow me to ask whom you do suspect, Miss Stanfield? You say that you put the desk in order; Miss Settson says same. It is found in great disorder, and nobody is known to have been near it but Miss Burns."

"I don't know anything about it, Miss Meeks. But I don't believe Mary did it. If she had, she would say so—she would not tell a lie about it."

Now, it had unfortunately happened that Mary's extreme timidity had, once on a time, betrayed her into evasion, if not absolute falsehood; and this Miss Meeks remembered, as, unluckily, she always did remember anything which told against the character of a person she disliked.

"I wish I were as sure of that as you are, Miss Stanfield. Please look over your desk and tell me whether you miss anything."

Calista looked through her possessions, and turned, first red, then pale, as she pointed out a particular compartment in the desk to Mary.

"Well, what is it?" said Miss Meeks, sharply. "I see that something is wrong. What do you miss?"

"A little old-fashioned working-case my aunt gave me. It is the same one that Antoinette wanted to borrow yesterday. Miss Priscilla gave it to me this morning, and I brought it into town to have the knife and scissors sharpened; and because my pocket was not very strong, I put it away in my desk while I went out to the play-ground. I am quite sure Mary did not touch it."

"Did you see any one in the school-room when you were here?" asked Miss Meeks.

"No, ma'am—yes, ma'am," stammered Mary. "That is, I saw Antoinette Diaments come out of the room a few minutes after I did."

Miss Meeks's face grew rigid with displeasure.

"Your attempt to throw suspicion on a schoolmate will hardly save you, Miss Burns. Miss Diaments left for Graywich at eight this morning."

"I can't help that—I know I saw her," said Mary Burns, obstinately; her own "Scotch" getting up. "I could not be mistaken. She had on her bonnet and her gray riding-dress."

"At what hour did you come to school?" asked Miss Meeks, turning to Calista.

"I don't know exactly, Miss Meeks. It wanted a quarter to nine when I finished putting my desk in order. I looked at the clock to see how much time I had before school."

"You can go to your seat, Miss Burns," said Miss Meeks, severely. "And you will please remain there till the close of school. Miss McPherson is unfortunately laid up with one of her severe headaches; but I shall lay the matter before her as soon as she is able to attend to it, and perhaps some light may be thrown upon other events which have occurred lately."

"Miss Meeks," said Calista, warmly, "you may suspect Mary, if you please; but I shall never think that she either disarranged my desk or took anything that did not belong to her—never!"

"Miss Stanfield, you forget yourself. Go to your seat, as I tell you, Miss Burns. This matter shall be sifted to the bottom."

Mary obeyed with burning cheeks and a beating heart, and Miss Meeks went on with the business of the school. At recess all the girls gathered round Mary Settson and Calista.

"Have you really lost your needle-case, Calista? Do you believe Mary Burns got it?"

"No, I don't," answered Calista, shortly.

"But it could not go without hands, and who else could have touched it?" argued one of the girls.

"I don't know who did, but I know who didn't," answered Calista. "I wish the old needle-case had been in the bottom of the creek before I ever found it," she said to Mary, when they were alone. "It has made nothing but trouble so far. I no more believe Mary took it than I believe Miss Meeks did herself."

"But, you must admit, it had an odd look, Calista," said Mary. "I mean her stammering so, and her trying to throw the blame upon Antoinette, who must have been ten miles away."

"As to her stammering, she always does that," answered Calista. "As to her seeing Antoinette, I don't know exactly what to think; but I believe the truth will come out in time."

"Well, I must say you take the loss of your pretty case very philosophically—more so than I should," said Mary.

"I am not philosophical at all, I am very much vexed," returned Calista; "but I don't want to accuse any one falsely, and I don't see why Mary should say she saw Antoinette when she did not. I am very sorry Miss McPherson is sick; she would be at the bottom of the matter in no time. There is the recess bell. Where is Tessy to-day?"

"I don't know. Emma, where is Tessy?"

"Oh, she is quite laid up again with her ankle. She cannot walk at all. She thinks it is the weather, but I don't," added the little girl, with an air of wisdom. "I think it was going down to the milliner's after Antoinette's veil, which she forgot. And do you know, girls, the milliner would not let Tessy have it without pay, and Tessy was just silly enough to pay for it herself, after all."

"Well, she is a goose. Why did she do that?"

"Oh, she thought Antoinette would be so disappointed. Miss Jessy is as vexed as can be, and says Tessy's ankle will never be well unless she is more careful, and that she ought to go to a hospital, where she would be made to keep still."

"It would be more to the purpose to send Antoinette, I think," said Calista.

"It wouldn't make any difference," replied Emma. "If it was not Antoinette, it would be some one else. Tessy's great trouble is that she can never say 'no.'"

"I think you are right, little one," said Calista. "If you see Tessy, tell her I am coming up to see her after school—that is, if Miss Meeks will let me."

For it was a rule of the establishment that there should be no room-visiting between day scholars and boarders without express permission.

In the afternoon, as Miss Meeks had her hands full with the sole care of the great school-room (Miss Jessy being occupied with the care of her aunt), she sent Calista again to take charge of the little girls and their sewing, giving her permission to choose any one she pleased to help her. Calista chose Mary Settson, of course, and they had a pleasant afternoon. As she observed Mary's manner with the children, she could not but own that Miss Meeks was right, sad that Mary was not cut out for a teacher. Mary had a way with her that was not encouraging. She set a copy or gave instructions in knitting with a tone and manner which seemed to say,—

"Well, there it is, but I have not the least idea that you will do it right. I have no doubt you will blot the writing and pucker the seam, and drop half the stitches at least."

Calista, on the contrary, was always certain things would be done well, or, if they did not succeed the first time, that they would infallibly do so with a little more practice. The children felt the difference, and so did Mary herself, and it cost her a hard fight with her besetting enemy. But those who were for her were more than those who were against her, and she was able to say to Miss Meeks honestly, and without a quaver in her voice—

"Calista manages beautifully, Miss Meeks. I think she would make an excellent teacher in our Sunday-school, if we get one up."

"I dare say," replied Miss Meeks. "Well, Miss Stanfield and Miss Settson, I am much obliged to you."

"Please, Miss Meeks, may I go up and see Tessy?" asked Calista.

"You may go, but do not stay long. I think she is a little disposed to be feverish."

"Will you go, Mary?"

"I think not. I have a bit of work to finish. I will be ready to go out with you when you come down."

Calista found Tessy bolstered up on her little bed, with her French dictionary and a volume of fairy tales which belonged to Miss Jessy, and was only lent as a special favor. She looked pale and suffering, but welcomed her visitor cheerfully.

"And what is going on down stairs?" asked Tessy, presently. "I thought I heard one of the girls say something about Mary Burns being in trouble. The old story of mislaying her things, I suppose?"

"Well, yes, partly; it all grows out of that," answered Calista, determined not to be the first to tell of what she believed to be Mary Burns's undeserved disgrace. "I don't think it would have come to much if Miss McPherson had been about; but you know people make mountains out of mole-hills sometimes."

"Yes, and the mountain sometimes brings forth a ridiculous mouse."

"I suspect the mouse in this case will be ridiculous enough," said Calista. "But, Tessy, what made your ankle so much worse all at once? I thought it was almost well."

"It was a great deal better," answered Tessy, blushing. "I suppose I walked too much and too fast."

"That is to say, you half killed yourself, as usual, running to wait on Antoinette," said Calista.

"Well, yes, I suppose that was it. You see she forgot her veil and I had to go after it."

"Why did you have to? Why could not she call for it as she went along?"

"I don't know. I suppose she did not think of it."

"Well, I know," said Calista, "or at least I guess. Tell me now, honestly, did you not pay for it?"

Tessy blushed scarlet, and cast an imploring glance at Calista.

"Please don't tell, Calista; it will only get her into a scrape."

"I shall not tell, because it would get you into a scrape, you little goose. But I will tell you this, Tessy: if you ever want to be good for anything in this world—or any other, I might say—you must learn to say 'No,' and say it good and strong; in capital letters, with a string of exclamation points after it."

"I think I could always say no if it was about anything right or wrong," said Tessy, thoughtfully.

"Are you sure? Was there nothing wrong about this?"

"Why, no. Was there?"

"Yes, I think so. In the first place, you had no right to injure your ankle, especially as Dr. Elsmore told you that a little imprudence might lame you for life. In the second place, you know that Miss McPherson has forbidden Antoinette to borrow anything whatever, don't you?"

"Yes."

"And if it is wrong for her to borrow, it is clearly wrong for any one to lend to her."

"But it wasn't lending, exactly. Antoinette did not ask me to pay for the veil, though, to be sure, she must have known I could not get it without paying, because Mrs. McPherson has forbidden any one to trust the school-girls. Yes, I see, Calista, you are right, and I am a poor, weak, silly fool, and always shall be."

"Now you are going just as far the other way," said Calista. "I never said a word about your being a silly fool. All I say is that you must learn to say 'NO!' and say it good and strong."

"It seems so ill-natured," pleaded poor Tessy.

"Pray, whose good opinion do you care the most for, Antoinette's or Miss McPherson's? But there, I did not come to give you a dose of instructive moral sentiments. How does your work get on?"

"Oh, nicely; it is almost done, and Miss Jessy praises it up to the skies. Don't you want to see it? It is in that drawer, if you don't mind getting it out."

"How nice your drawers look!" said Calista.

"Yes, I am really learning to keep things straight, thanks to Miss Jessy. That is it. Spread it out."

Calista admired to Tessy's heart's content the lace-like netted curtains, with what we should now call a guipure pattern around the edge.

"They are perfectly lovely. Do you think they will sell?"

"Oh, yes; they are bespoken already by a friend of Miss McPherson's from Philadelphia—that Scotch lady who was here the first of the week."

"How glad I am! Mine is done, too, all but the border. I mean to knit a double row of rosebuds. There, I must not stay another minute, or Miss Meeks will be after me. Oh, by the by, Tessy, what time did Antoinette go away this morning?"

"Do you mean the first time or the last?"

"Why, did she go away twice?" asked Calista.

"Yes. She set out at eight o'clock, but something happened to the horse's foot, and uncle had to go to the blacksmith's; so Antoinette came back and waited till he was ready. She left the room here just as the quarter to nine bell was ringing, but she did not go away directly, I know. I heard her go into the school-room; I always know the peculiar squeak of her boots. Why?"

"Only that one of the girls thought she saw her in the school-room after the first bell rung, and Miss Meeks said it must be a mistake, because Antoinette went away at eight," said Calista, rejoicing in the power Tessy had given her of so far clearing Mary. "Good-bye, dear; I shall bring you some flowers Monday. I know where I can find some late laurel, and perhaps a moccasin-flower or two."

"Oh, thank you! I do love laurel, and I have not been able to get out to gather any this year."

Calista went straight to Miss Meeks's room, but she had gone out. Miss Jessy was sitting with Miss McPherson, who had just fallen asleep, and must not be disturbed on any account.

"I don't see but I must let the thing rest till Monday," said Calista to Mary, after she had told her Tessy's story.

"You might call and see Mary Burns herself," suggested Mary Settson. "But perhaps it would be as well to leave the whole matter till Monday, as you say. Mary needs a lesson."

"She may need a lesson, but I don't care to be the one to give it to her," answered Calista, with some warmth; "and I don't think I should thank any one for giving such a lesson to me. Would you?"

"Perhaps not," answered Mary; "and yet it might very good to me, for all that."

"Well, I don't feel any special mission for doing people good by keeping them in uncomfortable suspense when there is no need for it," returned Calista. "I would rather do as I would be done by. Come, let us stop and see Mary."

They were disappointed again. Mary had gone to her aunt's directly after school, and would probably stay all night, as her aunt was more than usually unwell.

"I can't go all the way up to Mrs. Rolfe's, that is certain," said Calista; "and I don't like to leave a message either. Well, let it go. Perhaps you will see her or Miss Meeks to-morrow. If you do, please tell them what Tessy says. Come, I must do Miss Druett's errands."

The errands were accomplished, and then Calista did one for herself. With a part of her dollar she bought a pound of sperm-candles—an article much cheaper and better than the parafine-candles which have taken their place.

"What on earth did you do that for?" asked Mary, as they turned into the street.

Calista laughed, and then became suddenly grave as she said—"I suppose you cannot realize what it is never to be allowed a light when you go to bed, except perhaps a mite of tallow-candle in winter."

"You don't mean to say you never have a light in your own room!"

"Neither light nor fire, except as I told you, in the dead of winter."

"But Miss Druett—"

"Miss Druett helps me all she can; but Aunt Priscilla keeps the keys. Now and then Chloe makes candles, and then she contrives to save one out for me. Good-bye, Mary. Do say a kind word to Mary Burns, if you get a chance. I am just as sure of her innocence as I am of yours or my own."

Calista had just reached the place where the river road turned off, when the rattle of wheels made her look round, and she saw Cassius driving up in his neat, serviceable little Jersey wagon. He stopped as he saw Calista.

"Evening, Missy," said he, taking off his hat as usual; "I heard you was on the road, and so I drove fast to catch up with you. Won't Missy have a ride?"

Calista gladly accepted the offer, and Cassius drove on leisurely, entertaining his companion with various little bits of news.

"Did Missy hear that we are to have preaching at the old meeting-house every Sunday evening now?"

"No," said Calista, very much interested. "I think that will be very nice. Who is to preach?"

"I disremember his name, though I have seen him often when we was both young," answered Cassius. "He is quite an old gentleman now, and has come to end his days with his niece over here at the Mills. So when he heard there was no preaching anywhere rounds here, he said he would see what he could do, and he got leave to use the old meeting-house. I am going round to-morrow to tell all the neighbors. Won't you try to come, Missy? You know what that pretty hymn says—

"'Tis easier work, if we begin To serve the Lord betimes.'"

"I will certainly try to come," said Calista. "It is very good in you to take so much pains about the matter."

"It ain't much I can do to serve the Lord these times; but I think it a great privilege to be allowed to do the leastest thing for one who has done so much for me," said the old man. "And, bless the Lord, he don't look at how much we do, but how we do it. When that poor woman in the Scripture put in her two mites into the treasury, the good Lord said she had put in more than they all."

"You love him, don't you, Cassius?"

"Yes, bless his name, Missy, I do."

"Well, I wish I did."

"So do I, Missy, for I am sure he loves you. Why don't you?"

"Well, I hardly know, Cassius. I suppose I don't think enough about it. I have not had much chance, you know."

"Ah, Missy, don't say that. You have been to church and heard the minister preach and read about him, and you've heard the Bible read in school. I'm afraid it is as you say, and you don't think enough about it."

"Perhaps so."

"You will think, won't you, Missy?"

"Yes, Cassius, I will," answered Calista, frankly. "And I will go to the meeting if aunt will let me. Thank you ever so much for bringing me home. Good-night."

Calista peeped into the sitting-room. She had come to look on the Philadelphia scheme as quite settled and certain, and she felt a sudden sinking at her heart as she saw Miss Druett and Aunt Priscilla sitting together just as usual. Miss Stanfield was the first to speak.

"Whose wagon was that I heard? Have you taken to hiring carriages to bring you home?"

"Not quite, yet," answered Calista. "Cassius overtook me, and brought me home in his wagon."

"Well, that is well enough. If you were a little sharper, you might often get a ride and save your shoes. But catch you saving anything!"

"Let the child alone, Priscilla," said Miss Druett. "Calista, did you get the things as I told you?"

"Yes, ma'am, they are all here. Shall I leave them in your room?"

"If you please. I am just going up."

"So you have made it up with Aunt Priscilla," said Calista, as they were going up stairs together.

Miss Druett nodded.

"She came to my room, begged my pardon for what she had said, and asked me to stay, and I have said I would for the present."

"And so all our fine plan falls to the ground," said Calista, sadly.

"For the present, as I said; but it may yet come to pass. Meantime, here is something to console you."

She put a bunch of keys into Calista's hand as she spoke.

Calista looked at them in wonder.

"What are these?" she asked.

"Keys," said Miss Druett, smiling. "Look into your room, and perhaps you will find something they will fit."

With a beating heart Calista, opened the door. There in a row at the side stood the three brown leather trunks, marked on the end "Calista Folsom."

CHAPTER TWELFTH.

THE TRUNKS.

"I KNOW it was your doing, Miss Druett. How did you manage it?"

"Why, I thought the present was a good time for some diplomacy, so I made the restoration of the trunks, and several other things, conditions of my remaining. You are my girl now, Calista, and must mind me. I mean to be very harsh and tyrannical, so you must make up your mind to it. I shall take out all my injuries of every sort on you."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I made it one condition of my staying another day, that you were to be delivered over to my care altogether, Priscilla furnishing your board as long as you stay here, and I being at all the other expenses of your maintenance and education. So mind you don't tear your dresses and spoil your shoes running after flowers and squirrels, or I don't know what will happen."

"It is too much, Miss Druett; more than you ought to do."

"No, I can afford it well enough; as things are, I have not much use for money."

"But you might live so much more pleasantly somewhere else."

"More pleasantly, perhaps, but pleasure is not all, my little girl. Here is my place, and here I must remain for the present. General Stanfield was my mother's friend and helper in her sorest hour of need, and I will stay and watch over his daughter as long as I can do her any good."

"I believe you are the only person who has any influence with her," remarked Calista.

"I think so too, and I don't know how long that influence will last; but while it does, I am bound to use it."

"But about the trunks?" said Calista.

"Well, they are another condition. Of course, I cannot say in what state you may find their contents, but they have never been touched since they were piled up in that room."

"I wonder Aunt Priscilla has not ransacked them long ago."

"She never had the chance," replied Miss Druett. "I mislaid the keys, and did not find them for a long time, and when I did, I thought it just as well not to mention the fact. But now, Calista, I have one or two conditions to impose as you, if this bargain of ours is to stand. The first is, that you shall not go out, visit, or make any new acquaintances, without consulting me."

"I am sure I agree to that," said Calista; "I am only too thankful to have some one who really cares what I do."

"The second is, that you shall never speak disrespectfully to, or of, Priscilla; it is not good for you or her."

"I agree to that, too," said Calista. "I never speak of her at all, if I can help it; never to any one but Mr. Settson or Mary, who know all about her. I never fancied making family matters common property—'setting all your broken dishes out on the fence,' as Chloe says."

"That is the true ladylike spirit," said Miss Druett. "You must come to me whenever you want money, clothes, or books, and you must let me be the judge as to your need of them. When I have time to look over and calculate my resources, I shall try to make you a regular allowance of pocket-money, though it will have to be very small. Take care of your keys; keep the trunks always locked, and the keys in your pocket or under your pillow. Now get yourself ready for supper, and mind you don't say anything to exasperate Priscilla."

Calista obeyed. It required some firmness on her part to resist the temptation at once to open the trunks, which she could hardly believe to be really within her reach. She made herself as neat as she could, taking particular pains with her hair, which Miss Druett said was like her father's. As she entered the sitting-room, Miss Druett sighed, and even Miss Priscilla seemed struck with her appearance.

"Just like her father," said she, half to herself; "just like him, mind and body; and would make the money fly just so, if she could get it; but that won't be in my time. No, no."

Calista thought of her promise just in time to suppress a sharp retort. She took her place at the table, which was rather better furnished than ordinary, and helped herself to bread and butter without receiving the usual rebuke. Indeed, Miss Priscilla seemed rather anxious to conciliate her niece, and actually asked her two or three civil questions.

"Well, really, she got through a meal without snapping at me once," said Calista to herself; "but I suppose it is too good to last."

"Where is the working-case I gave you this morning?" asked Aunt Priscilla, as Calista rose to leave the room after supper. "I want to see it."

"I took it to town to have the knife and scissors put in order so that I could use them, and I did not bring it home," answered Calista, telling the truth, but not quite the whole truth.

"Humph! However, it doesn't matter to me; only I should like to know how you expected to pay for it."

"Why, aunt, you know you gave me a whole sixpence," answered Calista.

"More fool I!" answered Miss Priscilla, gruffly.

"And Miss Druett also gave me a little money—so I was quite rich."

"More fool she!" again ejaculated Miss Priscilla. "However, it is no concern of mine."

Miss Priscilla composed herself for her usual nap.

And Calista, dismissed by a glance from Miss Druett, stole away to examine her treasures.

The keys and locks were alike rusty, but a little grease from her treasured bit of tallow-candle soon removed that trouble; and it was with a feeling of awful delight that Calista opened the long-shut lids, and inhaled the odor of the spices, camphor, and tobacco, with which Mrs. Tom Folsom and Miss Malvina had embalmed their contents so long ago. It almost seemed to her as if she were about to have an interview with her mother.

The first trunk she opened contained only linen—real linen, and of good quality—for, at the time poor Calista Folsom's wedding outfit was provided, cotton was very little worn, except in the shape of chintz. Calista found her own baby-clothes, pinned up in a separate bundle, and shed some tears over the dainty sewing, the beautiful satin stitch, and lace-like cut work with which they were adorned. The next trunk contained dresses and other things of that nature, and Calista opened her eyes wide at the three or four rich silks, the soft gray Canton crape, and the beautiful, unapproachable India camel's hair cloth—such as I remember seeing upon old ladies when I was young. Then there were two er three white dresses, worked in deep patterns, with floss and amazing lace stitches; a large white Canton crape shawl, and another which Calista was sure was an Indian cashmere, of a soft, dusky, almost smoky, red—such as no Western dyer ever attained or ever will—with wide borders at the ends and narrow ones at the sides.

"I wonder whether I shall ever wear any of these things?" said Calista to herself, as she carefully restored them to their neat folds and wrappings. "But, oh, how I wish I could find something which tells more about herself!—some letters or journals. Perhaps they are in the other trunks."

So it proved. The contents of the last trunk were more valuable than any of the others. It contained a gold watch and chain much like that one which Calista had discovered is her grandfather's desk; a box containing an expensive set of ornaments and some beautiful lace—poor Richard's wedding present to his bride; a number of books, among them a Bible and Psalm-book, bound alike and marked with her mother's name. In the inside of the Bible was written, in a legible but unsteady hand:

"I leave this Book—which was given me by my own dear mother, on her death-bed—to my precious and only child, Calista Stanfield. May it be a lamp to her feet and a light to her path, which shall grow brighter and brighter unto the perfect day!"

On another leaf, and evidently by the same hand, was inscribed Richard Crashaw's inscription in a prayer-book:

"It is an armory of light; Let constant use but keep it bright, You'll find it yields, To holy hands and humble hearts, More swords and shields Than sin hath snares, or hell hath darts. Only be sure The hands be pure That hold these weapons; and the eyes, Those of turtles, chaste and true, Wakeful and wise."

The trunk also contained a work-box and writing-desk each covered with red morocco, and having the key tied to the handle. Calista was just going to lift out the writing-desk, when some one knocked and opened the door. It was Miss Druett.

"Just as I expected," said she. "Do you know what time it is?"

"No, ma'am. Is it late?"

"Only half-past ten—which is rather late for you. Put up your things and lock the boxes for to-night, or you will have Priscilla in here. Where did you get your candle?"

"I bought it with some of the money you gave me. Was that wrong? It does seem so hard not to have a light for anything."

"Not wrong at all. I should have thought of it; but somehow it is only within a few weeks that I have found out you are not a baby. Here, let me help you. In what condition did you find the things?"

"They seem to be all right. I don't think the boldest moth would have ventured into the trunks, they are so filled with tobacco and camphor. I believe I will keep out mother's Bible and Psalm-book. I know she would want me to use them."

"Very well. And, Calista, that reminds me of another thing I wanted to say. Don't read a book in this house—I mean, not a book you find in the house—without asking me. I don't want your young blood poisoned as mine was."

"You don't mean that I shall not read mother's books!" said Calista, a little dismayed.

"Oh, no! I am not afraid of any books your mother was likely to have. There, good-night! And don't burn the house down."

Calista fastened her door and then sat down to look over her treasures. The Bible had evidently been long and carefully used, and was marked from end to end with pencil marks, notes, and references. As Calista turned over the leaves, it seemed to her as if her mother was talking with her, so many of the passages seemed marked with special reference to herself. But the most precious of all was to come. Pinned to the last leaf of the book was a letter in her mother's handwriting, addressed—

"To my dear and precious daughter, Calista Stanfield. To be given her as soon as she shall be able to read and understand it."

Calista carefully unpinned the letter and looked at it before she broke the seal, and a feeling of anger rose in her heart at the thought that so precious a legacy should have been kept from her hands so long. But this emotion passed away as she read the letter—just such a letter as a loving, tender, Christian mother might be expected to write to a daughter under such circumstances. It began with a slight sketch of the writer's own life, and from it Calista first learned that her maternal grandfather had been a somewhat noted New England minister.

"I wonder whether I have any relations living," thought Calista. "I must try to find out some time."

The letter proceeded to give some judicious counsel as to the guidance of her future life.

"I cannot but feel that I have been hardly treated by your father's family," the writer went on to say. "Certainly, I never intended to injure them in any way. Nevertheless, for your father's sake, should you be brought in contact with your grandfather or aunt, I beg you will try to make friends with them."

The writer concluded with a most earnest appeal to Calista at once to give her whole heart to her heavenly Father, to put herself body and soul in his hands, and strive to follow the steps of her Saviour into all holiness and godly living, that she might not fail to meet her friends at the right hand of God in the great day of account.

Calista shed many tears over this letter, as was only natural.

"Oh, I will—I will!" she said to herself. "I will try to be a Christian, like my dear mother. I will resolve this minute to serve God, and to put myself into his hands."

So she did, poor lonely child, and that in all sincerity; but she was to find out that the gate was straiter and the way narrower than she had any idea of. The "lion in the way" does not usually lie on the threshold, but just a little way inside.

Calista went to bed thinking that she should not sleep at all; but youth and health do not often lie awake long. She was asleep almost before her head touched the pillow, and did not awake till the robin which lived in the great tree opposite her window began his usual musical morning call.

"It can't be more than four o'clock," said she to herself. "You stupid robin, what did you wake me so early for? Can't you get up yourself without making such a fuss about it? I suppose I had better go to bed again."

She lay down, accordingly, and tried to go to sleep for full ten minutes. Then she decided that there was no use is trying any longer, and she might as well get up and finish looking over the things. She was soon dressed and seated on the ground before her treasures. She opened the work-box first: it contained the usual working implements, and one thing not often seen in these days—a thread-case, stitched into long, numbered compartments, into each of which was drawn a skein of thread or silk, cut at one end.

Calista opened a velvet case with some trouble, and found, as she expected, a miniature picture of her father. Fastened into the lid of the case was a sketch, in water colors, of a sweet, fair, somewhat prim and precise-looking female face, evidently done by no professional hand. It afforded a great contrast, in its thin tints and stiff outlines, to the beautifully painted picture on the other side; but there about it that nameless something which showed it was a likeness. The clear, well-opened, but somewhat hollow blue eyes, with their level, even brows, looked at Calista with love; and the firm, but not stern, mouth seemed as if it might speak. A shadowy remembrance came over Calista of her mother sitting before a glass and painting, while she herself sat on the floor and scribbled with a lead pencil. She kissed the picture again and again.

"She painted it for me—I am sure she painted it for me. My precious mother!"

But the writing-desk was the most interesting and important of all. It was of pretty good size, and was packed full of papers arranged in neat order. There were letters, which had evidently been received from young friends, full of news and gossip about companions and work and books, and also with more serious matters—news of a schoolmate's conversion, requests for prayers, and the like. There were letters from her father, written after he left her mother to go to the wars; manly and tender, and thoroughly devout and Christian in their tone. The last one expressed great regret at the writer's estrangement from his father.

"I have written to him, and I hope you will do the same. I am sure if he were only to see you, all would be right between you."

This letter was endorsed,—

"The last letter I ever had from my dearest husband. God's will be done!"

Wrapped up with this letter was a very different one. On the cover was written, in her mother's hand:

"I have been, two or three times, on the point of destroying this letter; but have refrained, thinking it might, at some time, be of use. I wish to record my firm belief that General Stanfield never saw it or ordered it written."

Calista opened the letter. It was in Miss Priscilla's clear, cramped hand, and read as follows:

"Mrs. Richard Stanfield's letter is received. Mrs. Richard Stanfield is hereby informed that General Stanfield wishes to hold no communication with her or her husband on any subject whatever; and that no letters from either of them will meet with any attention.

(Signed) "PRISCILLA STANFIELD,

"For Richard Stanfield."

At the end was written:

"Nevertheless, I wrote to my husband's father and to his sister at the time when my child was born, but I never received the slightest answer."

Calista sat with burning cheeks, holding this letter in her hands. Her lips were compressed, and her eyes full of trouble. She was not thinking of the loss of property, not at all of herself in connection with it, but of the cruel injury done to her mother.

"Then she did know. She knew all the time. But Mr. Settson said grandfather did not know of my existence, and it would certainly seem so from what Miss Betsy said. She must have contrived some way to keep the letters from grandfather altogether. Oh, how could she—how could she be so cruel! And there was my poor mother working herself to death to support herself and me. I never can forgive her—never. If it had been myself—but my mother—to write so to my mother! If I cannot be a Christian without forgiving Aunt Priscilla, I shall never be one. But there is the bell. I must go down. Oh, how I did want these things, and now I almost wish I had never seen them."

"Forever by the goal are set Pale disappointment and regret."

As soon as breakfast was over and she could get away, she renewed her examinations. The trunk contained much that was of interest to her—books of various sorts, chiefly religious and poetical; scraps carefully preserved from newspapers; an old-fashioned water-color box, well furnished with colors, brushes, &c.; a white frock, began but not finished; and divers other matters of no interest to the reader. When she had gone through them all once, she locked up the trunks and went to Miss Druett's room, where she was pretty sure to find her alone at this time, when Miss Priscilla, always methodical, was engaged in her daily scolding match with Chloe.

"See here, Miss Druett, what shall I do with these?" said she, showing her the watch and ornaments she had found.

Miss Druett looked at them with great interest.

"I suppose your father gave your mother these things," said she. "You must not keep them here. If Priscilla gets wind of them, she will leave no stone unturned to get them into her hands."

"She will never get them into her hands," said Calista.

"She will try, though. You might give them to Mr. Settson, only he is not at home. I believe the better way will be to leave them with Mr. Fabian, at the bank. I could make an errand for you there, and give you a note to Mr. Fabian. And yet you ought not to walk into town carrying such a treasure, either. Let me think a little. Here, quick, child, let me put them in my desk. I hear Priscilla coming."

Miss Priscilla came in, evidently in a great fume.

"Druey, I want you to go to town," was her salutation.

"What now?" asked Miss Druett, with her usual coolness.

"That man Anderson was to have been here day before yesterday, to pay his interest, and he hasn't come. I want you to go and see about it."

"I can't possibly go to-day. What does it signify? I dare say he will be here to-morrow. He is always pretty punctual."

"But I want the money."

"Nonsense; you are not suffering for it."

"But I want it," said Miss Priscilla, fretfully; "and you don't know whether I am suffering or not."

"I know I am," said Miss Druett. "I had earache all night, and if I should ride to town in this wind, I should have it for a month."

"You can wrap your head up," pleaded Miss Priscilla. "Come, Druey, do; just to oblige me."

"I would if I could, Priscilla. I want to go myself, but I am not able. Why not let the child go?"

"The child, indeed! What good can she do?"

"She can carry a note as well as I, and do my errand at the same time. Let her take the pony. You don't mind, do you, Calista?"

"No, I should like it," said Calista.

Miss Priscilla grumbled and complained, but finally decided that Calista might do the errand, if she would be careful and not drive the pony too fast.

"I should like to see myself doing it," said Calista, laughing in spite of her trouble. "Never fear, aunt; Jeff and I are old friends. I will run and tell David to get up the chaise."

"He knows about it already," said Miss Priscilla. "I counted on Druey's going, but she thinks so much of her precious ears."

"They are all I have, you see, and I might not find another pair to fit me," said Miss Druett. "Never mind, Priscilla, the child will do the errand just as well. Come to me when you are ready."

Calista dressed herself as neatly as she could, and it was with a mingled feeling of pain and pleasure that she hung over her arm a long, soft, gray cloth cloak, which she had found among her mother's things. Miss Druett noticed it as soon as she entered the room.

"That is a very nice, pretty cloak; was it in the trunk?"

"Yes, ma'am. The air is so damp and chilly that I knew I should need something, and my old shawl is all in holes. I thought perhaps mother would like to have me use it."

"No doubt she would like to have you use all the things. Be careful of them, that is all. And, by the way, stop at Mrs. Dare's and see when she can fit your frocks."

"Oh, she cannot do them at all," said Calista; "she has broken her arm, and her niece has all she can do with the girls' examination dresses. But I heard Cassius say that his step-daughter, Drusella Pine, was coming here directly to set up dressmaking. I know Miss Alice had her last summer, and was very much pleased with her. I might find out when she is expected."

"True, and with the horse you will not be afraid to come round that way. If I were a little richer, you should have a pretty white frock. However, we will talk of that another time. Here are your trinkets and a note to Mr. Fabian. Take care you don't lay the bag out of your hand, and go straight to the bank the first thing."

"May I go up to the school and ask for Miss McPherson? She had one of her bad headaches yesterday."

"Yes, but don't stay. I shall feel rather anxious till you are safe at home."

"Why to-day more than any day?"

"Because I am an old fool, child."

"How foolish I have been!" she said to herself. "I believe I have been of some use to the child as it was, but what comfort we might have been to each other if I had not been so determined to nurse my anger and grief all my life! Even now, at my age, I can hardly help being jealous of the dead mother's cloak. Truly, the sorrow of the world worketh death."

Miss Druett did not often quote Scripture, but she had done so once or twice lately. After Calista had gone, she went into her room to see that everything was safely secured. Her eyes fell upon Calista Folsom's Bible, and taking it in her hand, she sat down and read a long time.

"What have you been about all the morning, Druey?" said Miss Priscilla, as they sat down to their twelve o'clock dinner. They were alone, for Calista had not yet returned.

"You would never believe it if I were to tell you, Priscilla," was the answer. "I have been reading the Bible."

"What ails everybody?" was Miss Priscilla's comment. "Here Chloe tells me that old Mr. Alger is going to preach in the old meeting-house every Sunday evening. There must be something in the air. We shall have you turning Methodist and leading a class yet."

"I might do worse," said Miss Druett.

I incline to think Miss Priscilla was right, and that there was something stirring in the air about the Stanfield neighborhood, a-going in the tops of the trees, as it were, which might be a sign that a gracious rain was about to fall on that hitherto dry and barren ground.