CHAPTER XVIII.

_SCHOOL._

THE school-year opened, as usual, on the second Wednesday in September, with its full number of pupils. Rhoda was a little embarrassed at first by the natural surprise of the girls on meeting as a school-mate and companion one whom they had left in such a different position, but the awkwardness soon wore off, and she took her natural place among them. She was soon a favourite with all, especially the younger girls, whom she was always ready to help on proper occasions.

Miss Hardy's girls were a well-bred and, for the most part, a well-principled set. Indeed, there was among them only one of those black sheep who are to be found in every school. This was a young girl named Caroline Burtis. She was an orphan and an heiress, according to her own account, who had come to school during the last quarter.

Miss Burtis put on very grand airs, considered herself, for some mysterious reason, quite superior to her companions, and also to her teachers, and made more fuss about her board and accommodations than all of the rest of the girls put together. She had begun by being very haughty toward Rhoda and declaring openly in her hearing that Miss Hardy had insulted all the other pupils by taking a common servant-girl into the school. She seemed to conceive a great aversion to Rhoda, and made no hesitation in saying that Miss Hardy had placed her in the school as a spy on the other girls.

Rhoda, on her part, went quietly on her way, working hard at her lessons, happy in the musical instructions of a first-rate professor, and in the companionship of Isa, over whom she watched more like a mother over a child than one girl over another. It was soon discovered that she was equally handy and obliging in managing a boat, beginning a piece of crochet-work, or setting to rights a confused bit of embroidery; and henceforth no rowing- or sewing-party was complete without Rhoda Thurston. This being the case, Rhoda troubled herself very little about Miss Burtis and her airs.

On a sudden Miss Burtis changed her tactics, and became as polite to Rhoda as she had formerly been rude. One day, as Rhoda was going out on an errand for Miss Hardy, taking Isa, with her, they met Miss Burtis in the hall.

"Oh, girls, are you going out?" said she. "Will you just drop this letter in the post-office for me? I want it to go by the early mail, and I forgot to send it by Miss Hood."

"Certainly," said Rhoda, taking the letter. "Come, Isa, I want to find Miss Hardy and ask her about this wool."

"But you mustn't let Miss Hardy see the letter. You know," said Miss Burtis, in alarm, "she makes no end of fuss if the girls send letters on the sly. This is only to my cousin, but she is such an old maid she never will believe that."

"Excuse me, Caroline, but I can't do anything in that way," said Rhoda, handing her back the letter; "I don't like doing things 'on the sly,' as you say."

"But what harm is it, you goose? The letter is only to my cousin."

"If it is no harm, why don't you want Aunt Harriet to know?" asked Isa.

"Just as though one wanted to publish in the newspaper all that one did!"

"Letting Aunt Harriet know isn't publishing in the newspaper," said Isa.

"Really and truly, Caroline, I can't do it," said Rhoda. "If you will ask Miss Hardy—"

"Well, I sha'n't ask Miss Hardy, so there!" answered Caroline, pettishly, snatching the letter from Rhoda's hand. "For my part, I don't think a servant-girl need be above doing an errand. You would have been glad to do it and get paid for it three months ago, I dare say; but I suppose, as you are a charity girl, you think you must be extra particular."

"That is it exactly," said Rhoda. "Come, Isa, we shall be late."

"Mean thing!" said Caroline to herself. "I'll pay her off some way. But do just wait a minute, Rhoda," she added, aloud. "There! I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, but I am so disappointed. I do want this letter to go so much. It is very important indeed. Come, it isn't as if I was asking you to tell a lie, you know."

"I think it is all the same," said Isa.

"Who cares for what you think?" asked Caroline, rudely. "Every one knows that you haven't common sense, and that Rhoda is your keeper. Come, Rhoda, do."

"You might as well talk to the wall, Carry Burtis," answered Rhoda. "I wouldn't do it any way, and I am not likely to be persuaded by your insulting my friend. Come, Isa."

"What did Caroline mean by what she said to me?" asked Isa as they were walking.

"Who knows?" answered Rhoda, carelessly. "She meant to say the most spiteful thing she could think of. All the girls know that you are not well."

"You don't think that I am an idiot, do you, Rhoda? Tell me truly."

"No, unless asking such a silly question proves you one," answered Rhoda, laughing. "You have been overworked, and your mind needs rest. Dr. Douglass said such lessons as you had were enough to kill anybody. Don't let such a notion come into your head for a moment."

"I suppose pa did it for the best," said Isa.

"Of course he did. He was mistaken, that was all. Let us go and have some ice cream; Miss Hardy said we might. We will sit out on the balcony and watch for the steamer. See, there she comes."

Isa was diverted for the time, but she recurred to the words several times afterward, and it was plain they had made a strong impression on her. They set her to watching the operations of her own mind—a very undesirable thing in all cases, but particularly to one like Isa. So easy is it for an angry word to do mischief which nothing can ever mend again.

Miss Burtis's career in Cohansey was not a long one. It happened one night that Isa was feverish and restless, and Rhoda slipped on her dressing-gown and went down to get her some ice water, which she knew she should find in the dining-room. The moon shone brightly and the gas was always kept burning low in the hall, so she did not take a light. She found what she sought, and was coming back, when just at the head of the stairs she ran full against somebody who was coming down.

The unexpected shock knocked her pitcher out of her hand, and it rolled down stairs, making a great noise, while Rhoda caught hold of the person, exclaiming, as she did do,—

"Who are you?"

"Hush, can't you?" said Caroline's voice, in low but energetic tones. "You will raise the house. Let me go, I tell you."

But even if Rhoda had obeyed, it was too late. The alarm was given. In a moment Miss Hardy was out in the hall. A full blaze of the gas revealed Rhoda, barefooted and in her dressing-gown, and Caroline Burtis dressed as for travelling, with her bag in her hand.

It was not Miss Hardy's way to make a grand scene about anything. She led Miss Burtis to her room in the third story, and quietly turned the key on the outside. Then she went back to where Rhoda was picking up the pieces of the broken pitcher.

"How did it happen?" she asked.

Rhoda told the story.

"Did you see anything unusual when you were down stairs?"

"No, ma'am; I went to the dining-room, and came straight back again."

"Are you afraid to go over and call Mrs. Marshall? Don't make any noise about it."

Rhoda called Mrs. Marshall, and then went back to Isa, who was wondering at her delay.

"What kept you so long?" she asked. "I was getting frightened."

"Well, you might be, if you heard the noise," answered Rhoda. "I thought I should rouse the house. I ran against something and dropped my pitcher all the way down stairs."

"Didn't any one hear you?"

"Only Miss Hardy. There! Lie down and go to sleep."

The next day there was some telegraphing back and forth, and in the course of the next, Miss Burtis's guardian appeared and took her away. There was a rumor of some misbehaviour on her part, and nobody was sorry when she was gone; but Rhoda kept her own counsel, and the encounter on the stairs was known to nobody but herself and Miss Hardy.

This was Rhoda's only serious trouble in school. She would have been altogether happy, only for her anxiety about Isa, whose health did not improve, as Rhoda in her ignorance had confidently expected it would do, when the pressure of lessons was taken off. Only for this care, Rhoda would have been happier than ever before in her life.

"Yes, some folks has all the luck," grumbled Hester one day.

Hester had come back to Cohansey, confidently expecting to take her former situation with Miss Hardy. She was utterly astonished when she found her place filled by a quiet, steady young girl, and was informed that Mrs. Hallowell had no occasion for her services. She could not perceive or would not own that she was in the least to blame for Miss Hardy's accident, and could not see any reason why Mrs. Hallowell should decline to take her on that account.

"I suppose Rhoda is in the dining-room yet?" she said to Aunt Sarah, after Mrs. Hallowell had left the kitchen. "I thought she was coming down to Cape May with Mrs. Elsmore?"

"She was, but she stayed home to nurse Miss Hardy."

"It must have been stupid and dull," said Hester. "I should have died in a week. Where is Rhoda now?"

"Oh, she's one of the scholars now, and rooms up in eighteen with Miss Hardy's niece," said Sarah, secretly delighted with the chance of "taking down" Hester. "The family has adopted her, and she's going to have a first-rate education."

"Oh dear me!" said Hester, sarcastically. "She will be more stuck up than ever. Well, some folks has all the luck."

"'Twan't all luck, neither," answered Aunt Sarah. "Rhoda was one that did well all she undertook. When she was working, she gave all her mind to it, and when she was nursing, she gave all her mind to that. I never see a girl so handy in a sick-room. As for her education, she'd a had one any way. She was always learning everything she could. She used to watch my cooking, and get me to show her how to make nice things; and when Hannah was doing up the girls' white dresses, Rhoda used to look at her till she learned her ways. It was just so about everything else. If you were in the kitchen a year, you'd never improve a bit, because you wouldn't try; and it would be the same if you were in school."

Isa, for her part, was as happy as Rhoda, though in exactly a contrary way. Freedom from hard work and from the dread of fault-finding was a thing utterly new in her experience. It was thought best that she should have some pretence of employment, and she was set to reviewing her English grammar, and to taking lessons in drawing, for which she really showed some talent. These, with the daily Bible lesson, formed the whole of her school-duties, and they were made as easy to her as possible.

For it became more evident every day that Isa's mind had lost its spring. Probably that last four weeks of music-lessons had been the last feather on the camel's back. She could hardly commit the easiest lesson, and stumbled painfully over the simplest reading. Her great enjoyment lay in the daily Bible lessons, to which she listened with interest, though she hardly ever answered a question.

"You love your Bible, don't you, Isa?" Mrs. Marshall said to her one day.

"Yes, ma'am," answered Isa, looking up, with a sweet smile. "I don't understand it all very well, but it makes me feel quiet and happy, and it seems so good to have time to read as much as I like. I don't think He will mind my not understanding, do you?"

"No, my love. He will see and know, and teach you to know all that is necessary."

Isa had one other great enjoyment, and that was in embroidering a wonderful worsted chair cover for her mother. She had always loved needlework, but Mr. Ferrand considered that plain work was only fit for servants, and ornamental needlework was utterly unworthy the attention of rational beings. Now, however, it was enough that anything gave pleasure to Isa, and Mr. Ferrand had himself purchased a handsome and expensive work-box for his daughter, with the materials for her work, and had told Rhoda to spare no expense in supplying whatever Isa wanted in that line. He seemed anxious that the two girls should be on a perfect equality, for he had at the same time presented Rhoda with an equally beautiful writing-desk, to Isa's delight, no less than Rhoda's.

One day, as Rhoda was busily practising a duet with Matty Sellers, there came a ring at the bell.

"What made you start so?" asked Matty.

Rhoda laughed:

"A very funny thing. Do you know I never hear the bell ring without thinking that I ought to go to the door?"

"I think you are a real sensible girl, Rhoda," said Matty, in the serious tone with which she usually announced her wonderful discoveries.

"Thank you. Why?"

"Because you never seem one bit ashamed of having been a servant. I don't know why you or any one should be, of course, but still a great many people are, or would be—you know what I mean," said Matty, who was famous for grammatical entanglements. "There, Rhoda! They are asking for you."

"Miss Thurston is wanted in the library," said Annie, putting her head in at the door.

"Who is it, Annie?" asked Rhoda.

"Two gentlemen—one young and one old. The old gentleman sent up his card, and the name was Francis."

"It can't surely be Mr. Francis of Hobarttown? I never knew any other," said Rhoda to herself.

She arranged her dress a little and hurried down, to find Mr. Francis himself as well as Mr. Antis in the library with Miss Hardy.

"Upon my word, little Rhoda, you have grown a fine young woman," said Mr. Francis. "I should have known you anywhere, however. I suppose I must call you Miss Thurston, now that you are grown-up and an heiress."

"She doesn't understand," said Mr. Antis.

"No, I suppose not. Probably she has not heard that Mr. Jacob Weightman is dead, and that you and I are his executors?"

"You don't mean to say, Mr. Francis, that Uncle Jacob has died and left anything to me!" said Rhoda in amazement.

"Even so, my girl. He has left you the lot which was his sister's, and on which he has built a fine mill, and ten thousand dollars besides. The mill is worth ten thousand—I will pay that if you want to sell it; so you see you are really an heiress on a small scale."

"I should think it was a pretty large scale," said Rhoda. "But Uncle Jacob! I can hardly believe it. He always hated me from the first time I came to Boonville to live."

"He did you great injustice," said Mr. Antis; "and so I always supposed. We found among his papers a will written in Aunt Hannah's hand, but neither signed nor sealed, leaving you her place and all her other property. The will was not legal, of course, but under the circumstances it should have been binding on any honest man; but Uncle Jacob was too fond of money to be right straight."

"It always did seem very strange that Aunt Hannah's will should not be found," said Rhoda.

"I suppose from the date she had destroyed the first and made another not two hours before she died," replied Mr. Antis. "Jeduthun tells me she had asked him and Kissy to come up that evening, and doubtless she meant they should witness this will."

"What has he done with the rest of his property?" asked Rhoda.

"He has left five thousand to the Caneota Bible Society and as much to the orphan asylum, and a thousand to missions. The rest goes to the nieces, share and share alike."

"How much will their parts be?"

"About eight thousand to each one—Mrs. Bowers, Mrs. Evans, and Mrs. Chapman."

"I am glad he remembered poor Mrs. Chapman at last," said Rhoda. "He never would help her when he was alive, though she used to want for necessary clothes. Aunt Annie has given her and the children many an outfit, I know. But I am afraid Mr. Bowers will be dreadfully disappointed."

"So he is. He talks of breaking the will, and what not, but that is all nonsense. He cannot touch it, and that he knows very well. He will have to take his eight thousand or nothing. That is all he will get."

"I always supposed Mr. Weightman was much richer," said Rhoda.

"He was at one time, but he lost a deal in bad investments," said Mr. Francis. "Well, my girl, what are you going to do?"

"I haven't learned to feel that the money is mine yet," answered Rhoda. "Just think! Ten thousand dollars!"

"Twenty."

"Of my own! Won't I make a nice tea-party for the old ladies?"

"Considering already how she can throw it away," said Mr. Francis.

"That's the Rhoda of it," said Mr. Antis, smiling. "When she was a child, if any one gave her ten cents, she was always considering how to buy somebody a present with it."

"She might do worse. Well, now, my girl, what do you mean to do?" asked Mr. Francis as Miss Hardy left the room. "You seem to be pretty well off here. I like the looks of Miss Hardy."

"You would like her the more if you only knew her," said Rhoda. "I think I must stay here, Mr. Francis. You see, Miss Hardy took me into the school when there wasn't the least chance of my being able to make her any return; and even if I wanted to go anywhere else, I don't think it would be right."

"Decidedly not," said Mr. Francis.

"And then I don't want to go anywhere else," continued Rhoda. "I wish all the orphan girls in the world were as well off."

"I wish all the orphan girls one tries to help had as strong a sense of it," said Mr. Antis, who had had "experiences" in that line. "How is Mr. Ferrand's daughter? He told me she was a good deal out of health."

"She is, and I am afraid she will never be much better," said Rhoda, sadly. "She does not improve at all. And there is another reason why I could not go away. I could not think of leaving poor Isa."

"It is a good deal of care for you, though," said Mr. Francis. "So much nursing must interfere with your studies."

"Oh, there is very little real nursing; and besides, if there were, my studies would have to wait. Improving one's mind isn't always one's first duty, after all."

"Humph! You seem to have improved yours to some tolerable purpose," said Mr. Francis. "Well, Rhoda, you must use your own judgment, and I have no doubt you will decide rightly."