CHAPTER III.

_THE CLOUD GROWS._

THE biscuits were excellent, and Rhoda greatly enjoyed making and baking them, and afterward milking old Snowball and straining the milk.

"What beautiful rich milk she does give!" said she. "Aunt Hannah, what will you do when she dies? She is growing an old cow, you know."

"I don't borrow trouble about it, child."

"Nor about anything else, do you, Aunt Hannah?"

"Well, no, my dear, not often. I generally find I have enough as I go along. There is no need to look ahead for it."

"I never can see any use in it, anyway," remarked Rhoda. "Either the things one is worrying about don't come to pass, or they are so different from what one expects that all the contriving beforehand is thrown away. I said so to mother, and she told me it was very easy for any one to talk so who did not know what trouble was. But I am sure you know what it is."

"Yes, child, I have had my share: quite as much as I wanted, without borrowing any; and so, I dare say, will you, if you live long enough. Now, my dear, it is time for you to be going. And, Rhoda, I want you to promise me one thing: I am an old woman, and there is no telling what may happen before we meet again. I want you to promise me that, whatever happens, you will never give up your faith in God, and your trust in his goodness. Never think, however he may suffer you to be afflicted, that he can be anything but a tender Father to you. I think you love him, Rhoda, my child?"

Rhoda answered in a low voice, but without hesitation:

"Yes, Aunt Hannah, I am sure I do."

"Then, my dear, will you always remember these verses?

"'He that spared not his own Son, but delivered him up for us all, how shall he not with him freely give us all things?'

"'Be careful for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God.'

"'Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world.'

"I have bought you a new Bible for a parting present," continued Aunt Hannah, "and I have written these verses in the beginning. Remember, whatever happens, that your Lord and Saviour has promised to be with you, that you are not to be anxious, but to let your requests, great and small, be made known unto him, and that your Father's love can never fail to give you that which is best, seeing that he spared not his own Son for you."

"I won't forget, Aunt Hannah. Oh what a beautiful book!—The nicest I ever saw. Just see! It has maps and an index, and all."

"Yes, you will find it very convenient. Now, go along, child, and God bless you!"

Rhoda left her plate of good things at Mrs. Makay's, and then walked rapidly homeward, for it was growing late.

As she entered the parlour she nearly stumbled over somebody who was sitting in the rocking-chair, for the room was quite dark.

"Take care, and mind what you are about, Rhoda!" said her mother. "You do come in, in such a headlong way."

"It is so dark coming in from out of doors," apologized Rhoda. "May I get a light, mother? I have something to show you."

"Yes, do. I have been waiting for you to come."

Rhoda lighted the lamp and came in, bringing it in one hand and her little shirts and her new Bible in the other. As she did so, she saw that the person over whom she had nearly fallen was Mr. Weightman. He laughed in his usual amiable fashion as he saw her look of discomfiture and annoyance.

"You are out rather late, I think, miss," said he. "In my time little girls stayed at home and helped do the work, instead of running about town after dark. But come, let us see this wonderful something."

Rhoda wished herself or Mr. Weightman anywhere else, but there was no help for it now, and she produced the shirts she had made for the baby.

"How very nice and pretty they are!" said Mrs. Bowers. "And how neatly you have made them! See, father, what a pretty present Rhoda has made for the baby! Who taught you, dear?"

"Aunt Hannah," replied Rhoda, her heart beating with pleasure; "but I did every stitch of them myself, and bought the wool with my own money."

"Humph! Your money!" said Mr. Weightman. "Pray, how came you by this money of yours?"

Rhoda was silent till Mrs. Bowers said, rather sharply,—

"Don't you hear, Rhoda? Why don't you answer Mr. Weightman's question?"

Then she said, briefly,—

"It is money my father gave me to spend for a new sash, Mr. Weightman."

"So that was the reason you bought the cheap sash?" said her mother. "I wondered at your changing your mind. I must say it was very nice in you, my dear. But what pretty book have you there?"

"A new Bible Aunt Hannah gave me—just what I wanted. Isn't it pretty?"

"Let me see it," said Mr. Weightman, and Rhoda put it into his hand, feeling as if his touch would profane her treasure.

He turned the book over and over, and then looked at the flyleaf where the price was marked.

"Five dollars and a half!" said he, in a tone of amazement mingled with sorrow.

"Well, if ever! Five dollars and a half! And she might have got one for nothing if she must give it away. Well, I didn't think even Hannah would do such a thing as that. She ought to be put under 'gardeens.'"

Rhoda was boiling over, but she kept silence, and only held out her hand for her precious book, which Uncle Jacob seemed no ways inclined to give up.

"I am sure it was very kind in Aunt Hannah," said Mrs. Bowers, in a deprecating tone.

"Kind? Yes! Wonderful kind! I should like to know what business she has to be so kind, as you call it?"

"She has a right to do what she likes with her own, I suppose," said Mrs. Bowers, with some spirit.

"And she has written all over the flyleaves, so that you can't take it back or exchange it for anything useful," continued Uncle Jacob: "'To my dearest niece and pupil.' Do you hear that, Maria? Rhoda is her dearest niece. Well, I must say I think charity begins at home. I think she might consider her own family a little. But I suppose you are too well off to care what your relations do with their money."

"Will you please give me my book, Mr. Weightman?" said Rhoda, in a voice which expressed more than her words, and holding out her hand for the book.

"Oh ho! So I am Mr. Weightman now, am I?" said he, still retaining the volume, and evidently enjoying Rhoda's irritation. "I was Uncle Jacob this afternoon, I remember."

"It was a mere slip of the tongue, Mr. Weightman," said Rhoda, trying hard to control her temper. "I am sure I should never call you 'Uncle' if I knew what I was saying. Will you please give me my book?"

Mr. Weightman threw it on the table:

"Take it, then, and learn manners from it, if you can. Niece Maria, I wish you joy of your adopted daughter. It is easy to see that she will get on in the world."

"You may go to your own room, Rhoda," said Mr. Bowers; "and another time don't stay away all the afternoon and leave your work for your mother as you did to-night."

Rhoda could not trust herself to speak. She took up her book and retreated, smarting under a sense of injustice such as she had never felt before. It was hard enough to be insulted in that way, but that her father should take part against her, and her mother should not say a word for her—it was almost too much to bear. She retreated to the kitchen, and busied herself in putting away the milk and preparing things for the night till Mr. Weightman went away and Mr. Bowers came into the kitchen.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, harshly. "Didn't you hear me tell you to go to bed?"

"I thought I would put things away," Rhoda began, but Mr. Bowers stopped her. "Oh yes! You thought you would do anything rather than what you were told. You have got to turn over a new leaf, Rhoda, and learn to mind, and not spend all your time running about and reading story-books. And I don't want to hear any excuses or fine speeches. Go to bed, and another time do as I tell you."

Mr. Bowers was a man of moods and tenses; and whatever the mood of the moment might be, he rarely failed to make those about him sensible of the same. Knowing this to be the case, Rhoda thought less of his words than she would otherwise have done. Girl-like, she had a good cry when she got up stairs by herself, but, girl-like, she cried away most of her trouble, and was prepared to take the best view that was possible.

"Father was worried about something," she said to herself. "I dare say Uncle Jacob—I mean Mr. Weightman—had been at him. It will be all right to-morrow. I didn't leave all the work for mother, and she knows I didn't; and anyhow, I am glad she liked the shirts."

But Rhoda did not find it all right on the morrow, nor for a good many succeeding days. She could not tell what was the matter, though she taxed herself in every way to see whether she were to blame, and told herself again and again that she was growing jealous and fanciful; but all was of no use. There was certainly a great change.

Mrs. Bowers alternated between fondness and fretfulness. One day she told Rhoda that she slighted her work, and that she ought to do more about the house; the next perhaps she found fault with her for neglecting her book, telling her that there was no saying how long she might have a chance for study. At times she seemed unwilling to have Rhoda out of her sight, and again she appeared to seek excuses for getting rid her.

Mr. Bowers was almost uniformly cold and repellent in his manners toward her, though he too now and then melted into tenderness, especially once, when Mr. Weightman had been away for several days.

"Father," said Rhoda, taking courage to speak out what was in her mind, "have I done wrong or offended you in any way?"

"No, child, no," answered Mr. Bowers, hastily; "why should you think so?"

"Because you are so different from what you used to be," answered Rhoda. "You don't seem the same person sometimes—not a bit like my father," she added, putting her arms round his neck and sitting down on his knee as she used to do when a child.

Mr. Bowers started as if stung.

"You mustn't let such notions come into your head," he said, kissing her with something of his old affection. "I have been worried about business and other things—no matter what. Nothing that need trouble you."

"I can't help being worried when I see you so different, papa," said Rhoda. "I think you ought to tell me about business now," she added, with a pretty little assumption of dignity. "I am not the baby any longer: I am the elder daughter."

Mr. Bowers's moustache twitched a little, and his voice was somewhat husky as he answered,—

"You are a dear good girl, and always have been, Rhoda. I am sure you have been the same as our own ever since you came to us."

"I never remember that I am not your own unless somebody puts me in mind of it," said Rhoda. "I never think of belonging to anybody else."

"Not even to Aunt Annie?" asked Mr. Bowers. "Didn't you want to go and be Aunt Annie's girl?"

"No, indeed!" answered Rhoda, with emphasis. "I never thought of such a thing. I would have liked well enough to go to Hobarttown to school, because I always have wanted to get a regular education, but that was all. I never dreamed of such a thing as living there. I don't believe you think you have very much of a daughter, papa dear, if you suppose she could want to run away from you as easily as that. I don't believe you would like to have me think you wanted to get rid of me."

Mr. Bowers's mouth twitched again.

"I was only joking, child. There! Run over to the post-office and see whether the mail has come in."

For three or four days all was fair weather with Rhoda once more. Her father was kindness itself, and seemed to seek out ways of giving her pleasure.

"I can't do it," Rhoda heard him say one day in answer to some observations of his wife's. "It would break my heart to part with the girl, and I don't believe it would be right."

"But if it is our duty toward the child?" said his wife.

"I don't believe it is," answered Mr. Bowers, hastily; "I don't believe the child will ever be one bit the better for it."

Rhoda knew she ought not to listen, and turned away, her heart beating between hope and disappointment. Could it be that they were thinking of sending her away to school?

As the time went on, a good many things seemed to confirm this view of the case. Her father had bought a new sewing-machine and a piece of nice muslin, and her mother had set Rhoda to making a new set of underclothing for herself. Her old dresses were all remodelled and several new ones bought, and, in short, her wardrobe was put in perfect order.

Mr. Weightman had returned, and was often at the house, but Rhoda kept out of his way and seldom saw him. When they did meet, he was uncommonly gracious to her; and once, encountering her in a store at the Springs, he actually bestowed upon her a dollar to spend as she pleased, advising her, at the same time, to buy something useful, and not to waste it all upon ribbons and laces.

Rhoda could not help wondering how many ribbons and laces Uncle Jacob supposed that one dollar would buy; but she liked to be friends with everybody, so she thanked him for his present and laid it out upon a box of initial-paper.