CHAPTER VI.

_MISS BROWN._

"HOW is Miss Brown?" asked Rhoda, one morning, as Mrs. Lambert brought her breakfast. She had been dressed two or three days, and had even gone down to tea the night before, but it was not thought advisable for her to attempt too much at once.

"Well, she is better, so far as the pain goes, but she has pretty dull times, poor old soul! If it was some of the folks, they would fret their heads off; and mine too, but she isn't one of that sort. She never complains."

"I was thinking I might go in and sit with her, if you think she would like to see me," said Rhoda. "I could wait on her and get what she wants, and perhaps read to her."

"Oh, my dear, if you could! It would be a great comfort and save me ever so much trouble. There are so many sick now; and so much to see to, that I have to be here and there and everywhere at once."

"I feel as if I ought to begin doing something," said Rhoda; "I have been waited on long enough. I never knew how much I was in the habit of doing for myself till I was so weak I couldn't walk across the room. Do you know, Mrs. Lambert, I never was confined to my bed a day in all my life before this time? I feel as if I had learned a great deal—as if I had learned how to feel for other people as I never did before."

"Then you have been sick to purpose," said the nurse. "A great many people are sick all their lives and never learn as much as that. But come, eat your breakfast, and then we will go and see Miss Brown."

Miss Brown lay in bed in her pretty neat room with her little black dog beside her, looking so little changed that it seemed to Rhoda as if she had seen the old lady for the last time yesterday, instead of nearly nine years before.

"Rhoda has come to sit with you a while," said Mrs. Lambert. "You remember her, don't you?"

"Oh yes," said Miss Brown, evidently very much pleased. "You have grown into a woman, my dear, but you keep your child's face wonderfully. I should have known you anywhere."

"And I am sure I should have known you," said Rhoda. "You have not changed a bit, nor the room, either. I believe I could tell now exactly which books have pictures in them. I should almost think that dog was old Beauty, though I suppose that can hardly be."

"Oh no; Beauty died several years ago. This is one of her puppies, and she is growing an old dog too. That is the worst of dogs. They will grow old and die."

"I suppose if they lived thirty years, it would be all the harder to part with them," observed Rhoda. "Anyhow, I would rather people should die than they should do some other things."

"Yes, 'a dead sorrow is better than a living one,' the old proverb says. I have always that feeling about the deaths of people that I love, especially young people. They are so safe. They never can change for the worse. But come, sit down and make yourself comfortable, child. What can I find to entertain you?"

"I came to entertain you, and not to be entertained," said Rhoda, smiling. "Shall I read to you? I like to read aloud."

"Yes, do, if you please. There is a new magazine on the table with some interesting articles in it. Mrs. Campion sent it in yesterday."

"Mrs. Campion!" repeated Rhoda. "Don't I remember her? Didn't she have a little girl named Rose?"

"Yes, an adopted child."

"What has become of her?"

"Oh, she is a fine young lady, and is going to be married, they tell me. Mrs. Campion has several others, but Rosy has always been the pet, I think."

Rhoda sighed deeply, but said nothing. She read for a long time, till Miss Brown said,—

"There! That will do. I am sure you must be tired. Besides, I want to ask you about some people I used to know in Boonville—the Weightmans. Hannah Weightman was one of my intimate friends when we both went to the Phelps academy fifty years ago. Is she alive, do you know?"

"Aunt Hannah Weightman? Yes, indeed—at least she was a few weeks ago," said Rhoda.

"Why do you call her aunt?" asked Miss Brown.

"She was Mrs. Bowers's aunt, you know," said Rhoda; "I was always taught to call her so. She was my Sunday-school teacher all the time I lived in Boonville. Oh, what would I give to see her?" said Rhoda, her eyes filling with sudden tears. "Oh, I wonder what she said when she came back and found me gone?"

"Then she did not know of it—of this change, I mean?"

"No, ma'am, she was away. I don't believe it would have happened if she had been at home. And yet I don't know. She never had half as much influence as Uncle Jacob, though she is so good and knows so much. Uncle Jacob don't know about anything but money, and don't care for anything else, but everybody gives way to him because he is rich. No, not everybody, either, but some people do. I heard Jeduthun Cooke say to him,—

"'Mr. Weightman, I'd rather be Sammy Makay than you any day.'

"You see, Sammy is a kind of natural, but just as good as he can be.

"'I'd rather be Sammy than you,' said Jeduthun, 'whether you take it now or a hundred years from now.'

"Oh how angry Uncle Jacob was! He tried to make Mr. Francis discharge Jeduthun, but Mr. Francis would almost as soon burn down the mills."

"And what did Uncle Jacob say to your coming away?" asked Miss Brown, with an appearance of interest.

"I believe it was all his fault," said she. "He never could bear me when I first went there, and I remember his saying he wouldn't let that poorhouse girl call him 'Uncle.' I didn't think so much of it at the time; but now that I think matters over, I can see that it was his doing. He never could bear to have Aunt Hannah give me anything, and I know he made Mr. and Mrs. Bowers think he wouldn't leave them or the baby any money unless they sent me away. Mother—Mrs. Bowers, I mean—used to be always talking about the money he had, and how he could make baby rich. I told her one day that he wouldn't do it—that he would go on saving all his life, and then leave his property to some charity at last by way of making amends."

"It is likely enough," said Miss Brown, sighing. "Is his wife living?"

"Oh no; she died long ago."

"What kind of woman was she?"

"I asked Aunt Hannah once, and she said,—

"'Harriet was one of the salt of the earth, if she had only been in the right place.'

"Afterward mother told me that Aunt Harriet was an open-handed, liberal woman, but that she and her husband were not happy together. Did you know Mr. Weightman?"

"Yes, I knew him when we were all young together," answered Miss Brown, sighing again, "though he is several years older than I am. My dear, have you written to your aunt since you have been here?"

"No, ma'am," answered Rhoda, rather proudly; "I waited for her to write to me."

"And has she not done so?"

"No, ma'am, not a word."

"Perhaps—it is just possible she does not know where you are," said Miss Brown. "Miss Carpenter told me that when you left home you thought you were coming to school. Isn't it just possible that the same idea may have been carried there?"

"And that Aunt Hannah thinks I am at school all the time?" said Rhoda, starting and dropping her book. "I dare say she does. And yet it would be so mean, I don't like to think they would do so."

"Nevertheless, I would write to her," said Miss Brown, thinking at the same time that the people who would play such a trick on an orphan child would be none too good to save appearances for themselves in the same way. "She may be wondering why you do not write to her."

"Yes, it must seem very strange if she thinks I am at school, and—Why, of course she does," exclaimed Rhoda. "How silly I am! I wrote to her that they were thinking of sending me to school in Milby, but it was not settled yet. But would you tell her all about it?"

"I would. Truth is always best in the end, and she will be sure to hear it somehow. Besides, you owe it to her. But don't write to-day. You are tired and excited, and must not undertake too much at once. Lean back in the chair or lie down on the couch and rest a while."

"May I bring my writing things in here, Miss Brown?" asked Rhoda the next day, coming into Miss Brown's room with her desk in her hands.

"Yes, do, my child. Are you going to write to your aunt?"

"Yes, ma'am. I have been considering about it, and I asked Miss Carpenter, and she said I should write by all means."

"You can take that little table by the window," said Miss Brown. "I like to have you sit where I can see you. What a pretty little desk you have!"

"It was given me last Christmas," said Rhoda, sadly. "I little thought then where I should be when Christmas came round again."

"We can none of us tell that, my child."

"I asked mother whether I should come home at Christmas, and she said it would be just as the teachers thought best," said Rhoda, after she had finished her letter, taking out her work and sitting down in the arm-chair by the bed. "I don't think I ever was happier in my life than I was that very morning. I was so pleased with the thought of going to school, for I had set my heart on having a good education. But that is all over now," she added, sighing. "I must put it all out of my head."

"Why?" asked Miss Brown.

"Because I never shall have any chance," answered Rhoda. "I suppose I shall have to go to work and earn my own living."

"That need not prevent your getting an education," said Miss Brown. "If I were you, I would set my heart on it more than ever, and improve every chance I had. You need not be uneducated because you don't go to school. Mrs. Thomas Conroy, who used to have the charge of Miss Dickey's orphan asylum, was one of the most cultivated women I ever knew, and she never went to school after she was twelve."

"But what chances shall I be likely to have?" asked Rhoda, doubtfully.

"Plenty of them," answered Miss Brown, smiling. "You are likely to have your home here for some time—at least as long as there are so many sick and helpless. Why shouldn't you learn some lessons and recite them to me as I lie here doing nothing?"

"That would be delightful," said Rhoda, with a little of her old animation; "only I am afraid it would give you too much trouble."

"On the contrary, it would be a great amusement to me," said Miss Brown. "Oh no; don't give up the idea of an education, but make up your mind to improve every opportunity you have, be it ever so small, and you will be sure to succeed."

"One can do a good deal in that way," said Rhoda. "I learned all the music I know by practising on Fanny Badger's piano when I was up there."

"Then you can play a little?"

"Yes, ma'am—several pieces; and I have played in Sunday-school sometimes, but I suppose I shall lose it all. I wonder," exclaimed Rhoda—"I wonder whether I might practise sometimes on the little piano down stairs? I don't believe I should hurt it; do you?"

"I should say there was very little danger," answered Miss Brown, dryly. "You can ask Miss Carpenter about it. There is a lady in the house—Miss Wilkins—who plays the piano. I dare say she might help you along with your music. Meantime, let us talk a little about these same lessons. Tell me what you have studied."

The lessons were arranged without any trouble. Miss Brown produced a good collection of solid, old-fashioned books, remains of her father's library, and she was herself a well-educated woman, who had read much and thought more. Rhoda was to learn a geometry lesson every day, and to continue her readings in Rollin, which she had brought away with her, and Miss Brown, who had a reverence for the wisdom of our ancestors, set her to writing out the exercises in Lindley Murray's English grammar.

Miss Carpenter was at first a good deal startled by the proposition that Rhoda should use the piano and take lessons of Miss Wilkins, and would give no answer till she had consulted Mrs. Mulford.

Mrs. Mulford was rather surprised and amused, but could see no objection.

"We have everything else at 'The Home,' and I don't know why we shouldn't have a few music-lessons," said she. "It will amuse poor Miss Wilkins, and can do the child no harm that I can see."

"It may make some talk," said Miss Carpenter. "I know remarks have been made because some of the old ladies go in and out of the front door. They say it shows such a spirit of pride in people who are living on charity."

"They may as well say that as anything else," said Mrs. Mulford. "If they didn't come in at the front door, we should hear of the oppression exercised in making them go round the back way."

So it was all settled. Miss Wilkins got out her old instruction-books, and revived her own knowledge in teaching Rhoda. She was a gentle, cultivated woman, the daughter of an English clergyman, who, after a life of governessing in different places, had drifted into this safe haven to spend the rest of her days. She was sometimes rather shocked, and even a little alarmed, at the boldness of Rhoda's opinions and the freedom with which she expressed them, but she soon learned to love her pupil, who loved her heartily in return, and respected her as well, for Rhoda was one of the happy people who are capable of respect; and the two did each other a great deal of good.

Rhoda posted her letter to Aunt Hannah and after waiting a week or two she wrote again, but she never received any answer. Why she did not we shall learn in the next chapter.