CHAPTER VIII.

_A NEW HOME._

THE news of Aunt Hannah's death was a dreadful shock to Rhoda. She had looked to her return with a vague but strong hope that somehow the old lady would set matters right. She had felt so sure of seeing her, especially since she had made up her mind to write, and her heart had throbbed faster every time the door-bell rung. Now it was all over. Aunt Hannah was gone, and she felt herself indeed alone in the world.

"After all, if it was to be so, I am glad she died instead of changing like the others," said she to Miss Brown. "If mother had died when baby was born, I should not have been half so sorry about her as I am now."

"Ah, my dear, there are few people who might not say that of some one," said Miss Brown, sighing. "But, Rhoda, would there have been nothing to regret then?"

"Not on her side," answered Rhoda. "I soon found out that mother was not the wisest woman that ever lived, but she was always kind to me. I don't believe any child ever was happier or better taken care of than I was for those eight years."

"Then you have at least that much for which to thank Mrs. Bowers," remarked Miss Brown, "since she gave you eight years of happiness."

"Yes, I suppose so," said Rhoda, thoughtfully; "and yet, somehow, this last business seems to have blotted out all the rest. I could find it in my heart to wish they had let me alone."

"I understand you," said her friend; "but, Rhoda, you must try to forgive as you would be forgiven."

"Indeed, I do, Miss Brown," said Rhoda, earnestly. "You don't know how much I pray for a forgiving spirit, and sometimes I think I have it, but then again the tide comes up and sweeps it all away."

"That is the way with everybody, child. We have to fight our battles over and over again."

"It is very strange that Aunt Hannah left no will," said Rhoda, recurring again to Mr. Weightman's letter. "He says that as his sister left no will, the property returns to the rightful owner—himself, I suppose he means: that he sends me her clothes and some other things, though I have no right, in law, to anything. I don't understand it, for I am sure that Aunt Hannah had made a will at one time. You don't suppose Mr. Weightman can have destroyed it, do you?"

"I think not. He would hardly have ventured on such a crime. Aunt Hannah may have destroyed it herself, thinking that she would make another. You know she died very suddenly."

"I don't know. Mr. Weightman would do almost anything for the sake of money, I think," said Rhoda. "It was all he cared about. It was that which spoiled mother more than anything else. She got to think, as Uncle Jacob did, that money was everything, and she was jealous of everybody better off than herself. She used to vex me talking about Aunt Annie—aunt is her sister. She said Annie was so worldly and extravagant, though I don't think she was, and she said she should think Annie would feel ashamed to wear so diamonds and keep so many servants when her own sister had none.

"I don't think that she loved money so much for its own sake as because she thought it made people respected and looked up to. She said nobody cared for poor folks—they never were respected; and she used to fancy that people felt above her. I know Mrs. Swan came to see her from the Springs, and she never would return the call, because she said Mrs. Swan came in a handsome silk dress and a sable cloak, and she had nothing to wear but a merino."

"It is a poor kind of spirit, but one meets it everywhere," said Miss Brown. "Mrs. Merchant won't sit next Mrs. Smithers on Sunday because Mrs. Smithers wears her black silk dress to tea."

Rhoda had several letters from the girls in Boonville, and one from Mrs. Antis offering to give her a home till she could do better. Rhoda thanked her friend, but declined the invitation.

"I couldn't do it," she said to Miss Carpenter, to whom she showed the letter. "Mrs. Antis is very kind, but I think it would break my heart to go back there now."

Miss Carpenter sympathized with the feeling, and was secretly glad that Rhoda did not want to go away.

"I should hardly know how to do without her, and that is the truth," said she to Mrs. Mulford, one day when the two were talking over matters in the house.

"She makes herself useful, then?"

"Oh yes, indeed, she does. Not that she accomplishes so very much work, but she is always at hand, and always ready to help when she is wanted. Even when I have to call her away from her book or her music to do an errand or to sit with somebody, she is just as pleasant about it as can be.

"And she is one of the kind who save steps instead of making them. When she waits on the old ladies at table, which she offered to do of her own accord, she is always on the watch to see whose cup is out or who wants anything; and if Mrs. Gardener or Mrs. Pratt wants to rise—you know neither of them can get up alone—Rhoda's arm is always there ready. Now, Jenny means to do right, for aught I know, as much as Rhoda, but you have always got to tell her. She don't anticipate one as Rhoda does."

"I am glad to hear such a good account of the child," said Mrs. Mulford. "I was a little afraid she might be 'stuck up,' as they say; and I have not felt quite sure about the effects of these lessons. Miss Brown tells me that she is an excellent scholar. I wish we could keep her here and give her a good education, but I don't see any way to do it. We have stretched a point in keeping her as long as we have. I am afraid she must go to a place pretty soon."

"I am sure I hope it will be a good one, then," said Miss Carpenter. "That is the worst of our little girls. As soon as we have made them worth something, we have to let them go."

"Is that Rhoda playing?" asked Mrs. Mulford as the sound of a piano reached her ears.

"Yes; she practises every day. I think she would make a good player if she had a chance, but the piano is a poor old thing, and some of the old ladies complain of the noise; so Rhoda doesn't play as much as she would like to."

"Well, I must see what can be done, but I fear it won't answer to keep her here much longer. People say now that the funds are misapplied and the old ladies half starved. I should think any one might see that they are not badly used by the way they live on after they come to us. Mrs. Pratt was nearly eighty when she came to 'The Home,' and she has been here ten years."

"It's her good temper keeps her alive," said Miss Carpenter.

"And what do you think keeps Aunty Parsons alive? Not her good temper, I am sure."

"She has got in the habit of living just as she has of smoking, and she doesn't know how to leave it off," said Mrs. Lambert, who, though the most faithful and untiring of nurses, was by no means so placid as Miss Carpenter. "I believe she will wear me out before she dies herself. Well, we shall dislike to have Rhoda go away but perhaps, if she has to earn her living, the earlier she sets about it, the better. She is a girl sure to make friends wherever she goes—that is one thing."

The box containing Aunt Hannah's clothes arrived in due time, and Rhoda shed many tears over its contents, particularly over her aunt's Bible, which she was delighted to find among the things. On turning it over, she found a two-dollar and a twenty-five-cent bill concealed among the leaves, and showed them to Miss Brown.

"That money will just do to get you a new pair of shoes with," said Mrs. Parsons, who happened to be in the room at the time. "Some folks has all the luck. Nobody never sends me no money."

"No," said Rhoda; "I know Aunt Hannah put them in there for the missionary collection; this paper with them says so. That is the way she used to do. I mean to get Miss Carpenter to change the money and keep it to carry to church."

"That's a good notion, Rhody," said Miss Dean, another old lady, who had always taken a great interest in Rhoda. "It is strange, now, how Providence orders things," she continued, reflectively. "Last week I was worrying because I hadn't a speck of money to send to the children's hospital fund—and I always did feel such an interest in that object—and when I was at the worst, my grandnephew came in to see me and gave me five dollars for a present—he's a dreadful openhearted boy, Daniel is; just like my father—so there I had a dollar to send to the hospital directly."

"Everything comes right for you, don't it, aunty?" asked Rhoda, smiling.

"Well, yes, child, pretty much."

"I'm sure I shouldn't think it came very right when you had to be turned out of your room," said Mrs. Parsons, who, like most grumblers, resented Miss Dean's contentment as an affront to herself.

"Well, yes, it did. I was sorry to lose my closet, but then I had a wardrobe and a register to myself; and then it's a great saving of my strength not to have to go up and down stairs; and when grandmother was put into my room, I did feel favoured, indeed."

"How is grandmother?"

"Well, her eyes trouble her some, but she is pretty smart for a woman a hundred and one years old. But I must go, for I promised to make a cap for Miss Carpenter to-day."

"And I must go too," said Rhoda, starting. "Miss Wilkins will wonder what has become of me."

Rhoda's lessons were not to be uninterrupted much longer. As Mrs. Mulford remarked, the managers had stretched a point in keeping her so long, since she was quite well again and her services were really not needed in the house. The funds of the institution were strictly tied up to two special objects—the maintenance of the old women and of the eight little girls, who were to be put out to places at the age of fifteen. Miss Carpenter often regretted this law, saying that it obliged them to part with the girls just at the wrong time.

"Just when they begin to be most useful to us, and when they need the most care," said she. "Fifteen is about the last age when a girl should be thrown on her own resources. She is usually a good deal better able to take care of herself at ten."

However, the law was a law, and could not be altered. Rhoda was past sixteen, a stout, healthy, capable girl, and some people had already begun to talk about favouritism, etc., in the amiable strain in which many persons who do nothing whatever for their fellow-creatures are apt to criticise those who are trying to do a little. It was decided that Rhoda must go, and it fell to the lot of Mrs. Mulford to tell her of the decision.

Poor Rhoda felt as if she were being once more torn up by the roots. She had taken her first transplanting hardly enough, but she had, as it were, become settled in the new soil, and had struck out rootlets and tendrils. She had said to herself more than once that it must come to this some day—that of course she must expect to work for her living; but as the days and weeks went on, and nothing was said about a change, the idea had fallen into the background of her mind. She felt herself once more at home; and when Mrs. Mulford mentioned the matter, which she did very kindly, Rhoda burst into tears and cried bitterly.

Mrs. Mulford was rather annoyed. She had done her best to find a place for Rhoda, and she disliked anything like a scene. Moreover, she did not quite understand Rhoda's feelings, so she delivered her a little lecture on false pride.

"You ought to be thankful for all that has been done for you already," said she, in conclusion. "Come, now, dry up your tears, and look at it like a sensible girl."

"I am sure I am thankful," said Rhoda, trying to compose herself. "I know how kind everybody has been, and it was very good in you to find me a nice place; but—but it came over me so suddenly. It seems somehow to make me feel the change more than anything. And I did so want to get an education," said the poor girl, with a fresh burst of tears as the sense of her disappointment overcame her; "I have set my heart on it all my life. I wouldn't care how hard I worked for it."

"Yes, yes, I understand," said Mrs. Mulford. "I will try to find you a place where you can work for your board and go to school by and by; but really I think you can't do better than to accept this one at present. It is not so distant but that you can come home pretty often—for you must always consider this house your home, my dear; and the wages are good—two dollars a week. You can be laying up money, you see, and by and by you may be able to accomplish your object. You have a pretty good stock of clothes, have you not?"

"Oh yes, ma'am, all I shall want this long time."

"And some money beforehand, I think Miss Carpenter said?"

"Yes, ma'am—twenty dollars. But I thought perhaps I ought to pay that for my board here."

"Oh dear, no!" said Mrs. Mulford, secretly very much pleased with the suggestion. "You have done quite enough to pay for your board since you have been here. I think you had better put your money in the savings bank, as you don't want to use it. Then it will be safe and drawing interest, and one is not so much tempted to spend money when one has to go to the bank for it, as I know by experience," she added, smiling. "I will go to the bank with you and get you a book, and you can deposit what part of your wages you don't want to use; and by and by you will find yourself with quite a little capital—enough to go to school on for some time."

"And perhaps I may have time to study where I am going," said Rhoda, brightening up a little at these suggestions.

"I dare say you may, if you are quick; though you must remember that your time is your employer's, and not slight your work. Mrs. Ferrand is a reasonable woman in the main, and won't expect too much of you. My Jane has half the time to herself—at least three days in the week; though I am afraid she spends very little time in studying. She likes to run in the street better than anything. Miss Carpenter tells me that you don't care very much about going out."

"I haven't anywhere to go," said Rhoda, sighing a little. "When will Mrs. Ferrand want me?"

"As soon as you can be ready. She usually keeps two girls, but has nobody at present."

Rhoda was not sorry to hear this, for one of the things she had dreaded was the being obliged to associate with uncongenial people, and she secretly resolved that she would do all in her power to make another girl unnecessary. The prospect of being able to save money for her great object was another comfort. Nevertheless, it was not very strange that after Mrs. Mulford had gone, Rhoda should shut herself up in her room and have a good cry.

But Rhoda, young as she was, had learned the way to the only spring of comfort and peace. She recurred to Aunt Hannah's verses written in the beginning of her precious Bible, and by degrees she was able to say honestly and from her heart,—

"'Not my will, but thine, be done.'"

There was a great outcry in the house when it was known that Rhoda was going away. Her quiet helpfulness and cheerfulness had greatly endeared her to the old ladies, and Miss Brown had come to depend very much upon her.

Granny Parsons declared that "it wasn't no more than she expected. She always knew that Rhoda's pride would have a fall, with her music-lessons and her history-books, thinking herself a young lady, when she wasn't nothing but a charity child." Then turning round with a rapidity quite her own, she declared that it was "a shame and a sin to make the poor girl live out, just as if the ladies couldn't afford to support her when they was perfectly rolling in money. It was all of a piece—just some of Mrs. Lambert's doing, because she, Mrs. Lambert, knew that granny liked her best of any gal in the house. Just like her taking away my bottle of whisky with cherry bark into it—the only thing that is any comfort to me."

"Because the doctor said it wasn't good for you," said Mrs. Josleyn. "He said 'twas that made your eyes sore."

"Just as if he knew anything! I knew his father when he wasn't nothing but a hired man, living out with old Mr. Mellener. A likely story he knows what's good for folks!"

"Well, Rhody, so we are going to lose you, I hear?" said Miss Dean. "I'm real sorry, but I suppose it is all ordered for the best. You are a good girl, and I'm sure the Lord will take care of you. Now, let me give you one bit of advice, because I'm older than you, and I've seen a great deal of the world in one place and another. I dare say you will find some things not quite pleasant—one does everywhere; but you just make up your mind to take the bitter with the sweet, and don't throw away your dinner because you happen to find a cinder in it. You might not get another in a hurry; or if you did, it might have something worse than a cinder. Of course it ain't the kind of place you've been used to; but if you respect yourself and mind your business and don't put yourself forward, but just do your very best in your own part of the house, there's no fear but your folks will think enough of you. And don't you give up the notion of getting an education. I feel to believe that it will be brought about somehow for you."

"Oh, I don't mean to," said Rhoda, cheerfully. "I mean to learn all I can about everything, work included."

"That's right," said Miss Dean. "My mother used to say that there wasn't any use in neglecting your knitting to-day because you expected to have some spinning to-morrow. Some folks are always doing that very thing—neglecting the work just under their hand because they expect to accomplish something grand byme-by, and they never accomplish anything.

"Well, the Lord bless you, Rhody, and I'm sure he will. You've had some pretty hard trials when you was young, and maybe you'll have all the better times when you are old. Anyhow, as long as you hold on to him, he won't never leave you. I'm just as sure of that as I am that I'm alive."