CHAPTER II.

CHANGING PLANS.

THE following Sunday saw Edah at the Communion for the first time in her life. It had been customary for all the pupils of the school to return home immediately after the Offertory, under the supervision of some of the elder girls, while the teachers remained. But on this particular Sunday morning so many of them asked permission to stay, that Miss Anderson thought it best that all should do so, except the very youngest, who were sent home under the care of the nurse and matron.

Milly was very much impressed with the solemnity of the scene which she now witnessed for the first time,—the silence of the church after the congregation had retired—the space allotted for mental devotion—the solemn and beautiful service, and the impressive words with which the elements were delivered to each of those now kneeling at the Chancel rails. Especially when her friend Edah went forward with the rest, did she feel a strong desire to be with her—a wish that she too might be admitted into the band of Christ's followers, and she resolved that from that day she would place the subject first in her mind, and never rest till she had come to a conclusion upon the subject.

And she kept her word. She devoted all her spare time to studying the Bible, not only with all the force of her clear mind, but also with earnest prayer for the assistance of the Spirit; for it signifies little with what mental power we attempt to grapple with the truths of God's word, unless, at the same time, the illumination of the Holy Ghost accompany our efforts. She made diligent use of all the means of grace placed in her way, keeping, at the same time, close watch over her own temper and disposition, and when the decisive time came, she chose as might have been expected—she chose the strait and narrow path, which leadeth unto eternal life, and threw all her talents and all her influence on the side of Christ.

Mr. Wardwell remarked to Miss Anderson afterwards that in the whole course of his ministry, he had never talked with a candidate who seemed to have clearer ideas as to what she was about to do, or a more humble desire to lean upon the arm of God for strength.

But this was entirely in accordance with Millicent's natural character: whatever she did was done thoroughly. She never commenced any thing hastily, but whatever she began was carried through.

More than a dozen of the school-girls were confirmed at this time, and about the same number from the town, and it was remarked long afterwards that those who took this important step under Mr. Wardwell's ministry were noticeable for the steady consistency of their life and conversation. They were especially noticed as being "useful" Christians. Few of them were known to shirk their share of work as Sunday School teachers, as visitors of the sick, and comforters of the destitute, whether of body or mind. Indeed, Mr. Wardwell's definition of the requirement to be in charity with all men was somewhat wide, and comprehended a great deal more than the simple fact of having no quarrel with any one.

The time passed as rapidly as it always does with busy people, and school-girls especially, and vacation was very near. It had been decided that this vacation was to be spent by our two friends mostly in a retired watering-place on the sea-shore, and they were anticipating a great deal of pleasure, when something happened to over throw all their plans.

The letters were always brought into the dining-room at dinner-time, and there distributed to their owners. One day Milly and Edah each received one. Milly's was a model of epistolary elegance—seal, envelope, and paper being all according to the latest fashion, while through all the vulgar contact with dunning letters, lawyers' packets, and so forth, an odor of violets still lingered around the delicate page. Edah's, on the contrary, was without an envelope, not remarkably well folded, and the direction was written in a large boyish hand, with a decided slope into one corner. Edah smiled as she looked at it.

"Really, Edah," said Milly, laughing, "your friend does not trouble himself much with the minor elegances of correspondence."

"It is from Sam," said Edah, laughing in her turn, as she broke the seal. "Poor fellow, his literary abilities have never been particularly well developed; but after all, he is a good boy in his way, and likes to write to me. Indeed, if it were not for him, I should never hear from the family at all."

She began reading her letter, with a smile on her face, which vanished as she went on, and she grew very grave.

"Is there any thing the matter?" asked Milly, observing the change.

"Why, yes; they are in rather an uncomfortable state, according to Sam. Mrs. Champlin is very unwell, indeed, and so is the baby, and Pauline, the next to the youngest, is very delicate. I hardly see how they get on at all."

"There is another daughter, is there not?"

"Oh, yes, Susan. She is about fourteen, but from what I saw when I was at home, I should not imagine that she would be of much assistance. I must write to-day, and ask Sam to let me know more particularly. But what says Miss Concklin, for I presume that elegant epistle, which forms such a contrast to poor Sam's, is from her?"

"Oh, just as usual! She is very kind and affectionate, longs to have the vacation arrive, that we may be with her; says my father is well, but much absorbed in business, as usual; sends her love to yourself, and her kind regards to Miss Anderson. Stay, here is a postscript.

"'The arrangements are all made for our party to the sea-shore, and we have every prospect of a most delightful sojourn. The party will be smaller than was at first proposed, but I think it will lose nothing in point of pleasantness. Be sure to come home the first day possible.'

"How delightful it will be!" she said, refolding the elegant sheet, and restoring it to its envelope.

Edah did not reply. She was reading her brother's letter again; and three or four times in the course of the afternoon Milly saw her refer to it.

"You study that letter, Edah, as if it were a mathematical problem. What is there in it so very entertaining?"

"Nothing very entertaining, but something rather interesting. I have been seriously considering whether I ought not to give up this party to the sea-shore, and go home to nurse mother. If she is so unwell, and the younger children also, it seems to me as if they must need help."

Millicent looked at her as if she had proposed to go to the moon.

"Give up going to the sea-shore, and go home instead!" she exclaimed. "Why, Edah, what are you thinking of? It will overset our plans entirely."

"I do not see why," returned Edah. "You could go just the same; and although it would not be quite as pleasant for you, it would make no difference to the others, whom I hardly know at all. It seems to me as if I would be useful at home, in a good many ways."

"But, my dear child, what could you do? You know hardly any thing about work."

"True; but then you know I am a pretty good nurse, at least so Miss Anderson thinks, and I am good at sewing. Then there is another thing. I fear, from what Sam says, that they are rather straitened in means: the family is large, and father has not attended much to business lately. Mr. Liston promised me a hundred and fifty dollars to spend upon this journey, in addition to my allowance, and that would go a good way towards making a family of children comfortable."

"But it will be such a sacrifice for you."

"It will be a sacrifice; I cannot deny it," and Edah sighed as she spoke. "The children are terribly spoiled, and mother has no sort of authority over them. I liked Sam the best of them all. He is a rough, noisy fellow enough, but then he is warm-hearted and affectionate. Susan seemed to me to be both jealous and selfish, but perhaps I might judge differently now. The younger ones are like all spoiled children, as far as I know. Sam, and Pauline, who was almost a baby then, took a great liking to me, and I always intended when I had a home of my own, to take Polly to live with me. But then, Milly, the sacrifice to myself is not what I ought to think of: if I can be useful, that is the main thing."

"That is true," admitted Milly, rather reluctantly; "but, will Mr. Liston consent?"

"If he does not, it will be the first time he ever contradicted me in his life," said Edah, laughing; "except once, when I wanted some gunpowder to play with, like the boys in the street. Mr. Liston is somewhat prejudiced against my father, it is true—unjustly as I think; but after all, he likes to have people act from principle, as he says, and then he likes to have me do as I please. I do not anticipate any objection from him."

"Well, Edah, I cannot find it in my heart to dissuade you, sorry as I am to have our plans broken up. But do not decide hastily."

"Oh, no; I shall wait for another letter from Sam, I ant going to write to him this afternoon, and see what he thinks of the idea."

Sam's second letter arrived in a few days, and quite decided Edah upon abandoning her plan of amusement for the summer, and going home to nurse her stepmother, who, according to Sam's account, was in rather a critical situation. Mr. Liston made no very strong objections to her plan; as Edah said, he never contradicted her in any thing, not actually dangerous.

Miss Concklin, Millicent's aunt, raised the loudest cry. She could not conceive, she said in a letter to Milly, six pages long, that Miss Champlin was under any obligations to her father's second wife. Mr. Champlin had never done any thing for his daughter, and she had no expectations from him. As far as she could learn, they were not at all desirable people for a young lady of Miss Champlin's fortune and expectations to associate with, and really, she must think that Miss Champlin showed a very singular taste, in preferring the company of a set of vulgar relations and spoiled children, in a country village, to the society of some of the first people in the land, both in regard to station and cultivation. But of course Miss Champlin must choose for herself.

Milly only laughed over this letter: she knew her aunt well enough to be aware that her anger at the disappointment would exhaust itself in words, and that she would then appreciate Edah's conduct. Severely as she knew she should feel the loss of her friend's society, she would not say one word to discourage her from the resolution she had formed. And it was now settled that as soon as school was out, Edah should go at once to Brooksville, where her father resided.

"A year ago, Edah," remarked Milly, "you would hardly have thought of doing such a thing. I do not mean, of course, that you would not have done it for me, if I had been sick, but you would not have thought yourself called upon to make such a great sacrifice for any one."

"I hope I am very different from what I was a year ago," returned Edah. "A year ago, I should never have thought of going to church in the rain, as we did yesterday; and as to wearing a gingham dress and woollen shawl, I really believe I should have stayed at home every Sunday for six months rather than do such a thing."

"I do not think you care so much for dress, as you did," said Milly.

"I hope I am not growing careless about it; am I?"

"Oh, no; you are as neat as ever, but you do not spend so much time upon it as you used to. I remember your saying, last summer, that you could not possibly dress in less than an hour, and now you find a good deal less than that sufficient. And you do not spend nearly so much money upon it."

"I know I do not. It does not seem right to waste so much upon mere personal adornment, when there are so many better uses for money. The difference between a twelve-dollar lace collar and a twelve-shilling French worked one, would furnish a very good Sunday School library; and how is any one the better for wearing a twelve-dollar collar?"

"No better," said Milly; "for besides the expense, the worked collar is much the prettiest in my opinion. I remember, last summer, when the Miss Reeves had just been at our house with a great display of Honiton lace in collars, sleeves, handkerchiefs, &c., my father, who seldom notices dress, asked me how long it had been the fashion for ladies to wear ragged lace. Aunt Maria was quite indignant. But you know, Edah, some people say, 'What would become of the people that make these things if no one wore them?'"

"They would make something else, I suppose," said Edah; "and moreover, I never heard that these people felt themselves bound to wear articles after they went out of fashion, out of compassion for the people that made them. I confess that question has puzzled me a little; but for all that I cannot think it right to spend so much money for mere finery, when it might be profitably employed in other ways."

"I was speaking of your being altered, Edah," said Milly, after a few moments' silence; "I notice it more in your temper than in any thing else. You are much less quick and impatient than you used to be."

"I am glad to hear you say so, Milly, for I assure you, I cannot see the alteration in myself half as much as I wish I could. No one knows how earnestly I strive and pray for a Christian temper; but every little while something happens to upset me, and I find myself speaking and feeling in a way, that when I think of it, makes me almost ready to despair of myself. This very morning, Mary Snowden vexed me so, that I hardly knew how to control myself. It does seem to me that she takes pleasure in annoying me."

"She takes pleasure in annoying every one," said Milly. "Nothing delights her so much as to put any one out of temper. I cannot understand that sort of disposition myself."

"I confess I can," said Edah. "I have sometimes—I hope not lately—felt something of it myself. A good many girls think it shows wit to tease people, especially when they are irritable. It is a fact that I am sometimes afraid to open my mouth before Mary Snowden, she will invent so many ways to annoy me. I have tried every way to conciliate her, but it seems as if the more I endeavor to be on my guard, the more determined she is to throw me off it; and she puts on such a face of surprise and contemptuous pity, and shrugs her shoulders so significantly if I show the least annoyance, or even try to defend myself ever so gently, I don't know how to bear it at all sometimes."

"It is strange enough," said Milly, "that any person should take pleasure in seeing one betrayed into sin, but I believe it is often the case, much oftener than people acknowledge to themselves. You will have to keep a double guard over yourself at home."

"Yes," sighed Edah: "I almost dread it; but after all, the discipline will be good for me. I have spent all my life so easily and pleasantly, that I can hardly say I know what trouble is. You must write to me very often, Milly, and tell me all that you are doing. I shall find time to write to you, whatever else I have to do."

The next day saw Milly in New York, preparing for her excursion to the seaside, and Edah in the stage-coach on her way to her father's. Her heart almost sunk within her as she drew near to Brooksville, and saw the village before her, but she tried to keep up good courage. Her father received her at the gate affectionately enough, but Edah was shocked to see how much he was altered. His eyes were red and watery, his hands trembled, his figure was bent, and Edah thought his breath smelt of spirits. Sam received her with a noisy demonstration of kindness, which drew down a reproof from Susan for being so rude. Susan herself was cold, and almost uncivil, and answered Edah's inquiries about her mother very shortly.

"She is very unwell, indeed," she said, "and quite unfit to be troubled with company."

"But I am not company," said Edah, good-naturedly, and taking up little Pauline, who came to her side. "I have come to be of some use, if I can. Sam wrote to me that mother was very unwell, and the baby also, and I thought if that were the case, it would be more than you could do to take care of every thing."

"I am much obliged, I am sure," said Susan, in a tone which seemed to express something very different from her words; "but I don't know that I have made any complaint. Do get down, Pauline; how troublesome you are!"

But Pauline still kept her seat, and looked at her sister with an air half of defiance, half of fear. Susan would have proceeded to force, but at that moment she was called into the kitchen, and went out, leaving it to Sam and Pauline to show Edah her room, which she was glad to find pleasant in its aspect, and in comfortable order, with windows which commanded an extremely pretty prospect. Pauline was unwilling to leave her even here, but by alternate coaxing and scolding on Sam's part, she was at last prevailed on to go down stairs, and leave her sister to herself.

Edah unpacked her trunk, and took out her presents for her mother and the children. She then dressed herself in a pretty French calico frock and black silk apron, and went down stairs. She was passing a half-open door, when she heard a baby cry, and a feeble voice said:

"Susan, is that you?"

"It is Edah, mother," she said, entering softly. "Susan said you were asleep, and I did not like to disturb you."

Mrs. Champlin was sitting up in bed, holding the baby in her arms. She was very thin and pale, and seemed hardly able to support the weight of the puny little creature. She seemed very much pleased to see Edah, and kissed her affectionately.

"It is very good of you, I am sure," she said, with an appearance of a good deal of feeling, "to come and stay with us, instead of going to your friends, but I am afraid we cannot make it very pleasant for you."

"I did not come a-pleasuring, as nurse says," replied Edah, smiling; "but from Sam's account of things, I thought Susan must need some help, and came to see what I could do: so let me take the baby to begin with. You do not seem fit to hold him at all. What a tiny creature it is!"

"Very small," assented Mrs. Champlin; "he has been sick ever since he was born. If you will hand me that little bottle of milk, I will feed him."

"Do let me try," said Edah, bringing the bottle; "I am sure I can do it, and do you lie down again."

She took the child accordingly, and began feeding it, not unskilfully, while Mrs. Champlin sank back on her pillow, and watched her at first rather anxiously, and then apparently with some amusement.

"Why, you get on very nicely," she said at length. "Do they teach baby-tending at your school?"

"No," said Edah; "but I have played with Mrs. Wardwell's baby a good deal, especially since I knew I was coming here, and she taught me to feed and dress it. I thought, as you had a young baby, it would be convenient to know, and, besides, I love the little things dearly."

So saying, she removed the handkerchief she had tucked under the child's chin, and straightened out its clothes quite scientifically, addressing to it, at the same time, some of that highly rational and instructive conversation in which nurses are accustomed to deal, and with which babies are at all times greatly delighted. She was engaged in this manner, and in relating to her mother the incidents of the journey, when Susan entered.

"So! You seem to have got yourself into business," she said, in a tone which was a shade more gracious than any she had yet used. "Do you like babies?"

"Very much," said Edah.

"I am glad of it, for I don't. I never can get on with children, and Sam and Pauline plague my life out."

"Sam is one of the children, is he?" said her mother. "He is a whole year older than you are."

"He is old enough to know how to behave himself, then," returned Susan; "but he don't, and I believe he never will. Tea is ready, Edah, or perhaps I should say Miss Champlin."

"I think, Susan," said her mother, "that I will go out into the other room to-night, as Edah is here. I can lie on the sofa, and Sam will draw me out in the rocking-chair."

Susan made some objections, but her mother prevailed, and was drawn into the other room, greatly to the delight of Pauline and Sam.

"Really, mother," said Mr. Champlin, "you are getting quite smart. Edah must be a good doctor, I think. But come, let us have our supper, for it is past the time."

"I think sister ought to make tea, Susan," said Pauline, as Susan sat down before the teaboard. "She is the oldest."

"Of course she ought," struck in Sam, while Mrs. Champlin looked uncomfortable, and Susan, in a voice trembling with anger, replied,—

"Oh, of course, I am nobody, now that 'sister' has come. I am only good for something when there is work to be done. But I am sure she is welcome to the place, if she wants it."

"But I don't want it Susan," said Edah, gently. "I never do like to make tea, and to-night I am very tired. Besides, Sam, I am only company, you know."

"But you said you were not company," persisted Sam, "and you will have to do it now, for Sue looks so cross, she will turn all the milk sour."

Susan looked more angry than ever at this provoking speech, and was about to rise from the table, when her father, in a peremptory voice, commanded them both to be quiet, and Susan to make the tea, adding that their squabbles were enough to drive one crazy.

No grace was said at the table. Sam employed all his wit, which, indeed, was not small, to annoy and provoke Susan, while she, on her part, was sullen and silent, resisting all Edah's attempts to draw her into conversation. Pauline asked for every thing on the table, interrupted everybody, and regularly refused to do every thing that Susan inquired of her. She showed great alacrity in waiting on her mother, however, and seemed very affectionate both to her and the baby.

It may easily be imagined that the meal was not a very pleasant one under these circumstances, and Edah was glad when it came to a close. She produced her presents, which were received with great delight, and even Susan smoothed her brow and seemed pleased when Edah presented her with a pretty new dress, and a pair of nice under-sleeves, saying, in rather an apologetic manner—

"It is not a very sentimental present, Susan, but I did not know what you would like, and I thought, perhaps, you would not have seen any thing like this. It is quite new in style."

"It is very welcome, I'm sure," said Susan, unfolding and admiring it; "for I've hardly a decent dress to put on. See, mother, isn't it pretty?"

"Beautiful," replied Mrs. Champlin, "and it will be very becoming, if you get it nicely made up."

"I declare," said Sam, "it makes you look quite handsome, Sue."

"You are a judge, no doubt," returned Susan, but not ill-naturedly; "I am very much obliged to you, Edah, for remembering me. I did not expect it."

"Why not?" asked Edah.

"Ob, because nobody does; that's all. I am nobody here—only, as I said, when there is work to be done."

"You must be very useful then, I am sure," said Edah; "when I was fourteen, I was the last person thought of when there was work to be done. I suspect you are a good deal before me now in housekeeping."

"Susan is a good housekeeper for her age," remarked Mrs. Champlin; "she makes excellent cake and bread, and sews very nicely."

These compliments quite conciliated Susan, and Edah was surprised to see how well she appeared, and how pretty she was, when her face was not deformed by an angry flush, or an expression of sullenness. She could not help thinking that some of her bad temper might be the result of unfortunate circumstances, and resolved to do her best to conciliate her and gain her confidence, and to remove the jealousy which had evidently been roused in her sister's bosom towards herself.

When eight o'clock came, Susan informed Pauline that it was time for her to go to bed, but Pauline declined listening, and appealed to her mother, who decided that she might sit up an hour longer on Edah's account, if she would promise to go to bed quietly at the end of that time.

Susan seemed to take this permission a good deal amiss, and had quite an argument with her mother on the subject; but Pauline had her own way, and stayed up as long as any member of the family. Sam was deeply engaged in one of his new books all the evening, and took but little share in the conversation. As for Mr. Champlin, he went out immediately after tea, and did not return till bedtime.

Edah made her long ride and her fatigue an excuse for retiring early to her room, when she sat down to write in her journal, as she did at the close of every day. She had just finished, and was taking up her Bible, when Susan entered, without knocking, which a little annoyed Edah.

She drew a chair to the table, without waiting to be asked, and sat down, saying as she did so, "I thought you were in a hurry to go to bed. I suppose the truth was, you wanted to get away, and have a little peace and quiet."

"Not exactly," said Edah, "though I always like to have a little time before going to bed; don't you?"

"No," answered Susan, "not unless I have an interesting book to read. What a pretty Bible that is! But why do you have two?"

"One is a Prayer-Book," said Edah. "I think it a very pretty one!"

"Are you an Episcopalian?" asked Susan, abruptly.

"To be sure," replied Edah: "are not you?"

"I am not any thing," said Susan. "We hardly ever have church here, and when we do, Mr. Willson is so dull, I can't bear to hear him. I don't like the service either: it is so long and tiresome, and I never can find the places."

"I could soon show you about them," said Edah; "and when you come to understand the service, I am sure you would not think it tiresome. But what do you do on Sundays when there is no church?"

"Sometimes I go to the Methodist meeting and sometimes I stay at home. Father never goes: he sits at home and reads the newspapers, or goes over to Strong's. Sam goes to Raeburn to church, when he does not stay at home to plague me. Did you ever see such a tormenting boy as he is?"

"It is a pity he has got into the way of making such speeches," said Edah, "for he seems very intelligent and affectionate."

"You will find out how affectionate he is after a while," returned Susan. "Your being here is a new thing now, but by and by he will tease you just as he does me; though perhaps he may do differently, as you have something to give him, and I have not, and even if I had, I should be ashamed to bribe him. As for Pauline, she makes it the object of her life to tease me, and mother always takes her part. She never spoiled me so, I know. Do you read your Bible every night?"

"Yes," replied Edah, "and every morning."

"What is the use of reading it so much?" asked Susan. "You must know it all by heart, I should think."

"Not half as much as I wish I did; but I find something new every time I read."

Edah looked at her watch as she spoke, and Susan took the hint.

"I see you are wanting to get rid of me," she said, rising, "and no wonder. What an elegant watch! I suppose Mr. Liston gave it to you. It is a nice thing to have rich relations and friends. Well, good-night! You need not hurry about getting up, for we are not very early risers," and so saying she disappeared.

Edah, left alone, turned again to her reading and prayer. Tired as she was, she did not close her eyes for a long time, but lay thinking of the events of the day, and of her new situation. It was certainly a very different one from any in which she had ever been before, and she could not but foresee a good many annoyances and trials of temper, for she perceived that Susan was jealous of her, and she had already seen enough of that young lady to know that she was not very likely to put any great restraint upon her feelings. Sam and Pauline seemed to her easier to manage, though the one was turbulent and mischievous, and the other thoroughly spoiled. Mrs. Champlin appeared kindly disposed towards her, and the baby was certainly an object of pity. Her father she had hardly seen, but she thought him a good deal altered, and not for the better.

Edah saw that she should have occasion for all those principles of action which she had lately acquired, but she resolved to be patient and gentle, to try to control her unruly temper, and with a prayer for grace to do all things to the glory of God, she fell asleep.