CHAPTER XIX.

WINTER IN THE VALLEY.

"I SEE no reason why you should not get quite well, but you must have patience and be particularly careful not to try your strength or to strain yourself in any way."

Such was Doctor Campbell's verdict on Marion's case after a long consultation with Doctor Fenn and a particular examination of the patient.

"And about these lessons, now?" said Aunt Baby, who always entertained a lurking suspicion of lessons as inimical to the health of children in general. "Don't you think Marion is doing rather too much head-work?"

"What does Marion think?"

"I don't think it hurts me," said Marion, "not unless I work too long."

"And do you often work too long?"

"Sometimes," Marion admitted. "Betsy is so anxious to get on and I am so interested that I forget."

"But you must not forget," said the doctor. "If you do, I shall forbid them altogether."

"Oh, don't, please, Doctor Fenn," pleaded Marion. "The days seem so long and tiresome when I have nothing to do but to think how uncomfortable I am, and it is such a comfort to know that I am getting on in my studies."

"But if it hurts you, Marie dear," said Aunt Baby, anxiously. "What think you, Duncan?"

"I am inclined to think the lessons are rather beneficial than otherwise," said Doctor Campbell, "always provided they are not carried too far. My own opinion is that sick people often suffer for the want of interests outside of themselves."

"I agree with you there," said Doctor Fenn. "I have two patients in the village this minute with whom I can do nothing, and I believe they might both be cured if they could be brought to take a hearty interest in some object outside of their own cases and their own cellars and pantries."

"Then you think I may go on with my lessons?" asked Marion.

"In moderation," answered the doctor. "But you must promise to work by the clock, and leave off at the moment, whether you are tired or not. I shall talk to Master Betty myself."

The doctor had come across the name of "Master Betty" in his reading, and delighted in teasing Elizabeth Margaretta by applying it to her.

"Now, tell me really and truly, my dear, do you like these lessons, or do you only work at them for the sake of that tall lass of Mrs. Overbeck's?" asked Aunt Baby when she and Marion were alone together. It was hard for her, remembering Marion's past school-days, to think that she took pleasure in lessons for their own sake.

"Indeed, aunty, I do," answered Marion. "I like the lessons themselves, and I like to help Betsy; and besides, I have wasted so much time that I don't want to lose any more. Oh, Aunt Baby, if I had my life to live over again, how different it should be!"

"We may all say that, my lamb."

"But every one is not so silly as I was," said Marion, who was longing to make a clean breast of it. "Aunt Baby, do you know I used to think, when I was at home, that the reason I did not get on any better was because I was so superior to everybody about me?"

"I had a good guess at it," said Aunt Baby, smiling. "Girls are not such absolute mysteries to their elders as they are fain to believe. I dare say it has been good for you to live more with young people of your own age."

"And don't you think they are nice boys, Aunt Baby?"

"Indeed I do, my dear. A finer or better managed set of lads I never saw together, and your grandfather says the same. And Betsy is a nice lass too, I must allow, though a thought—well, I'll not say just masculine, but boyish."

"You see she has always lived with boys," said Marion. "Cousin Helen says it is the object of her life to make a girl of Betsy. But she isn't coarse, Aunt Baby, not really, nor the boys, either. They are all good, but I think Bram is the best, if there is any best."

"It is very good in you to say so, and he the cause of your misfortune," said Aunt Baby.

"Bram the cause of my misfortune?" said Marion, raising herself up. "Why, Aunt Barbara, what do you mean? Bram had nothing to do with it. Nobody was to blame, only the rains which had loosened the ground."

"Well, there! Don't excite yourself, child. It was Gerty that told me," said Aunt Baby. "She said that it was all caused by Bram's carelessness and giddiness, and—what grieved me most of all—on a Sabbath evening."

"Oh, Gerty! I forgot she had been over," said Marion, sinking back, as if the matter were explained. "I dare say she told you a fine story."

"Tell me yourself how it was, then."

Marion repeated the story, and Aunt Baby was satisfied.

"It was a very different tale she told me. I thought her a nice young woman; but if that is her sort, the less we have to do with her, the better."

"Oh, well, Gerty is Gerty, and we all know her," said Marion. "I suppose there must needs be one contrary feather. I was the contrary feather when I was at home, wasn't I, Aunt Baby?"

"Well, I do not deny but you were a bit trying at times, but you were always my own darling, for all."

"That was because you were so good yourself. But now tell me about the girls. Row does Therese get on?"

"Very finely, I hear. Miss Oliver says she is as good a pupil as she has ever had in the school, and she is a great comfort to the old lady."

"I dare say. I wonder if Therese ever regrets that she did not go with Mrs. Tremaine?"

"Very likely she may think of it sometimes—it would hardly be human nature not to do so—but I don't believe she ever regrets it. I think, too, that Therese has some new idea in her head which reconciles her to the change in her plans. She and Aunt Christian have had a great many long talks together. If old Madame Duval is taken away, I should not wonder if Therese goes back with them."

"That ought to have been my part," said Marion, with a sigh. "But there is no use in thinking of it now. And how does Lizzy Gates flourish? She has only written to me once since I came away."

"She is much the same Lizzy, only I think she improves in her manners. She is not so headlong as she was. And you must know that Eliza Bridgeman has left Miss Wilkins."

"Oh, I am so glad! I always believed Miss Wilkins used her horribly."

"Indeed she did. Eliza got sick at last—so sick that the old woman was scared and called in Doctor Gates, and by questioning and examination, he got at the truth. Such overwork and under-feeding! The poor thing fairly suffered from cold and hunger."

"Didn't the doctor fly out? I should like to have heard him."

"Indeed he did, then, especially when Miss Wilkins tried to buy his silence. He went straight to the poor-master and had Eliza taken away and her indenture cancelled, and there was such an excitement that Miss Wilkins had to leave town for a while."

"And must you really go home next week?" asked Marion.

"I think so, my dear. You see it is very hard for Uncle Alick to be there alone, or at least with nobody but Donald and his wife, and I can see that grandfather is growing impatient, though he has enjoyed his visit very much. We have been here two weeks already."

"I am afraid you will have a hard, dull winter," said Marion; "I think you should have some one to help you."

"I was thinking of taking that same Eliza Bridgeman. The poor thing has no home, and she needs some one to care for her."

The next week grandfather and Aunt Baby went home, greatly regretted by all the children. Doctor and Mrs. Campbell were to stay some time longer. Christian was glad of rest and quiet after all the visiting she had gone through, and the doctor wished to write up his book and to observe Marion's case more closely. He was established in Marion's former room, and shut himself up for several hours daily, walking and riding with the boys and girls the rest of the time.

Betsy's eyesight improved so far that she was able to take up her music again in moderation. She still did her Latin and French with Marion, however, and they were both gainers by the arrangement. As Marion's health improved so that she could sit up, she began to work at her drawing a little, and to find great pleasure in it. The little ones, among whom Betsy classed Hector and Rob, to the great indignation of the clansmen, were regularly in school five hours a day. Frank began reading medicine with Doctor Duncan, and Bram worked diligently at Greek with Harry, who was not to go back to college till spring.

Mrs. Van Alstine and Mrs. Overbeck kept house, sewed, and took care of their poorer neighbours for work, and embroidered wonderful and gorgeous camp-chairs for diversion, and all seemed quietly settled for the winter.

But nothing ever is settled in this world. Just after the Christmas holidays, Aunt Eugenia was found dead in her chair. She had been as well as usual. Marion had been with her all the morning, and only left her for half an hour, to find on her return that the old lady was no longer there.

It was a very severe day when she was buried. Henry took cold, and was so much worse that both the doctors advised his removal to a warmer climate with all speed. There was a good deal of talk as to who should go with him, but he was evidently so desirous of having his mother that the matter was so arranged. Mr. Van Alstine was to go as far as New York and see the travellers on the steamer; but when all was settled, Mr. Overbeck put in another proposal. It was a great while since Mr. Van Alstine had taken a holiday; why should not that gentleman do so now, when he could be spared so much better than in summer? So it was decided after another day's consideration, and the travellers departed leaving Mrs. Andrews to keep house, with the help of Aunt Christian and Marion.

"We shall have a dreadful dull time, with father and mother and Harry all gone," said Hector the first evening that the diminished family were collected in the drawing-room.

"It will be perfectly horrid," added Rob, who always echoed Hector.

"It will be neither dreadful nor horrid, my countrymen," said Uncle Duncan; "we are going, on the contrary, to have a very agreeable and entertaining time."

"I should like to know how," said Rob, who was the baby and a good deal inclined to resent his mother's absence as a personal injury to himself.

"Well, in the first place, we are going to put on an extra pound or two of steam in all our lessons."

"Rob is going to learn to spell in words of two syllables," said Frank, in allusion to Robin's orthographical weakness.

"And Frank is going to learn to shut the doors after him," retorted Rob Roy.

"Exactly; and we are all going to put our best foot foremost in everything. Then we 'men-folks,' as Maggy calls us, are going to take numerous long walks in various directions. Then we are going to have some lectures in the school-house, illustrated with my new magic-lantern, so soon as Cousin Helen and Marion have finished painting the slides, in which lectures I propose to give an account of my travels and magnify my own doings as much as possible, as Gerty says all missionaries do, you know."

"Good!" said all the boys together.

And Frank added, "I'm afraid the school-house won't hold the people, though."

"Then we'll make a lecture-room of the new horse-barn," said Bram. "Go on, Uncle Duncan. What else?"

"What else? Why, we are to read story-books, and play all the games that ever were heard of, and crack bushels of walnuts and butternuts, and roast and boil kettlefuls of chestnuts."

"And make molasses candy and caramels and cornballs," said Rob, eagerly.

"Yes, if Maggy will let us; and to conclude, we are all to be as amiable and good-natured and cheerful as we know how. Seriously, my young folks, don't let us sit down deliberately to have a doleful time, but, on the contrary, make up our minds to do the very best we can for ourselves and each other."

"And by way of making a beginning, let Rob ask James to crack a panful of butternuts," said Mrs. Andrews.

The doctor's programme was pretty well carried out. Mrs. Andrews and Marion painted the slides for the magic-lantern, which was exhibited with great success, both in the valley, at Ivanhoe, and at Rock Bottom, rather to the scandal of Gerty, who wondered Doctor Campbell could condescend to make himself a showman and amuse children. But Doctor Campbell was consoled for the sacrifice of his dignity, if indeed he needed any consolation, by the fact that two flourishing missionary societies were formed, one at Ivanhoe, the other at Rock Bottom.

One day Marion proposed that they should also get up one at Hemlock Valley.

"But who would be members?" asked Bram, to whom, as usual, she first confided her scheme. "There would be nobody but ourselves."

"Well, we make up a pretty good number—eight of us here and five at Amity's. If we each give a cent a week there is—Thirteen times fifty-two is—"

"Six dollars and seventy-six cents."

"Then there are the Barretts—I think they would join in—and old Mr. and Mrs. Hollenbeck, and Chris and his wife and their children. Oh yes; you'd see we should have quite a good many members to start with, and more would come in. Anyhow, let's talk to Aunt Christian about it when we get her alone. We won't say anything to the others at first."

"You feel very differently about missions from what you did when you first came here, don't you?" said Bram, after a little silence, in which he worked diligently at his wood carving, while Marion elaborated the trappings of a magnificent camel, a design for one of the new slides which she was constantly adding to the famous lantern. "Don't you remember how I used to tease you asking you questions about what you had heard from your aunt? You used to be downright vexed at me."

"Because I had nothing to tell," returned Marion.

"But I don't see how you could help it, living with them as you did."

"You would if you knew how silly I was in those days."

"I say! Don't call my sister silly, if you please."

"Well, I was silly—a self-conceited, ridiculous simpleton," persisted Marion, vehemently dabbling her brush in the water-glass. "Bram, I would not tell you for anything how I used to spend hours and hours in dreaming of the great things I would do, and how I would be admired and looked up to. Oh, it just makes me provoked enough to box my own ears."

"That's a very unchristian frame of mind."

"Never did any one get such a taking down as I did after I came here," continued Marion. "I thought I was going to be so good and so condescending, and help you in your lessons, and mother in her housekeeping."

"Well, you had never seen us, and of course you couldn't tell what we were like," said Bram. "I don't see anything so bad in that. Look at my elephant; isn't he fine?"

"Awe inspiring—no less," replied Marion. "I think he looks a good deal like old James in the face. What is he for?"

"Dot's birthday. You know he is in love with elephants ever since he rode on one in New York, so Frank and I mean to construct a team for him. I wish you and Betsy would put your heads together and make some—What do you call the fellows that ride upon them?"

"Mahouts. We'll see what can be done. The worst of it is that I keep finding myself falling back into the old ways again all the time," continued Marion, reverting to her first subject.

"Everybody does that, I suppose," said Bram.

"Do you really think so?" asked Marion, doubtfully.

"I really do. I remember once talking to old Father Hollenbeck about that very thing, and he said to me,—

"'My son, I should have considerable doubt of the spiritual condition of anybody who never had any battles to fight. I should be afraid that he was either in league with the enemy or asleep on his post.'"

"But if our inclinations were all right?"

"Then we should be ready for heaven, I fancy. How should we take up the cross in that case? We are to deny ourselves and take up the cross daily, you know. How are elephants' toes? Do they show in front?"

This important point being settled, Marion went on:

"It always seems to me as if the emphasis in that sentence ought to be on the other word: 'Deny himself.' That is the hard saying for me. I have always lived so to and for myself."

"I am sure you don't now; you look out for everybody. I don't know what we should do without you this winter."

"Well, I do try not to be selfish, but I'm afraid that very often when I think I am doing for others, it is only self-seeking at the bottom."

"I'll tell you what, Marie: I think it is possible to be self-seeking in that very way," said Bram, shrewdly. "I mean in thinking too much about one's own spiritual state. Don't you know how Uncle Duncan scolded Harry for getting into the habit of feeling his pulse and watching his breathing? He said it was the very worst thing for him."

"But don't you believe in self-examination?"

"Yes, at proper times. But I don't believe in taking every thought and action to pieces and looking at it through a magnifying-glass; as I read in one of Uncle Duncan's books the other day:

"'Sanctify all thy doings with a general good intention, and there leave them.'

"See how bright the sun has come out! Don't you want to wrap yourself up and let me take you down to the store and over to Abner Angel's? I have an errand over there, and it is just a nice ride."