Part 4

ALL that evening Amity staid by herself, thinking over the wonderful and glorious things she would do when she was grown-up, and had her fortune in her own hands. She had not been given to thinking very much about this fortune, and therefore it had hitherto done her no harm; for it is not money, but "the love of money," which "is the root of all evil." But now she was thinking of it, and that in one of the most undesirable ways in the world, for she was considering how she should spend it, not for the glory of God and the good of others, but to increase her own consequence in the eyes of the world.

The result was that she quite forgot the cotton and needles she had promised to buy for Johnny, and came near forgetting his lesson in the morning. She was so late in coming that Mrs. Franklin sent a messenger to know if she meant to give the lesson.

"Of course I do," answered Amity, so shortly that her grandfather looked over his spectacles. "I only wish I had said I would come every other morning."

"It might have been as well," remarked her grandfather; "but you cannot very well change the plan now you have begun, especially as we go away so soon. But don't waste any more time, for I want you to go over to Albany with me at half-past twelve to meet Aunt Julia, and it is after nine now."

"I might miss the lesson for one morning," said Amity.

"No, no, don't do that: the poor little fellow will feel very much disappointed. And besides, a promise is a promise; remember that, little girl."

"I wish grandfather would not always call me a little girl, and before people too," said Amity to herself as she went along the hall and up the long stairs: "I am not such a baby as all that. And I don't see why he should care so much more for Johnny's comfort than mine. I do think, as Mrs. Wickford says, it is taking a great deal out of me to expect me to spend an hour every day with that poor little idiot."

Johnny was looking out for Amity, and his first eager words were, "Have you got the cotton, Amity?"

Amity was vexed at her own forgetfulness, and seized the first excuse that came to her mind. Now excuses are very dangerous things to handle for people who wish to speak the exact truth.

"I haven't got the cotton, Johnny, because I am going over to Albany to-day, and can get it so much better there."

Johnny's pale face flushed and his eyes filled with tears. Like other people of deficient mind, he was apt to set his heart very strongly on whatever was promised him. People who have the care of such persons cannot be too careful not to disappoint them.

"But you said you would get it—you said you would!" he repeated piteously. "And now you haven't brought it at all!"

"Hush, Johnny; don't cry, my dear," said Mrs. Franklin: "you will make your head ache. Amity will get your cotton in Albany, and that will be a great deal nicer."

"Of course it will," said Amity, feeling both vexed and ashamed. "And besides, you will be able to knit a great deal better when you have had another lesson. We will begin the towels to-morrow."

"'To-morrow' never comes," said Johnny. "It is always to-day, all the time. I don't see the use of talking about 'to-morrow' when it never is 'to-morrow.'" *

* This remark was really made by a child like Johnny.

"There is some truth in that," said Mrs. Franklin, smiling; then, in a low voice, she said to Amity, "Never mind—only don't disappoint him again. It is so hard to divert his mind from anything he has set his heart on, and especially anything that has been promised him."

"Well, come, Johnny, if you want to knit; I haven't any time to spare," said Amity, not in the pleasantest tone in the world. "Take care! You will have all your stitches off."

The sharp warning, as often happens brought on the very trouble it was meant to prevent. Johnny started nervously, and out came the needle. Johnny was not as well as usual, and he was already nervous and excited with waiting and with his disappointment. He dropped the work and began to cry.

"There now, don't cry," said Amity. "I will pick up the stitches, and you must be more careful another time. But do stop crying first of all!" she added, more sharply still, as Johnny sobbed. "I won't touch the work till you do. There is no earthly use in your being such a baby. Hush now!"

But for Johnny to stop crying when he once began was impossible, and the more Amity scolded him the more he cried. Till Mrs. Franklin, who had gone out, came back to find him utterly beside himself, sobbing and calling for "mamma" and "Aunty Franklin" by turns.

"You cannot do anything with him now," said Mrs. Franklin to Amity. "He will go on till he cries himself to sleep. I presume that will be the worst of it."

"I should think you would govern him, and not let him cry so," remarked Amity, vexed with herself, with Johnny, and everybody. "I don't believe it is any kindness to him to let him be so naughty and troublesome."

"Johnny is neither naughty nor troublesome," answered Mrs. Franklin, a good deal annoyed, for she was very fond of her poor little charge. "He is very good considering how many hindrances he has. Pray, Miss Amity, how would you go to work to govern a child with spinal and heart disease?"

"Anyhow, there is no use in my trying to do any more this morning," said Amity, as Johnny's sobs grew worse and worse; "and I must get ready to go to Albany with grandfather. Good-by, Johnny. I will buy your cotton in Albany, and if you will be good and not cry, I will begin your work to-morrow."

"Now you must not talk to me, my dear," said Judge Bogardus, when they were safely seated in the drawing-room car; "I have a paper to look over." So saying, he took from his pocket one of those long written papers which Amity was learning to know by sight, and Amity was left to her own thoughts.

They were not very pleasant. Amity had been brought up to speak the truth and to consider a lie one of the worst of sins; and as she looked back over the events of the morning, she could not but see that the excuse she had made to Johnny about the cotton was a false one. She had never thought of buying the cotton in Albany till that minute. She had forgotten all about it. Moreover, she had been cross and unkind to Johnny, and pert to Mrs. Franklin. In short, she had behaved like anything but a Christian.

"Well, I will buy his cotton, and that will make it true, and I will get him a pretty present beside. Let me see. I have four dollars that I meant for my sofa cushion like Mrs. Fairchild's, but the cushion can wait. I wonder if I could buy a little musical box for that. He would like it, I know, for he is so fond of music; and that would be giving up something, too, because I really want the cushion, and I shall not have any more money till next month. Yes, I will buy the music-box if I can find it, and if not, I will buy him a bird. That will do nicely."

Amity felt quite good as she made mind to sacrifice her cushion to Johnny, and the good feeling lasted till late in the evening, when they took the last train for Saratoga. Aunt Julia had not come after all. They had waited for her to the last minute, and then received a telegram that she would not arrive for two days more. Amity was tired and hungry. The car was too dark to read, and grandpapa was too sleepy to talk; so she had nothing to do but to think.

She had found a very pretty music-box for four dollars, and she had bought the cotton and some pretty wooden needles for Johnny beside, but somehow she did not feel satisfied. The lie she had told stuck in her conscience. You know you sometimes get a "pricker" in your finger, and do not feel it for some hours or even days. Then it begins to throb and burn, and unless you can get it out, you will have a bad time with it. Amity's false excuse was like the thorn. It had been quiet for a while, but now it began to trouble her. Conscience would persist in calling it by its right name, and in telling her that she had been unkind and unfaithful to the poor little motherless, helpless child, and perhaps had done him more harm than she would ever do him good. She had a very uneasy feeling as she remembered what Mrs. Franklin said about "heart disease." What if Johnny should die?

When a person has been brought up in the habit of listening to the voice of conscience, the habit is not easily broken up. That voice may be silenced or disregarded for a time, but in some interval of quiet it will make itself heard, and must be silenced a great many times before it ceases to speak whenever it has a chance. Now, as Amity sat in the quiet, half-lighted car, with nobody to talk to and nothing to look at but the lamps and the two or three gentlemen nodding in their chairs, her faults showed themselves to her in all their ugliness. She had been unkind to the poor, helpless little boy who loved her so dearly, she had broken a promise which she might just as well have kept, and she had told a lie to hide her own carelessness. Yes, a lie! She I called it by its right name now. She knew she could have bought the cotton in Saratoga just as well as in Albany, if she had not forgotten it.

But Amity had not yet gotten quite to the root of the thorn. She felt ashamed and sorry for her faults, and honestly asked for forgiveness, and for help to do better. Then she began to think how she had fallen into such trouble.

"It seems strange it should have come from my wanting to help Johnny!" she said to herself.

And then, all at once, as if some one had held a mirror up to her, she saw herself as she really had been for some days. She had not been thinking nearly so much of helping Johnny as of showing off herself—of showing how good and self-sacrificing she was—so much better than Maud, who cared for nothing but her fine white frocks and colored silk stockings—than Emma, who cared for nothing but play. She had been thinking how much better it was to be good, as she was, than to be dressy like Maud or beautiful like Emma. She had taken pains to have every one know that she spent an hour after breakfast teaching the little boy to knit, and she had been greatly "set up" in her own good opinion when the ladies praised her.

Then all those foolish dreams about setting up a hospital, and making her name famous—Amity could not think of them now without disgust. It had been her self—her own dear precious self—who was to be praised and glorified. Of her GOLDEN TEXT—of the motto which her friend Mrs. Paget had given her that day in the summer-house—she had never thought at all.

Amity buried her face in her hands, leaned her head against the side of the car, and cried bitterly. She had never been so ashamed and so unhappy in all her life.

"I wish I had never seen Johnny! I wish I had never come to Saratoga at all!" was her first thought. "But then I dare say I should have been just as bad anywhere else!" was her second. And she began to remember other cases where she had done things "to be seen of men."

It was a very sad two hours that Amity passed in the parlor-car that night, but it Was one of the most profitable evenings of her whole life. They were very late in reaching Saratoga, and Amity went straight to her own room. She was very tired and sleepy, and her head ached with sight-seeing and with crying, but she did not go to bed till she had kneeled down and confessed all her sin to her heavenly Father, and asked forgiveness in his name whose blood "cleanseth us from all sin" (1 John 1:7). Then feeling somewhat comforted she lay down to sleep, after she had taken from her bag the presents she had bought for Johnny, and set them on her dressing-table.

There was a good deal of moving about on the floor overhead, and once she thought she heard some one crying.

"I hope Johnny is not sick again!" she thought. "Poor dear little man! I will make it up to him somehow." And with this thought she fell asleep.

But Amity was to find, as so many other people have found, that it is not so easy to "make up." She slept rather late, and as soon as she was dressed, she took the little music-box which she had wound up, and the cotton, and went up to Johnny's room.

"I will take the things to him directly," she thought; "then he can amuse himself with them, and as soon as I have done breakfast, I will give him his lesson."

As she came into the hall where Johnny lodged, she was surprised to see that the door was open, and that several people were standing about it, among them Mrs. Wickford, who held up her finger as Amity drew near. Maud was leaning against her mother, with her face hidden, but Amity could see that she was crying.

"What is the matter?" asked Amity, in a half whisper. "Is Johnny worse?"

"Hush, my dear!" said Mrs. Wickford, in a low tone. "The poor little boy is very near the end of his troubles. He will not suffer much more."

Amity looked into the open door. Johnny was sitting up in bed, supported by Mrs. Franklin. The doctor was on one side of the bed, and Mr. Gordon, a minister who was staying in the house, stood on the other, with a book in his hand, as if he had been reading or praying. Johnny seemed to breathe with difficulty, but his cheeks were a little red, and his eyes had dropped the kind of veil which usually covered them, and looked bright and clear, as Amity had never seen them before.

Mrs. Franklin was crying quietly, and Johnny put up his little hand and stroked her cheek, as he did when he wished to express affection. As he did so, his eyes fell on Amity, and he smiled brightly.

"Come and speak to him, Amity," said Mrs. Franklin. "He has asked for you several times."

As Amity drew near, and bent over to kiss the little boy, the music-box which she held in her hand began to play.

"What is that?" asked Johnny, in a whisper, but clearly and distinctly.

"It is a music-box I brought you from Albany," said Amity, trying to speak calmly, though she felt as if she should choke. She held out to him the pretty toy, which was playing Beethoven's last waltz. Johnny took it in his hand and held it up to his face.

"Pretty, pretty!" said he. And then, with a great effort, he added, "I was cross yesterday—I am sorry."

"Don't, Johnny," said Amity, feeling as if this was more than she could bear. "It was I who was cross, not you. But I have got your cotton, and we will have a nice time knitting when you get better."

"I shall never get better," said Johnny. "I am going to mamma, and I am glad." Then, looking at Mrs. Franklin, he added, "The watch—Amity—you said I might, you know."

Mrs. Franklin put her hand under the pillow and took out a pretty gold watch, which she gave to Johnny. Johnny laid it in Amity's hand.

"It is yours—take it, Amity!"

"It is his mother's watch," explained Mrs. Franklin. "He wants to give it to you."

"Oh, I can't—I can't!" sobbed Amity, drawing back.

Johnny looked troubled.

"Take it, my dear—don't worry him," whispered the clergyman.

"Put it on," said Johnny, and he seemed pleased when she did so.

He lay still a few minutes longer listening to the music-box. Then he suddenly raised himself and stretched out his arms.

"Mamma!" he exclaimed, joyfully, and then, sinking back with a gentle sigh, he was gone!

That day's lesson was not lost on Amity, She had learned, by bitter experience, that it is not so easy to "make up" for unkindness and neglect. "That which is crooked cannot be made straight: and that which is wanting cannot be numbered" (Eccles. 1:15) or "made up."

"I feel as if I had killed him!" she said, later in the day, as she stood by Johnny's bedside. "Perhaps if I had not made him cry, he might have been alive now!"

"You must not feel so," replied Mrs. Franklin. "We have known for a long time that the poor child had but a little time to live. The doctor says it is a great wonder that he has lasted so long. He was not well yesterday morning, and that was the reason he cried so easily."

"And Amity was good to him, wasn't she?" said Maud, who had just come in with a box of beautiful flowers.

"Yes, she gave him a great many happy hours."

"I'm sure I wish I had ever done anything for him," continued Maud. "But I didn't. I wouldn't let him take my talking doll, and I called him 'an idiot.' Mrs. Franklin, won't you please take these flowers? I bought them with my own money. I felt as if I wanted to do something. I know one thing, anyhow," said Maud, as they walked away: "I never will call any one names again. I suppose we ought not to wish Johnny back, because he is a great deal better off; but I can't help wishing I could see him long enough to tell him how sorry I am."

"You will have to tell it to the Lord, as I did," said Amity, softly.

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"And what kind of a girl has Amity turned out?" asked Mrs. Paget of Miss Julia, when they met in Europe.

Miss Julia, however, was not Miss Julia now. She was the wife of an American embassador. Mrs. Paget had been abroad for some years.

"Amity! Oh, she is just the same homely little round-about thing she was at twelve years old. She has not changed at all."

"I did not think she would ever be handsome," remarked Mrs. Paget; "but how is she in other respects. Is she bright?"

"Why, I hardly know what to say. She is a good deal of a reader, and likes steady plodding work like mathematics. She is wonderfully industrious, too—always busy about something. She keeps house now, and really, for one so young, she manages uncommonly well. She is a great deal better at accounts than ever I was, and keeps the house cheerful and pleasant. Then she makes herself useful in the church—teaches in Sunday-school, looks after poor folks, and has a great sewing-class. She is always knitting babies' socks, or a shawl for some old woman, or a comforter for some urchin in her class. That is her style of fancy work."

"She must keep herself pretty busy."

"Oh, she does; but then she likes that sort of thing. To do her justice, she does not make any parade of her deeds, like some people I could name. She never seems to think of herself in connection with them."

"She must have made a very nice woman, by your description, Julia."

"Oh yes, indeed she is. A more dutiful child than she is to father could not be. But she does not care at all for general society, and would rather stay at home and make babies' shoes than go to the best opera that ever was performed. In short, she is a good, honest, homely little body, but she will never make any figure in the world, with all her advantages. She really has no talent—none at all."

[Illustration: _"Phil's Pansies."—Frontispiece._ "If you please, Miss, these are yours," said Phil.]

PHIL'S PANSIES.

A GOLDEN TEXT STORY.

BY

LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY

AUTHOR OF

"IRISH AMY," "OPPOSITE NEIGHBORS," "TWIN ROSES," ETC.

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"Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shalt find it after many days."— Eccles. 11:1.

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PHILADELPHIA: AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION, NO. 1122 CHESTNUT STREET. ————————— NEW YORK: 8 & 10 BIBLE HOUSE, ASTOR PLACE. CHICAGO: 73 RANDOLPH ST.

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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1880, by the

AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

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PHIL'S PANSIES.

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CHAPTER FIRST.

THE SEEDS.

MISS ISABEL had been taking great pains with her class that day. She had walked down to Sunday-school, more than a mile, in the rain to meet her scholars, and she was expecting to walk home again. She had spent much time in studying the lesson herself, and she had noted down some things which she hoped the boys would like to hear. The "Golden Text" of the lesson was this:

"Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shall find it after many days" (Eccles. 11:1).

Miss Isabel had been telling the boys of the custom to which this verse referred, and of which, as it happened, none of them had ever heard. She told them how, in some parts of the world, there was very little rain, and the lands were watered by streams from some neighboring river or reservoir; how the farmers scattered their grain on the surface, and then, as the water sank into the ground, how the seed was buried and took root and grew; and so, after many days, the farmer found his "bread" again in the shape of ripe, waving grain, ready for the harvest.

You might think the boys would have been pleased to hear such a story as this, and that they would have listened and remembered, when she told them of what the seed cast on the waters was meant to represent; namely, the word of God, and the other means of doing good which he has placed in our hands, and which we must use at the right time and in the right way, even though our doing so should seem as hopeless work as throwing seed into the water.