CHAPTER XI.

_ABOUT OUR FATHER'S WORK._

"Up, up," said the baby, "up, up."

Baby sat upon the hearth-rug in her mother's room, with her playthings about her; and Maggie sat beside her, writing away upon her slate.

If you had asked Maggie what she was doing, she would probably have said, "Taking care of baby;" for that was what her mother had asked her to do, and what she really believed herself to be doing. But perhaps baby would have given a different opinion.

"Up, up, wee, wee," said the little one again, pulling away at Maggie's skirt.

"Yes, darling, by and by. Oh, see, see baby's pretty dolly!" and, putting the doll in her little sister's lap, Maggie turned again to her slate. Baby took dolly by the heels and thumped her head upon the floor--it was well dolly was not subject to headaches; then she scolded her, then kissed her, and sung and petted her to sleep, then put the doll's cool china head in her own heated little mouth; and at last, tiring of all these, threw her down, and took hold of Maggie again with that pitiful, beseeching, "Up, up."

"Now, Maggie, dear, just put by your writing, and take baby up, and tell her 'the little pig that went to market,'" said nurse. "She's fretful with her teeth, and they hurt her so this morning. Yes, my pet; your Mammy will take ye, and tell ye pigs without end, as soon as she gets this naughty boy dressed."

The naughty boy was Frankie, who had undertaken to give baby's woolly lamb a shower-bath, and, not being able to reach the faucet, had climbed into the bath-tub, where he had turned it to such purpose as to shower, not only the lamb, but himself from head to foot. Frankie was too well used to the consequences of such pranks to mind them very much; but, as usual, he had chosen a time when it was not very convenient to attend to him.

This was Saturday morning. Jane was sweeping the nursery, nurse sorting the clean clothes, Mrs. Bradford petting her fretful baby, and Maggie very busy over that prize composition; while Bessie was in her own room, dressing the dolls and putting the baby-house in order; for Belle Powers and Lily Norris were coming to spend the day, and all must be ready for them. So every one was very busy, and that, of course, must be the time for Frankie to get into mischief.

Then, just as nurse began to take off his wet clothes, a lady came to see Mrs. Bradford on business, and she had to go down-stairs; so, putting baby down on the rug, mamma told Maggie to amuse her till she came back. But Maggie, having brought some toys for her little sister, thought she had done enough, and went on with her writing.

But baby was not in a mood to amuse herself. She wanted to be taken up, and told that wonderful story about the well-known family of little pigs, which mamma had been telling upon her tiny fingers when she was called away.

And Maggie?

Maggie was trying to make two things agree, her duty and her inclination. Sometimes these go very well together; but on this occasion they did not. Maggie strove to persuade herself that the last was the first; but neither baby, nurse, nor her conscience would let her deceive herself so, and she did not feel well pleased with either of the three monitors.

"I'll take her when I've finished this idea," said Maggie. "There, baby, play with the pretty blocks."

"Bad bocky," said baby, striking out with her little foot at the pile of blocks before her. Just then Bessie peeped around the door; and seeing that the baby was restless and discontented, and nurse busy, she came to do what she could for her little sister's amusement.

"Bessie make her nice house," she said, thinking that was what the child wanted; and she began piling the blocks on one another in a tower, which baby was to have the pleasure of knocking down when it should be finished, talking to her the while in a coaxing, chirruping voice.

Baby put three fingers into her mouth, and sat watching Bessie for a few moments, when, suddenly bethinking herself once more of the adventures of those famous pigs, and of the coveted seat upon Maggie's lap, she dashed over the half-built tower, and, turning again towards Maggie, fretted, "Up, up, wee, up."

Bessie, willing to save Maggie from interruption, took the small hand in her own, and began the oft-repeated tale; but neither did this answer. Baby, like many older people when they are sick,--aye, and when they are well too,--was not to be satisfied with anything but that on which she had, for the moment, set her fancy. Maggie's lap and Maggie's attention were the only things that could please her just then, and she could see no reason why she should not have them.

"Oh, you little bother! I shan't take you, and you can just let Bessie play with you, now!" said Maggie; "I am not going to stop my work just for such nonsense. Bessie can tell the pig that 'went to market' as well as I can; and she is not busy."

Baby might not understand the words, but she understood the tone, and knew very well that she was being scolded; and she put up a pitiful, grieved lip, which would have made Maggie feel sorry if she had seen it. But her eyes were bent upon her slate, not once turned towards little Annie.

Bessie looked from one sister to the other, and then said gently,--

"Maggie, dear, do you think you are doing the work our Father has given you to do now?"

Maggie coloured, and looked more vexed than she had done before, hesitated an instant, and then, as the cloud passed from her face, said,--

"No, Bessie, I am not; but I just will do it;" and in another moment baby was in the long-wished-for place, and that first little pig who went to market travelled there so many times that I think he would have been glad to be the brother who stayed at home.

Mamma came back just as nurse was through with Frankie, and said, as she took the now contented baby from Maggie, "You are my own dear, obliging little girl. I was sorry to interrupt you, but you see it could not be helped."

"But I was not obliging or kind at all, mamma," said Maggie; "at least, not at first. I felt real provoked 'cause I had to take care of baby, and I believe I would have let her cry if it hadn't been for Bessie, who put me in mind I was giving place to my own work, instead of God's. I s'pose it was God's work to amuse baby, even if it did not seem half so useful a thing as writing my composition--was it not, mamma?"

"Certainly, dear; and I am glad you saw that."

"Oh, it was not my praise at all, but Bessie's, mamma. She is an excellent _reminder_; and if I had not her, I expect I should be an awful child."

"I trust not, dear," said her mother, smiling.

"But, Maggie, dear," said Bessie, as her sister took up her slate once more, "I'm 'fraid you have something else to do. I think Marigold is hungry, and has no seed in his cup. You did not feed him this morning, did you?"

Maggie uttered an exclamation, and clapping her hand over her mouth, after the manner of little girls on such occasions, turned to meet her mother's half-mournful, half-reproachful look, and then ran away to her own room, followed by Bessie.

Poor little Marigold! It was easy to be seen that he was in a sad way about something, and a peep into his cage soon showed the cause. As the children came in, he was making a loud but mournful chirping, as if he wanted to call attention to himself; and, when he saw them, he commenced fluttering his wings and stretching out his neck towards them.

"Oh, you poor little birdie!" said Maggie; "did your naughty, ought-to-be-ashamed-of-herself Maggie forget all about you this morning? Yes, Bessie; his seed-cup is empty, and he has not had fresh water or anything. And it just came 'cause I was in such a hurry to get to my composition. Oh dear! I wonder if I am too anxious about it. You see, Bessie, it was this way. When Jane called me to feed him, I was just going to write, and I did not want to come at all, and thought I would wait; but then I remembered how mamma said, if she let me attend to him, I must promise to attend to him _faithfully_ every morning; so I ran as quick as I could for the seed-box and a lump of sugar (for I saw yesterday his sugar was all gone), and I was in such a hurry that I let the box fall, and spilled all the seed, and it took me so long to pick it up; but all the time I was thinking about a very good idea I had, and now I remember I just went and put the box away, and forgot to give Marigold any seed. And there is the lump of sugar lying on the chair, and his water-cup is empty too. Poor little fellow! just see how hungry he is, Bessie! If his instinct tells him it was I who did it to him, I wonder if he'll forgive me and love me any more."

Marigold was certainly very hungry, but he did not seem to feel unforgiving, or to bear any grudge against his repentant little mistress; for, as he picked up seed after seed, and opened them with his sharp beak, he watched the children with his bright, black eyes as lovingly as usual, giving, every b and then, when he could spare the time, a cheerful chirp, which seemed to say, "Thank you; you have made amends for past neglect."

Maggie and Bessie stood and looked at him till he had made a good breakfast, and fallen to dressing his feathers, and then ran back to their mother's room, where the former told her how she had come so sadly to forget her duty that morning, a duty which she had, with many pleadings and promises, persuaded mamma to let her undertake, and which she had, till this unlucky day, never neglected.

"Mamma," she said, "do you think you will have to take away the charge of Marigold from me?"

"Not now, Maggie," said Mrs. Bradford. "You have been so faithful to him ever since you had him that I shall not punish you for this one failure. But it must not happen again, daughter; for, even if I thought it best to overlook such carelessness, it would be cruel and wrong for me to let the bird suffer through your fault."

"If I forget him again, mamma, I am sure I shall be very deserving of having you say Jane must take care of him; but I think this will keep me in mind. And I see quite well now how being so very anxious about my prize composition could make me careless about God's work. I have been in such a hurry with it this morning, because Gracie has a whole page of hers written, and I did not want her to be so much ahead of me. For, mamma, all the girls think now that one of us two will have the prize. None of the others think they have any chance; and I believe Miss Ashton thinks we are both too anxious about it, for yesterday Gracie was writing while we were at our arithmetic lesson, and Miss Ashton told her 'one thing at a time;' and, after school, she said that she was afraid some of the class were thinking too much about their compositions when they should be attending to other things; and I knew she meant Gracie and me, least I'm quite sure she meant _me_. And I would know it by to-day if I had not known it before," said Maggie, gravely shaking her head as she thought of her shortcomings of the morning. "Now, mamma, what plan do you think I could take to better myself of this?"

Mrs. Bradford could hardly help smiling at the air of grave importance with which this was said; but she saw that Maggie was quite in earnest, and meant what she said about correcting herself.

"I think, dear," she answered, "that the best way for you is to make sure each day that you have done everything else you have to do, before you take up your composition. When one duty is more pleasant than another, and one feels that one is apt to give too much place to it, it is better to put that last, and only to take it up when other work is done; and perhaps, as you have allowed the composition to tempt you into wrong more than once this morning, it would be well to put it away for to-day. I do not say you must do this; but do you not think it would help you to be more careful another time?"

"Yes'm," said Maggie, rather ruefully, and with a longing look at the slate; but presently she took it up, and went cheerfully to put it away.

"Mamma," said Bessie, "I think Maggie is pretty good about her composition, even if it does make her forget other things sometimes. She is not half so jealoused about it as I am. Sometimes when I think about Gracie having the prize, it makes me feel real mad and cross with her. I don't think she will have it; but then she _might_, you know; and I don't think I could bear that for Maggie."

"But you must _try_ to be willing, dear," said her mother, "and not have that feeling towards Gracie. It does not make you act unkindly to her, does it?"

"It did the other day in school, mamma. She had lost her pencil, and she asked me to lend her mine; and 'cause I knew she wanted it for her composition, I spoke very cross, and told her 'No'; but then she looked so very surprised at me, that I was sorry and gave it to her, and we kissed and made up. But, mamma, if one of your little girls did not have a prize, would you not feel pretty mortified?"

"Not in the least, dear, if I thought my little girls had done as well as they could. If they had been idle or disobedient or untruthful, and so lost all chance of a prize, then indeed I should have been mortified and grieved; but, if they had done their best, I should not feel at all troubled because others had done better."

"And would not papa, mamma?"

"No; he will be quite satisfied if he knows that you have tried to do what is right."

"I'm 'fraid I shouldn't, mamma," said Bessie, drawing a long sigh; "if Gracie has the composition prize, not one will come to Maggie or me; and when I think about it I am quite dis-encouraged."

"But I do not want you to be discouraged, dearest, any more than I want you to be too eager. How is it that you have no hope of the other prizes for yourself or Maggie?"

"I could not have the 'perfect-lesson prize,' mamma, 'cause I do not have so many to say as the others; and Maggie has not had so many perfect marks as some of the rest."

"But that prize to be given by the choice of the school--has my Bessie given up all thought of that?" said Mrs. Bradford.

"Not the _thought_ of it, mamma; but I have not a bit of hope of it. I think maybe Belle will have it; for she has been very good and sweet most all the time. She does not break the rules, and all the little girls and the young ladies like her. She says if it comes to her, she will give it to lame Jemmy, so that will be as good for him as if one of us had it; but I would have liked to think that Maggie or I had earned it for him."

"Yes," said Mrs. Bradford, "it would have been very pleasant; and I should have liked to think that the good behaviour and amiability of one of my little daughters had been of such service to Jemmy. But why do you think there is no hope that the prize will come to you, darling? You have not broken the rules so often, or had any trouble with your playmates, have you?"

"I don't think I have broken the rules, mamma; but I have been naughty sometimes. I broke Mrs. Ashton's flower, you know, and two or three times I was passionate with the girls; but I believe they don't think about that now, and some of them say they shall vote for me."

"Most all of them will," said Maggie, who had come back, and now stood listening; "most all of our class will, and I think a good many of the young ladies."

"No, not one," said Bessie, shaking her head decidedly.

"I don't see how you can be so sure," said Maggie; "and, Bessie, all the young ladies are very fond of you; and Miss Julia said you were the best child in the school."

"They have _reasons_, Maggie," said Bessie gravely; and then, turning to her mother, she added, "Mamma, don't you think it seems strange that God sometimes punishes us for doing right."

"I do not think He does, dear. God never punishes us for doing His will."

"No, mamma. I do not quite mean that. I s'pose _punish_ was not just the right word; but I mean He lets a great disappointment come to us sometimes 'cause we try to do what we know is right. When I was very young, I used to think He always gave people a reward for doing right; but now I know better than that."

"Suppose you tell me your trouble, dear; and see if I cannot help you to understand it."

"Yes, mamma," said Bessie thoughtfully. "I think I might, for you know about the clock from Maggie, and so I shall not be breaking my promise."

And then she told her mother all about her trial and temptation in the affair of the broken clock.

Mrs. Bradford heard her in silence, only now and then tenderly smoothing her hair, or softly patting the little hand which rested on her knee; but Maggie went into a state of fidgety indignation, which she could scarcely restrain till the story was finished, when she broke out with,--

"I knew it! I knew it! I just knew it! That day that you were so mournful and mysterious, and wouldn't tell even me what ailed you, I knew those hateful old young ladies had been plaguing you some way; and I just hope not one of them will have a single prize! And I'm very much disappointed in Miss Kate. I didn't think she'd be so mean, even if she does tease."

Disappointed! So was Bessie, more sorely than could be put into words; and, in spite of Kate's continued, even increased kindness to her since that day, she could not get back the old feeling of trust and confidence. And Kate saw it, and grieved over it; and so, perhaps, the lesson she had received sank deeper into her heart.

"Bessie," said Mrs. Bradford, "is there not one reward of which we are always sure, if we do our Father's will?"

"Yes, mamma," said the little girl; "you mean, to know He is pleased with us. But it did seem as if He must be pleased, if I could be such a good child in school as to gain the prize that would be such a help to poor Jemmy; and it did seem as if it was very much His work, and I am very disappointed I could not do it."

"But sometimes, darling, we mean to serve God in one way, and He sees fit to have us do it in another; and sometimes we are doing His work and glorifying Him when we do not know it ourselves. Benito did not know he was carrying his pearls in his bosom, until he went into his Father's presence."

"No," said Bessie, smiling brightly at her mother's allusion to the old, well-loved story, and then looking grave again.

Mrs. Bradford saw that she was not quite content, and said,--

"Bessie, can you not feel satisfied to know that you have done more to serve and honour your Father in heaven by refusing to do evil that good might come, and holding firmly to the truth, than you would have done if you had gained fifty prizes for Jemmy?"

"Yes, mamma," said Bessie, brightening again; "and do you think God gave me that to be my work instead of earning the hospital bed?"

"I am sure of it, dear; and sure also that His blessing has followed your effort to keep in the way of truth."

"And, mamma, do you know I was thinking--I have to do a good deal of thinking about this--that even if I had promised to tell a story to Mrs. Ashton, and the young ladies had voted me the prize, it would not have been fair, 'cause it was for the best and most truthful child in the school; and they could not have given it to me for that, but 'cause I had done them a wicked favour."

"And you would have had no peace or contentment in gaining it so, darling, even if Jemmy had been cured by this means. And, Bessie, I am quite sure no one of your schoolmates cares less for you because you did not suffer them to tempt you into wrong, however vexed they might have been at the time."

"_I_ care less for _them_," said Maggie, putting her arms around Bessie's neck; "and I'm just going to let them see it. I shan't speak to those four girls, or smile at them, but look very offended every time I see them. And I'm going to persuade all the rest of our class to be offended with them too."

"I do not want you to repeat this, Maggie," said Mrs. Bradford, to whom the story was not new, although the children thought it was.

"Mustn't I, mamma?" said Maggie, rather crestfallen. "Well, I suppose it would be telling tales; so I will just ask the other children to be offended with the big girls just to oblige me, and for a good reason that is a secret."

Mrs. Bradford did not make any reply to this. She did not wonder that Maggie was shocked and indignant; but she knew that her resentment was never lasting, and that long before Monday morning she would have thought better of this resolution. Nor was she wrong; for, having dismissed the children to be dressed before their little friends came, she overheard Maggie say,--

"Bessie, I guess after all I had better not coax our class to be offended with those larger girls; you see maybe they have begun to repent of their meanness, and it might discourage them if they would like to 'turn over a new leaf.'"

"Yes," said Bessie, "I think so too; and I meant to ask you not to, Maggie. Let's forgive and forget."

"I'll forgive, and I'll try to forget," said Maggie; "but I'm afraid that particular will be pretty hard work. But I will say that I hope perhaps one of them will have a prize after all, and I s'pose that will be a pretty good way of forgiving."