CHAPTER IV.

THE money which had been collected to repair Kitty's loss, being put into Mr. Fletcher's hands, was by him transmuted into ten bright little gold dollars, after which they were put into Mrs. Pomeroy's hands to be presented to Kitty, who received them with a delight that was almost painful.

"I don't see how the girls came to think of such a thing," she said to Mrs. Pomeroy. "I don't understand why they should care so much for me. They are always doing kind things for me, though I never can make any return. I don't see why it is."

"Because you are a good, patient little girl," replied Mrs. Pomeroy, "and you have so few amusements, that your schoolmates like to do all in their power to make you happy. They know it is not very pleasant for you to sit by the fire or lie on the sofa when they are out at play."

"It is very tiresome," admitted poor Kitty with a sigh. "Sometimes I think I shall never be strong and well as they are, and then I feel as though I didn't want to live at all. Do you think that is wrong?" she asked, rather anxiously, seeing that Mrs. Pomeroy looked grave.

"It is a very natural feeling," said Mrs. Pomeroy, "but I would not indulge it if I were in your place, because it might tear you to be impatient. You know that God appoints the sort of life, he thinks best for you, and you must try to be willing that everything should be as he pleases."

"I know it," replied Kitty. "It is only when I am very tired indeed that I feel so, because after all, I do enjoy myself very much sometimes. Do you think I shall be able to go out and buy my presents to-morrow, aunty?" she continued, turning her money over in her hand. "It seems as though I should enjoy giving them a great deal more if I bought them myself."

"If it should be pleasant to-morrow, and you should sleep well to-night, I think you will be able to do so," replied Mrs. Pomeroy. "If not, you will be obliged to trust to my judgment."

"But I want to get something for you, too," said Kitty anxiously; "and I don't see how I shall manage it."

Mrs. Pomeroy smiled. "You might ask Miss Gilbert or Mr. Fletcher to select something for you," said she. "You know you have great confidence in Mr. Fletcher's taste."

"I do hope I can go," said Kitty, but she coughed as she spoke and put her hand to her side, as though it hurt her very much. Even after the fit of coughing was over, she seemed to breathe with pain and difficulty.

"You must have taken cold yesterday," said Mrs. Pomeroy, "and I do not see how you could have done so, for you were very warm when you came in."

Kitty colored. "I got cold this morning, aunt. I went out directly after breakfast to look for my money, before I told you that I had lost it. I could not help hoping that I should find it."

"That was very naughty, Kitty," said Mrs. Pomeroy, looking seriously displeased. "You know. I positively forbade your going out without especial permission."

"I know it," replied Kitty through her tears; "but I did want to find it so much."

"You see how one wrong doing leads to another," Mrs. Pomeroy continued. "First you were disobedient about the money, which was the cause of your losing it, and then you were tempted to another act of disobedience to conceal the first. You might have been led still farther. If you had found what you lost, and I had asked you how you took cold, you might have been tempted to tell a lie about it. If you had told me of your loss the moment you discovered it, the bill might very possibly have been found. But do not cry, my dear," she added, kindly, "you will make your cough worse, and I want you to sleep to-night. The girls will be very much disappointed if you are unable to be down to-morrow evening."

But it was by no means easy for Kitty to compose herself. Her conscience was almost morbidly tender, and this little act of disobedience gave her more pain than Delia Mason had ever felt for all her sins put together. Moreover, she had taken a severe cold, and both these causes together produced such a degree of fever, that Mrs. Pomeroy became seriously alarmed. She was very ill all night, and even delirious at times, and the morning made it plain that she would be not only unable to participate in the festivities of the day, but even to sit up at all.

"She is very ill," was Mrs. Pomeroy's reply to the questions of the girls at breakfast time. "I have never known her to pass a worse night."

"You don't think her in any danger, do you," asked Annette.

"I cannot say," answered Mrs. Pomeroy. "I always fear that every fresh attack may be the last, and I have never seen her suffer more. She has so little strength to spare."

"Do you think it was crying about her money that brought it on?" asked Delia, who was standing with her arm round Emily's waist.

"Not entirely, though no doubt it helped. I discovered last night that she was out in the morning looking for it, and did not come in till she was thoroughly chilled. It was one of her very few acts of wilful disobedience."

"I recollect now, that we saw her coming down the steps, just as we set out to go to Miss Sampson's," said Delia. "Don't you remember, Emily, that I remarked at the time that I did not believe Mrs. Pomeroy knew it."

"Some people's sins do seem to go to judgment beforehand," remarked Miss Gilbert. "I suppose there are not half a dozen girls in the school so habitually obedient as Kitty. It seems strange that she should be the one to suffer."

"I have sometimes wished that every act of disobedience might be discovered at once," said Mrs. Pomeroy. "One concealed sin is so apt to lead to another."

"How true that is!" thought Emily. "I was terribly afraid that Mrs. Pomeroy would find out that I was in debt at Barton's, and yet if she had, how much wickedness and misery it would have saved me. What is to become of me now is more than I can tell, but I suppose I must face it out. Nobody shall know how I feel, not even Delia. Nobody knows or suspects it, that is one comfort."

Ah, Emily, was not that a terrible mistake? Was there not one who knew every thought and action? Was there not an eye which had followed every wandering step, from the first omission of that evening prayer, to the present time? Was there not one voice that whispered constantly in your ear, "Return, wanderer, while there is time! Repent, confess, and be forgiven?"

Yes the voice was there, but its whispers were fainter and fainter, hour and hour, or rather she had closed her ears that she might not hear, and hardened her heart that she might not feel, but she should hear with her ears, and understand with her heart, and consent to be healed.

Pursuing her miserable resolution, however, she hardened her heart more and more, and by way of diverting her thoughts, she threw herself into whatever was going on, with an energy and gaiety which surprised all her friends, among whom she had hitherto passed for a quiet, retiring, and rather indolent person.

"How Emily has come out," remarked Lucy to Alice Parker, as they were finishing the trimming of the school-room, "she accomplished as much as any two in the room. I am glad to see her in such good spirits, for she has not seemed at all well lately. Most girls feel rather badly at not going home for the holidays, but she does not seem to mind it at all."

"Perhaps her home is not a pleasant one," said Alice.

"I believe she can hardly be said to have any home at present," said Lucy, "for her father is in Europe, and her mother is dead. I thought she would perhaps go home with Delia, but it seems she is expecting to stay."

"Do you take any one home with you?" asked Miss Parker.

"No," replied Lucy, "mother does not care about having me do so, and really I do not wish it myself. I think I enjoy myself more to have no one but our own family, and it is so pleasant at home that I grudge every evening that I am obliged to spend anywhere else. I never go out in holiday time, if I can help it."

"You must have a delightful home," remarked Miss Parker. "Ah, Lucy, you know very little of the trials of life."

"Perhaps you are not the very best judge of that, Alice," replied Lucy. "You remember the old story of the exchange of burdens. We know the weight of our own crosses but not the weight of those our neighbors carry. Only He who sends the cross knows that."

"Then you do have some trials," said Alice, interrogatively.

"Every one has them, I suppose," said Lucy, "but Alice, I do not believe it is best to talk of them, or even think of them too much. I believe that talking of them especially, has a tendency to make them appear much larger than they really are."

"But you say God sends them," persisted Alice, "and if so—"

"He sends them for our good no doubt, but I don't believe he means that we should exaggerate them. You know you can shut out the view of all this beautiful world with a bit of black cloth not so large as your hand, if you only hold it close enough to your eye; and so, by dwelling on one single trouble, we may keep out of view all the mercies of our lot."

"But what if some one persists in holding the black cloth close to your eyes, and would not let you look at any thing else."

"Then I would make the most of every peep of sunshine I could get," said Lucy, smiling.

Alice sighed and turned away. She could not appreciate Lucy's philosophy, or religion rather, and she could not help repeating to herself that Lucy could know very little of the trials of life, or she would not be so cheerful.

Notwithstanding Alice's conclusion, Lucy had seen something of trouble. Two of her sisters had died of consumption, her mother was wasting slowly, but surely by the same disease; they were not rich, and Lucy had no other prospect when her school education should be finished, than that of going out into the world to earn her daily bread as a teacher. Yet with all this, she could be cheerful and even merry, not only seeming to enjoy but actually enjoying every pleasant circumstance in her lot.

Why? Because she had early learned to acquaint herself with God, and be at peace. Because she had cultivated habits of thankfulness, referring every enjoyment however small, to God as the giver. Because she had asked and received grace, fully to accept the meaning of that most precious and wonderful promise—

"All things work together for good to them that love God."

Alice was religious too, and very conscientious about many things, but she had never learned to apply her conscience in this direction, and truth to tell, she took a certain pleasure in brooding over her troubles, making the worst of them, and above all talking of them to any one who would listen to her.

The work of arranging and decorating the school-room went on merrily and rapidly. And now, nothing remained to do, but to hang the presents each with its ribbon and label upon the Christmas tree, a task which was entrusted to the younger teachers, and from which not only the girls, but the great magnates of the house, Mrs. Pomeroy, Mr. Fletcher and Miss Gilbert were entirely shut out.

Great was the contriving and managing, and deep the schemes to prevent any teacher from getting a premature sight of her own present, and much was the merriment excited by some of the gifts.

Bella Faushane had constructed: a dog of brown cotton flannel, supposed to be an accurate likeness of Mr. Fletcher's terrier Cornelius Agrippa, a quadruped of wonderful sagacity and amiable manners, but so ugly that as Belle declared, he was afraid to sleep alone; and a cat of white plush intended to represent Mrs. Pomeroy's cat Posy, between whom and Cornelius Agrippa there raged continual war. These effigies were intended respectively for Mrs. Pomeroy and Mr. Fletcher.

A wonderfully elaborate smoking cap, and a pipe of inordinate dimensions for good old Mr. Holz, the German music master, who had been in the house as long as Mrs. Pomeroy herself, without improving in the least in his English or his habits of smoking.

A miniature dust pan and feather duster awaited Miss Thomas, who was famous for finding dirt where nobody else could see any.

While hundreds of other gifts, many pretty and valuable, crowded the Christmas tree, whose glittering and many colored fruits were expected to show to still greater advantages when illuminated by the rays of the multitudes of wax tapers liberally scattered among them.

Up stairs in the hall, as it was always styled, par excellence, all were equally occupied. The girls who were not busy with their packing, were arranging their dresses for the evening, or putting the last touches to some of their gifts, and all were talking over plans for the holidays.

"There!" said Annette, emphatically, as she held up her hand, and arranged upon it a silken net which she had just finished. "That is the last piece of work I am going to do. I never could have believed that I should be so tired of fancy work."

"After all, you have not done as much as some others," remarked Bella Faushane, who having finished trimming her own gloves, was now benevolently engaged in ornamenting those of several of her companions. "There is Emily Arlington, for instance; I never saw any one accomplish as much."

"I should think you would hate the very sight of it, Em!" said Annette, turning to Emily.

"I do!" said Emily emphatically. "I will never touch another bit as long as I live, unless I lose my senses first!"

Emily's energy raised a laugh, in which she herself joined. Two or three of the girls had remarked how much she had laughed that day.

"I don't say as much as that," said Annette, when the merriment had subsided. "I dare say I shall like it as well as ever after a while, and so will you."

"Never!" returned Emily. She spoke with an energy and bitterness which made the girls look at her with surprise.

And Bella said, "I am sure, Emily, you have no reason to be dissatisfied. You work better than any of us, and those of your presents that I have seen are almost the prettiest of all. You must have spent a good deal of money, as well as time, upon them."

Emily winced almost as if some one had struck her, but she made no reply.

"Isn't it a pity that Kitty won't be able to come down?" said Annette, after a moment's silence. "She has thought so much about it, and worked so hard."

"Cannot she come down?" asked some one.

"Oh, no! I saw Mrs. Pomeroy after dinner, and she told me that Kitty could not even sit up long enough to mark her presents. Lucy is doing it for her. Well I know one thing! I should not like to be the person that got her money!"

"There it is again, Manny?" said Emily sharply. "You are always harping on that string. I thought we all agreed to believe that the money was not stolen, but lost by accident. The next we know, you will be accusing some one of having taken it."

Gentle Annette looked surprised and hurt. "I am sure I did not mean any such thing, Emily. I have accused no one."

"No one in particular," returned Emily, "but every one in general, which is quite as bad. There is no proof that it was taken at all, and I do not think any one in this house would steal from—" the words seemed to choke her, but she went bravely on, "from an orphan child."

"I think Emily is right, Manny, though there was no need of speaking so sharply," remarked Bella. "That will be the next thing, if we allow that it is stolen at all. I dare say that before vacation is over, the story will be going in the village that some one of the young ladies took it out of Kitty's pocket, and if any one of the boarders should happen not to return, it will be said that she was the thief, and that Mrs. Pomeroy forbade her coming back."

Poor Annette began to look quite alarmed at the amount of responsibility which seemed to be thrown upon her. "I am sure I did not mean any thing," she repeated again. "I hope I have not done any harm."

Bella was going to reply, but Delia interrupted her. "Pray Bella, don't say any more, or you will have Manny going to Mrs. Pomeroy, and confessing that she did the deed herself, by way of averting suspicion from any one else. No Manny, you have done no harm to any one, and I don't believe you ever did in your life."

"I am sure I never meant any," said Annette.

"I believe that," said Bella. "You are a dear good little soul, though I don't believe you will ever set the river on fire, unless by accident."

"I hope not," replied Manny, with the direct simplicity, which made her at once the laughing stock, and the favorite of her companions.

"You are not angry, are you, Emily?"

"No, of course not!" returned Emily rather shortly. "You have done nothing to ma. Do let the matter drop? I have heard of it till I am fairly sick. Cannot some one think of something else to talk about beside that everlasting ten dollar bill?"

"I can," said Bella. "Do you know that we are to have a new French teacher after holidays?"

"I supposed so, because I knew that Mademoiselle was not coming back," replied Delia quietly. "Have you heard any thing decided, Bella?"

"Miss Gilbert told me that Mrs. Pomeroy had determined to employ the same person that they have at the Academy—a Mr. Hugo, who is very highly recommended."

"Then we shall have no resident French teacher, and of course no French table," said Almira Crosby, who was notoriously lazy about her French, as indeed she was about most things. "What a blessing that will be."

"Well I like the French table well enough," said Bella, laying down a finished glove and taking up another, "and so would you, if you would take any pains to learn. I am sorry that Mademoiselle is going away. I like her better than any teacher in the house, except Mr. Fletcher."

"So don't I!" said Almira. "She is so cross and over particular."

"Oh, you think any teacher over particular, who wont let you keep your dirty shoes and clean collars in the same drawer, and who wont let you talk about pang and dang-dongs," replied Bella. "You did not like it, because she sent you back from walking, for having a great piece of molasses candy sticking to your fur cape, like a new kind of bullion trimming."

"Hush girls, stop quarrelling," said Delia impatiently, as Almira was about to reply. "Not another word Almira, or I will mark you, for I am monitress to-day, and I mean to make the most of my authority while it lasts. I wonder if this can be the same Mr. Hugo who used to teach at the Gymnasium, when I was there. If he is, you will have to mind your p's and q's, I can tell you, for he is as much more particular than Mademoiselle, as Mademoiselle is more particular than Almira!"

"Oh Delia! The force of exaggeration could no farther go," exclaimed Janet Graves laughing.

Emily meanwhile looked at her room-mate with a feeling of perfect amazement. "Well," was her thought, "I should like to know what she is made of; that is all. Here she has been scheming and planning for ten days past to get this man into the house, and yet she speaks of him as coolly as though he were a perfect stranger."

But Delia was going on in answer to some questions from Annette who was a dunce in French, because she was too timid ever to trust herself to speak.

"I believe he would expire of horror if he should hear some of the French that is spoken at our table. He told Bessy Gardiner that her language was worthy of an assassin, because she would persist in putting pas after pouvoir."

"Then you don't like him, Delia," said Bella.

"Oh, yes well enough," said Delia carelessly. "I never had any trouble with him, and then after all, it may not be the same person. Hugo is a very common French name."

"Well you will have an opportunity of seeing him here to-night," said Bella. "Miss Gilbert told me that Mrs. Pomeroy had invited him. You must brush up your French, Annette, for Mrs. Pomeroy will be sure to introduce him to all the French scholars."

Annette looked overcome with consternation at the very idea. "If I thought so, I would not go down—I declare I would not," said she half crying. "I would make some excuse and stay up stairs all the evening."

"That would be really worth while," said Delia rising; "after you have been working all this time, to lose the sight of the tree because you are afraid some one will ask you a question in French. I think I see you giving such a reason to Mrs. Pomeroy." She went into her room as she concluded the sentence, and Emily followed, shutting the door after her.

"Well Delia," said she, "I suppose you are satisfied now that you have gained your point."

"Pretty well satisfied," said Delia. "I thought he would live in the house, but after all perhaps it is just as well as it is."

"I don't know what you mean by 'after all,'" continued Emily, looking very much perplexed and very uncomfortable. "I don't know where you expect it to end."

"I am not aware that there is any need of your knowing," returned Delia, rather drily; "and besides it will be time enough to think about the end when it comes."

"It may be too late then," said Emily.

"Leave me to take care of that. I know what I am about as well as you, and perhaps better, and I am able to take care of myself. Now don't be offended!" she continued, seeing Emily's color rise. "All I mean to say is, that you must trust me to bring everything out right. I am older than you, you know, and have seen more of the world."

"I have seen as much of the world as I want to, and more!" said Emily, sighing. "I think I should like to go into a convent, and be out of the way of it altogether."

"What difference would that make so long as you yourself are the same person?" asked Delia. "I dare say you used to do as many naughty things when you lived at home with your aunt, as you do now."

"I don't think I did," said Emily. "I used do wrong things I know, but I was a very different girl then. Sometimes when I think about it, it hardly seems possible that I can be the same person."

"Well, don't fret about it," said Delia kindly. "Only have a little spirit, and things will turn out well enough. You have got rid of the worst part of your troubles,—your debts—so you need not have much to worry you."

"I owe you something yet," suggested Emily. "And I don't see how I am ever to pay you, unless father sends me some money."

"That is nothing. I don't care if you never pay it," replied Delia, kissing Emily affectionately. "I am sure a true friend is worth more than five dollars, any day."

Emily was soothed by the flattery and the caress, and she dropped the subject, endeavoring to concentrate all her thoughts upon the preparation for the evening.

Seven o'clock came at last. The large school-room, which had been locked all day was now brilliantly lighted, and the girls all in their best, began to gather in the parlors. When all were assembled, the day scholars and boarders together amounting to nearly a hundred, Mrs. Pomeroy herself appeared, splendid in black satin and diamonds, and a new lace cap, and led the way to the school-room.

A universal exclamation of delight was heard as they entered. There stood the tall green tree, bright with a hundred tapers, and glittering with spangles, glass balls, and sugar ornaments. Vain would be the attempt to enumerate the gifts which adorned its fruitful branches. There were dolls and picture books—hoods and scarfs, mittens and slippers, bags, baskets and boxes knitted, netted and crocheted, and manufactured in all other imaginable ways—pen knives, fruit knives, drinking cups and inkstands—every thing pretty, useful and convenient, which could be devised by the imagination, wrought with the fingers, or purchased with the pocket money of Mrs. Pomeroy's young ladies.

Good Mr. Holz was in extacies, and declared in his most emphatic manner that it was worthy of the Fatherland. And Mrs. Pomeroy thought as she sat upon the platform, and looked on, that she had never seen a prettier sight. The pleased young faces and merry voices were indeed delightful to the eye and ear, and pleasanter still were the universal good humor and kind feeling that prevailed.

"How sorry I am, that Kitty cannot come down," she said to Miss Gilbert as she stood near her. "She would enjoy it so much. I have been hoping all day, that she would be able to make her appearance at least for a few minutes, but she is too weak."

"Her aunt's present has turned out any thing but a benefit to her," remarked Miss Gilbert.

"Yes in one sense it has proved a great misfortune. I only hope it may not be the cause of her death."

Emily Arlington was standing within hearing, and Mrs. Pomeroy's eye happening to rest upon her as she spoke, she was astonished to see her turn as pale as ashes.

"Why, my dear, what is the matter?" she exclaimed, rising in alarm, for she thought her about to faint. "Are you not well?"

"I feel a little giddy," replied Emily, glad to take the proffered seat, for her heart throbbed so that she could not stand, "but it is nothing of any consequence. I have had the same feeling several times to-day. I think I must have taken cold."

A sort of faint shadow of a suspicion darted through Mrs. Pomeroy's mind at the moment, but it was gone before she fairly recognised it. Emily soon recovered her color, and in a few moments, she was laughing and chatting as gaily as ever, but the watchful and motherly eye still followed her, and Mrs. Pomeroy could not help thinking that much of her merriment was forced and unnatural.

"I must watch that child," she said to herself. "I fancy she studies too hard. I think she must drop something after holidays, if she is not better. Poor child, she has never been in school before, and I dare say she finds it hard to keep up."

Her mind was diverted from these reflections, by seeing Mr. Fletcher approaching with the new French teacher. Mr. Hugo was so much like other Frenchmen that it would be difficult to describe him particularly. He had black hair and black eyes, he had a large mustache and no whiskers, and he was dressed elegantly but plainly in black. His manners were polished and his address unexceptionable, though there was an expression of constant watchfulness about him, which was not always pleasant, as it gave one the idea that he was always suspecting the approach of an enemy.

On the whole, however, Mrs. Pomeroy felt very well pleased with the new master, especially as his accent was undeniably perfect, as even Mademoiselle allowed. As Bella had prophecied, nearly all the French pupils were presented to him. On being introduced to Delia, he bowed, said he had the pleasure of numbering her among his former pupils, and inquired after her family and her studies in a half paternal way which might well have removed Mrs. Pomeroy's suspicions, had she happened to entertain any. Delia on her part was quite composed and placid, and Emily's wonder was renewed by the calm, half indifferent manner in which she answered Mrs. Pomeroy's inquiries as to her former acquaintance with Mr. Hugo.

The French pupils were unanimous in his praise, all but poor Annette, who had kept most carefully out of his sight all the evening, and who declared that she should never dare to open her mouth before him.

"So much the better," said Bella Faushane. "You can keep it shut and talk through your nose. Don't you know how often Mademoiselle tells us that a correct rendering of the nasal sounds, is essential to the beauty of French pronunciation?"

"For shame, Bella," said Lucy. "You ought not to tease the poor girl so. I dare say she will speak French as well as any of us, after a while."

"Ah, well, Lucy, there is nothing like having faith," returned Bella. "But Annette does not mind my laughing at her a little, do you dear?"

"No, no," said Annette slowly, "because you are so good to me in other ways; but really and truly, Bella, I don't think you would like it yourself, sometimes."

"You are a dear good girl, and I wont tease you another bit, till after holidays. Do see what heaps of things Mrs. Pomeroy has got for Kitty. I don't believe there is another person who has as many, unless it is Mr. Fletcher. See, he has got his dog tied into his button hole. The Queen of Sheba has fared pretty well, too. How handsome she looks in that pretty red scarf; but her things are nothing to Kitty's."

Kitty had indeed been bountifully remembered, and there seemed some fears lest she should be thrown into serious embarrassment, how to bestow her goods. Emily's present of a warm knitted shawl, was particularly admired, and it was indeed beautiful both in material and workmanship.

"Ah!" thought poor Emily. "How differently they would all feel about it if they knew how it had been paid for."

All evenings, whether merry or sad, come to an end sooner or later. The presents were all distributed, the lights on the Christmas tree burned out, the guests departed, and the house was left to such a degree of quiet and repose as is to be found in a large boarding school the night before breaking up.

Many of the girls were to leave early, and had not finished their packing, others felt little inclined to go to bed, and very much inclined to talk over the events of the day. Even Miss Thomas did not feel disposed to excessive strictness in enforcing rules, but she roused herself at last, and absolutely commanded every young lady to seek her room and her pillow. There was nothing for it but to obey, and for a few hours at least, silence and repose reigned supreme over the halls and dormitories of Mrs. Pomeroy's seminary.