CHAPTER VII.

THAT BELOVED BAG!

[Illustration]

"NOW then, girls," cried Lizzie, rocking the cradle softly, while the two other girls got each a piece of work to go on with; even Agnes produced a coarse blue sock, and knitted away woman-fully—"now then, girls, tell me everything; and first, how do you get on?"

"Wonderfully, Liz, just wonderfully! Of course, we miss her every day we live, poor Clarice most of all. But then we are always busy, and, somehow, we have got to have a way of looking forward that is a great help, and keeps us going."

"That is Guy's doing," added Clarice. "He borrowed a book about New Zealand from Miles Murphy, and we read it in the evenings, and talk of our plans. And look, Liz, at the 'beloved bag,' as Guy calls it, look how fat it is!"

"What a grand bag!" said Lizzie. "But where does the money come from?"

"Helen and I, I think we wrote you word, got work from that shop in Dublin, and we earn three shillings a week, and sometimes four."

"Three shillings each, do you mean?"

"Oh no; between us. You know there is home work to be done, too—plenty of darning, eh, Nelly?"

Helen groaned.

"Aymer's stockings are more darn than stocking," she answered. "I suppose it is the digging, and all that."

"Still, we are saving money," said Clarice. "I'm bag-keeper; and I jingle it sometimes when Helen is low—listen, Nelly; isn't that a pleasant sound?"

"Aymer has been able to put by every shilling he gets from Mr. Pearson," Helen said, brightening up as Clarice smiled at her; "and that is really a good deal, you know."

"Mr. Anderson told me the other day," said Lizzie, "that the Government helps people to emigrate. If we only knew how to apply for it! Not now, of course, but when Aymer thinks of going."

"Perhaps some of papa's relatives would manage that for us," answered Clarice. "That would not be like asking them for money. But Aymer cannot go—we have quite settled that—until Agnes is old enough to manage here with me to see after things, so that Helen can go with him and Guy."

"And what will you do about papa?" asked Lizzie.

"I am sure he will not care. He will go when they send over money for us. We have not said anything to him yet, for he would forget it before the time came."

"Who knows how to get at his family?" inquired Lizzie. "I don't even know where they live."

"But I do," answered Clarice, "for mother wrote to them once, asking them to get Aymer and Guy into some school, and her letter was sent back, torn in two. But I saw the address. Sir Aymer Egerton, Bart., Egerton Highfield, Normanton."

"Very good, Clarice, my dear; but if Sir Aymer sends back all letters torn in two, I don't see much good in writing to him—do you?"

"We'll send Guy!"

"He can't tear him in two, certainly, however savage he may be," replied Helen. "But we must tell Lizzie about Guy. He put an advertisement in the Post-office window at Kilsteen, offering to make up books and to balance accounts for any one requiring his services, for two and sixpence each. And he has had five or six—which was it, Clarice? Six—to do. And though he had to have a pair of shoes out of it, poor fellow, all the rest went into the bag."

"And how did Guy learn to keep accounts?" asked Lizzie. "For I know it was one thing dear mother never could teach us."

"He studied arithmetic out of a book of papa's," answered Clarice. "There is nothing Guy cannot learn if he can only get a good book."

"Where is my father, by the way?" asked Lizzie. "I have not seen him."

"He's in the study," Helen told her.

"How is he? Does he seem sad—does he miss mother at all?"

"How can I tell? He never opens his mouth, except to eat; and indeed of late, he does not eat half enough. I declare, Lizzie, when I see how clever poor Guy is, and remember that papa could teach him all he wants to know, I get quite angry. Only yesterday, Guy asked him a question—something he and Clarice (who is just such another) were puzzling their heads over; and if you will believe me, papa did not even listen, and begged him not to interrupt him again."

"I remember when mother tried to get him to teach us," said Lizzie, "and he answered that 'he was unsuited to such elementary work, and that as the children were doomed to be mere boors, education would only make them discontented;' so she had to teach us herself."

"Guy only wants opportunity," said Clarice; "and we pray every day that he may get it."

Lizzie stared. To say your prayers every morning and evening, is one thing; to say that you want a particular thing, and mean to ask for it, is quite another.

"You pray about that, Clarice?" she said, doubtfully.

"I think she's always praying," said Helen, half fondly, half sadly; "and it seems to help her along wonderfully. I wish I were like that, Lizzie. I do get so fretted."

"You can always begin, Nelly," said Clarice, quietly.

She took her crimson-covered Bible from under her pillow, and opened it, finding what she wanted so easily that it was plain the book was no strange volume to her.

"'Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you. For every one that asketh, receiveth, and he that seeketh, findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.' That means, I suppose, the kingdom of heaven shall be opened. The Lord Jesus is the door, you know. Then in another place He says, that if two or three agree together about a thing they ask for, it shall be done for them. So Guy and I have agreed to ask for this."

"Did you ever hear anything like that?" whispered Lizzie to Helen, while Clarice was putting away the little Bible. "I have read those words often enough, but never thought they meant that. Who taught her?"

"I don't know. She is always reading her Bible, when she has time. Clarice, Liz wants to know who taught you to pray."

"It is all in the Bible," Clarice answered, taking up her work again. "You just read, and do it the best way you can, and then you find out more and more."

"But the Bible is so difficult to understand, Clarice."

"Parts of it are difficult; and then, you know, we are very ignorant. But a good deal of it is very plain; and those are the very bits that concern us most. Now what I read just now is plain enough, and I think way is, to go and do that, and then read a bit more."

"And there are such pretty stories in it," cried little Agnes, eagerly. "About little Samuel, whose mother made him a little coat every year, and God spoke to him in the Tabernacle, and he said, 'Speak, Lord, for Thy servant heareth.' And poor Joseph that was put in the pit; and David with the sling that killed the big, enormous giant. I know David was like Guy. Oh, Clarice tells me lots of stories, and teaches me what they mean, too."

"What they mean? Why those are true histories, child, of things that really happened."

"Oh yes, they happened, but they have a meaning, too, like a—what is it, Clarice?—the sower, you know, and the vineyard; what is the word?"

"A parable."

"Yes, like a parable—that's it."

"But, Clarice, what do you mean by that? How have the Bible stories a meaning?" Lizzie asked.

"I don't know that I can tell you, Liz. When I am teaching Agnes, I try to make those stories into pictures of the Lord Jesus."

"But how? I cannot think how you do it. Samson, now—I don't see how Samson could be made into a picture of Him."

"Not of Him, but of something about Him. Samson overcame his enemies by dying. His great strength, too—Jesus is strong to save."

"And Joseph, Liz! He was sold, and then saved his bad brothers—just like Him!" cried Agnes.

"It is a great thing to have a turn for reading," said Lizzie, with grave admiration. "At least, it is a great thing for you, Clarice, for you must find the day very long sometimes. I must make Donald get books from E— when you are at our place."

"At your place!" exclaimed Clarice.

"There! I was to have waited for Donald, and now I've let it out! He won't mind, though. You must know, girls, it fretted me dreadfully to know how you were all slaving and sparing, in the hope of giving the boys (who are my brothers as much as yours) a chance of bettering themselves by-and-by. And I, the eldest of you, living in ease and plenty, and yet not able to do a thing to help. For you know Donald has nothing of his own yet—it is all Mr. Anderson's. Then that kind, good Mrs. Anderson saw how it fretted me, and we thought of a plan by which we can help; and it will be so good for Clarice to have plenty of milk and fruit and everything. They both wish it—Mr. and Mrs. Anderson and all—and Donald and I can take her home to-night—that's why we brought the shanderadan—if you agree to it."

"Agree to what?" said Helen. "For Clarice to go for a visit to you?"

"Not for a visit, but to be like a daughter to the old people—to live always with us. We shall never let her want for anything, nor be a burden on any of you again."

Poor Clarice shivered at the word burden, but she said nothing, for she know that Lizzie did not mean to hurt her. She was always afraid that she gave a great deal of trouble, and she had no idea how useful she was; so she held her tongue and tried to feel grateful.

But Helen did not hold her tongue, and, to judge by the use she made of it, she did not even try to be grateful.

"Take Clarice away from us for good and all!" she cried. "Why, Lizzie, I was going to say that I did not see how I could spare her even for a few days! If you were living here, you would know better—indeed, I think you might know better even now. Why, Clarice takes care of baby night and day. What could I do if I had him on my hands always? And she knits every sock and stocking that we all wear—except what Agnes can do—and darns them too. And she does a great deal more than half the work for the shop, and helps Guy with his books. Guy would go out of his mind if he had not Clarice to talk to. And she never forgets anything, but puts Katty and me in mind of all the different things, even to the winding of the clock, which ran down regularly every week until I asked her to remind me of it. And she's the only one of the family that can get papa to answer a question. Why, if Clarice and her Bible, and—well, just her precious self—were gone out of this house for good, I'd take to my bed in a week!"

She stopped, and looked at her sister's pale thin face. "Perhaps, though, it would be for her good. Oh Clarice, Clarice, must I let you go?"

Before any one could answer, the door burst open, and in rushed Guy, his face crimson, closely followed by Aymer with little Agnes in his arms. In the background appeared the tall form of Donald Anderson, an amused smile upon his face. To account for their sudden appearance, I must tell you that Agnes had no sooner perceived what Lizzie meant than, in great dismay, she had ran out to inform her brothers, and to bring them to the rescue. She found them close to the house, looking at the early potato crop.

A hurried rush to the parlour ensued. Guy made but one step to Clarice's side and caught her by the hand, unable to speak, he had run so fast.

"What's all this?" Aymer began, somewhat roughly. "Helen, what does the child mean? She says you are all planning for Clarice to live with Lizzie and Donald."

"No, no, not planning it. Only Lizzie thought it would be a help to us all. But I have told her that, for my part, I could not possibly get on without her; and yet, when I looked at her, I thought perhaps we are letting her do too much. You see, boys, they thought it impossible that she could do anything—and perhaps she ought not."

Aymer looked puzzled. Guy said nothing, but tightened his grasp of his sister's hand. Agnes set up such a howl that the two babies very nearly jumped out of the cradle, and poor Lizzie looked ready to cry at the reception her well-meant proposal had met with. But by this time, Clarice had conquered the choking sensation which the sudden fright had given her, and was able to speak for herself.

"Lizzie dear, you are very, very kind! And if I were really useless at home, it would be right for me to go with you; and I know how kind and good every one of you would be to me. But, you see, I am of some use, and so—oh, Lizzie, to tell you the plain truth, it would just break my heart to leave them, useful or useless."

"And what should we do without you, Clarice?" said Aymer—silent Aymer—who seldom put ten words together. "Why, Liz, when we are tired out in the evening, you don't know the rest it is to have Clarice read to us—bits of books that she searches out during the day—books that I am sure I should never open but for her. Home would be very dreary without Clarice."

"And what should I do?" said Guy, with a half sob. "You don't want to go, Clarice, do you?"

"Want to go! If you were all as anxious to get rid of me as you are to keep me, I might go—though even then I'm afraid I should beg to stay. But it was a very kind thought of yours, Lizzie, and of all of you; and please, dear, don't be vexed about it."

Lizzie went over and kissed her.

"You're the dearest—I don't wonder they don't want to lose you. But indeed, boys, I mean it kindly. I never for a moment imagined that poor Clarice, who can't move hand or foot, as one may say, could be of any use; and even now I cannot think how she manages it!"

"Oh, just do the best I can," said Clarice, smiling; "and it is not very much after all. They are all so fond of me that they think I help them; and I do remember things. Lying here always, that is easy, you know."

"Indeed I don't know it," Helen answered. "What I do know is this, that most people who suffered all the pain you have, would say that they had enough to think of without helping others."

"But being busy helps me to bear the pain," said Clarice, simply. "Now, Agnes, you little silly, stop crying. Helen dear, it is almost two o'clock."

So Lizzie Anderson and her husband went home without Clarice, and filled with wonder, in which the old couple were not slow to share, as to how so weak and suffering a creature managed to make herself necessary to everybody in the house.

Yet her plan was a simple one. She thought of her sufferings as little as possible, and talked of them not at all. For the rest, she looked about, not to see what she ought to do, must do, or could be expected to do, but what she could do. And having seen it, she did it. Very simple; but what a changed world would this be if even every woman in it deserved the words,—

"She hath done what she could!"

[Illustration]

[Illustration]