Part 2

Anna was too much hurt to reply, and perhaps it was as well she did not do so. She went to her room feeling tired, discouraged and unhappy. Was it really tree that she had never learned to pray, and had none of the true spirit of devotion? Had all her enjoyments in the Church services and in her private devotions been a delusion? Had she done wrong, after all, in performing the duty which it had been so hard for her to undertake? And if she had been wrong so far, how was she to set herself right?

"Oh, how I do wish mamma was at home!" said she, sighing. "She would tell me what I ought to do. And how am I to get on with Aunt Dorinda, all alone, for a week?"

Anna took up her little book of texts for every day in the year. It had been given her by her Sunday-school teacher with the advice that she should learn the text for every day, and keep it in mind as a topic for meditation. She opened to the day of the month, and her eyes fell on the words:

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

"'All things,'" she thought. "And 'to them that love God.' Do I love Him? Yes, I am sure I do. Aunt Dorinda says it is very hard to tell whether we love God or not; but I don't see why it should be so. I don't find it hard to tell whether I love my other friends or not. Yes, I am sure I love Him, and if so, this promise is for me."

"Then there must be some way in which Aunt Dorinda's visit may do me good. I do not see how, unless in teaching me to be patient at being contradicted and put out of my way. Mamma says of me sometimes that I am very pleasant when I am pleased. Well, I must learn to be pleasant when I am not pleased. I know that Aunt Dorinda, does really mean to be good and kind, and I must try to remember that and have patience with the rest. I suppose I shall have to give up my painting and work at those shirt-bosoms, but that is no great sacrifice, after all, and the shirts will do somebody good. It isn't the heaviest kind of a cross, as Caroline says, after all."

By the time Anna had finished her prayers and reading, she felt once more contented and happy. She went to sleep with the words of praise upon her lips and in her heart, and awoke feeling cheerful and brave, and ready to "make the best of anything that should happen."

That day Anna not only stitched the shirt-bosom, putting aside her painting for the purpose, but she nearly finished the garment. She did not, however, think it necessary to give up Mrs. Williams' shawl, though her aunt went out in the afternoon and bought some marvellously coarse yarn expressly that Anna might, as she said, have no excuse for that senseless fancywork: thinking that her poor old friend had quite as much claims upon her as a person she had never seen, and whom even her aunt did not know.

Aunt Dorinda stayed three days, and then received a letter which decided her to go back directly. Anna helped her to pack with a right good will, and she drew a long breath of relief as Aunt Dorinda drove away.

"Well, she's gone!" said Caroline. "She means to be a good woman, I don't doubt, but she is a trial. There's one thing I must say, Miss Anna, my dear, that you might learn from your aunt, and that is to mind your own business, and not interfere with other folks, even when you think you know more than they do. It is just that which makes her so disagreeable, and makes her do harm where she wants and means to do good. And you know, honey, you do interfere sometimes, even with your mother."

Anna blushed. "I know it. I was thinking of that very thing last night."

"Well, then, that is one way to make the best of Aunt Dorinda. Try to be like her in wishing to do good and to help others; and learn from her, not to spoil all the good you do by dictating and interfering so as to make people dislike you. I tell you, honey, these disagreeable Christians have a great deal to answer for."

The remaining days of the week passed pleasantly and quickly to Anna; but she was a good deal disappointed when, on Saturday, she received a letter from her father, saying that they should not be at home for three days longer.

"Three more days!" she thought. "But then I shall have time to finish my picture and my shawl; and I am sure mamma will be pleased with them."

Thus you have seen how by a brave and cheerful spirit Anna was enabled to enjoy the time which at first seemed likely to pass so heavily; and how by a spirit of Christian gentleness and humility she contrived to extract real good out of what might have made her only fretful and unhappy.

Try, my dear girls, to do likewise. Try to make the best of whatever happens, and when, as it seems, there is no best to be made, try to receive your trouble as a cross from the hand of your kind and loving Heavenly Father, and pray for His grace to sanctify your affliction, and be assured He will teach you to "make the best of it."

[Illustration]

[Illustration: DORA, OR, "WON'T YOU EVER TELL?" Frontispiece.]

[Illustration]

DORA,

OR,

"WON'T YOU EVER TELL?"

"WON'T you ever tell as long as you live and breathe?" said Dora Hayes to Eva Morrison.

"No," replied Eva, thoughtlessly.

"Just as true as you live?" repeated Dora.

"I don't know," said Eva, taking a second thought. "I always do tell mother everything."

"Then I shall not tell you!" returned Dora, tossing her head. "If you are such a baby as that, I shall never tell you anything. I should think you would be ashamed to run and tell m—a—a everything you hear."

And Dora tossed her head and laughed in a very ill-bred, disagreeable manner.

"Well, I am not ashamed, and I don't want any of your secrets, Dora Hayes," said Eva, coloring, but speaking very decidedly. "My mother is the best friend I have in the world, and I love her dearly, and I don't know who I should tell things to, if not to her. So you may keep your great secret to yourself."

"But this is something that somebody said about you," said Dora, seeing that she had made a mistake in laughing at Eva.

"So much the worse," returned Eva, boldly, though she felt her curiosity excited. "I don't want to know what people say about me, and you ought never to repeat conversation either. You know what the doctor said about that in catechism class only yesterday."

And Eva turned away, and sitting down at a distance, she occupied herself in learning her lesson till school began. A good many times in the course of the day, she found herself wondering what it was that Dora wanted to tell her; but she put the thought resolutely away. And by the next morning, she had almost forgotten the matter.

Eva's parents were among the richest people in the place. Eva herself was always prettily and fashionably dressed: she had plenty of pocket-money to spend, and she had been in vacation to Saratoga and Newport, and even to London and Paris with her parents.

According to the usual course of story-books, Eva ought, I suppose, to be represented as proud, and haughty, and vain. I am glad to say that she was nothing of the sort. She was a kindhearted, truthful, good girl, always ready to help her school-mates in their lessons and to amuse them with telling stories of what she had seen. She was, for that matter, not nearly so proud as her classmate and most particular friend Amy Preston.

Amy was the daughter of a widow lady, who kept a fancy-store in the place where Eva lived. Mrs. Preston was the widow of an artist. She might have had a home with her husband's relatives, but like a good and sensible woman as she was, she preferred supporting herself by the beautiful work she had learned to do abroad, and by selling materials for embroidery and other fancywork; and this she did with an honesty and energy which made her very much respected. Mrs. Preston had only one child, and she wished to give her such an education as would enable her to support herself if it became necessary. Her own business was prosperous enough to enable her to afford it: so she kept Amy at the best school in the place and allowed her to take music lessons of the same master who taught Eva Morrison.

Eva had "taken," as the girls say, to Amy Preston from the very first; but it was a good while before Amy responded to her advances. For Amy was proud, as perhaps was only natural, and she was afraid that people would say she flattered and courted the heiress. She persisted for a good while in being very cool to Eva, but at last Eva's loving frankness and persevering kindness won the day, and the two girls were now the best friends in the world.

Mrs. Morrison entirely approved of this friendship. She had known Mrs. Preston for years, and she did not believe that Eva was likely to learn anything bad from Amy. Besides, Amy was a good scholar and very industrious; and Mrs. Morrison thought she might have a good influence over Eva, who was inclined to be rather lazy over all her lessons but music and drawing.

We have said that Amy was proud, and that it was only natural that she should be so. There is a certain sort of pride, if pride it can be called, which is very proper. I mean the feeling which makes people prefer helping themselves, when they are able, to being helped by others; and causes them to be cautious and delicate about receiving expensive presents, and the like.

But this very proper feeling may be carried too far, and too far Amy certainly did carry it. She would walk home from school in the rain rather than ride in the carriage which Mr. Morrison sent for Eva. She would not receive the smallest present from Eva without making her one in return; and it was a long time before she would consent to borrow from Eva's large library of story-books.

In fact, Amy was jealous of her friend's wealth and so-called station. It often happens that we go on indulging very serious faults, just because we will not allow ourselves to call these faults by their right names. Thus we call anger just resentment, and pride self-respect, and blunt rudeness sincerity, and so on.

If Amy had really become aware that she was cherishing envy and jealousy, she would have been shocked, for she was trying very hard to be a Christian. But she christened her fault by the pretty name of self-respect. When the cow-bird lays her egg in the sparrow's nest, the sparrow cherishes it and brings up the intruder as her own; but the cow-bird hatches sooner, and grows faster than the young sparrows, and very soon turns them all out of the nest. So this intruder, which Amy called self-respect, was rapidly outgrowing all the gentle virtues of charity, humility and love in Amy's heart, and was getting ready, when occasion served, to turn them all out and keep the nest to itself.

The occasion was not very far off. There was one girl in the school who entirely disapproved of the warm friendship which existed between Eva and Amy, and that was Dora Hayes. Dora was a far-away cousin of Eva's and would have liked to be very intimate with her. Dora had no pride to prevent her from accepting any amount of obligations from her rich relations, and she would have boarded, and lodged, and dressed at Mr. Morrison's expense the year round without having her feelings hurt or her gratitude excited in the least degree.

Dora was always hanging about Eva, contriving to sit next to her, and fishing for invitations to visit her. But Eva, though she was, or meant to be, kind to Dora, did not like her. She thought her both mean and deceitful, as indeed she was. And while she sometimes made her presents and lent her books, she would never encourage Dora's attempts at intimacy.

This was very vexatious to Dora. She laid it all to Eva's friendship with "that Preston girl," as she called her, and this friendship she determined somehow or other to break up. She had begun upon Eva, but, as we have seen, with little success. Eva would not promise not to tell, and would not hear her wonderful secret at any price. Dora was very much vexed, but she was not one to give up easily any point she had set her heart upon. She determined to try and see what she could do with Amy.

Amy frequently staid in the store and attended to customers when her mother was obliged to be out. Dora knew this, and that very afternoon, finding Amy alone, she pretended to want to select a worsted pattern, and began upon Amy while she was looking over Mrs. Preston's large stock of patterns.

"You and Eva Morrison are great friends," said she.

"Yes," answered Amy, rather shortly, as if she would add, "what is that to you?"

"Eva is a good girl," continued Dora. "She is very generous, at least of things which don't cost her anything; but she is queer about some things. I wish she would not act as she does, but there is no use in my saying anything to her, and I shall not try again. Eva has never been kind to me," added Dora, with a sigh; "but still she is my cousin, and I love her, though I do see her faults. Poor thing, every one flatters her, so it is no great wonder if she does think she does anybody a great favor by noticing them."

"That is a pretty pattern for your cushion!" said Amy, who was beginning to feel uncomfortable, and to wish Dora would go away. "And it is easy to work. Why don't you take that?"

"There is not enough variety about it," answered Dora, delighted to perceive the effect of her words. "I want something prettier. As I was saying, it is no wonder that Eva is set up to think that she does you a great honor by noticing you, though I must say I think you do as much for her as she does for you."

"I don't know—" Amy began.

".Of course you don't know—how should you?" interrupted Dora. "Nobody likes to make mischief, and so nobody tells you what Eva says. I think myself it is a shame that you should not hear it, because people know how Eva goes on; and, of course, they think you know it too, and just keep on with her for what you get out of her."

"I don't get anything out of her!" said Amy, coloring.

"I know you don't, really, and that is just why I say it is a shame for Eva to say so!"

"To say what?" asked Amy, in a tone of irritation. "If you have anything to tell me, Dora, I wish you would speak it out, and have done with it!"

"Oh, well, if you want me to tell you, of course I can. Well, a certain person said to Eva the other day, 'I do wonder how you can make a friend of Amy Preston!' 'Oh!' said Miss Eva, contemptuously. 'Amy is a very cheap friend. She does not want as much as some people to keep her friendship!'"

"What did she mean by that?" asked Amy.

"Why, I suppose she meant that you, being poor, would be thankful for small favors. And then she laughed and said: 'We know what we are about. Amy gets what she wants, and I got what I want!' I suppose she gives you a great many presents, doesn't she?"

"No, indeed, she does not, because I will not take them!" replied Amy.

"Well, I am surprised!" said Dora. "I thought from what I have heard Eva say, that she more than half-clothed you. She gave you the dress you have on, didn't she? I understood her so."

"She never gave me a dress in the world!" exclaimed Amy, vehemently. "Nor anything else to wear. It is a likely story, indeed, that I should accept such presents from anybody."

"Well there, I didn't believe it!" said Dora. "I said all the time I didn't; but you see your dress being just like the one Eva wore last winter, people naturally believe the story. I don't see why Eva should tell every one, if she did give you an old dress. I always thought we were not to let our left hand know what our right hand did. Eva pretends to be such a Christian, too! I don't see how she can do so; though, for my part, I never can see that people who make great pretensions to religion air better than any one else."

If it had not been for that little imp of envy and jealousy which Amy had been nursing and potting under the pretty name of self-respect, she would never have given credit to a story so entirely inconsistent with what she had known of her friend's character. She would have seen through Dora at once, and treated her insinuations and stories with the contempt they deserved. But the jealous spirit was whispering in her ear that it was no more than was to be expected, or than she deserved for running after a girl so much richer than herself. She therefore answered angrily:

"If Eva Morrison says she ever gave me a dress, or anything of the kind, she tells a lie, and you may tell her I say so! I should think she would be ashamed of herself to be such a hypocrite—pretending to be so fond of me and then telling such falsehoods about me. I have a great mind to say I will never speak to her again!"

"I wouldn't, if I were you," said Dora, delighted with her success. "But, Amy, don't you ever tell Eva that I told you. It would make no end of trouble in the family, if you should, because my father and Mr. Morrison are in business together. By the way, it is not true, is it, that Mr. Morrison set your mother up in business?"

"Of course not! Mother had money enough from the sale of my father's pictures to set herself up in business, and have something to spare!"

"There, I didn't believe it when she said so. Well, Amy, I don't like any of these patterns. I think I will go down to Mrs. Mercer's and see if she has anything prettier."

Dora went away very much delighted with the success of her scheme, and leaving Amy feeling more unhappy than she had ever done in all her life before. She loved Eva dearly, and was deeply grieved that her friend should have been so treacherous toward her. But her pride was also wounded, and she listened to the counsels of pride rather than to those of affection. The latter advised her to go at once to Eva, tell her what she had heard, and ask an explanation; but pride told her that such a course would be mean and degrading, and would show her to be wanting in self-respect. It would have been well for Amy if, like Eva, she had been in the habit of telling everything to her mother; but she was very reserved by nature, and rarely spoke to any one of her own feelings.

She brooded over what she had heard all that day and the next, and by the time she was ready to go to school on Monday morning, she had fully made up her mind never to have any more to do with Eva Morrison.

Consequently, when Eva came to meet her with outstretched hands, as usual, Amy met her with averted eyes, and the coolest of nods, and going directly to her place, she began to study with all her might.

"What in the world ails Amy?" asked one of the girls, who had seen the meeting.

"Oh, nothing I guess!" replied Eva, though she wondered at her friend's manner. "People don't always feel alike, you know!"

"There is more about it than that," said Dora, who had been watching the meeting. "Only you never will listen to anything, I could tell you all about the matter."

"Well, what can you tell!" asked Eva, carelessly.

"I shall not say anything unless you promise not to tell, you know."

"I shall not promise, Dora, though it is not likely that I shall tell. I am not apt to repeat things."

"Well, then, Amy says you are a regular little liar and hypocrite, and she won't have any more to do with you. She says she has been patronized by you long enough."

"I did not know that I had patronized her at all," said Eva. "I am sure I never meant to do so."

"Yes, but then you see Amy is of such a jealous disposition that she thinks you mean to patronize her, whether you do or not!"

"She is naturally rather jealous, I think," said Eva; "but I can hardly believe that she called me a liar or a hypocrite!"

"She did, for I heard her!" said Dora. "I was in the store, picking out a pattern."

Eva might have asked who Amy was talking to, but she did not think of that.

"Well, all I can say is, that I am sorry!" said she, sighing. "But I hope Amy will think better of it. I am sure she will if she knows what is good for herself, for I know she cannot be happy while she is doing me such an injustice."

"So you really didn't speak to Eva this morning!" said Dora, joining Amy as she was walking homeward. "I did not bellow you would keep your resolution, but I was glad you did, especially after what Eva said."

"What did she say?" asked Amy, feeling rather ashamed as she spoke.

"Oh, she tossed her head, and said you had got a jealous fit; but she guessed you would get over it. You knew what was good for yourself too well to quarrel with her, and if you did you would get the worst of it—that was one comfort. You see, she thinks she has you under her thumb, so she can do as she pleases with you."

"She will find herself mistaken!" said Amy, proudly. "I am not dependent upon her, I am thankful to say."

"But, after all, Amy, when you are under so many obligations to her—"

"Under what obligations, I should like to know?"

"Why, doesn't she pay your school bills? I understood so."

"Of course not! My mother pays my school bills! What do you mean?"