Part 5

"Probably the same business that you had," replied Emily. "She goes over to the Home two or three times a week to read to Mrs. Grimes, the blind woman, and I suppose she has a right to take the shortest road, if she pleases."

"That going over to the Home is just another specimen of her," said Martha. "She likes to have the old ladies make a fuss over her, and to have all the managers say what a charitable, amiable girl Betty Allis is. You would not catch her doing any such thing unless she were sure that people would hear of it."

"Martha, how can you say so?" interrupted Emily. "You know how she helped poor Julia Curtis with her lessons, all the time her eyes were weak, so that she might not lose her place in school. The girls all wondered how Julia could keep up so well; but nobody would have known it if little Fanny had not let out the secret: for Betty made Julia promise not to tell."

"She knew it would come out somehow, or she would not have taken all that trouble," said Martha. "Then her name sounds so silly for a girl fifteen years old Belly Allis! Why does she not call herself Elizabeth?"

"Perhaps for the reason, amongst others, that it is not her name," replied Aunt Margaret, drily. "She was christened Betty at her grandmother's special request."

"She likes the name, though, for she says so," persisted Martha. "Then she makes such a parade of goodness. Miss Lyman said one day, last Lent, that she wished the girls to use their prayer-books in church; and the very next morning, Betty, instead of putting her head down, as she had done before, kneeled down and kept her head up and her book open before her all through the prayers and the Litany. Then she got up with such an air, as if to say, 'Just see how good I am!'"

"I fancy the air was in your imagination," said Emily. "I sat by Betty all through Lent and saw none of those airs that you speak of. Betty is a great deal more serious than she used to be, and I think she is trying hard to be a good Christian girl; but I am sure she makes no parade of it."

"Pray, Martha, what were you doing all through the prayers that you had so much time to observe Betty?" asked Aunt Margaret.

Martha blushed, but made no answer.

"I think you are cherishing a very wrong spirit," continued Aunt Margaret, seriously; "a spirit which makes you see wrong in everything which Betty does or leaves undone."

"That is just so, Aunt Margaret," said Emily. "I don't want to hurt Martha's feelings, but I am sure she is wrong in that. One Sunday Betty puts fifty cents into the collection and Martha thinks she does it to make a display. Another day she puts in a five-cent piece, and Martha thinks she might have saved something more than that out of all her pocket-money. And that is just the way all the time."

"Such a spirit is a very dangerous one for anybody to cherish," continued Aunt Margaret. "It shows a great want of that charity, without which all our doings are nothing worth:"

"I don't think it is fair to accuse me of want of charity, Aunt Margaret, considering how I saved—"

"How you saved all your pocket-money to give away," said Aunt Margaret, as Martha checked herself. "I am aware that you used a great deal of self-denial in that matter, my dear. I was very glad to see it. But, Martha, St. Paul says, 'though I give all my goods to feed the poor, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.' So you see that it is possible to be very liberal without being charitable at all."

"Charity means LOVE, does it not, Aunt Margaret?" asked Emily.

"Yes, my dear. St. Paul, in that beautiful thirteenth chapter of First Corinthians, gives us a description of this greatest of graces. He tells us both what it is, and what it is not, and assures us that unless we have it, our greatest gifts and graces are as nothing—

"'Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, though I have faith so that I could remove mountains, though I bestow all my goods to food the poor, or give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.'"

"I advise you to examine your feelings toward Betty by the aid of this chapter, and see if it does not throw some light upon them."

"If she had not served me such a mean trick, I should not care so much!" said Martha. "But it was so shameful in her to go and tell Miss Lyman and get me into disgrace. I don't believe there is another girl in the school who would have done such a thing."

"What did she do?"

"She went and told Miss Lyman of something I did, and got me into disgrace," said Martha.

"You don't know that it was Betty," said Emily.

"I do know!" returned Martha, angrily. "There was not another person who could have seen me."

"You do not know for certain that any one told," persisted Emily. "Miss Lyman never said so, and you have no proof against Betty except your own fancy."

"Of course you will take her part against me," said Martha. "All I have to say is that I can't bear her, and never shall."

"You are wrong, Martha, and you must know that you are wrong," said Aunt Margaret, gravely. "If you examine your own conscience you will see that it is so."

Martha did not reply. She was not without religious principle, and lately she had been feeling very anxious to become a true Christian. She had tried to give herself to her Saviour, but something seemed to hold back. She had no comfort in prayer, she did not feel as if God heard her, and all her efforts to do good and to love Him seemed hard, up-hill work. Now, as she thought over what her aunt had said to her, she began to wonder whether she had not found out her real hindrance, in the spirit which she had allowed herself to cherish toward Betty Allis.

Martha was a truthful girl. She was very much in earnest, and disposed to be honest in her self-examination. As she read over the description of Charity, she paused at every verse, and compared herself with the words.

"Charity suffereth long and is kind." Kind she certainly had not been. She had never lost an opportunity of saying and doing unkind things where Betty was concerned.

"Charity envieth not." It was rather hard for the naturally proud girl to admit to herself that she had envied her rich school-mate, that a great part of her dislike to Betty arose from the expensive furs, from those same fine white dresses, and the carriage, and the man-servant that called for Betty on rainy days; but One was dealing with Martha who would not let her deceive herself. Yes, it was even so.

"Charity thinketh no evil." She had thought of nothing else. She had put an evil construction on every act of Betty's, however simple, and she was always looking out for bad motives in all she said or did.

"Rejoiceth not in iniquity." Had she not been secretly glad that unlucky day when Betty was surprised into laughing aloud in church, and was afterwards reproved by the clergyman? Had she not rejoiced openly whenever Betty gained a bad mark, or had an imperfect lesson?

There is no use in our going over the whole chapter, though Martha did so to the very end. Then she closed the book and knelt down. She shed many tears as she prayed, but when she rose, her face was full of quiet peace. She had overcome her hindrance for that time. She had acknowledged her sins, and prayed for forgiveness, and for grace to resist her besetting sin, and something in her heart told her that her prayer was granted.

"You were right about Betty Allis and me, Aunt Margaret, and I see I have been wrong all through!" said Martha, after breakfast, when they were alone together in the dining-room.

Martha was washing the breakfast things, which was a part of her regular duty.

"I am very glad you do," replied Aunt Margaret. "To see when you are wrong is more than half the battle. But, Martha, had you never known before that you were wrong in cherishing such a spirit? Had not your conscience told you so?"

"Yes, Aunt Margaret, but I would not listen. But I cannot think it was right in Betty to tell Miss Lyman of me. It was none of her business what I did."

"Perhaps not. Nevertheless, Martha, you must forgive, if you would be forgiven."

"I hope I have done so, aunt. I could not help it," added Martha, in a low tone; "when I thought how He forgave me. I would like to be friends with Betty if I could, but I don't know how to set about it."

"Pray for guidance, and keep your eyes open," said Aunt Margaret. "Depend upon it, your way will be made plain."

"Martha," said her mother, opening the door, "suppose you run over to auntie's and carry her these fresh ducks' eggs. She likes them very much, and they will just come in time for her breakfast, if you do not stop to change your dress. You can go through the lane."

"Auntie," was a great-aunt of Martha's, a very old lady. She breakfasted very late, and Martha often ran over to her house with a plate of warm biscuits, a dish of freshly gathered berries, or some other dainty which it was thought the old lady might fancy. She hastily throw on her sunbonnet, and without even taking off her white apron she went to carry the eggs. She staid nearly an hour, doing various little services for auntie, and sharing her morning cup of coffee. As she was returning, she overtook Betty Allis, who was walking slowly in the same direction.

"Just like her!" was Martha's first hasty thought. "Sure to meet me if I look like a fright!"

But she checked herself the next moment and gave Betty a cordial greeting. "Why, Betty, I did not expect to see you out this morning."

"And I am not sure that I ought to be out," replied Betty: "but the morning seemed so pleasant that I could not bear to stay in the house, so I went round to the Home for a little while. Have you been to see your aunt?"

Martha explained her errand.

"It must be nice to have an old lady of one's own to go and see!" said Betty. "I wish you would take me to visit your aunt some day, Martha. Do you think she would like to see me?"

The old feeling of jealousy rose in Martha's heart, but she put it down by a brave effort, and answered cheerfully:

"I am sure she would like it very much. She is always fond of young people. I think you must be fond of old people, Betty, you go to the Home so much."

"I am," replied Betty. "I do love to hear the old ladies talk. One learns so much from them. It must be strange," she added, thoughtfully, "to look back upon such a long life."

"We shall know how it seems some time," observed Martha, "that is, if we live."

"I shall not," said Betty, abruptly. "I shall never live to be old."

"How do you know?" asked Martha.

"I heard the doctor say so," answered Betty. "He told mother that I had consumption, and that though, with good care, I might last on for a year or two, I should never be well, and I might be taken worse at any time."

"Why, Betty!" exclaimed Martha. "Do you believe it? Didn't it make you feel dreadfully?"

"It did, just at first," said Betty; "but I don't mind it so much now, only for mother's sake."

"I don't think the doctor ought to have said so!" said Martha. "He cannot know for certain."

"I believe he feels quite sure," replied Betty. "You know they have ways of finding out those things. He did not tell me, either. I only heard it by accident; but after all I am glad I know the truth. Come into our garden and let me give you some roses."

"I am not fit to be seen!" said Martha, glancing at her dress.

"I am sure you look very nice in that pretty calico dress and white apron. Besides there is no one to see you. Do come in!"

Martha yielded, and Betty led her from walk to walk, culling roses and other flowers with an unsparing hand. As Martha was going away, Betty detained her.

"Martha, there is one thing I wish to say to you now, because—because—something might happen that I should never see you again." She paused a moment, and went on in a firmer voice: "Martha, I know that you have never liked me, and that you think I do things to spite and mortify you; but, indeed, indeed it is not so. I have always wanted to be friends with you, for I liked you from the first, but if I have ever done or said anything to hurt your feelings, I am sorry, and I beg your pardon. I cannot afford to have any quarrels now, you know," she added, with a sad smile. "I must be in charity with all men."

"You never did, Betty—never but once," said Martha, as soon as she could speak. "I mean when you told Miss Lyman about my walking in the lane with my cousin instead of coming to school. I did wrong, I know, but it did not seem fair that you should tell of me."

"But, Martha, I did not tell of you," said Bettie, earnestly. "What made you think I did?"

"I thought you were the only one who could have seen me," replied Martha, blushing. "There is no other house which overlooks the lane but yours."

"Miss Lyman could have seen you herself from the recitation room when the leaves were off the trees," said Betty. "At any rate, Martha, it was not I who told. I never knew a word of the matter till I heard it in school. Is there anything else?"

"Nothing!" replied Martha. "You have never done me an injury, that I know of. The truth is," she added, coloring and looking down, "that I have always been envious and jealous of you, Betty, and I have tried to justify myself by making out that you were the one to blame. I have been thinking over the matter, and I see how mean and wicked I have been. It is I who ought to beg your pardon, and so I do."

"Don't say any more about it, but let us be friends, and love one another!" said Betty, kissing her. "Come and see me, won't you? You know I cannot go out a great deal now."

"Don't you mean to come to school any more?" asked Martha.

"No, I have done with school," replied Betty, sadly. "You will have the prize after all, Martha, and without any trouble, for there is no one else near you."

Martha burst into tears. "I don't care for the prize!" she sobbed. "I would rather not have it."

"Oh, but you will not feel so by-and-by," replied Betty. "But, Martha, just let me say one thing. Dear Martha, do try to be a true Christian. Try to love God with all your heart, to please Him and to work for Him. That is worth all the prizes in the world. Think how I should feel now if I were not sure that He loved me and had forgiven all my sins for His dear Son's sake!"

"Then you are not afraid to die?" said Martha.

"I cannot say that," honestly replied Betty. "When I think of dying, I do feel afraid; but I try not to dwell upon that. I think about what is beyond—about seeing my Saviour and all the saints in glory. Doctor Courtland told me that was the best way, and I find it so. But I must not stay out any longer. Do come and see me as soon as you can!"

Martha promised, and went slowly homeward, her heart very full of prayers and resolutions.

"What kept you so long?" asked Aunt Margaret.

Martha told her the story of her meeting with Betty.

"I never was so ashamed in my life!" she concluded. "There, I have been nursing that grudge against her for these two years, and then made up my mind so grandly to forgive what never happened. I feel like a fool, Aunt Margaret."

"Feeling like a fool is often the first step to wisdom, Martha."

Before another spring came round, Betty Allis was laid to sleep in the grave, in the sure and certain hope of a joyful resurrection. Her fears of death all passed away before the time of her summons came, and she died in the utmost peace.

Martha spent much time with her during her last illness, and when at last Betty was taken away, she looked back with wonder and shame to the days when she could see nothing but evil in one so gentle and kindhearted.

[Illustration: MARY, OR, "SHE MADE ME DO IT." Frontispiece.]

[Illustration]

MARY,

OR,

"SHE MADE ME DO IT."

"SEE that woman coming down the road!" said Mary Willis to her companions. "Isn't she a funny-looking body?"

"She has just come off the cars, I suppose," said another girl. "Look at her bonnet. I should think it had been made before the flood."

"Poor thing, she looks very tired," said Helen Arnold: "and see how lame the little boy is. She seems to be a stranger in town."

"Go and make acquaintance with her, Helen," said Cora Hart, with a sneer. "She is so fashionably dressed and so elegant looking, she would be a nice companion for you."

"See, she is coming this way!" exclaimed Jane Marvin. "I do believe she means to speak to us. Let us have some fun with her, girls!"

"I will have nothing to do with such fun as yours!" said Helen Arnold. "I think it is downright mean and wicked to make sport of poor and old people. Mary Willis, you had better come home with me and be out of mischief."

"Oh, of course she will!" said Jane, scornfully. "I should like to know why Mary Willis is to do as you say. You are neither her teacher nor her mistress, if you are the teacher's niece, and the oldest girl in the class. You stay here, Mary, and show her that you won't be ordered about by her."

"Come, Mary," said Helen, again. "You had much better be going home with me."

Helen spoke rather sharply, and Mary was vexed.

"I shall go home when I please, Miss Helen Arnold! I will thank you to mind your own business and let me alone."

"Very well!" replied Helen, and she walked away, feeling both grieved and angry.

She was very fond of Mary Willis, though Mary was much younger than herself. She helped her in her lessons, dressed her dolls for her, and taught her how to make pretty things for them; for Helen was very quick and skilful in all sorts of work. She was anxious that Mary should be a good girl and a good scholar, and she did keep her out of a great deal of trouble which Mary's quick temper and readiness to be led away would have brought upon her.

For a long time Mary had loved Helen more than any one else in the world, except her own mother. But when Jane Marvin came to school, she began, as she said, to put Mary up to be jealous of Helen. She told Mary that Helen did not really care for her, and that she only wished to govern and patronize her, and so show off her own goodness. She laughed at Helen's plain cheap dress and what she called her old-fashioned strict ways, and she told Mary that Helen was a regular little Methodist, and wanted to make her so. Jenny had never been in a Methodist church in her life, and knew nothing about them, but she had heard her father call people Methodists who were religious and strict in their conduct.

It may seem strange that Mary should listen to such talk against her best friend; but Mary had a great idea of being independent and having her own way: and like many other people of the same sort, she was ready to be made a fool of by any one who would take the trouble to flatter her. This Helen never did; nay, I am afraid that in her desire to be honest, she sometimes went to the other extreme and found fault with Mary when there was no reason for doing so.

If Mary had thought a little, she would have seen one great difference between Helen and Jenny. Helen never asked her for anything, and if she happened to borrow a sheet of paper or a steel pen from Mary's store, she was always careful to return it. Mary's mother was rich and Mary had a great abundance of pretty and useful things. She would often have liked to divide with Helen, for she had a generous disposition: but except at Christmas and on her birthday, Helen would never accept presents.

Jenny was very different. She not only took all that was offered her, but she had no scruple in begging for anything in Mary's desk or play-room to which she took a fancy. Mary's paper and pens, Mary's thread and needles, Mary's lunch basket, she used as if they were her own, and she had already got possession of some of Mary's prettiest and most expensive toys. Still Mary could see no fault in her new friend, and she was very much vexed at her mother because she would hardly ever ask Jenny to tea, and would never let her go to Mr. Marvin's to stay all night.

Helen went away feeling very much hurt, and Mary stayed with Jenny and the other girls. The poor woman walked slowly toward them, and when she came opposite she crossed over the street to speak to them.

"Can any of you tell me where Mrs. Willis lives?" she asked, in a sweet, pleasant voice. Her clothes were old-fashioned and worn but she looked and spoke like a lady.

Mary was starting forward to answer her, when Cora Hart pulled her back and at the same moment Jane answered, glibly:

"Mrs. Willis? Yes, ma'am, she lives in that white house up there on the hill," pointing as she spoke to a farm-house which stood about half a mile away upon the side of a steep hill.

"Does she live as far from the village as that?" asked the stranger. "I thought her house was quite near the church."

"She did live near the church," said Jane; "but her house was burned down, and she moved away up there. It is a beautiful place, but rather far-away from the village, and the hill is pretty steep. If you go round the corner by that yellow building with the stairs outside you will be in the road."