Part 6

The lady thanked her for her information and turned into the street which Jenny had pointed out as leading up to the white house.

"There she goes, trudging along with her bundles," said Jenny, bursting out laughing. "I hope she will find Mrs. Willis at home!"

"Mary was for telling her right away," said Cora. "She would have spoiled all the fun, if I had not stopped her. What do you suppose she wants with your mother, Mary?"

"I dare say she is some beggar woman," answered Mary. "We have heaps of them coming to our house all the time."

"I should think you did!" said Jane, scornfully. "I don't see how your mother can encourage them. I do despise beggars!"

"Two of a trade never agree, oh, Martha?" said Cora.

"What do you mean by that, Cora Hart?" asked Jane, angrily.

But Cora only laughed scornfully and did not answer.

"Well, for my part, I think it was a real mean trick!" said Julia Davis. "Sending the poor woman all the way up that steep hill to an empty house. I wish I had just told her the truth."

"Why didn't you, then?" asked Jane. "Nobody hindered you, Miss Tell-tale; only just let me catch you getting me into a scrape, that's all!"

Julia turned away and went into her own gate without saying a word. She felt very much ashamed of herself, for she knew she had been a coward—she had been afraid to do what she knew was right.

Mary also felt uneasy as she went home. She had been taught her duty towards her neighbor, and she knew right from wrong. All the time she was eating her nice supper, she thought of the poor woman with her little lame boy toiling up the steep road only to find an empty house.

"Helen Arnold would never have done such a thing!" she said to herself, and she wished over and over again that she had gone with Helen.

It was a pleasant, dry evening, and after tea, Mrs. Willis took her work and sat down in a garden chair on the green lawn. Mary stood by her with her doll, but she did not feel like playing or talking. Her conscience troubled her more and more, and she felt very unhappy.

"I have some good news for you, Mary," said Mrs. Willis. "You have often heard me talk of your godmother, your father's sister, who married a missionary and went away to China."

"O yes, mamma!" replied Mary. "I have always wished to see her so much. You know she sent me that beautiful box of shells and curiosities."

And then Mary sighed as she thought how Jenny had begged from her some of the prettiest things, and rarest curiosities in the box.

"Well, my love, I think you will see her very soon. I had a letter from her this afternoon, in which she says she expects to sail the next week for America and will come directly to us. She has a little boy who is lame, and she is bringing him home to see if he can be cured."

"How glad I am!" said Mary. "I have so often looked at her picture—the one you said she painted herself, when she was teaching you to draw, mamma—and wished she would come home."

Mrs. Willis smiled and sighed. "You must not expect to see Aunt Mary looking like her picture," said she. "It was painted long ago, when we were both young, and she has been through a great deal since then."

Mrs. Willis sighed, and looked down on the ground. She was thinking of all that had happened since she had seen her dear sister—how she had lost her husband and all her children but Mary. Mary stood leaning on her mother's chair without speaking, till the sound of the opening gate caused her to look up. There, coming in at the gate, was that very poor woman and her little boy, whom Jane Marvin and her companions had sent "on a fool's errand," as the saying is, to the empty farm-house on the hill.

Before she could make up her mind what to do, Mrs. Willis looked up also, and met the gaze of the stranger. With a scream of delight, she started up and flew to meet her, kissing her and calling her, her dear, precious sister, her darling sister Mary!

"Come here, Mary, and see your aunt," said her mother, turning round.

Mary came forward. She trembled so that she could hardly stand, and she was very pale, but her mother did not notice her confusion.

"Now run into the house and tell Jane to get tea ready as quickly as she can," said. Mrs. Willis. "And this is my nephew and god-son Willie. But how lame he is, poor little fellow!"

"He is not always so lame," said Mrs. Lee. "But we have had a long and hard walk and he is almost tired to death. I am afraid he will not be able to stir to-morrow."

"I did not expect you till next week, at the earliest," said Mrs. Willis. "But how do you come to arrive at this time of day? The train has been in for two hours."

"I will tell you all about it, presently," replied Mrs. Lee. "Just now I am anxious to find a resting-place for Willie, who, I fear, is suffering very much from his knee."

"It does ache!" said poor Willie. "It always hurts me to go up-hill."

"Well, you shall soon rest it, my dear boy," said Mrs. Willis. "Where are your trunks, Mary?"

"They will be here to-morrow, I suppose," replied her sister. "They were left behind by some mistake, but I have telegraphed and heard that they are safe and on the way. I must keep out of sight till they come, for between dust and the long journey I look more like a beggar than a lady."

The travellers were soon washed and brushed and sat down to a bountiful meal.

"And now tell me how you came here at this time in the evening?" said Mrs. Willis.

"The matter is easily enough explained," replied Mrs. Lee. "We sailed a week sooner than we expected and had an uncommonly short voyage. We came directly on from Boston, and arrived on the train at four o'clock."

"But where have you been since?" asked Mrs. Willis.

"I am sorry to say we have been made the victims of a most malicious trick," replied Mrs. Lee. "There were no carriages at the station, and I thought I could find your house easily enough. Meeting a party of school-girls, I asked them the way, that I might be sure, and was told by one of them that your house had been burned and that you had moved into a house which she pointed out on the hill-side. If I had known how far it was I should have gone to the hotel, where, of course, I should have been set right."

"But as it was, Willie and I toiled all the way up the steep rough road to find ourselves at an empty, deserted and half-ruined house. Poor Willie broke down entirely, and I felt very much like doing the same, for we had travelled all night and were tired out. I hardly know what we should have done but for a good-natured teamster, who stopped to water his horses at the trough by the gate. I made some inquiries of him, and he not only set me right, but insisted on bringing me back to the village. Poor Willie is quite discouraged at his first experience in a Christian land, and wants to go back to China."

"I do not wonder!" said Mrs. Willis.

"I did not believe there was a girl in the village who would do such a wicked thing. Who do you suppose it could have been, Mary?"

Mary, in her corner of the sofa, murmured something, she hardly knew what. She was wishing that she were in China, or anywhere else out of the sight of her mother and aunt. Oh, if she had only gone with Helen! If she had only been brave enough to defy Jane, and set her aunt right! But there was no use in wishing.

"She was a short and rather dark girl, with a great deal of curling black hair, and bold black eyes," said Mrs. Lee. "There were several others with her, but I did not notice them so as to be able to know them again."

"It must have been Jane Marvin, I am sure," said Mrs. Willis.

She turned to Mary as she spoke, and observed her confusion. Could it be that her daughter had been engaged in the trick? At that moment her attention was diverted by poor Willie, who had been trying in vain to eat, and who now, overcome by fatigue and pain, fainted away in his chair. Mrs. Willis saw him carried up-stairs and made as comfortable as he could be, and then returned to the parlor, where Mary was curled up in the corner of the sofa, crying as if her heart would break.

"Now, Mary, I want to know all that you can tell me about this matter!" said Mrs. Willis, seating herself by Mary. "Tell me the whole truth."

Sobbing so that she could hardly speak, Mary told her mother the story.

"It is one of the most shameful things I ever heard of!" said Mrs. Willis. "How could you join in such a piece of wickedness?"

"I did not say anything, mamma," sobbed Mary.

"No, but by your silence, you consented to what Jane said, when you might have prevented all this trouble by speaking."

"I was going to tell Aunt Mary at first, but the girls pulled me back and would not let me," said Mary, hanging her head.

"Would not let you!" repeated Mrs. Willis. "How did they hinder you?"

Mary had no answer ready, and her mother continued:

"Where was Helen Arnold? I should have expected something better of her."

"She was not there, mamma," replied Mary, eagerly. "She went away before Jane began. She wanted me to go with her, but I was vexed and would not. Oh, if I had only minded her!"

"If you had only minded your own conscience and your own sense of what was right, you would not have needed Helen to keep you out or mischief," said Mrs. Willis. "If you had had one thought of doing as you would be done by, you would not have allowed a wicked, silly girl to send your aunt and your poor lame cousin Willie on such an errand."

"I did not know she was my aunt," said Mary.

"That makes no difference, Mary. You knew she was a woman with a child, and the fact that you thought you were playing a trick upon a poor person makes your fault worse instead of better. Nor do I think you mend the matter by saying that you did not speak a word. You ought to have spoken, especially when the woman inquired for your own mother."

"I know it was wicked and mean, mamma," said Mary. "I have been sorry ever since. I wish Jane Marvin had never come here!" she added, bursting into tears again. "She is always making me do bad things and leading me into mischief!"

"That is sheer nonsense, Mary. Jane could not make you do anything you did not choose, nor lead you where you did not choose to go. If you had been so very easily led, you would have been governed by Helen, whom you have known three times as long as you have known Jane, and whom you have every reason to love and trust."

"You have done very wrong, Mary—very wrong, indeed," continued Mrs. Willis, after a moment's silence. "I cannot excuse what you have done by throwing the blame on Jane. Every one of the party who allowed the cruel imposition to go on was guilty of helping on the cheat. I shall see that Miss Lyman is informed in the morning of the way in which her pupils amuse themselves, and you must expect to take your share of the blame. Now go to bed, and when you say your prayers, ask God to forgive your mean and cruel conduct."

"Won't you forgive me, and kiss me, mamma?" sobbed Mary.

"When I see that you are sensible of your fault, Mary. At present you seem inclined to throw the blame entirely upon somebody else, and to think you are to be excused because 'somebody made you' do what you knew was wicked and cruel."

Mary went away to bed crying bitterly. She had never been so miserable in all her life. It was not the first time she had been "made" by Jane to do wrong. She had done things in Jane's company which she was both afraid and ashamed to have her mother know; but she had always excused herself by thinking they were all Jane's faults.

Now, as she thought about the matter, she saw how useless and vain were all such excuses. If she was so easily led, why had she not been governed by Helen, whom she had known more years than she had known Jane months, who was always ready to give up her own convenience for her sake, and whom she had never known to do a mean action? Why was she not as easily led to do right as to do wrong?

Mary learned more about herself that wretched night than she had ever known before. She had always known that she was a sinner—now she felt it, which is quite a different thing. She thought of all the wrong things she had done lately—the whispering, and reading story-books in prayer-time, the playing truant from school and lying to conceal it—the mysterious private talks about things of which she ought never to have thought; much less spoken—the secrets kept from her mother, to whom she used to tell everything. Mary no longer tried to excuse herself. She felt her own wickedness, and with real repentance asked her Heavenly rather to forgive her for Christ's sake. Then feeling a little comforted, she went to sleep.

She was awakened in the night by her mother sending for Doctor Arnold. Poor Willie was very ill—so ill that for several days no one thought he would live. Oh, how miserable Mary was! She could find no comfort except in running up and down-stairs and waiting upon her aunt and Willie. Dr. Arnold had been informed of the cause of Willie's illness, and the next morning he came into school and told Miss Lyman the whole story, before the minister and all the scholars. All the girls concerned in the trick were obliged to beg Aunt Mary's pardon, and were not allowed any recess for the rest of the term.

Mr. Marvin took Jane out of school, and every one was glad when she was gone, for nobody loved her, not even those who had been the most ready to be governed by her. I am glad to say, however, that Jane herself was sorry when she found out how much harm she had done, and that she had almost caused the death of poor Willie. She went of her own accord and begged his pardon, when he was well enough to see her, and she gladly spent hours in reading to him and amusing him.

But she could not undo the mischief she had done. The lame knee, which might perhaps have been made well, was so strained and inflamed by the long rough walk that it could not be cured, and Willie never walked again without crutches.

Jane learned a great deal from the gentle little Christian boy and his kind mother, and I hope she will grow up a good, useful woman. I think, after all, there was more excuse for her than for Mary. Jane had never known the care and teaching of a good mother. Her mother died when she was a little baby, and she had been brought up by servants and by her father, who was a foolish and bad man. She had always heard him laugh at the Bible as an old book of fables, and at religious people as fools or knaves, and she naturally took her notion from him.

Mary, on the contrary, had every pains taken with her. She had been taught her duty towards God and her neighbor, she had the kindest of mothers, of teachers, and friends, who all tried to influence her for good.

Girls, when you are ready to excuse yourselves for doing wrong by saying somebody "made you," think whether your words are true, and whether if "somebody" had tried to "make you" do right, you would have been as easily led. Remember that God sees your heart, and He will accept no false excuses; and while He is always ready to give you His Holy Spirit to guide you, you have no right to let any human being "make you" do wrong.

"My son, if sinners entice thee, consent thou not."

[Illustration]

[Illustration: LOUISA, OR, "JUST ONE MINUTE." Frontispiece.]

[Illustration]

LOUISA,

OR,

"JUST ONE MINUTE!"

"COME, Louisa, are you ready? The car will be here directly."

"In just one minute," replied Louisa, throwing down the book she had taken up for "just one minute," while she was getting ready for school, and hastening to put on her hat and gloves.

But in that minute the street-car passed. There was not another car for twelve minutes. Then the drawbridge was raised for the passage of a ship, which made a delay of ten minutes more.

The consequence of all these delays was, that though they walked themselves out of breath, Louisa and her little sister Anna were ten minutes too late for school, and poor Anna got a bad mark for no fault of her own except her good-nature in waiting for her sister.

Louisa was in many respects a good girl. She was amiable, truthful, and very obliging, yet she made more trouble and caused more disappointments than any other person in the family. She was much brighter than her sister Anna, and yet she "missed" in school three times to Anna's one. Louisa was truthful, and yet she was not to be trusted: she was obliging, yet she often disobliged those whom she tried to help, and if she was not fretful herself, she was very often the cause of fretfulness in others. All these seeming contradictions are easily explained. The answer to the riddle lay in Louisa's favorite phrase, "just one minute."

For instance. An important message was to go to papa's office and there was nobody to carry it but Louisa. Aunt Maria had written to say that she was coming to make a visit and bring her baby; but the measles were prevailing in D—, and as the baby was a delicate little thing it would not do to have her exposed to the disease. Papa had gone to his office in the city before Aunt Maria's letter came.

"I must write a note to papa and ask him to send a telegraphic dispatch to auntie," said Mrs. Winter; "and you, Louisa, must carry it, for Anna is not well enough to go out. Now, can I depend upon you to go straight to papa's office?"

"Yes, mamma, of course I will!"

Louisa meant what she said, and for once she was ready for the car when it came along. But, unluckily, to reach her father's office, she had to pass a toy shop, the window of which almost always presented some new attraction, and had many a time delayed Louisa. She did not mean to stop this time, but only to look at the window in passing. But behold, there was a grand new baby-house with the most wonderful rosewood furniture, and such a kitchen as was never seen in a dolls' house before; and there was her school-mate Jennie Atridge, looking through the glass.

"Oh, Louisa, just look here!" she exclaimed, as she saw Louisa. "Just see what a splendid doll's house! Mamma has promised me one for my birthday. I wonder if she will buy this?"

"I have got a doll's house, but it is not furnished," said Louisa, stopping "just a minute," to look in at the window. "We are going to buy the furniture next week, if Anna gets well enough to come into town. She has been sick two days with a bad cold. I wonder if we could get such a stove as that?"

"I would rather have a range," said Jennie. "See, there is a nice one over in that corner."

The "just a minute" lengthened out into ten, while the girls discussed the furniture, and when Louisa reached the office she found her father had gone out.

"He has gone over to the South End," said the office-boy, "and will not be back till noon. It is a pity you did not come before, for he has not been gone more than five minutes."

When Mr. Winter came back, he found his wife's note and sent a message directly. But it was too late. Aunt Maria had started, and arrived next day to find Anna broken out with the measles, and another of the children coming down with the same disease. The baby took it, of course, and was so ill that its life was despaired of for many days.

Louisa was very sorry, and would gladly have done anything for her aunt or for baby, but she could not undo the mischief she had done by "just one minute's" delay.

One would have expected such a severe lesson to do Louisa some good, but it did not. The truth was that Louisa had not learned to see that she was in fault. She was "unlucky," she thought: "it always happened so." She was sure that she was always ready to do anything that was wanted of her, and she could not understand why her mother should go for baby's medicine herself, instead of sending her, and why Aunt Maria would not let her put into the post-office box the letter which carried the news that baby was at last out of danger.

"Miss Louisa, will you watch these cakes for me while I run out and pick the beans for dinner?" said Mary the cook, one day.

The girls were going to have a party to celebrate Anna's birthday, and Mary had been making and frosting some of the most wonderful cakes in the world. The great table was covered with cocoanut cake, and chocolate cake, and almond cake, and Mary had just put into the oven a pan of macaroons.

"The oven is rather hot, and you must watch it, or the cakes will burn," said Mary. "Just as soon as they begin to brown, open the oven door and leave it."

Louisa promised, as usual. She had already looked at the cakes once or twice, and was just going to look again, when she heard the express man's wagon stop at the gate.

"I do wonder what he has brought this time?" said Louisa to herself. "I mean to run to the front door and see. It will not take more than a minute."