Chapter XIV: Water-Lilies 330 (2)

“Humph!” was all the answer she received; for, in spite of Lucy’s assertion that her father talked enough to her, he did not throw away too many words, even upon her: but Lucy was used to his way, and did not mind it, for she knew he loved her dearly.

“There are,” she insisted. “One of them let me take her doll, and it can turn its head; and she let me do it, and move its arms too. And another one was kind to me when some other children said bad things to me. There they are, father: don’t you see them?” and she pointed to where Maggie and Bessie were sitting, with their father and mother.

“Thought so,” said Waters, who was not really surly, but only silent and unsociable.

“Why how, father! Did you know about it?”

“No,” replied her father, “but thought like enough it was them when you said some spoke nice to you. Seem like kindly, loving, little souls.”

“There are two more nice ones, that play with ’em,” said Lucy.

“Humph!” said Waters again, “one of ’em is a saucy mischief, I guess.”

“Oh!” said Lucy, “I know which one you mean. They call her Lily. I didn’t like her so much at first; but I do now, ’cause she slapped a boy’s face who said hateful things to me.”

If Lucy imagined her father would ask what the boy had said, she was mistaken; for he smoked away without a word more. But the memory of her wrongs was too great to be borne in silence, and presently she said,--

“Are not my clothes very nice, father?”

“Nice as I can afford, anyhow,” he answered without taking his pipe from his lips.

“I told that boy and his sisters they were as nice as anybody’s,” said Lucy; “but maybe they’re not.” And taking off her bonnet, she turned it round and round, eying it rather mournfully. “I don’t think this kind of a hat is so nice as those little girls’, father; nor this long apron so nice as their short frocks. I wonder if I couldn’t make ’em look better, so folks wouldn’t laugh at me.”

Now, I think Waters was somewhat mistaken when he said Lucy’s clothes were as nice as he could afford. He had good wages, and his little girl did not want for what was necessary to make her neat and comfortable: but he did not know how to dress her; and the enormous shaker bonnet, which would have fitted a grown woman; and long, scant apron which came to her feet,--cost no less, perhaps more, than the short frock and round straw hat, which would have been more convenient and suitable for a girl of her age.

Poor Lucy knew she looked very different from most children of her own size; but, although she kept herself very tidy, she did not see how she was to remedy this difficulty. She was a funny little figure, certainly: more so than she was aware of; but it had never troubled her much until this afternoon, when some rude but well-dressed boys and girls, who would have been very indignant if they had been told they were not half so well-bred and polite as the engineer’s little daughter, had annoyed her very much.

Maggie and Bessie had noticed these children, but, seeing how rough and boisterous they were, had rather avoided them. But that afternoon, while they, with Belle and Lily, were talking to Lucy, and asking her some questions about her homeless, seafaring life, these boys and girls came up to them.

Not having at that moment any dispute to settle among themselves, they were ready to band together against any one else; and Lucy presented a tempting mark for attack.

“Ho! you seem to have picked up a fine acquaintance there!” said Arthur Lathrop, the eldest of the brothers.

“She is dressed in the last fashion,” said Charlotte, his sister, with a scornful look at Lucy.

“Quite the style,” joined in the other boy. “You brought your bonnet from the Paris Exposition: did you not, ma’am?”

Poor Lucy had not the least idea what the Paris Exposition was; but she knew very well that these unkind children were making fun of her, and she drew back with a hurt and angry look.

“Couldn’t you give my sisters the pattern of that lovely bonnet?” said Arthur.

“And of that outside toggery too,” said William, “whatever its name is. Not being used to such an elegant style of dress, I don’t know what to call it.”

“You ought to be ashamed to talk so,” said Bessie, indignantly. “She’s a nice, good, little girl, who tries to be a help to every one; and if her clothes are not so very pretty, she can’t help it. It is better to have good clothes and be bad, than to have bad clothes and be good,” added the little girl, saying just the opposite of what she intended.

But no one noticed her mistake. The Lathrops were all too intent on their victim, the other little ones too full of sympathy and indignation, to pay much heed to a choice of words.

“Well,” returned William, provokingly, “don’t we say she is the most stylish, fashionable young lady we have seen this long time. For me, I am struck dumb with admiration.”

“To be sure,” said Charlotte, “didn’t you say that bonnet was the latest fashion from the Exposition?”

“Or from Noah’s ark: which is it? Pray tell us, miss,” put in Arthur with a loud laugh.

“Let her be, you bad boys,” said Belle.

“She looks a great deal nicer than any of you,” said Lily, too anxious to take up Lucy’s defence to think of the exact truth of her statement.

“Oh! of course, of course,” retorted Arthur. “She is quite a model. I propose we all ask our mothers to buy us just such clothes. Don’t leave us, Miss Elegance;” and he caught hold of poor Lucy, who had turned to run away.

“Let her be,” said Lily.

“You’re very ungrateful,” said Maggie. “This morning when you called the stewardess, I saw Lucy run very quick to call her. You ought to be ashamed all of you. You’re as bad as the Elisha children in the Bible, that were eaten up.”

“Are you going to let her go?” asked Lily, with a threatening shake of her head at the young tyrant, who still held Lucy fast.

“As soon as she tells us how many hundred dollars she paid for this love of a bonnet,” said Arthur, tossing off the unlucky shaker with a jerk of his thumb and finger.

Without another word, Lily reached up her small hand, and gave the big boy a sounding slap upon his cheek. In his surprise, he loosed his hold of Lucy, who quickly snatched up her bonnet, and made good her escape.

Arthur turned fiercely upon Lily; but she stood her ground, and not exactly caring, bully though he was, to strike back at a girl so much smaller than himself, he contented himself with catching her still uplifted hand in his, and saying,--

“How dare you do that?”

“’Cause you deserved it,” said Lily, sternly.

“And I’ve a good mind to give you another,” said Belle.

“Children! Children!” said Mr. Powers, who had seen from a distance that trouble was threatening, and had come to prevent it. “What is the matter here? Quarrelling and striking?”

“I’m striking,” said Lily, rather proud of having given a blow in what she considered a just cause; “but I’m not quarrelling, sir.”

“No, papa,” said Belle. “We’re not quarrelling: it’s only those bad, mean ones;” and she pointed at the Lathrops with as much scorn in her tone and manner as they had used towards Lucy.

But these children, knowing right well that their share in the dispute was by far the worst, did not choose to face Mr. Powers’s inquiries, and now scattered in all directions.

“Striking and calling names look a good deal like quarrelling,” said Mr. Powers, smiling.

“But we had to take Lucy’s side, papa,” said Belle; and neither she nor Lily was to be persuaded that it was not right for the latter to strike a blow in Lucy’s defence. Indeed, Maggie and Bessie were rather inclined to hold the same opinion, and all four were quite excited over Lucy’s wrongs.

While Lucy was telling her father the story, they were talking it over among themselves; and knowing, in spite of their sympathy, that she presented rather a comical figure, were trying to think of some means by which they might help her to dress herself more like other children. But they did not see exactly how it was to be done, nor did Mrs. Bradford when they consulted her.

“I fear it would not do to offer Lucy clothes, my darlings,” she said: “those she wears, though odd-looking, are good and comfortable; and her father might be offended if we offered her any thing which seemed like charity, or let him know that we do not think her properly dressed.”

“Mamma,” said Bessie, gravely, “do you think a thing is comfortable when it makes a child laughed at?”

“Well, no, dear, perhaps not,” answered Mrs. Bradford, smiling, “and I am very sorry for Lucy. Mrs. Norris and I were saying this morning that we wished we might tell the poor child how to make herself look less like a little old woman, but we thought it would not do to interfere.”

“I’d wish somebody would interfere if it was me,” said Maggie. “It must be most _too_ much to have a father who won’t talk, and who has such very bad taste.”

This was said with so much emphasis, and with such a long-drawn sigh at the end, as if the mere thought of such misfortune were almost too much for Maggie, that every one laughed.

Bessie had less to say about Lucy’s troubles than any of the others; but she thought more of them: for we know how sensitive she herself was to ridicule, and she could not bear to think that Lucy might have to undergo the same trial again.

“Mamma,” she said, coming to her mother’s side that evening, “there are Lucy and her father sitting at the head of those steps, and she is showing him those queer dressing-gown frocks of hers. Could I go and speak to them?”

Mrs. Bradford turned to see if it was a proper place for Bessie to go to, and then gave her permission, thinking that her little girl might possibly see some way to help Lucy, and trusting to her good sense and kind heart not to say any thing that might give offence.

“Maybe they’re not just the right shape,” said the engineer, as Bessie came near; “but I don’t know how you are to better them;” and he turned over and over the two frocks, just like the one Lucy had on, which lay across his knee. “Maybe Dorothy would show you.”

“I don’t like to ask her,” said Lucy; or Dorothy the stewardess, was rather sharp and short with her.

Bessie came close.

“Would you be offended if some one tried to be kind to Lucy?” she asked, seizing her opportunity.

She was quite surprised to see how pleasantly Waters smiled as he answered,--

“Not I. Those that are friends to my Lucy are friends to me.”

“Some children laughed at her,” said Bessie, wishing to put the case as gently as she could.

The engineer frowned and nodded.

“I told him,” said Lucy.

“There’s no excuse for them,” continued Bessie, looking out over the waters as if she were talking more to herself than to the man, “but perhaps they would not have done it, if--if--if Lucy’s clothes were--were a little prettier.”

“And I’ll warrant if your power was as good as your will, you’d make them prettier for her,” answered the engineer. “You’re a kind little lady. Lucy was just asking me if I could tell her how to fix up her things a bit; but I don’t know. Old Mrs. Sims, who does her washing and sewing, she bought them, and I didn’t see but they were all right; but now Lucy says they’re not, and she can’t do ’em over.”

Lucy stood listening in amazement to this unusually long speech from her father, who was very rarely so sociable with any one as he now was with Bessie.

“But you wouldn’t mind if mamma was to try and help her, would you?” Bessie asked in a coaxing voice.

“Mind!” said the engineer, “I’d be only too thankful, and so would my Lucy; but such a lady as your mamma doesn’t want to bother with a little stranger girl.”

“Oh, yes, she does!” said Bessie, eagerly, “and mamma don’t think it a bit of bother if she can do a kind thing for some one; and she said she would like to fix Lucy up, ’cause she was such a nice, tidy child. Come and show her these, Lucy;” and without waiting for more words, she snatched up one gown, and taking Lucy by the hand drew her after her, telling her to bring the other two with her.

Lucy obeyed rather timidly; but the kind manner and words of the two ladies, Mrs. Bradford and Mrs. Norris, soon put her at her ease, and she became deeply interested in the plans for putting what Bessie called “the dressing-gown” frocks into proper shape.

There were four of them, all alike, of a good but dull gingham, without the least shape or fit, save what was given by a string about the waist; very long and scant,--so scant, that the ladies decided it would take two to make one suitable frock. Lucy asked and readily obtained leave from her father for this; and Mrs. Bradford allowed the four little girls to begin the work that very night by ripping apart the seams.

She and Mrs. Norris went to work also that evening; and when the steamer came into port the following night, Lucy was made happy by having one dress made in a manner proper for a girl of her age; and knowing that the second was surely promised to her by Mrs. Bradford. Belle presented her with “the doll of moderation,” which she had brought with her, she and her young friends having concluded to keep their money for another purpose instead of buying a new one.

The day on which the vessel started on her return voyage, Mr. Bradford and Mr. Powers drove down with their little daughters and Lily Norris; and the children brought Lucy not only her own gingham frock, but also two others, of bright, simple calico, all nicely made up; and a straw hat with a blue ribbon upon it. These were all their own presents, bought with their own money, only the making having been paid for by their mammas; so that the engineer could find no fault with the kindness done to his little girl by these thoughtful young strangers.

Lucy was contented beyond measure with her new clothes; but no words could do justice to her satisfaction and pleasure in her doll. What a treasure it was! What a delight in her rather lonely little life! She talked to it, and caressed it, slept with it in her arms at night, kissed it the first thing in the morning, dressed and undressed it, and learned to use her needle in fashioning clothes for it. Her father might be too busy to attend to her; Dorothy might snub her; fretful, impatient passengers send her hither and thither till she was ready to drop from fatigue,--she had one solace and delight that repaid her for all: the recollection of that little china head, and the staring, blue eyes which lay upon the pillow in her berth, the kisses which she would run and snatch now and then, till her time was her own once more, and she could pet and nurse her little treasure to her heart’s content.

And so our four little travellers have begun their journey with a kind deed which brought pleasure and comfort, such as they did not dream of, into this poor, craving, young heart, which had had so little to feed upon; and went upon their way followed by blessings and grateful, happy memories.

IV.

_AN OLD ENEMY BUT NEW FRIEND._

It was late at night when our travellers reached Savannah, so late and so dark that even quick-sighted, wide-awake Maggie could see nothing about her as they rode to the hotel, save the twinkling street-lamps; and she was as ready as the other children to be put to bed at once and postpone all questions and sight-seeing until the morning.

But you need not fear I am going to trouble you with a long description of the beautiful, quaint, old city, with its numberless green squares which make it so bright and airy; its broad avenues planted with three rows of trees, so tall and wide-spread that their branches have laced overhead, making lovely, leafy arches for one to pass beneath; its roses--such roses! the like of which we do not see in our colder northern climate; roses, which with us are only bushes, growing there into trees, or running into luxuriant vines which clothe the fronts and sides of the old-fashioned houses, covered with a profusion of blossoms, and filling the air with their delicious fragrance. They were just in the perfection of their glory when our friends arrived, and it would be impossible to tell the delight Bessie took in them. Her love of flowers here had full enjoyment in these her favorites. Morning, noon, and night, she was seen with her little hands filled with roses,--for the family were kept well supplied, thanks to the graceful southern fashion of sending flowers to all newcomers and strangers; they were twisted among her curls and worn in her bosom, laid beside her plate at meals, and she would even have slept with them on her pillow, if mamma would have allowed it.

She made a pretty picture as she sat upon the staircase of the ---- House, the day after their arrival, her lap full of red, white, and yellow roses, which she was arranging with no small taste and daintiness into bouquets for her people.

Three pair of eyes were watching her,--those of a grave-looking gentleman, who stood at the foot of the stairs; and those of Arthur and Charlotte Lathrop, who were peering at her over the banisters from above. But Bessie noticed neither until Arthur called her attention by making a sound like a snarling dog. Bessie started and looked up, then went on with her work in silence.

“I say,” said Arthur, “are you making a wreath of roses for that old Mother Hubbard you took such a fancy to on board the steamer?”

Bessie made no answer.

“Why don’t you speak when you’re spoken to?” said Arthur. “Did you give your tongue to Mother Hubbard?”

“When I’m talked to politely, I always do speak,” said the little girl.

“Oh! and we’re not polite enough to suit you, I suppose,” said Arthur, sneeringly.

“’Tis only engineers’ daughters and the like who are fit company for her,” joined in Charlotte.

“We might go and take lessons from Mother Hubbard, and then perhaps she’d like us better,” said Arthur. “I say, Miss Bradford, what school did you learn your manners in, that you don’t speak when you’re spoken to?”

Bessie remained silent again.

“Do you hear?” shouted Arthur.

“Once I heard of a school where they only paid two cents for learning manners,” said Bessie, demurely.

“What then?” asked Arthur.

“I should think that was the kind of a school you had been to,” answered Bessie.

“And why, I’d like to know?”

“’Cause I shouldn’t think they could teach much manners for two cents.”

Arthur was a clever boy with a quick sense of humor; and he was so struck with what he considered the wit and smartness of the retort, that he forgot to be angry, and, instead of making a sharp answer, broke out into a hearty laugh.

“Pretty good that!” he said. “You’ll do yet.”

“Pretty good, and pretty well deserved too, my lad,” said the gentleman, who had been standing below, coming up the stairs. “See here, Clara, here is the Queen of the Fairies, I believe,” and he turned around to a lady who ran lightly up behind him.

“Queen of the Fairies, indeed,” said the lady, with a laughing look at the little figure before her, in its white dress and shining hair, and lap covered with brilliant flowers: “or Queen of the”--What she would have said was lost, for after a pause of astonishment she exclaimed, “Why! it is--yes, it is Bessie Bradford--dear little Bessie!”

And regardless of her muslin dress with its fluted flounces and ruffles, down went the lady on the stairs before Bessie; and, greatly to her surprise, the little girl found herself held fast in the embrace of a supposed stranger.

But it was no stranger, as she found when she could free herself a little from that tight clasp, and look in the lady’s face.

“Don’t you know me, Bessie?” asked the lady.

“Why! it’s Miss Adams!” cried Bessie, in as great amazement as the new-comer herself.

“And you are a little glad to see me, are you not?” asked the lady, seeing with pleasure the smile and glow on Bessie’s face.

“Not a _little_, but very, Miss Adams,” she replied. “I was very interested about you, and always thought I’d like to see you again after I heard you’d”--here she hesitated for a word.

“Well,” said the lady.

“I can’t think of the word,” said Bessie. “Oh, yes! reformed, that’s it,--after you’d reformed. You know you wrote and told us about it yourself.”

At this “Miss Adams” went off into a fit of laughter, which sounded very natural to Bessie’s ears; and yet there was a difference in that and in her manner from those of the old days at Quam Beach; something softer and more gentle; “more as if she remembered to be a lady, mamma,” Bessie said afterwards.

The gentleman smiled too.

“Her words are to the point when she does find them,” he said.

“They always were,” said the lady, giving Bessie another kiss. “Bessie, this is the gentleman I found to make me ‘behave myself.’ I hope you’ll find the ‘kitchen lady’ improved under his teaching.”

Bessie colored all over face and neck.

“Oh! please don’t,” she said. “I’m so sorry I said that; but I was such a little child then, I didn’t know any better. I wouldn’t say such a saucy thing now for a great deal.”

“You need not be sorry about it, Bessie: I am not.”

“Please don’t speak about it any more, ma’am,” pleaded the child. “Couldn’t you let bygones be bygones?”

“What do you mean by ‘bygones’?” asked the gentleman.

“I thought it meant, sir,” said Bessie, modestly, “when a person had done something they were sorry for, not to say any thing more about it.”

“Very well,” said the lady, still smiling. “It shall be so, if you wish it, Bessie. And now tell me how your mamma and Maggie and all the rest are.”

“Oh! they are all very well, except mamma, and she is better, and we are travelling to do her good; and a great many things happened to us, Miss Adams, since you knew us before.”

“I don’t think it has ‘happened’ to you to grow much,” said the lady.

“Oh, yes’m!” answered Bessie. “I used to be five, and now I’m seven; and I’ve been to school too. We’ve all grown pretty old. Baby can walk and talk now.”

“And how do you like my doctor?” asked “Miss Adams,” as Bessie still called her, glancing round at the gentleman who stood beside her.

Bessie looked up at him, and he looked down at her, and when their eyes met, both smiled.

“I like him: he looks good and nice;” and the little girl, who had already twisted a rose or two into the bosom of the lady’s dress, now handed two or three to the doctor in her own graceful, gracious little way.

“What are you going to do with all those bouquets you have tied up so tastily?” asked Dr. Gordon.

Bessie told him whom they were for.

“And who is this for?” asked Mrs. Gordon,--for so she told Bessie to call her,--pointing to that which the small fingers were now arranging.

“It’s for a little girl down at the steamer, who is rather hard off, and does not have a nice time, and has extremely ugly clothes,” answered Bessie. “But then if they are the best she has, and she has no mother, no one ought to laugh at her: ought they?”

“Certainly not: who was so unkind?” asked Mrs. Gordon.

“Some children who didn’t behave half so nice as she did, ma’am.”

“Ah!” said the doctor; “and was that boy you were talking to just now one of them?”

“Why, yes, sir,” said Bessie, with some hesitation. “But how did you know it?”

“Oh! I am a good guesser,” answered Dr. Gordon.

“I don’t know if I ought to have said that to him,” said Bessie, thoughtfully. “I b’lieve I was pretty severe.”

At this Mrs. Gordon went off into another fit of laughter; and the doctor smiled as he answered,--

“It was pretty severe, it is true, Bessie; but not more so than he deserved, especially if he had been teasing some poor child who could not defend herself.”

Bessie colored, and answered, “But I’m afraid I did it more ’cause I was angry for his being impolite to me than for his teasing Lucy.”

“But tell us all about it; and did you say the child had no mother?” said Mrs. Gordon.

In reply, Bessie told all she knew about Lucy, omitting, however, to give any account of the unkindness of Arthur Lathrop and his brother and sisters to the poor child. This was noticed by both Dr. and Mrs. Gordon, but they pressed her no farther, seeing she did not wish to speak of it.

“There’s another will be glad to come,” said Mrs. Gordon, eagerly, to her husband. “That will make five. You’ll see this engineer and speak to him about it: won’t you, Aleck?”

“All in good time, dear,” he answered quietly.

Five what? Bessie wondered; and where would Lucy be glad to come? But as she supposed they would tell her if they wished her to know, she asked no questions.

But her curiosity was not gratified just then, for the doctor now said to his wife,--

“Come, Clara, we are keeping our friends waiting. You must tell little Bessie about your plans some other time.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Gordon. “We have to go to a sick friend here in the house, Bessie; but I shall come to call on your mamma to-morrow, and then I shall see you again and ask her to let you come to me; for I have something to tell you, in which I think you will be interested.”

“Don’t you live here, ma’am?” asked Bessie.

“Here? yes, here in Savannah, but not in the hotel; and I want you to come to my house. By the way, where is Maggie? I thought you were always together.”

“Most always,” said Bessie; “but Maggie and the other children went with Mr. Powers and papa to see a cotton-press; and mamma thought I was too tired, so I told Maggie she need not mind leaving me. And now I am glad I did not go.”

“And I am sure I am glad,” said Mrs. Gordon, as she kissed Bessie for good-by, and once more told her she should be sure to see her the next day, and would arrange with her mamma the time when she and Maggie might come and spend the day with her.

Bessie was very anxious to know what Mrs. Gordon could have to tell her which was to interest her so much, and which seemed in some way to concern Lucy Waters; but she was a little doubtful regarding the prospect of spending the whole day with her old enemy “Miss Adams,” not feeling at all sure that she would like it, or that she might not fall into some trouble, in spite of the very evident and pleasing change in that lady.

Maggie was not at all doubtful, and positively declared that she would not go on any account; and she tried to persuade Bessie to join her in begging their mother to refuse Mrs. Gordon’s invitation to them.

“For Bessie,” she said, “you know a ‘bird in the hand is worth two in the bush;’ and so, even if Miss Adams is so much better than she used to be, it is wiser to stay away from her, and not give her the chance of being disagreeable if she wanted to be.”

Maggie had been much given to the use of proverbs lately, as you will have perceived; and if one could possibly be fitted to her purpose, it was made to serve, as on this occasion.

But Bessie did not feel as if they had any excuse for refusing the invitation so kindly given, nor did mamma when she was appealed to.

“You certainly need not go if you do not wish it, my darlings,” she said; “but do you think it likely, Maggie, that Mrs. Gordon would invite you to her house, and then treat you unkindly? She must be a good deal changed, it seems to me; and would it not look as if you were unforgiving, if you refuse her kindness?”

“Oh! I forgive her, mamma,” said Maggie, “though it _was_ my own Bessie she plagued so, but then I thought her old habits might be too strong for her, and break out again.”

“You forgive, but don’t forget, eh, Maggie? Suppose you were Mrs. Gordon, how would you like Miss Adams’ faults to be treasured up against you, and allowed to stand in the way when you wished to show good-will and kindness?”

“I wouldn’t like it at all, mamma; and I suppose it’s not very Golden Ruley for me to say I won’t go; so, if she asks us, I’ll make up my mind to it.”

Mrs. Gordon came the next day, according to promise, to call on Mrs. Bradford; and invited not only Maggie and Bessie, but also Belle and Lily, to spend the whole of Friday with her, promising to call for them in the morning and bring them back at night.

But perhaps you will find it more interesting to read Maggie’s own account of this visit, which she wrote to Colonel Rush.

“DEAR UNCLE HORACE,--Things are so very surprising in this
world that you never quite know how they are going to turn
out, of which the case is at present, Miss Adams or who was
Miss Adams but now Mrs. Gordon and you will remember her at
Quam Beach but under unpleasant circumstances to which we will
not refer but forget as well as forgive as mamma reminded me.
But you would be surprised to see how much she is improved
and so different to what she used to be which was greatly to
be desired of all her friends and a pleasure to all who wish
her well. So seeing she wished to make up for past offenses we
went to spend the day with her and she was very horspitable.
She came in her carriage to take us to her house which is most
handsome with roses and flowers of many kinds of which she
brought mamma a whole lot at the same time and invited all the
big people to dinner the next day. I think all this shows she
repents sincerely and is not the same woman but much changed
and ought to be encouraged to keep on doing well. She has a
nice husband named Dr. Gordon, but sober which is not his own
fault if he was born so and I pity him. And a sweet baby boy
named Aleck and crows and laughs with pleasure at us. But I
hope by no means you think we think him so sweet as May Bessie
which he is not and May Bessie is so near to us, which also he
is not and we love her far the best. Miss Adams was very kind
to us all day, indeed quite fond but most of all to Bessie, and
she played with us and amused us and I was glad I did not let
the devil which is a word that is not best to write unless it
is necessary get the upper hand and make me stay away out of
revenge or being shy.

“But the most surprising and best thing of all, Uncle Horace
is what she is going to do with some of her money. You know
in those days of which we will not speak she had a great deal
more than she knew what to do with. Well, now she has found
a good use for some of it in a way well pleasing to God and
men. But I am too tired to write more to-day and will finish
it to-morrow--Well, to return on this day to Miss Adams and
her good works which shows she has read her Bible which urges
to repentance of sins and prophets by it which is a sight to
make the coldest heart to rejoice. She has a house not very
far from her own where she lives and she is going to have six
little girls there in the care of a nice, kind lady. And these
little girls are not to be happy children with mothers to take
care of them, but orfuns or without mothers or teaching or
training in the way they should go. For Miss Adams says she
knows what it is to be without a mother or some wise person to
guide her, and now that God has been so good to her she wants
to give a helping hand to some little girls who would be left
too much to themselves and not properly taught. She does not
mean to have very poor children, and if their friends wish it
they may pay a little money for them but the contrary if they
do not, and prefer charity though she does not think it such
and would like them to come without any pay. And here they will
have a happy home and be taught to be desirable women fit for
teachers or other good things and so it will be their own fault
if they don’t do it. And she has chosen four girls who are to
come in the fall when Miss Adams comes back from the north
because things cannot be quite ready till then, as the lady has
a sailor son who is to go to sea which I think a hard case for
his friends to have him leave his native land. And then the
house will be ready and the lady will go and the children will
come and Miss Adams is going to see if Lucy Waters’ father who
you know I told you about in my last will let her come too.
I think if he does not he will be much wanting in sence and
proper behaviour, but I think he will dont you? Miss Adams,
Mrs. Gordon I mean but I always forget to put her wedding name
says she feels so sorry for all little motherless girls, and I
am glad of it are not you? And so is Bessie and we think the
reason Miss Adams takes so much trouble for these little girls
is because she is afraid that if they do not have good care
they may grow up to be such women as she used to be when we
knew her before but which is not to be mentioned in these pages
and now she is quite ashamed of it. We cannot tell just yet if
Lucy’s father will let her come, but papa and the doctor are
going to the steamer this evening to ask him and when we know
Bessie will write and tell you all about it. And Bessie and
I have quite made up our minds to take Miss Adams for one of
our friends because we find her most sencible and kind and so
changed from her old ways which we will not remember if we can
help it.

“And dear Uncle Horace and Aunt May we wish you were here
’cause we are having such a nice time and I wrote such a
long letter I am afraid you will be tired of it but such an
interesting subject my brains were quite full and I had to and
you must excuse it. We send two kisses for May Bessie and four
for you and hope to see you once more in the future when we
come home. And we send a great deal of love from your loving

“MAGGIE AND BESSIE.”

“P. S. Savannah is such a fine city and so many trees and
roses that it seems strange to me that Alexander the Great and
Napoleon Bonaparte did not try to take it, being both men who
never minded their own business but always trying to take what
did not belong to them, speshally the latter whom in my heart I
heartily despise because he never did as he would be done by.”

V.

_BELLE’S HOME._

You may be sure there was not much trouble in gaining the consent of Lucy’s father to the plan proposed for her welfare. He was only too glad and thankful to feel that his motherless little daughter would be placed where she would have a kind and prudent eye to oversee and guide her; and where she would have the opportunity of growing up into a useful and steady woman. This he knew she could not do in the unsettled life she now led on board ship with him, and he had long been considering what he should do with her.

Lucy, though thankful, was not as much pleased, and shed some bitter tears over the prospect. The poor child wanted to learn, and was glad to have a settled home; but she dreaded the thought of parting from her father, who would only be able to see her at such times as his vessel should be at the port of Savannah, and who was the only person whom she had to love her. But, in a day or two after, when she had seen Mrs. Gordon, and heard her talk so kindly of all the pleasures and comforts she would find in this promised home, she became more reconciled to it, especially as the autumn still seemed a long way off to her, and she had all the summer to go back and forth with her father on the sea.

So she told her troubles to her doll; and the steady, blue eyes, which never winked or softened, brought comfort to her, and seemed to give her the assurance that she need not be parted from her, even to go to her new home. If she had not had this beloved companion, it would have gone much harder with poor little Lucy.

Our little girls did not see her again; but last autumn, when they were settled once more in their city home, after all their summer wanderings, Mrs. Gordon wrote to them, saying that Lucy was quite contented and happy under her care; and that she was a very good child, being trustworthy and obedient, and showing a great desire to learn.

So there we will leave her, hoping that she will, as Maggie says, “prophet by all that is done for her and make a useful and happy woman.” The doll went with her; and all the other toys and amusements which were provided for her never made her tired or forgetful of this, her first love, or of the dear little girls who had taken so much interest in her.

Our party did not remain long in Savannah, for the weather was becoming warm and oppressive; but before they went away, they all spent a day on Mr. Powers’ plantation.

This was several miles from the city; and starting in the morning, soon after breakfast, they drove out in the cool of the day. Their way lay through dense pine woods; tall, stately pines, with long, straight trunks; shooting upwards, without leaf or branch, for many a foot, till they neared their height, when they put forth their dark-green crowns, which cast such a sombre shade below. The shade was no objection on this warm day, and a light breeze was stirring, which was very refreshing; but it sounded rather mournful to Maggie and Bessie, as it moaned through the mighty stems, and rustled the thick, fragrant leaves overhead. It has a strange, peculiar sound, the wind in those dark, pine forests of the South,--a sound rather saddening to any listener.

Maggie did not like it at all, and said so, which rather displeased Belle, who, in her delight at returning to her beloved Southern home, found every thing there perfect. However, as they drove on, both Maggie and Bessie spied out so many objects which called forth their surprise and admiration, that she was presently consoled, and concluded that they “liked her own country pretty well, after all.”

Here and there was a magnolia with its magnificent cream-white blossoms, their delicious perfume mingling with the fragrance of the pines; there a group of scarlet cardinal flowers, or a little pool bordered with bright blue flags and spotted tiger-lilies; while through the deep stillness of the woods came the sweet notes of the blue-jay and mocking-bird. Once, as they were passing over a bridge which crossed a marsh, Maggie called the attention of the others to two turtles, great big fellows, larger than any the children had ever seen at the North; “swamp turtles” Belle said they were. They scuttled out of the way in their clumsy fashion, diving out of sight into the mud; and Bessie said she thought they must be some of the unclean animals spoken of in the Bible, since they liked to live in such a dirty place.

The entrance to the plantation was through an avenue of magnificent live-oaks, some of them so large that two or three men could not have encircled them with their outstretched arms; and these splendid trees were studded all over the lawn, spreading far and wide their branches, which, unlike their neighbors the pines, they sent out very low,--so near the ground in fact, that even Bessie could reach the gray Spanish moss which hung over them in long festoons and wreaths. The children had seen this curious moss before in the beautiful old cemetery of Bonaventure, where the oaks are perfectly clothed with it; and Bessie had admired it so much, that Maggie had taken up the idea of carrying home enough to make “a bower” for her in their own little room. But she thought it best to gain the consent of her father and mother to this arrangement; not only because it was right, but also because nurse was rather apt to call such things “truck and trash,” and to put them out of the way as fast as possible. If papa and mamma said they might have it, nurse might _call_ it what she pleased, but she could not throw it away.

Mr. Powers stood awaiting them on the steps of the veranda, for he had been at the plantation for three or four days, while Belle and Daphne had been left in Mrs. Bradford’s charge at the hotel; for he did not think it best for Belle to sleep on the plantation at that time of the year.

She shrieked with delight when she saw him; and, in her hurry to reach him, had nearly thrown herself from Daphne’s lap underneath the carriage-wheels. There would have been an end to the day’s pleasure then; but Daphne’s hand grasped her skirts, and saved her from a terrible death.

As it was, the whole party were startled; and her father’s face had lost its smile of welcome, and looked rather pale as he came down the steps and took her in his arms.

“My pet!” he said, “always in too much of a hurry. This would have been a sad meeting for papa, if you had fallen; but a good God took care of you for me.”

Belle clung about his neck and did not speak; for whether it were the fright, or the sight of her father, or the return to the old home which she had left at such a sad time, or perhaps all three, her feelings took a sudden turn, and when Mr. Powers had brought his friends in and welcomed them, and raised the little face to kiss it again, he found it drowned in tears.

“Why! my darling,” he said, “were you so frightened?”

“I don’t know, papa,” sobbed the excitable little thing; “but, this is home--only--only--mamma is not in it.”

Tears, or something very like them, came to the eyes of all, even of Mr. and Mrs. Norris, who had never known Belle’s dead mother; and Mr. Powers turned hastily away, and stepped with her out on the veranda.

“_Only_ mamma was not in it!” Ah, yes! that was the _only_ that made all the difference in the world, so that home did not seem like home any longer.

It was some few moments before either of them were composed enough to return; and when Mr. Powers came back he was alone, and told Bessie that Belle wanted her to go to her.

Bessie went out upon the veranda, which ran on all four sides of the house, and around the corner she found Belle curled up on a settee where her father had placed her. She stretched out her arms to Bessie when she saw her, saying,--

“Bessie, I do remember mamma so much in my home, and you are a comfit. You are my next best comfit to papa, ever since the first day you spoke to me in school.”

This was a pleasant thing for Bessie to hear; but she put aside her own pleasure for the present, and thought only of being the “comfit” her poor little friend called her. I wonder if there was any one among all the people who knew her, who could have said that our dear Bessie was not more or less of a comfort to them.

Her sweet sympathy and gentle tenderness soon did Belle good, and Bessie let her talk on about her mother as long as she would.

Belle had been very bright and cheerful lately,--thanks to the friends with whom she had been so much thrown,--and it was a good while since she had had a fit of longing for her mother; but the coming to her home had brought her great loss back to her, and just now she could think of nothing else.

“Do you know where they put my mamma before she went to heaven?” said Belle.

“No. Where?” answered Bessie.

“Do you see those high trees over there, Bessie? They put her where little brother and sister are, and ever so many grandpas and grandmas.”

“But they didn’t put her soul there,” said Bessie.

“No,” said Belle, “’cause that was God’s part, and it went to him. And then she couldn’t speak or hear me or see me, but was all deaded away; and so they put the rest of her over there, and put a great many flowers over her. But that was a long, long while ago, before I went away to the North, and I didn’t see where they put mamma this ever so long. Maybe the flowers are all faded. Will you come and see, Bessie?”

“We must ask mamma or your papa first,” said Bessie.

“They would let us,” said Belle: “it’s a very safe place. I used to often go there when mamma was alive, to be by little brother and sister, and she is there now. There couldn’t any danger come to us where mamma is: could there, Bessie?”

“No: I guess not,” said Bessie. “I s’pose mother-angels take care of their little children. I’ll go with you, Belle dear, if you’re quite sure your papa will let us.”

“I know he would, Bessie; and I’d just as lief ask him; only then Maggie and Lily will come too. I’d like Maggie to come, but Lily laughs so much. I love Lily; but I don’t want any one to laugh where my mamma is dead.”

“No,” said Bessie, with the most caressing tenderness of tone and manner, “they shan’t; and I’ll go, Belle.”

With their arms about one another’s necks, the two little things ran down the piazza steps, and the shady path, through which Belle led the way; but as they came near the small burying-ground, their steps grew slow and more reverent.

It was an exquisite spot. An iron railing enclosed it, but the rails were hidden by the green vines which overran them, and within it was beautifully sodded; the green broken here and there by the white marble monuments and slabs which marked the resting-place of Belle’s relations. Flowers of the loveliest kinds were blossoming over and around them, and all showed the utmost care and loving remembrance. Over the entrance was an arch, also of white marble, and on the stone were cut the words, “He giveth His beloved sleep.”

“How sweet it is!” exclaimed Bessie, struck at once with the lovely quiet and peace of the place; and then she looked up and spelled out the letters on the arch.

“Sleep! that was what mamma said: it was only like a sleep if we loved Jesus and tried to do what He wanted us to, and I think it must mean Him when it says, ‘giveth His beloved sleep.’ What dear words! are they not, Belle?”

“Yes,” said Belle, but without paying much attention to what Bessie was saying, for her eye had caught sight of a new object in the enclosure.

“See!” she went on, catching Bessie by the arm: “there’s a stone there where they put mamma;” and drawing Bessie with her, she pushed open the light gate.

It swung easily back, for it was unfastened. There were none here to intrude, no one came here who would not guard with the greatest love and reverence the little spot sacred to “His beloved.”

“His beloved!” For of those who lay there, not one but had closed their eyes in the full faith that they should open them again upon the brightness of His face. Truly that was “God’s Acre.”

The “stone” which had attracted Belle’s attention was a shaft of pure white marble upon her mother’s grave. The centre had been cut away so as to leave four small arches, one on each side, and beneath there was a cross, with the letters “I. H. S.;” before that an open Bible, with the words, “I will not leave you comfortless.”

The sculptor had done his work perfectly; and the snowy marble showed in beautiful contrast with the dark, glossy leaves of the bay tree which spread its arms above it.

“Papa put it there, I know he did,” said Belle, after she and Bessie had stood looking at it in silence for a moment or two.

“Yes: I s’pose he did,” said Bessie: “let’s see what these words are, Belle.”

By standing on tiptoe, the little ones could manage to see the letters carved upon the book; and Bessie read them out as she had done those over the gateway.

“‘I will not leave you comfortless,’” Belle repeated after her. “Why! mamma said that herself a little while before she went to heaven. Maybe that was why papa put it there.”

“And Jesus said it,” replied Bessie. “It’s in the Bible, in a chapter I’ve heard very often. Don’t you remember, Belle? It begins, ‘Let not your heart be troubled;’ and Jesus said it Himself. Perhaps the reason He told people not to be troubled was He was going to promise to comfort them when they had something very bad to bear. It’s the best comfort to know He loves you and will take you to heaven to see your mamma some day: isn’t it, Belle?”

“He will if I’m good,” passing her little hand slowly and caressingly over the marble; “but then I’m not always good.”

“No,” said Bessie, “not always; but mamma said you was not near so spoiled as you used to be. I think you’re pretty good now, Belle.”

“I slapped Daphne’s face this morning,” whispered Belle, remorsefully.

“Oh! did you?” said Bessie. “Well, Belle, I used to slap people sometimes, even when I had mamma to teach me better, and there was no excuse for me.”

“But my own mamma _did_ teach me better, Bessie. I slap Daphne pretty often, but she never tells papa; and I promise myself I’ll never do it again, and then I just do.”

“Did you ever promise Jesus and ask Him to help you not to do it?” asked Bessie.

“No,” answered Belle. “I didn’t think of it. I could do it now, couldn’t I?”