Chapter VI: The Tower Room (3)

"You are a wonderful woman," said Mrs. Dean, surveying the spotless tables and walls. "You are always so brisk, and such a perfect housekeeper! I wish, dear Miss Mason, you could look in on us yourself in the evening. It will be a pretty sight."

Miss Mason was gratified. "Run away, Cynthia; put on your best frock, and don't keep Mrs. Dean waiting," she said. In spite of her independence, she was rather pleased that her boarders should see the low phaeton at her door, the brown horse with the silver-mounted harness, and the dainty lady, in her delicate gray gown and driving gloves, chatting affably while waiting for Cynthia to dress. She offered Mrs. Dean a glass of her creamy milk, and it was gratefully accepted.

Cynthia came back directly. Her preparations had not taken her long. Her "best frock" was of green delaine with yellow spots--"a perfect horror" the lady thought; it had been purchased at a bargain by Mr. Mason, who knew nothing about what was suitable for a child. Some lace was basted in the neck, and her one article of ornament, an old-fashioned coral necklace with a gold clasp, was fastened just under the lace. The stout country-made shoes were not becoming to the child's feet, nor was the rim of white stocking visible above them at all according to the present styles. She was pretty as a picture, but not in the least arrayed as the other girls would be, whether from elegant city homes or the ample farm houses round about.

How her eyes sparkled and her color came and went when Mrs. Dean told her to step in and seat herself, then, following, took the reins, while Bonny Bess, the sagacious pony, who knew every tone of his mistress' voice, trotted merrily off!

Having secured her little guest, Mrs. Dean thought she would give her as much pleasure as she could. So they took a charming drive before pony's head was turned to the village. The phaeton glided swiftly over smooth, hard roads, between rich fields of corn, over a long bridge, and at last rolled into Main Street, where Mrs. Dean made so many purchases that the vehicle was soon quite crowded with packages and bundles.

"Now for home, my little one," said the lady, turning; and away they flew over hill and hollow till they reached the broad, wide open gates of the place known to everybody as Fernbrake, and skimming gaily down the long flower-bordered avenue, they stopped at the door of the beautiful house. The verandas looked inviting with their easy chairs and rockers, but no one was sitting there, so Cynthia followed her hostess shyly up the wide stairway, into a cool, airy room with white drapery at the windows, an upright piano standing open, and books everywhere, showing the taste of its occupants. Oh, those books! Cynthia's few story-books had been read until she knew them by heart. Though in these days it was seldom she was allowed to sit with a book in her hand, a book-loving child always manages somehow to secure a little space for the coveted pleasure. And here were shelves just overflowing with dainty, gaily covered volumes, and low cases crowded, and books lying about on window-seats and lounges.

Mrs. Dean observed the hungry, eager gaze, and taking off the wide-brimmed hat with its white ribbon bow and ends, she seated the little girl comfortably, and put a story into her hands, telling her to amuse herself until Effie and Florence should come.

A half-hour sped by, and then, answering the summons of a bell in the distance, the two daughters of the house appeared, and Cynthia was asked to go with them to luncheon.

Mrs. Dean was a little worried about Cynthia's dress, and was revolving in her mind whether she might not make her look more like the other children by lending her for the occasion a white dress of Florrie's, when, to her regret, she observed that Florrie's eyes were resting very scornfully on the faded green delaine and the stout coarse shoes.

Now if there is anything vulgar and unpardonable, it is this, children--that, being a hostess, you are ashamed of anything belonging to a guest. From the moment a guest enters your door he or she is sacred, and no true lady or gentlemen ever criticises, much less apologizes for, the dress of a visitor. Mrs. Dean was sorry to observe the sneer on Florrie's usually sweet face, and glancing from it to Cynthia's, she was struck with the contrast.

Never had Cynthia in her life been seated at a table so beautiful. The tumblers of ruby and amber glass, the plates with their delicate fruit and flower decoration, every plate a picture, the bouquet in the centre reflected in a beautiful little round mirror, the pretty silver tubs filled with broken ice, the shining knives and forks, and the dainty tea equipage, were so charming that she felt like a princess in an enchanted castle. But she expressed no surprise. She behaved quietly, made no mistakes, used her knife and fork like a little lady, and was as unconscious of herself and her looks as the carnation pink is of its color and shape.

Mrs. Dean meditated. She did not quite like to ask this child to wear a borrowed dress, and she felt that Florrie needed to take a lesson in politeness. Drawing the latter aside, she said, "My darling, I am sorry you should treat my little friend rudely; you have hardly spoken to her."

"I can't help it, mamma. She isn't one of the set we go with. A little common thing like that! See what shoes she has on. And her hands are so red and coarse! They look as if she washed dishes for a living."

"Something very like it is the case, I'm afraid, Florrie dear. I fear she has a very dull time at home. But the child is a little lady. I shall feel very much ashamed if she is more a lady than my own daughters. See, Effie has made friends with her."

"And so will I," said Florrie. "Forgive me, mamma, for being so silly." And the three girls had a pleasant chat before the visitors came, and grew so confidential that Cynthia told Effie and Florrie about the one great shadow of her life--the mortgage which made her papa so unhappy, and was such a worry to poor Aunt Kate. She didn't know what it was; it seemed to her like some dreadful ogre always in the background ready to pounce on the little home. Neither Effie nor Florrie knew, but they agreed with her that it must be something horrid, and Effie promised to ask her own papa, who knew everything, all about it.

"Depend upon it, Cynthia," said Effie, "if papa can do anything to help you, he will. There's nobody like papa in the whole world."

By and by the company began to arrive, and the wide grounds were gay with children in dainty summer costumes and bright silken sashes. Musicians were stationed in an arbor, and their instruments sent forth tripping waltzes and polkas, and the children danced, looking like fairies as they floated over the velvet grass. When the beautiful old Virginia reel was announced, even Cynthia was led out, Mr. Dean himself, a grand gentleman with stately manners and a long brown beard, showing her the steps. Cynthia felt as if she had been dancing with the President. Cinderella at the ball was not less delighted, and this little Cinderella, too, had a misgiving now and then about to-morrow, when she must go home to the housework and the boarders and the gathering of beans for dinner. Yet that should not spoil the present pleasure. Cynthia had never studied philosophy, but she knew enough not to fret foolishly about a trouble in the future when something agreeable was going on now.

In her mother's little well-worn Bible--one of her few treasures--Cynthia had seen this verse heavily underscored: "Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself." She did not know what it meant. She would know some day.

I cannot tell you about the supper, so delicious with its flavor of all that was sweet and fine, and the open-air appetite the children brought to it.

After supper came the fireworks. They were simply bewildering. Lulu, the staunch little friend who had gone to Cynthia's in the morning, speedily found her out, and was in a whirl of joy that she was there.

"How did you get away?" she whispered.

"Oh, Mrs. Dean came after me herself," returned Cynthia, "And Aunt Kate couldn't say no to _her_."

Lulu gave Cynthia's hand a squeeze of sympathy.

"What made you bring your mamma's shawl?" asked Cynthia, as she noticed that Lulu was encumbered with a plaid shawl of the heaviest woolen, which she kept on her arm.

"Malaria," returned the child. "Mamma's _so_ afraid of it and she said if I felt the teentiest bit of a chill I must wrap myself up. Horrid old thing! I hate to lug it around with me. S'pose we sit on it, Cynthy."

They arranged it on the settee, and complacently seated themselves to enjoy the rockets, which soared in red and violet and silvery stars to the sky, then fell suddenly down and went out like lamps in a puff of wind.

Suddenly there was a stir, a shriek, a chorus of screams following it, from the group just around the fireworks. A pinwheel had exploded, sending a shower of sparks in every direction.

All in a second, Florrie Dean flew past the girls, her white fluffy dress on fire. And quick as the fire itself, Cynthia tore after her. Well was it that the shabby green delaine was a woolen dress, that the stout shoes did not encumber the nimble feet, that the child's faculties were so alert. In a second she had seized the great shawl, and almost before any of the grown people had realized the child's peril, had smothered the flames by winding the thick folds over and over, round and round, the fleecy dress and the frightened child.

Florrie was only slightly burned, but Cynthia's little hands were so blistered that they would neither wash dishes nor pick beans for many a day.

Mrs. Dean bathed them in sweet oil and bandaged them from the air, then put Cynthia to bed on a couch in a chamber opening out of her own room. From time to time in the night she went to see if the dear child was sleeping quietly, and Mr. Dean, standing and looking at her, said, "We owe this little one a great debt; her presence of mind saved Florrie's life."

Early the next morning Bonny Bess trotted up to Mr. Mason's door without Cynthia. Aunt Kate was feeling impatient for her return. She missed the willing little helper more than she had supposed possible. She had arranged half a dozen tasks for the day, in everyone of which she expected to employ Cynthia, and she felt quite disappointed when she saw that Mr. Dean was alone.

"Another picnic for to-day, I suppose," she said to herself. "Cynthia may just as well learn first as last that we cannot afford to let her go to such junketings often."

But Mr. Dean broke in upon her thoughts by saying, blandly: "Good morning, madam. Will you kindly tell me where to find Mr. Mason?"

"He's in the south meadow," she answered, civilly, pointing in that direction. "I see you've not brought Cynthia home, Mr. Dean. I need her badly. Mrs. Dean promised to send her home early."

"Mrs. Dean will call on you herself in the course of the day; and it is about Cynthia that I wish to consult her father, my good lady," said Mr. Dean, lifting his hat, as if to a queen, as he drove toward the meadow.

"Well! well! well!" said Aunt Kate, feeling rather resentful, but on the whole rather pleased with the "good lady" and the courteously lifted hat. A charming manner is a wonderful magician in the way of scattering sunshine.

The boarders, observing the little scene from the side porch, hoped that Cynthia's outing was to be prolonged. One and all liked the handy, obliging little maiden who had so much womanly work to do and so scanty a time for childish play.

When, however, at noon, Mr. Mason came home, holding his head up proudly and looking five years younger, and told how brave Cynthia had been; when neighbor after neighbor, as the news flew over the place, stopped to congratulate the Masons on the possession of such a little heroine--Miss Mason was at first puzzled, then triumphant.

"You see what there is in bringing up," she averred. "I've never spoiled Cynthy: I've trained her to be thoughtful and quick, and this is the result."

When Mrs. Dean first proposed that Cynthia should spend the rest of the summer at Fernbrake, sharing the lessons and play with her own girls, Aunt Kate opposed the idea. She did not know how one pair of hands and feet was to do all that was to be done in that house. Was she to send the boarders away, or how did her brother think she could get along.

Mr. Mason said he could afford to hire help for his sister if she wished it, and in any event he meant that Cynthia after this should go to school and study; for "thanks to her and to God"--he spoke reverently--"the mortgage was paid." Mr. Dean had taken that burden away because of Florrie's life which Cynthia had saved.

Under the new conditions Cynthia grew very lovely in face as well as in disposition. It came to pass that she spent fully half her time with the Deans; had all the books to read that she wanted, and saw her father and Aunt Kate so happy that she forgot the old days of worry and care, when she had sometimes felt lonely, and thought that they were cross. Half the crossness in the world comes from sorrow and anxiety, and so children should bear with tired grown people patiently.

As for Lulu, she never ceased to be glad that her mamma's terror of malaria had obliged her to carry a great shawl to Effie's lawn party. Privately, too, she was glad that the shawl was so scorched that she never was asked to wear it anywhere again.

The Boy Who Went from the Sheepfold to the Throne.

BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

A great many years ago in the morning of the world there was a boy who began by taking care of flocks, and ended by ruling a nation. He was the youngest of a large family and his older brothers did not respect him very much nor think much of his opinion, though they were no doubt fond of the ruddy, round-faced little fellow, and proud of his great courage and of his remarkable skill in music. For the boy did not know what fear was, and once when he was alone in the high hill pasture taking care of the ewes and the lambs, there came prowling along a lion of the desert, with his soft padding steps, intent on carrying off a sheep for Madam Lioness and her cubs. The boy did not run, not he; but took the lamb out of the lion's mouth, seized the creature by the beard and slew him, and thus defended the huddling, frightened flock from that peril. He served the next enemy a big, blundering old bear, in the same way. When there were no wild beasts creeping up to the rim of the fire he made near his little tent, the lad would amuse himself by playing on the flute, or the jewsharp he carried; and at home, when the father and sons were gathered around in silence, he used to play upon his larger harp so sweetly that all bad thoughts fled, and everybody was glad and at peace with the world.

One day an aged man with snowy hair and a look of great dignity and presence came to the boy's father's house. He proved to be a great prophet named Samuel, and he was received with much honor. In the course of his visit he asked to see the entire family, and one by one the tall and beautiful sons were presented to him until he had seen seven young men.

"Is this all your household? Have you not another son?" he inquired.

"Yes," said Jesse the Bethlehemite, who by the way was a grandson of that beautiful maiden, Ruth, who came out of Moab with Naomi, "yes, I have still a son, but he is only a youth, out in the fields; you would not wish to see _him_." But this was a mistake.

"Pray, send for him," answered the prophet.

Then David, for this was his name, came in, modest yet eager, with his pleasant face and his dark kindling eyes. And the prophet said, "This is the Lord's anointed," and then in a ceremony which the simple family seem not to have quite understood, he set the boy apart by prayer and blessing, poured the fragrant oil of consecration on his head, and said in effect that in days to come he would be the King of Israel.

David went back to his fields and his sheep and for a long while nothing happened.

But there arose against Israel in due time a nation of warlike people, called "The Philistines." Nearly all the strong young men of the country went out to fight against these invaders, and among them went the sons of old Jesse. Nobody stayed at home except the old men, the women and the younger boys and little ones. The whole country was turned into a moving camp, and there arrived a time before long when Israel and the Philistines each on a rolling hill, with a valley between them, set their battle in array.

I once supposed that battles were fought on open plains, with soldiers confronting one another in plain sight, as we set out toy regiments of wooden warriors to fight for children's amusement. But since then, in my later years, I have seen the old battlefields of our Civil War and I know better. Soldiers fight behind trees and barns and fences, and in the shelter of hedges and ditches, and a timbered mountain side makes a fine place for a battle ground.

Now I will quote a passage or two from a certain old book, which tells this part of the story in much finer style than I can. The old book is a familiar one, and is full of splendid stories for all the year round. I wish the young people who read this holiday book would make a point hereafter of looking every day in that treasure-house, the Bible.

And there went out a champion out of the camp of the Philistines,
named Goliath, of Gath, whose height was six cubits and a span.

And he had a helmet of brass upon his head, and he was armed with a
coat of mail; and the weight of the coat was five thousand shekels
of brass.

And he had greaves of brass upon his legs, and a target of brass
between his shoulders.

And the staff of his spear was like a weaver's beam; and his
spear's head weighed six hundred shekels of iron: and one bearing a
shield went before him.

And he stood and cried unto the armies of Israel, and said unto
them, Why are ye come out to set your battle in array? am not I a
Philistine, and ye servants to Saul? choose you a man for you, and
let him come down to me.

If he be able to fight with me, and to kill me, then will we be
your servants: but if I prevail against him, and kill him, then
shall ye be our servants, and serve us.

And the Philistine said, I defy the armies of Israel this day; give
me a man, that we may fight together.

When Saul and all Israel heard those words of the Philistine, they
were dismayed, and greatly afraid.

Now David was the son of that Ephrathite of Bethlehem-judah, whose
name was Jesse; and he had eight sons: and the man went among men
for an old man in the days of Saul.

And the three eldest sons of Jesse went and followed Saul to the
battle: and the names of his three sons that went to the battle
were Eliab the first-born, and next unto him Abinadab, and the
third Shammah.

And David was the youngest: and the three eldest followed Saul.

But David went and returned from Saul to feed his father's sheep at
Beth-lehem.

And the Philistine drew near morning and evening, and presented
himself forty days.

And Jesse said unto David his son, Take now for thy brethren an
ephah of this parched corn, and these ten loaves, and run to the
camp to thy brethren;

And carry these ten cheeses unto the captain of their thousand, and
look how thy brethren fare, and take their pledge.

Now Saul, and they, and all the men of Israel, were in the valley
of Elah, fighting with the Philistines.

And David rose up early in the morning, and left the sheep with a
keeper, and took, and went, as Jesse had commanded him; and he came
to the trench, as the host was going forth to the fight, and
shouted for the battle.

For Israel and the Philistines had put the battle in array, army
against army.

And David left his carriage in the hand of the keeper of the
carriage, and ran into the army, and came and saluted his brethren.

And as he talked with them, behold, there came up the champion, the
Philistine of Gath, Goliath by name, out of the armies of the
Philistines, and spake according to the same words: and David heard
them.

And all the men of Israel, when they saw the man, fled from him,
and were sore afraid.

And the men of Israel said, Have ye seen this man that is come up?
surely to defy Israel is he come up: and it shall be, that the man
who killeth him, the king will enrich him with great riches, and
will give him his daughter, and make his father's house free in
Israel.

And David spake to the men that stood by him saying, What shall be
done to the man that killeth this Philistine, and taketh away the
reproach from Israel? for who is this uncircumcised Philistine,
that he should defy the armies of the living God?

By "carriage" is meant luggage, the things David had brought for his brothers, not a conveyance as in our modern sense.

The brothers were angry when they found David putting himself forward, in a way which they thought absurd, but their taunts did not deter him from presenting himself to King Saul, who was pleased with the gallant boy, and proposed to arm him with his own armor, a coat of mail, greaves of brass and the like. But "no," said David, "I would feel clumsy and awkward in your accoutrements, I will meet the giant with my shepherd's sling and stone, in the name of the Lord God of Israel whom he has defied."

The giant came blustering out with a tread that shook the ground. When he saw his little antagonist he was vexed, for this seemed to him no foeman worthy of his spear. But when the conflict was really on, lo! the unerring eye and hand of David sent his pebble from the brook straight into the giant's head, and the victory was with Israel.

And after that, David went to the palace and played sweetly on the harp to charm and soothe the madness of King Saul, on whom there came by spells a fierce and terrible malady. He formed a close friendship with Jonathan, the king's son, a friendship which has passed into a proverb, so tender it was and so true. After a while he married the king's daughter. He had a great many wonderful adventures and strange experiences, and in time he became king himself, as the Lord by his prophet Samuel had foretold and chosen him to be.

But better than all, David's deeds of valor and the great fame he had among the nations, which abides to this day, was, in my mind, the fact that he wrote many of the psalms which we use in our public worship, this, the twenty-third, is one of the very sweetest of them all:

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside
the still waters.

He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness
for his name's sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I
will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they
comfort me.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies:
thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life:
and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

You must not think that David's life was ever an easy one. He always had hard battles to fight. Once, for quite a long period, he was an outlaw, much like Robin Hood of a later day, and with a band of brave young men he lived in the woods and the mountains, defending the property of his friends from other outlaws, and sometimes perhaps making forays against his foes, sweeping off their cattle and burning their tents and houses. Those were wild and exciting days, when the battle was for the strongest to win, and when many things were done of which in our modern times we cannot wholly approve. The thing about David which pleases me most is that he had a rare quality called magnanimity; he did not take a mean advantage of an enemy, and when, as occasionally it must be owned, he did commit a great sin, his repentance was deep and sincere. He lived in so much communion with God, that God spoke of him always as his servant, and he has been called, to distinguish him from other heroes in the Bible gallery, "The man after God's own heart." Whatever duties or trials came to David, they were met in a spirit of simple trust in the Lord, and with a child-like dependence on God's will.

David had many children, some very good and some very bad. His son Absalom was renowned for his beauty and for his wickedness, while Solomon became famous, and so continues to this day as the wisest among men, a man rich, far-sighted and exalted, who reigned long in Jerusalem after the death of David, his father, who passed away in a good old age. Wonderful lives are these to read and to think of, full of meaning for every one of us. And many, many years after both these men and their successors were gone there came to our earth, One born of a Virgin, who traced His mortal lineage back to David of Bethlehem, and who brought goodwill and peace to men. Even Christ our Blessed Lord.

End of Project Gutenberg's Holiday Stories for Young People, by Various