Chapter XII

"WELL, did you get into a scrape about the doll?" asked Kitty, meeting Nelly a few days afterwards.

"No," replied Nelly. "I told Mrs. Kirkland all about it, and she was not angry."

"There! I knew it wasn't any thing to make a fuss about," interrupted Kitty.

"But she said she should have been very much displeased if I had tried to hide it. And she told me I must not have any more visitors in the store."

"Mean old thing!" said Kitty. "And I was just coming down to see you this very day. What time does she go to dinner?"

"I don't think she will go home to dinner at all to-day—" replied Nelly; "we are so busy. And anyway, Kitty," she added, decidedly, "you must not come and see me at the store unless you have an errand. I shall lose my place if you do. And I am sure you would not want me to do that, would you?"

"Of course not," said Kitty; though in her heart of hearts she perhaps would not have been sorry to see Nelly brought down at least to her own level. "But I think it is a shame. They are all just so,—making such a fuss about the least thing, and having no feeling for people who live with them."

"Oh, Kitty!" exclaimed Nelly, "I am sure that is not fair. Just think how many things Mrs. Powers has given you,—your Bible, and your thimble, and that pretty dress which your mother made over for you."

"A shabby old thing she had done wearing!"

"It was as good as new. You said so yourself," persisted Nelly. "And Mrs. Kirkland and Miss Powell have never been any thing but good to me. People have to be strict where there is so much going on."

"Oh, of course she is all right! Every one is all right but me. But never mind. What are you going to do for Christmas?"

"I haven't made up my mind; only I shall buy a nice shawl for granny, if I have money enough. I have been making her such a pretty worsted hood, of this new pattern,—shaped like a little bonnet, you know,—and I don't know how much I shall have left. I have not counted up my money."

"Do you suppose Mrs. Kirkland will give you a present?"

"I don't know. I have not thought any thing about it. I should like to give Miss Powell something, if I have money enough."

"You couldn't give her any thing worth while," said Kitty. "She wouldn't care for any thing you could afford to buy. You had better spend the money on yourself, and get something decent to wear."

"I haven't thought of that yet. I suppose I must have a shawl. But I don't want to spend any more than I can help."

A few days before Christmas, Mr. Lambert came into the store and asked for Nelly. He had a square parcel in his hand, which he gave her, saying,—

"I have brought you a little Christmas present, Nelly. It is somewhat before the time; but I am going away to New York, and I wanted to give it you with my own hands. Open it and see how you like it."

The parcel was quickly opened, and found to contain a fine large photograph of Mr. Lambert's last picture (the one for which Nelly and Crummie had sat) in a beautiful oak frame.

Nelly was delighted. "Oh, how pleased granny will be!" she exclaimed. "She loves pictures, and she was so disappointed at not seeing this one. Thank you very much, Mr. Lambert. I shall keep it all my life. I hope Miss Lambert is well? Is she going to stay in school?"

Nelly asked these questions not only from a sense of civility, but because she felt a real interest in Nelly Lambert, who had sent her the first nice dress she ever had. She was surprised to see Mr. Lambert's face darken at the mention of his daughter.

"She is well," said he, shortly. "She is not in school at present. Good-by, Nelly. Be a good girl, work hard, and tell the truth, and God will prosper you. Give my regards to granny, and tell her I wish her joy of having a grand-daughter who is a comfort and a credit to her."

He shook Nelly by the hand, bowed to Mrs. Kirkland, and left the store.

"I wonder what ailed Mr. Lambert," said Nelly. "He always used to be so merry."

"I suspect he is in a great deal of trouble about his daughter," said an elderly lady who had been admiring Nelly's present. "She has been sent away from school under rather bad circumstances—expelled, in fact. They have kept it still, out of regard to her father; but, of course, girls will talk."

"Oh, how sorry I am!" exclaimed Nelly. "What was it for?"

"I don't understand it, exactly. Three or four of the girls engaged in a plot against the French teacher, of which Nelly was the ringleader, and they nearly drove the poor woman out of her senses. Finally, they dressed up a ghost and scared poor Mademoiselle into a fit and a fever, which is likely enough to cost her her life. My grand-daughter tells me that Nelly has always been at the beginning and end of all the mischief in school, and would never learn a lesson, if she could help it. She said Miss Birch had endless patience with her; but this last was a drop too much."

"I should think so," remarked Miss Powell. "I do not know any sort of mischief which deserves more severe punishment than frightening timid and nervous people."

Nelly could not but allow that Miss Lambert had deserved her punishment; but that did not prevent her from being very sorry. How strange it did seem! She had always envied Miss Birch's young ladies, as she saw them walking to church every Sunday; and she had thought, how easy it would be for any girl to be industrious and good who had so many things to help her. And now here was Miss Lambert, who she had believed must be the best and happiest girl in the world, grieving her father's heart, wasting her time, and doing what was really mean and cruel. Nelly began to think that there was not so much difference, after all,—that every lot in life must have its temptations, and that it would be, perhaps, as easy for her to be good and please God in Mrs. Kirkland's store as in Miss Birch's school.

"Well, Nelly, I suppose you will like to have your money before Christmas, so as to lay it out to the best advantage," said Mrs. Kirkland, that evening. "I dare say you have spent it all, in imagination, ten times over."

"I thought I should like to buy a shawl for granny," said Nelly, as Mrs. Kirkland handed her a roll of bills. "You know there is the worsted for the hood to come out, as well as the doll which Kitty broke."

"I have charged you with the worsted, and the doll was mended as good as new," said Mrs. Kirkland. "Count your money, and see if it is right. Always count money the moment you receive it; and then, if there is any mistake, it can be corrected directly. Well, is it right?"

"No, ma'am," replied Nelly "you have given me a great deal too much. You only owed me thirty dollars in all, and you have given me forty-eight."

"It is all right," said Mrs. Kirkland. "I have been reckoning your wages at six dollars a week for the last six weeks. Your services are worth that to me, and there is no reason you should not receive their value, as much as if you were ten years older. It is everything to me to have a girl whom I can trust."

Nelly did not know what to say. She had never dreamed of having so much money, all her own, at one time. Now, if Miss Powell would only go with her to choose granny's shawl, she felt that her happiness would be complete.

Miss Powell was very ready to do so, and they set out together. A warm and handsome plaid shawl—good enough for any lady, Nelly said—was purchased for ten dollars; and Nelly bought a good, serviceable, plaid woollen frock and a pair of stout boots for herself, leaving the subject of a shawl for future consideration. Twenty dollars and some shillings did Nelly lay out that evening, besides a dollar for a little blue-and-gold volume of poems, for which she had heard Miss Powell express a wish a few days before. Then, with the rest of her money safe in her pocket, and loaded down with her bundles, she hastened home,—as proud and happy a little girl as could be found in Milby. Then came the display of her purchases for herself, of which granny approved; and mysterious hints of something else to be sent to the store in the morning,—at which granny laughed, having also her own little secret. The photograph was admired and exclaimed over, even to the contentment of Nelly herself; and she went to bed, almost too tired to stand.

Next day was Christmas-eve,—and what wonders it brought! What a throng of customers! What merry and happy faces! What calculations! What wonderful purchases! What presents and pleasures to Nelly herself! Mrs. Kirkland gave her a fine large basket, such as she had often wished for, to carry her dinner and her work back and forth,—and an emery and scissors besides. Miss Powell gave her a new prayer-book, with her name on the side, in gilt letters. Miss Alice Kirkland sent her a nice blue merino dress,—better than new, Nelly declared,—which, as Alice was very tall, and Nelly short for her age, admitted of being made over to great advantage. Finally, late in the day, a black man brought in a large parcel, which he delivered to Nelly with a flourishing bow.

"Mr. Grayson sends you this, miss, with his regards and de compliments of de season, and wishes you a merry Christmas, ma'am."

Nelly was quite overwhelmed, and could hardly gather presence of mind to send back a suitable reply.

"Open your bundle, Nelly," said Mrs. Kirkland, laughing. "You are not afraid of it, are you?"

"No," said Nelly; "only it seems so strange. I didn't ever expect to have so many presents. It don't seem as if it could be for me."

"Mr. Grayson isn't apt to make mistakes," said Miss Powell. "Come, Nelly; let us see."

Lo and behold! the parcel contained a nice warm shawl, just the thing to match the merino frock,—a serviceable and substantial work-box, and a package of the most wonderful confectionery in the world, with a tin box of tobacco for granny. A note, attached to the shawl, said,—

"For my honest little friend, Nelly. From William Grayson."

"Well," said Nelly, "I don't know whether it is me or not; but I begin to think I must have been turned into somebody else by one of those Irish fairies granny tells about. I only wish I could ever do any thing for anybody else: that's all."

"Perhaps you do more than you think, Nelly."

"But such a grand present!" said Nelly, reverting to her treasures, and opening the box. "Just see, Mrs. Kirkland,—see, Miss Powell,—a real silver thimble and all! Oh, how I do wish I could do something for him!"

"You might work him a pair of slippers, by-and-by, when we are not quite so busy," said Miss Powell. "I dare say he would like that very much. Now you had better be going home; and I would advise you to take the street-car, for you will never carry all your treasures."

As Nelly got out of the car, at the corner nearest her own home, she ran against Kitty Brown, who was walking slowly in the same direction.

"Oh, Kitty," she exclaimed, joyfully, "I am so glad to see you! Come to our house and see all my nice presents,—and something else," she added, mysteriously. "I know something—But oh, Kitty, what is the matter?" she exclaimed, catching sight of Kitty's tear-stained face, by a gas-light. "What has happened?"

Kitty burst into tears.

"I have lost my place, Nelly," she sobbed. "Mrs. Powers has sent me away, and I dare not tell mother. Oh, I don't know what she will do."

"Oh, I am so sorry!" exclaimed Nelly, with real sympathy. "I thought you liked it there so much."

"She sent me away," repeated Kitty, sobbing afresh. "Oh, Nelly, if I had only done as you did about the doll,—only told her the truth! I was unlucky, and broke several things; and, finally, I broke a beautiful glass bowl with a foot to it. I ought not to have taken it in my hand; but I wanted to look at it, and one day, when she was gone, I took it down and dropped it. I dared not tell her: so I put the pieces together and set them back as they were before, and she never found out till to-day. Oh, how angry she was! She said she would not care so much if I had only told her the truth at the time, though the bowl was worth twelve dollars. And then she began to look, and she found all the others,—the plate and all—and she said she would not have me any longer, and sent me away. I have been walking in the street ever since three o'clock this afternoon, because I dared not go home."

"Why, Kitty Brown!" exclaimed Nelly, very much shocked. "And without your supper?"

Kitty nodded.

"Come right in and have some with me," said Nelly, with authority. "Yes; you must, too. Granny will have mine all ready; and when you are warm and have eaten, you will have more courage. I know just how you feel. I remember how I felt when I thought I should lose my place."

"And that was my fault, too," murmured Kitty. "I have heard about heaping coals of fire on people's heads; and I guess you mean to try it, Nelly."

"No, indeed," said Nelly, indignantly. "I never thought of such a thing. Don't you believe it, Kitty. I am not one of that kind."

"I don't think you are, Nelly. You are a real Christian; and I'm sorry I ever called you a saint."

"It wasn't a very bad name," said Nelly, demurely. "We call the apostles so every day. But now come in this minute. That's right. Granny, how nice and light and cheerful it looks here! and how good the tea smells! Kitty is going to have some supper with us."

"Sure she is welcome as flowers in May. And it's glad I am I made the cakes for you," replied the kind-hearted old woman. "But what's the matter, dear? You shouldn't have the tear in your eye this blessed night, of all the nights in the year."

"Kitty has lost her place, granny," replied Nelly. "So no wonder she feels bad. But I hope it will all turn out right yet."

"To be sure. There's a silver lining to every cloud. Remember that, dears. If it wasn't dark sometimes, we never should see the moon. But what have you there, my Lady Eleanor? Are you going to set-up a shop yourself?"

Nelly's presents were displayed, and wondered over to her heart's content. Then came the production of granny's shawl and hood; and the old woman promised, much to Nelly's delight, to wear them to church next day. Her own present to Nelly was a little felt hat trimmed with blue, just the thing for church and Sunday-school. Nelly only regretted that her blue frock was not ready to go with it.

"Sure I can tuck it up just for to-morrow; and you need not mind the waist under your fine new shawl," said granny. "Give me the thread and needle, till I try. And won't we be as fine as paycocks, just?"

"Here is something for you, Kitty," said Nelly, modestly. "It is only a little basket; but I thought it would do to remember me by, and to hold your working-things."

"I am sure it was very good in you to remember me at all, Nelly," said poor Kitty, crying afresh. "I don't deserve it the least bit in the world."

"Oh, my dear, we won't talk of deserts," said the old woman, busily plying her needle. "Sure the good Lord don't think of our deserts when he gives to us, or we should be badly off."

"If it wasn't for mother," said Kitty, sobbing. "But how can I tell her? Oh, Mrs. Ryan, would you just go and see her first? It isn't that I am afraid," she explained; "but she will cry and feel so bad."

"Indeed and I will, then. But come you with me, honey," said granny, rising. "Poor dear! I don't wonder at it. Let me just step out and see that the cow is safe. And Nelly, you hold the light."

"Just see where the crooked path leads, Nelly dear," added granny, as she attended to Crummie's wants. "Here's poor Kitty, as smart a girl as ever lived, and with such a dale of schooling and all, afraid to face her mother on Christmas-eve, of all times in the year, losing as good a friend as ever a girl had (for Mrs. Powers has been all that to her), and all because she took to the crooked way,—because she put her hands to what wasn't hers, and turned her tongue to what wasn't true to hide the mischief. Oh, my dear, remember what your old granny tells you,—remember, whatever happens, that the blessing of God shines on the straight and honest path. Your granny left it once, when she spent the money that was not hers to spend, because it was honestly owing; and see what came of it. Only for the goodness of God, that raised us up friends in our trouble, we might be in the poor-house this blessed minute, instead of in our own home, with a good prospect of paying for it in time, and my Nelly loved and trusted, and earning her own living and more."

"I'm sure God is very good to us," said Nelly, with tears in her eyes. "I never thought we should be so well off."

"Ay, indeed is he," replied granny, with emphasis. "And it's ashamed I am to think how long I forgot him while I was dreaming and mourning over vanities and nonsense,—over an inheritance in Ireland, instead of an inheritance in heaven. Mind, Nelly, you are a lady born, for all that; but dear, it is better far to be a child of God than to be a grand-child of all the earls in Ireland. And now give me my fine new shawl and hood, till I go home with poor Kitty."

"Oh, granny," cried Nelly, struck with a sudden idea, "suppose you were to go to Mrs. Powers with her and ask Mrs. Powers to take her back and try her again? You know she is such a kind lady, and she always did like you. Do try."

"And that is a good thought; and there's no harm in trying," said granny. "Anyhow, Kitty will be none the worse off if I fail; and it will save the widow's heart from aching sore, if I succeed."

I am happy to be able to say that granny did succeed. Mrs. Powers had already begun to relent towards Kitty; and granny's eloquence and the little girl's tears prevailed. Mrs. Powers promised to take her on trial for another month; and it was in a spirit of true thankfulness and humility that Kitty said her prayers that night in the little room where she had so often gabbled them over or omitted them altogether,—the room in which she had never expected to sleep again.

I have little to add to Nelly's history. Before the next Christmas, the house was paid for in full; and Nelly had still something to spare for Christmas presents. That was seven years ago. You would hardly know the place now. The house has been enlarged and improved; the garden well planted, both with flowers and fruit. Nelly, a fine tall young lady, earns nine dollars a week, and might easily get more, but nothing will induce her to leave Mrs. Kirkland. She is forewoman now (for Miss Powell is married), and every thing passes through her hands. She has a large class in Sunday-school, and spends upon them more than ten cents out of every dollar she earns; for they are very poor children,—poorer than Nelly was when we first made her acquaintance.

There is a young woman, too, who comes to Nelly for work sometimes, but who can do only the poorer sorts, on whom Nelly spends many a dollar; for she is the daughter of one of her first friends. Can this be Nelly Lambert,—this thin, faded creature, dressed in a poor attempt at widow's mourning? Even so. Nelly ran away at sixteen with a worthless scamp, whose acquaintance she made through a newspaper advertisement, who first neglected and then abused her, enlisted, deserted, and was finally shot as he was trying to make his escape a second time. Mr. Lambert is dead, and his daughter has no dependence save the work of her hands and the charity of old friends of her father's. People have been very kind to her; but she wears out every one's patience by her folly and her peevish ingratitude. Her health is giving way, and she has no better prospect before her than a bed in the hospital in which to spend her last days.

I am glad to give a better account of Kitty Brown. Kitty never forgot the lesson of that Christmas-eve. She had much to struggle with; for bad habits are not easily overcome. But she was in earnest; and she learned where to look for strength and help in her struggles with herself. Kitty is a useful Christian woman, earning the highest wages as nurse in a wealthy family, because, the lady says, she is entirely to be trusted.

Granny still survives, a hale old woman of more than fourscore, walking to church every Sunday, and spelling out her large-print Bible with the help of her glasses. She is still rather fond of talking about the past glories of the Butlers and the splendour of Kilmane Park; and Nelly listens with patience, and even with interest, thankful to know that granny's portion is secured in that better kingdom,—an inheritance incorruptible, undefiled, and which fadeth not away,—that house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.

THE END.