Chapter II: Part 2

Amity was just considering what she had better do when Mrs. Franklin came in. Johnny roused up a little.

"Did I go to sleep? That wasn't—wasn't—"

"Polite, you mean," said Mrs. Franklin, as Johnny stammered and tried to think of the word he wanted. "Never mind, my dear: the young lady will excuse you when she knows how little sleep you had last night. You shall lie down on this sofa and have a good nap, and I will sit by you. Poor little man! I am very glad to see him sleep," she added, as Johnny laid his head down and dropped off again. "I am very much obliged to you, Miss—"

"My name is Amity Bogardus," said Amity, as Mrs. Franklin paused. "I saw Johnny only once, in New York, but he knew me again directly."

"Yes, he has a good memory for those people who are kind to him. He has often spoken of you."

"Has he always been as he is now?" Amity ventured to ask.

"He has always been a little peculiar, but he has been much worse since his mother died. He was very sick with the same fever that killed her, and since then, his mind has failed a great deal."

"He told me he used to know how to knit," said Amity.

"Yes, and I mean to try to have him taught again, but I am not a knitter myself, I am sorry to say."

"Perhaps I could teach him," said Amity. "I know how to knit pretty well, and I have taught two or three children. I would not mind trying, if you liked."

"You are very kind," said Mrs. Franklin, looking much pleased, "but I am afraid you would find it a great deal of trouble."

"I don't mind trouble, if only I could do it," said Amity; "but there would be no harm in trying—would there, do you think?"

"None at all, if your parents are willing; but you must ask them first."

"My father and mother are dead, but I will ask my grandfather," said Amity, "and if he is willing, I will begin after breakfast to-morrow. Grandpapa reads his papers then, and does not want me."

CHAPTER FOURTH.

KNITTING.

"I HAVE no objections," said Judge Bogardus, when Amity spoke to him about her plans; "only you know, my little girl, if you begin, you must keep on. It won't do to disappoint the poor little fellow because you get tired sometimes and want to do something else."

"I don't think I am apt to get tired of what I try to do," said Amity, thinking at the same time, "I am sure grandpapa need not have said that to me."

"You do not always have as many temptations as you do here," said her grandfather; "and let me tell you one thing, Amity: it is a very good way of getting ready for a failure to think too much of yourself. If you begin or try to go on in your own strength, you will never succeed."

Judge Bogardus did not often speak in this way, and Amity was all the more struck with his words. They seemed to bring her down somehow from a little pinnacle of self-conceit she had been standing on, and she answered quite humbly:

"I know, grandpapa. That was what mother was always saying."

"Your mother was a good woman, my dear, and I hope you will be another. Teach the poor little boy by all means if you can, but don't expect too much of him; and now go and get your hat. I want you to ride with me."

The next morning the knitting lessons began. Poor Johnny was very slow, and it was two or three days before he could catch the motions so as to go on by himself; but at last he did so, and could make out to knit a row without dropping more than half the stitches. Amity used to knit every other row (a very good way to do when one is teaching any child to knit).

"Shall I ever learn, do you think?" asked Johnny.

"Oh yes! You are doing a little better every day. Pretty soon you can begin to knit sponge-towel, and when it is done, you can give it to Mrs. Franklin for a present."

"Won't that be nice? When I go where my mamma is, Amity, I shall tell her how good you have been to her poor little boy, And you, too," he added, turning to Mrs. Franklin, who sat by as if afraid she might be hurt; "I shall tell her you were almost the same as my own mother; not quite the same, you know—nobody could be that."

"You are my dear little boy," said Mrs. Franklin, kissing the poor little thin hand Johnny held out to her; "but your hands are hot, Johnny; does your side ache again?"

"A little," said Johnny.

"Where have you been, and where do you keep yourself all the mornings?" asked Emma Fairchild, as she met Amity on the veranda when the lesson was done. "Why don't you come out after breakfast when it is cool and pleasant?"

"I am busy then," said Amity.

"Why, surely you don't do lessons now you are here!" said Emma.

"Not my own lessons," returned Amity.

"I know what she does: she is teaching that idiot boy to knit," said Maud. "Mrs. Franklin told mamma so."

"Are you really?" asked Emma.

Amity nodded.

"And can he learn?"

"Oh yes! He can knit quite a good deal, and he is so pleased, poor little fellow! But, Maud, you shouldn't call him 'an idiot.' He is not that, though he is backward, and oh, so slow!"

"And he really likes it?"

"Oh yes! And I have taught him some other things, too."

"What things?"

"Little hymns and verses and such things. He can learn almost anything with a rhyme to it."

"Well, anyhow, I think you are real good to teach him," said Emma; "isn't she, Maud?"

"Yes, I suppose so, but I shouldn't like it," said Maud; "and it isn't so very much to do, either. Mamma knows a lady that founded a hospital for poor children—paid for it all herself, and her name is on the front of it. That would be something worth while—something that every one would know."

"But we ought not to do good things just to have people know them, I suppose; should we?" asked Emma, doubtfully. "I should not think that was right."

"Of course it isn't right. It is just like the Pharisees sounding a trumpet before them," answered Amity, with decision.

"Everybody does, anyhow," persisted Maud. "My mother gave ten dollars and some clothes to the Old Woman's Home, and because it was not put in the paper with the other donations, she said she would never give them anything again. * But, Amity, you are very rich, ain't you?"

* A fact, I am sorry to say.

"I shall be some time, I suppose," said Amity.

"Then I should think you would like to do some grand thing—like building a hospital or an asylum. Just think! You might have a beautiful building on one of the avenues, with your name on it for every one to read when you are dead."

"And what good would that do you?" asked Emma.

"Oh, I don't say I should do it. That is quite another thing," answered Maud, arranging her sash as she spoke. "I believe in using your money for yourself and having a good time. People are never grateful for being helped—ma says so. She said, after Mrs. Franklin went away: 'Well, I only hope they will be grateful, that's all; but I don't expect it;' and she said it was a shame for Mrs. Franklin to impose on you so."

"She doesn't impose on me," said Amity, rather vexed.

"Oh, well! It's all right so long as you don't think so," said Maud, with a disagreeable little laugh. "I should think it a good deal of an imposition if any one was to get all that out of me. Ma says, 'Mrs. Franklin knows which side her bread is buttered.'"

"It wasn't a very pretty speech if ma did say it," said Emma, imitating Maud's affected pronunciation. "Come, Amity, let's go and get some Columbia water."

The girls took their glasses of the clear, sparkling water, and then walked away through the grounds. Emma chattered away in her usual off-hand fashion, which, to do her justice, was usually a very pleasant and good-natured one. Amity was so silent that Emma presently broke off her prattle, and asked her what she was thinking about.

"About Maud," answered Amity. "I don't think you need have been so sharp with her, Emma. I am afraid she was offended."

"Well, I dare say you are right," replied Emma. "I don't think I am apt to be sharp," (which was quite true), "but, somehow, Maud does always rub me the wrong way—she and her mother. Well, I don't know how to say what I mean, but they somehow seem to me to care only for the outside—not for what things really are, but only what people will say about them."

"You needn't have mimicked her, or spoken so about her mother any way," said Amity. "You wouldn't like it yourself, and I think you ought to be more careful. People will think you are very inconsistent."

Now all this was true enough, and if Amity had hinted it or even spoken it out to Emma in a more gentle and humble manner, I have no doubt that the little girl would have taken it kindly, for she was really trying hard to be a good Christian child. But Amity spoke sharply, and with a tone of superiority which "rubbed Emma the wrong way," as she said directly.

"Well, you needn't lecture me if I did," said she, sharply, in her turn. "You talk just like that horrid girl in the book we were reading, who scolded her grandmother for wasting her time knitting a bed-quilt." *

* I cannot now remember in what book I met this young lady, but she is
no creation of mine.

Amity drew herself up. "If you are going to talk like that, I think we had better drop the subject," said she, trying, without much success, to look and speak like Aunt Julia. But the air which may be quite imposing in a tall, handsome grown-up lady has quite the contrary effect in a dumpy, tow-headed little girl.

And Emma only laughed.

"Dear me, how grand!" said she. "But it isn't a bit of use, Amity: you can't look tall if you try."

Amity did not condescend to say another word. She turned and walked back as quickly as possible by the way she had come.

"Oh don't, Amity!" called Emma, sorry in a moment, as she always was if she hurt any one's feelings. "I didn't mean to make you angry; I was only in fun."

But Amity would not look around.

"Oh dear!" said Emma to herself. "How sorry I am! And she was right, too: I ought not to have spoken so to Maud. To be sure, she need not have put on such airs, but then I need not have laughed. I mean to find both the girls after dinner, and make it up."

And Emma, who, as I have said, was really trying to serve her Master, folded her hands and said a little silent prayer for forgiveness and help to do better another time.

It would have been well for Amity if she had done the same. But she did not. She only thought how unkind Emma had been, and how careless and thoughtless she was. And then she began to think about what Maud had said, and to wonder whether Mrs. Franklin and Johnny were really as grateful as they ought to be for her kindness to them.

In fact, Amity had for some days been getting into a bad way. She had been thinking how much better it was to be good and useful (as she was) than to be handsome like Emma, or splendidly dressed like Maud, or to play the piano and sing like Jenny Barnard! How good it was in her to stay a whole hour with Johnny every morning, instead of running out to play! There is no more sure and certain way of becoming worse than other people than this of thinking how much better we are than other people.

Then it was such a grand idea, this of founding an institution like the lady Maud had spoken of. What should it be—an orphan asylum, or a hospital for children, or a school for idiots like Johnny? All that money would be hers when she was twenty-five, and the great place at Rockside, and the two grand houses in Fifth Avenue that Aunt Julia had shown her. Perhaps she might turn Rockside itself into an asylum, to be called "The Bogardus Institute"; or should she call it "Amity Park"? Yes, that would be the best; then, when people asked the meaning of the name, they would be told that it was the name of the young lady who had given all her fortune to found this noble charity. The last phrase pleased Amity very much, for it sounded like something she had read.

The same evening Amity and Maud were standing together on the veranda. Amity had not seen Emma since their little tiff in the morning, but she had sought out Maud as soon as she returned from her afternoon ride with her grandfather.

"Perhaps I can do her some good," she had said to herself. "At any rate, I ought to show her that I don't mean to insult her, like Emma."

If any one had told Amity that she wanted to show how much better she was than Emma, Amity would have denied with scorn that she ever thought of such a thing.

As Maud and Amity were standing together, Emma came up to them, her cheeks very pink and her eyes looking brighter than usual, and a little as if the tears might be pretty near them.

"Maud," said she, winking rather hard, "I am sorry I mimicked you this morning, and spoke so about your mother. Please forgive me."

Maud stared a moment, as if she did not quite understand Emma's meaning. Then she laughed, not mockingly, but quite good-humoredly.

"My! That wasn't anything," said she. "I had forgotten all about it, and I didn't care anyway. I say a great deal worse things than that myself, very often. I couldn't think what you meant at first."

"Then you are not angry?" said Emma.

"No, not a bit. I am not so silly as that, I hope. I did not mind it at all and if I had, I should have got all over it by this time. I never can keep mad, if I try ever so hard. But anyhow, it is real sweet in you to come and say you are sorry—isn't it, Amity?"

"It is better to take care and not say things one has to be sorry for," said Amity. Somehow she did not feel pleased at all with the turn things had taken.

Her remark did not make Emma's task any easier, but she had come to do her duty, and she did it.

"And, Amity, I am sorry I laughed at you, and said you were like that horrid girl in the book. It was all true what you said, and I have been thinking about it ever since."

"If you are sorry, of course that is all about it," answered Amity, coldly; "only, another time I hope you won't be so ready to snap one up, that's all."

"Well now, Amity, I call that mean," said Maud, as Emma went slowly away, and entered the house.

"What is mean?"

"Taking Emma up that way, when she said she was sorry. I am sure it is more than I would have done, after what you said, and I don't set myself up to be pious either. I sha'n't forget it in a hurry. How lovely she looked, didn't she?"

"Handsome is that handsome does," replied Amity, quoting her grandfather's proverb. "She just wanted to make a scene."

"Amity, for shame!" said Maud, who had a good disposition, and might have been a good girl if she had been taught. "I don't believe she ever thought of such a thing."

"Of course you know all about it," said Amity, tartly.

"I don't know anything about it, nor you either," returned Maud. "You can't see inside of Emma's heart any more than I can. You know what we had in the Bible lesson only last Sunday—'Judge not, that ye be not judged' (Matt. 7:1)."

"It doesn't mean such things," said Amity.

"What does it mean then? I don't pretend to be pious—sometimes I think I should like to be."

"Then why don't you?" asked Amity, contemplating her, and thinking that here was a nice opening for the "talk" she had prepared to give Maud.

"Well, for several reasons. I wasn't brought up that way, for one thing; but if I were going to be pious, I would rather have Emma's kind than yours."

The "talk" did not seem possible after this very outspoken remark.

And when Maud said, "I am going to find Emma," Amity did not try to keep her.

CHAPTER FIFTH.

THE KNITTING FINISHED.

ALL that evening Amity staid by herself, thinking over the wonderful and glorious things she would do when she was grown-up, and had her fortune in her own hands. She had not been given to thinking very much about this fortune, and therefore it had hitherto done her no harm; for it is not money, but "the love of money," which "is the root of all evil." But now she was thinking of it, and that in one of the most undesirable ways in the world, for she was considering how she should spend it, not for the glory of God and the good of others, but to increase her own consequence in the eyes of the world.

The result was that she quite forgot the cotton and needles she had promised to buy for Johnny, and came near forgetting his lesson in the morning. She was so late in coming that Mrs. Franklin sent a messenger to know if she meant to give the lesson.

"Of course I do," answered Amity, so shortly that her grandfather looked over his spectacles. "I only wish I had said I would come every other morning."

"It might have been as well," remarked her grandfather; "but you cannot very well change the plan now you have begun, especially as we go away so soon. But don't waste any more time, for I want you to go over to Albany with me at half-past twelve to meet Aunt Julia, and it is after nine now."

"I might miss the lesson for one morning," said Amity.

"No, no, don't do that: the poor little fellow will feel very much disappointed. And besides, a promise is a promise; remember that, little girl."

"I wish grandfather would not always call me a little girl, and before people too," said Amity to herself as she went along the hall and up the long stairs: "I am not such a baby as all that. And I don't see why he should care so much more for Johnny's comfort than mine. I do think, as Mrs. Wickford says, it is taking a great deal out of me to expect me to spend an hour every day with that poor little idiot."

Johnny was looking out for Amity, and his first eager words were, "Have you got the cotton, Amity?"

Amity was vexed at her own forgetfulness, and seized the first excuse that came to her mind. Now excuses are very dangerous things to handle for people who wish to speak the exact truth.

"I haven't got the cotton, Johnny, because I am going over to Albany to-day, and can get it so much better there."

Johnny's pale face flushed and his eyes filled with tears. Like other people of deficient mind, he was apt to set his heart very strongly on whatever was promised him. People who have the care of such persons cannot be too careful not to disappoint them.

"But you said you would get it—you said you would!" he repeated piteously. "And now you haven't brought it at all!"

"Hush, Johnny; don't cry, my dear," said Mrs. Franklin: "you will make your head ache. Amity will get your cotton in Albany, and that will be a great deal nicer."

"Of course it will," said Amity, feeling both vexed and ashamed. "And besides, you will be able to knit a great deal better when you have had another lesson. We will begin the towels to-morrow."

"'To-morrow' never comes," said Johnny. "It is always to-day, all the time. I don't see the use of talking about 'to-morrow' when it never is 'to-morrow.'" *

* This remark was really made by a child like Johnny.

"There is some truth in that," said Mrs. Franklin, smiling; then, in a low voice, she said to Amity, "Never mind—only don't disappoint him again. It is so hard to divert his mind from anything he has set his heart on, and especially anything that has been promised him."

"Well, come, Johnny, if you want to knit; I haven't any time to spare," said Amity, not in the pleasantest tone in the world. "Take care! You will have all your stitches off."

The sharp warning, as often happens brought on the very trouble it was meant to prevent. Johnny started nervously, and out came the needle. Johnny was not as well as usual, and he was already nervous and excited with waiting and with his disappointment. He dropped the work and began to cry.

"There now, don't cry," said Amity. "I will pick up the stitches, and you must be more careful another time. But do stop crying first of all!" she added, more sharply still, as Johnny sobbed. "I won't touch the work till you do. There is no earthly use in your being such a baby. Hush now!"

But for Johnny to stop crying when he once began was impossible, and the more Amity scolded him the more he cried. Till Mrs. Franklin, who had gone out, came back to find him utterly beside himself, sobbing and calling for "mamma" and "Aunty Franklin" by turns.

"You cannot do anything with him now," said Mrs. Franklin to Amity. "He will go on till he cries himself to sleep. I presume that will be the worst of it."

"I should think you would govern him, and not let him cry so," remarked Amity, vexed with herself, with Johnny, and everybody. "I don't believe it is any kindness to him to let him be so naughty and troublesome."

"Johnny is neither naughty nor troublesome," answered Mrs. Franklin, a good deal annoyed, for she was very fond of her poor little charge. "He is very good considering how many hindrances he has. Pray, Miss Amity, how would you go to work to govern a child with spinal and heart disease?"

"Anyhow, there is no use in my trying to do any more this morning," said Amity, as Johnny's sobs grew worse and worse; "and I must get ready to go to Albany with grandfather. Good-by, Johnny. I will buy your cotton in Albany, and if you will be good and not cry, I will begin your work to-morrow."

"Now you must not talk to me, my dear," said Judge Bogardus, when they were safely seated in the drawing-room car; "I have a paper to look over." So saying, he took from his pocket one of those long written papers which Amity was learning to know by sight, and Amity was left to her own thoughts.

They were not very pleasant. Amity had been brought up to speak the truth and to consider a lie one of the worst of sins; and as she looked back over the events of the morning, she could not but see that the excuse she had made to Johnny about the cotton was a false one. She had never thought of buying the cotton in Albany till that minute. She had forgotten all about it. Moreover, she had been cross and unkind to Johnny, and pert to Mrs. Franklin. In short, she had behaved like anything but a Christian.

"Well, I will buy his cotton, and that will make it true, and I will get him a pretty present beside. Let me see. I have four dollars that I meant for my sofa cushion like Mrs. Fairchild's, but the cushion can wait. I wonder if I could buy a little musical box for that. He would like it, I know, for he is so fond of music; and that would be giving up something, too, because I really want the cushion, and I shall not have any more money till next month. Yes, I will buy the music-box if I can find it, and if not, I will buy him a bird. That will do nicely."

Amity felt quite good as she made mind to sacrifice her cushion to Johnny, and the good feeling lasted till late in the evening, when they took the last train for Saratoga. Aunt Julia had not come after all. They had waited for her to the last minute, and then received a telegram that she would not arrive for two days more. Amity was tired and hungry. The car was too dark to read, and grandpapa was too sleepy to talk; so she had nothing to do but to think.

She had found a very pretty music-box for four dollars, and she had bought the cotton and some pretty wooden needles for Johnny beside, but somehow she did not feel satisfied. The lie she had told stuck in her conscience. You know you sometimes get a "pricker" in your finger, and do not feel it for some hours or even days. Then it begins to throb and burn, and unless you can get it out, you will have a bad time with it. Amity's false excuse was like the thorn. It had been quiet for a while, but now it began to trouble her. Conscience would persist in calling it by its right name, and in telling her that she had been unkind and unfaithful to the poor little motherless, helpless child, and perhaps had done him more harm than she would ever do him good. She had a very uneasy feeling as she remembered what Mrs. Franklin said about "heart disease." What if Johnny should die?

When a person has been brought up in the habit of listening to the voice of conscience, the habit is not easily broken up. That voice may be silenced or disregarded for a time, but in some interval of quiet it will make itself heard, and must be silenced a great many times before it ceases to speak whenever it has a chance. Now, as Amity sat in the quiet, half-lighted car, with nobody to talk to and nothing to look at but the lamps and the two or three gentlemen nodding in their chairs, her faults showed themselves to her in all their ugliness. She had been unkind to the poor, helpless little boy who loved her so dearly, she had broken a promise which she might just as well have kept, and she had told a lie to hide her own carelessness. Yes, a lie! She I called it by its right name now. She knew she could have bought the cotton in Saratoga just as well as in Albany, if she had not forgotten it.

But Amity had not yet gotten quite to the root of the thorn. She felt ashamed and sorry for her faults, and honestly asked for forgiveness, and for help to do better. Then she began to think how she had fallen into such trouble.

"It seems strange it should have come from my wanting to help Johnny!" she said to herself.

And then, all at once, as if some one had held a mirror up to her, she saw herself as she really had been for some days. She had not been thinking nearly so much of helping Johnny as of showing off herself—of showing how good and self-sacrificing she was—so much better than Maud, who cared for nothing but her fine white frocks and colored silk stockings—than Emma, who cared for nothing but play. She had been thinking how much better it was to be good, as she was, than to be dressy like Maud or beautiful like Emma. She had taken pains to have every one know that she spent an hour after breakfast teaching the little boy to knit, and she had been greatly "set up" in her own good opinion when the ladies praised her.

Then all those foolish dreams about setting up a hospital, and making her name famous—Amity could not think of them now without disgust. It had been her self—her own dear precious self—who was to be praised and glorified. Of her GOLDEN TEXT—of the motto which her friend Mrs. Paget had given her that day in the summer-house—she had never thought at all.

Amity buried her face in her hands, leaned her head against the side of the car, and cried bitterly. She had never been so ashamed and so unhappy in all her life.

"I wish I had never seen Johnny! I wish I had never come to Saratoga at all!" was her first thought. "But then I dare say I should have been just as bad anywhere else!" was her second. And she began to remember other cases where she had done things "to be seen of men."

It was a very sad two hours that Amity passed in the parlor-car that night, but it Was one of the most profitable evenings of her whole life. They were very late in reaching Saratoga, and Amity went straight to her own room. She was very tired and sleepy, and her head ached with sight-seeing and with crying, but she did not go to bed till she had kneeled down and confessed all her sin to her heavenly Father, and asked forgiveness in his name whose blood "cleanseth us from all sin" (1 John 1:7). Then feeling somewhat comforted she lay down to sleep, after she had taken from her bag the presents she had bought for Johnny, and set them on her dressing-table.

There was a good deal of moving about on the floor overhead, and once she thought she heard some one crying.

"I hope Johnny is not sick again!" she thought. "Poor dear little man! I will make it up to him somehow." And with this thought she fell asleep.

But Amity was to find, as so many other people have found, that it is not so easy to "make up." She slept rather late, and as soon as she was dressed, she took the little music-box which she had wound up, and the cotton, and went up to Johnny's room.

"I will take the things to him directly," she thought; "then he can amuse himself with them, and as soon as I have done breakfast, I will give him his lesson."

As she came into the hall where Johnny lodged, she was surprised to see that the door was open, and that several people were standing about it, among them Mrs. Wickford, who held up her finger as Amity drew near. Maud was leaning against her mother, with her face hidden, but Amity could see that she was crying.

"What is the matter?" asked Amity, in a half whisper. "Is Johnny worse?"

"Hush, my dear!" said Mrs. Wickford, in a low tone. "The poor little boy is very near the end of his troubles. He will not suffer much more."

Amity looked into the open door. Johnny was sitting up in bed, supported by Mrs. Franklin. The doctor was on one side of the bed, and Mr. Gordon, a minister who was staying in the house, stood on the other, with a book in his hand, as if he had been reading or praying. Johnny seemed to breathe with difficulty, but his cheeks were a little red, and his eyes had dropped the kind of veil which usually covered them, and looked bright and clear, as Amity had never seen them before.

Mrs. Franklin was crying quietly, and Johnny put up his little hand and stroked her cheek, as he did when he wished to express affection. As he did so, his eyes fell on Amity, and he smiled brightly.

"Come and speak to him, Amity," said Mrs. Franklin. "He has asked for you several times."

As Amity drew near, and bent over to kiss the little boy, the music-box which she held in her hand began to play.

"What is that?" asked Johnny, in a whisper, but clearly and distinctly.

"It is a music-box I brought you from Albany," said Amity, trying to speak calmly, though she felt as if she should choke. She held out to him the pretty toy, which was playing Beethoven's last waltz. Johnny took it in his hand and held it up to his face.

"Pretty, pretty!" said he. And then, with a great effort, he added, "I was cross yesterday—I am sorry."

"Don't, Johnny," said Amity, feeling as if this was more than she could bear. "It was I who was cross, not you. But I have got your cotton, and we will have a nice time knitting when you get better."

"I shall never get better," said Johnny. "I am going to mamma, and I am glad." Then, looking at Mrs. Franklin, he added, "The watch—Amity—you said I might, you know."

Mrs. Franklin put her hand under the pillow and took out a pretty gold watch, which she gave to Johnny. Johnny laid it in Amity's hand.

"It is yours—take it, Amity!"

"It is his mother's watch," explained Mrs. Franklin. "He wants to give it to you."

"Oh, I can't—I can't!" sobbed Amity, drawing back.

Johnny looked troubled.

"Take it, my dear—don't worry him," whispered the clergyman.

"Put it on," said Johnny, and he seemed pleased when she did so.

He lay still a few minutes longer listening to the music-box. Then he suddenly raised himself and stretched out his arms.

"Mamma!" he exclaimed, joyfully, and then, sinking back with a gentle sigh, he was gone!

That day's lesson was not lost on Amity, She had learned, by bitter experience, that it is not so easy to "make up" for unkindness and neglect. "That which is crooked cannot be made straight: and that which is wanting cannot be numbered" (Eccles. 1:15) or "made up."

"I feel as if I had killed him!" she said, later in the day, as she stood by Johnny's bedside. "Perhaps if I had not made him cry, he might have been alive now!"

"You must not feel so," replied Mrs. Franklin. "We have known for a long time that the poor child had but a little time to live. The doctor says it is a great wonder that he has lasted so long. He was not well yesterday morning, and that was the reason he cried so easily."

"And Amity was good to him, wasn't she?" said Maud, who had just come in with a box of beautiful flowers.

"Yes, she gave him a great many happy hours."

"I'm sure I wish I had ever done anything for him," continued Maud. "But I didn't. I wouldn't let him take my talking doll, and I called him 'an idiot.' Mrs. Franklin, won't you please take these flowers? I bought them with my own money. I felt as if I wanted to do something. I know one thing, anyhow," said Maud, as they walked away: "I never will call any one names again. I suppose we ought not to wish Johnny back, because he is a great deal better off; but I can't help wishing I could see him long enough to tell him how sorry I am."

"You will have to tell it to the Lord, as I did," said Amity, softly.

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"And what kind of a girl has Amity turned out?" asked Mrs. Paget of Miss Julia, when they met in Europe.

Miss Julia, however, was not Miss Julia now. She was the wife of an American embassador. Mrs. Paget had been abroad for some years.

"Amity! Oh, she is just the same homely little round-about thing she was at twelve years old. She has not changed at all."

"I did not think she would ever be handsome," remarked Mrs. Paget; "but how is she in other respects. Is she bright?"

"Why, I hardly know what to say. She is a good deal of a reader, and likes steady plodding work like mathematics. She is wonderfully industrious, too—always busy about something. She keeps house now, and really, for one so young, she manages uncommonly well. She is a great deal better at accounts than ever I was, and keeps the house cheerful and pleasant. Then she makes herself useful in the church—teaches in Sunday-school, looks after poor folks, and has a great sewing-class. She is always knitting babies' socks, or a shawl for some old woman, or a comforter for some urchin in her class. That is her style of fancy work."

"She must keep herself pretty busy."

"Oh, she does; but then she likes that sort of thing. To do her justice, she does not make any parade of her deeds, like some people I could name. She never seems to think of herself in connection with them."

"She must have made a very nice woman, by your description, Julia."

"Oh yes, indeed she is. A more dutiful child than she is to father could not be. But she does not care at all for general society, and would rather stay at home and make babies' shoes than go to the best opera that ever was performed. In short, she is a good, honest, homely little body, but she will never make any figure in the world, with all her advantages. She really has no talent—none at all."

PHIL'S PANSIES.

A GOLDEN TEXT STORY.

BY

LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY

AUTHOR OF

"IRISH AMY," "OPPOSITE NEIGHBORS," "TWIN ROSES," ETC.

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"Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shalt find it after many days."—
Eccles. 11:1.

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PHILADELPHIA:
AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,
NO. 1122 CHESTNUT STREET.
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NEW YORK: 8 & 10 BIBLE HOUSE, ASTOR PLACE.
CHICAGO: 73 RANDOLPH ST.

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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1880, by the

AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

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PHIL'S PANSIES.

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CHAPTER FIRST.

THE SEEDS.

MISS ISABEL had been taking great pains with her class that day. She had walked down to Sunday-school, more than a mile, in the rain to meet her scholars, and she was expecting to walk home again. She had spent much time in studying the lesson herself, and she had noted down some things which she hoped the boys would like to hear. The "Golden Text" of the lesson was this:

"Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shall find it after many
days" (Eccles. 11:1).

Miss Isabel had been telling the boys of the custom to which this verse referred, and of which, as it happened, none of them had ever heard. She told them how, in some parts of the world, there was very little rain, and the lands were watered by streams from some neighboring river or reservoir; how the farmers scattered their grain on the surface, and then, as the water sank into the ground, how the seed was buried and took root and grew; and so, after many days, the farmer found his "bread" again in the shape of ripe, waving grain, ready for the harvest.

You might think the boys would have been pleased to hear such a story as this, and that they would have listened and remembered, when she told them of what the seed cast on the waters was meant to represent; namely, the word of God, and the other means of doing good which he has placed in our hands, and which we must use at the right time and in the right way, even though our doing so should seem as hopeless work as throwing seed into the water.

But Horace Maberly had his head full of a boating frolic, which he meant to tell the boys about after school, and Harry Merton was thinking whether his aunt meant to ask him home to dinner with her, and John Drayton was watching a wasp, and the others had their heads full of nothing but idleness,—all but one. Phil O'Connor listened with all his ears, and they were very large ones, and what was better with all his heart and soul; and when Miss Isabel stopped talking, he ventured to ask a question. It was the first time he had spoken a word in the class, and he was a good deal scared at the sound of his own voice, but he kept on:

"Please, Miss Isabel, suppose you haven't any seed and no place to plant any?"

The other boys stared at Phil, and Horace laughed rather rudely, but Miss Isabel turned to him with a smile. She had been feeling tired and sad, and it was a real pleasure to perceive that one of the class at least had listened.

"I don't think that ever happens, Phil," said she. "God gives every one of us some kind of seed to sow, and some kind of a place to sow it in. It may be a very small, narrow corner that we have to cultivate; but if we work faithfully at that he is sure to give us more. We can all speak kindly to some one, or give some one a little help, or take some hindrance out of their way. A very poor old man once gave a boy poorer than himself a pair of old shoes to wear, that the boy might go to church and Sunday-school. The shoes had holes in them. The old man was fond of his coffee for breakfast, but he went without a whole week that he might have the money to get the shoes mended. The boy went to Sunday-school, where he learned to read and love his Bible, and he afterward became a useful and learned Christian minister. That was a very little bit of seed—a pair of old shoes—and see what a great crop it bore."

"And suppose the boy's mother had sold the shoes for whisky, as the woman did whose girl mother fixed up last winter, what would have become of the seed then?" asked Horace, in rather a sneering tone.

"Sure, 'twould have done the old gentleman himself good, anyhow!" answered Phil, eagerly. "Wouldn't it, Miss?"

"You are right, Phil," said Miss Isabel. "The Lord says that he who gives even a cup of cold water in his name shall in no wise lose his reward, and that we are to do good and lend, hoping for nothing again, and our reward shall be great in heaven."

"A man wouldn't make much money that way, I guess," said Horace Maberly, who was taught at home that the chief good of life was money.

"I don't remember any place in the Bible where we are told that it is our duty to make a great deal of money do you?" asked Miss Isabel. "St. Paul says we are to be diligent and work with our hands, in order that we may be able to give to him that lacks, and also that we may not be burdensome to others, but we are nowhere told that it is our duty to be rich."

Horace looked a good deal vexed. In his home, money was the great thing thought about and talked about. His father had become very rich within a few years, and Horace thought himself a great person in consequence. He could not see how it was that Miss Isabel, whose own father was richer even than Mr. Maberly, should seem to care no more for him than she did for Harry Merton, or even for little Phil O'Connor.

"Well, I don't know what seed I can sow," said Phil, sighing.

"Think about it a little, and maybe you will find some," said Miss Isabel.

Just then the superintendent's bell rang, and the school was closed.

Phil did not stay to church, though he would have liked to do so. He remembered that probably granny was alone, and she might want something. His mother would be sure to be at home in the evening, and he could come down to the prayer meeting. It would be sowing a little bit of good seed, he thought, if he went and waited on granny, instead of leaving her alone all the morning.

Phil had sown another seed of which he never thought. He had cheered up his teacher's heart, and given her new faith and courage. Here was at least one, Miss Isabel said to herself, who listened to what she said, and made an effort to understand it. The others had not seemed to care. She wondered what made the difference. They were all bright boys enough, and gave her very little trouble; but, somehow, they had no interest in the lessons. She could not make them see that the words they learned and recited had any relation to themselves. A very little excuse kept them away from school, and she was rather surprised at seeing so many of them together that rainy day. I think myself that they came to hear about the boating party which was to take place the next day.

Miss Isabel had for some time cast her bread upon the shallow or muddy waters of their minds with rather a heavy heart. She almost thought she would give up the class, and let some one else take it and try what could be done. But as she walked home in the rain that day—for the coachman was sick, and there was nobody at home who could drive—she felt her heart lighter, and she made up her mind to work and pray a while longer.

Phil's father was dead, and his mother and he lived with his grandmother in "Irishtown." Irishtown was not pretty like the rest of Rockside and Brookvale, though it was built on the side of a rocky hill where there were evergreen trees, and a pretty little brook, and such beautiful views as many a rich man would give thousands of dollars for. The houses were rickety and dirty, with broken windows which were stuffed sometimes with rags or old hats. There were no gardens about them, and many of the people threw their slops and refuse out on the top of the ground to rot in the sun and poison the air, and breed showers of flies to torment the children and sick people. There were plenty of sheltered spots and hollows among the rocks where the sun shone, and the soil was fertile, and these refuse things might have been dug into the ground where they would have helped to raise vegetables and flowers; but nobody thought as far as that.

Granny O'Connor could not be called poor, like many of her neighbors. She owned the land on which her house was built, instead of being a mere squatter on some other person's ground. She owned a cow, too, and a pig, and some chickens. She was too old and infirm to work herself, but her daughter-in-law, Phil's mother, went out washing five days in the week, and was well paid. Fanny, Phil's sister, had lately gone to a good place where she was to have a dollar a week, and more after a while if she made herself useful.

Phil was the youngest of the family, and had never been set to any harder work than watching the cow as she fed in the lanes and by the roadsides, and feeding the pig. Sometimes he went to the places where his mother washed, and carried away the slops from the kitchens for the pig and cow; but his chief business was to wait on the cow and on granny, who was growing very feeble and helpless.

As Phil had expected, he found granny alone, his mother having gone to gossip with some of her neighbors after being at mass in the morning. That was the way she kept Sunday. Granny had fallen asleep in her chair; the fire was nearly out; the ashes were scattered over the stove, hearth, and on the floor, and the room looked and felt forlorn and dismal. A few months before, Phil would not have minded these things, but he was learning how other people lived. When he went into the kitchens where his mother washed, and saw how neat and pleasant they were, he wished they could have things like that at home.

"It looks enough to break one's heart," said Phil to himself. "I might as well have stayed, after all."

And then he bethought himself that here was a chance for putting in practice of the things he had heard that morning. He found a broom, and swept up the floor and the hearth; made up the fire, and put on some water. When it was hot, he washed and put away the dirty dishes, which his mother had left standing, and would have left for a week if she had not happened to want them again, wiped off the table and the hearth—both with the same cloth—and put the room in the best order he could.

He then filled the tea-kettle, and set it on the stove, and began washing and paring some potatoes. Presently he saw that the old woman was awake and watching him. Granny was far more neat and economical than her daughter-in-law, and fretted not a little over the dirt and disorder she was too feeble to help, and therefore had to endure.

"Sure you're as handy as any girl, and better than most," said she. "You've made the place look as fine as a pin. But why didn't you stay to church, dear?"

"I thought you might be alone and want me, granny."

"It's your granny's own boy you are!" said the old woman, fondly. "And did you have a good time at your school?"

"Yes, granny, and Miss Isabel gave me a nice book to read. Just look at the pictures."

"Miss Isabel? Sure, she's a good young lady entirely, and like the rale old gentry I used to work for at home. 'Tis a fine thing for you to have her for a teacher."

"I wish I could go to school week days again," said Phil, as he popped his potatoes into the pot. "I'm afraid I'll forget all that I learned."

"I'm thinking about that same myself," said granny.

"I don't see how I can, though," pursued Phil, still busy about his cooking. "What would we do about the cow?"

"Well, well, we'll see. Don't you fret. It'll all come round right. Sure, you're my own boy and all my comfort in life. It's myself and your father, that's in glory this minute, you take after, and not your mother's folks at all, at all. Them Mehans were always a shiftless set, not that I'm faulting your mother, dear. Considerin' her bringing up, she does wonderful; and she's kind to the old woman, too. But come now, sit down and read to me a bit out of the Bible. Them old ancient histories is wonderful entertaining."

As Phil saw how pleased his granny was with his care for her, he felt as if one of his seeds had come up already. He was not quite sure that her way of looking at Scripture was the right one, but he was glad to get her to hear it at all. He turned to the history of Joseph, and read several chapters before his mother came home to dinner.

CHAPTER SECOND.

SEEDS BY THE WAYSIDE.

THE next morning when Phil waked, he heard what seemed to be a lively discussion going on down in the kitchen, which was also the parlor and dining-room.

"Shure, the child's got learning enough for the likes of him already!" he heard his mother say. "Wasn't yourself saying yesterday he could read like a priest?"

"But he can't write, Mary—not to speak of. I'd like him to have a real good education, and you know, dear, it costs nothing with the free schools they have."

"Oh, well! Just as you like, granny dear," said easy-going Mary. "He's your own boy, and you can bring him up to suit yourself. It's a good boy he is, anyhow. But I must be start-in' out, or I'll be late at Mrs. Maberly's."

Phil hurried down stairs, but his mother had already gone. She took her breakfast where she washed, but she had got ready some tea, milk, and potatoes for her mother-in-law and Phil, whom she loved, as she would have said, "with all the veins of her heart."