Chapter X: The Birds of the Air

KIT had hardly reached home when she saw her uncle drive into the yard, and presently he entered the kitchen with Melissa.

Phin's brow was dark, and he had an uneasy expression, as though (so Kit said to herself) he had been doing something he was ashamed of. Melissa, on the contrary, was in excellent spirits, and wore a decided expression of triumph. There was something in the way she looked at Kit which made the child feel uncomfortable, she did not know why.

Phin hardly spoke, except to inquire for his wife, till after supper. Then he turned to Kit, and asked, not unkindly,—

"Well, Kit, how is your hand?"

"It is very sore," said Kit: "I can't use it a bit, and it ached all night almost."

"What is it about the snake?" asked Melissa. "We stopped at the tavern, and some one told pa a great story about your saving Fletcher's girl from a snake."

"It wasn't any great story," answered Kit composedly. "A copperhead snake twisted round Eddy's leg, and I pulled it off and killed it."

"Yes, that's a likely yarn," said Melissa contemptuously. "How did you pull it off, I should like to know? And how did you know it was a copperhead?"

"I took it with my thumb and finger right behind its head, and then stamped on it," answered Kit. "And Mr. Bassett said it was a copperhead. But I knew it just as soon as I saw it."

"I don't believe a word of it," said Melissa.

"And I don't care whether you believe it or not," retorted Kit.

Somehow Melissa always aroused all that was unamiable in the child's disposition.

Melissa delighted in teasing her, and found great amusement in the fits of passion she sometimes provoked.

"Well, well, you were a brave child, but you had no business to run such a risk," was Phin's comment. "Suppose the snake had bitten you?"

"Then I should have died, I suppose," replied Kit simply.

"We don't want you to die just yet," said Phin with some show of feeling. "You must hurry and get your hand well."

"Why?" asked Kit, struck with something unusual in the tone.

"Oh, because. Maybe I shall want you to do something for me," answered Phin with assumed carelessness.

"What is the use of mincing matters, pa?" asked Melissa. "The long and the short of it is that we have got a place in Oldbury for Kit; and she is going to it as soon as her hand gets well, so there!"

And Melissa threw herself back in her chair with a glance which spoke of satisfied and malicious triumph.

"There will be two words to that," said Symantha dryly. "What sort of a place?"

"A place to wash dishes and wait on table at Stillwell's confectionery and dining hall," answered Melissa. "They will give her a dollar and a half a week, and perhaps more if she earns it."

"Oh!" said Symantha in the same dry tone. "And what are they going to give me?"

"You?" said her father. "What do you mean?"

"Kit, run out and let in the cows," said Symantha. "I mean what I say, father," she continued firmly as Kit left the room. "That child is not going to any such place as Stillwell's, or to any place at present; or if she does, I go with her."

"You do? And who is to take care of Martha and the work?"

"I'm sure I won't," said Melissa.

"That is your affair," answered Symantha. "All I know is, that, if Kit goes to work in Oldbury, I go too."

"What nonsense!" said Phin peevishly. "What is the child to you? Besides, Melissa is going to work in the same place; and she can see to the child if she needs any seeing to."

"Melissa will have enough to look after herself if she goes to that rum-hole," returned Symantha. "I should think, if she wants a place, she might at least take a decent one."

"I am not going into any one's kitchen when I can get four dollars a week and lots of presents by standing behind a counter," said Melissa. "However, you can settle it between you," she added, rising from the table. "I am going over to Mariette Jewsbury's. I have been doing some shopping for her."

"I think you might stay and help do up the work," said her father.

But Melissa only laughed as she slammed the door behind her.

"See here, father," said Symantha gravely. "I want to talk about this matter sensibly. You promised me, when I gave up every thing—as you know I did—to stay with you, and take charge of ma, that I should always have my own way about Kit. Haven't I kept my part of the bargain?"

"I don't deny that you have," answered Phin, "but a man can't always keep his promises."

"You must keep yours in this case, or I shall not keep mine," said Symantha. "Just as surely as Kit goes to Oldbury, I shall go too. You know best how you would get on without me."

"You are a fool," said her father roughly, but evidently moved. "I tell you, we ought to get her away from here. She grows more like her mother every day. This old lady, Mrs. Van Zandt, is sure to see her; and then there will be an inquiry, and all will come out, about the property and all."

"Well, let it come. It was foolish to make a secret of it in the first place. You are not accountable for the property."

"That is all you know about it. I tell you the child must go."

"Then I must go, too, that's all," was the calm rejoinder. "And there is another thing: I can't spare Kit. She can manage ma better than anybody, and sometimes when I can't do any thing with her; and it is every thing to keep her quiet."

"That is true; and, if Melissa goes away, you will need her help about the work," said Phin, evidently wavering in his purpose more and more as he saw the steadfastness of his daughter. "Perhaps you had better keep her out of school."

"I don't want to do that. She is getting on nicely, and making good friends."

"Yes, that is one trouble. She makes too many friends."

"It won't be a trouble if you don't make a fuss about it. Please listen to me, father. I have been a dutiful daughter to you, haven't I? I don't set up for goodness, but you know whether I have been that."

"Yes, my girl, you have," said her father with feeling. "I don't deny it. You have stuck to me through thick and thin, as very few girls would have done."

"Then, if I have, give me my way in this," pleaded Symantha. "Let me keep Kit. If I can find the right kind of place for her, I will let her go by and by. But let me keep her now. Don't send her straight to ruin. Melissa is a woman, and must go her own way. But don't send the innocent child into such a place as Stillwell's."

And, to her father's amazement and alarm, Symantha burst into tears. He had never seen her cry before, since she was a child.

"There, there, my girl, have your own way, and don't cry," said he. "I didn't think you cared so much about it. Her arm is too sore to do any thing now, and I can make that an excuse to Stillwell. There, do stop crying. I won't say any thing more about it just now, at any rate."

"Thank you, father," said Symantha, trying to check her sobs.

Phin's lip twitched. "It is little you have to thank me for," he said in a husky voice. "I've thrown away your life as well as my own."

"You needn't throw it away,—any more of it, I mean," said Symantha. "Now we have got this place, why can't you settle down and be steady? The farm isn't a bad one for dairy-work, and the cows are good and growing better. I'll do my share if I work my fingers off."

"Yes, I dare say you would, but—Well, there is no use talking," said Phin gloomily. "There is no such thing as a man's breaking away from his past life. It will come after him. But never mind that. You shall have your way about Kit. Poor girl, you don't have much comfort of your life, anyhow."

A few minutes afterward, Phin had occasion to go to the barn-loft. There was a small, roughly finished room in one end, which was a favorite playing-place of Kit's in bad weather. Phin thought he heard a voice, and peeped through a knot-hole. What did he see and hear? He saw a young child on her knees, almost on her face, in an agony of prayer, and heard over and over again,—

"Oh, don't, don't let me go to that dreadful place, away from Symantha and Miss Armstrong and all! Please do make uncle Phin let me stay here, and do make him be a good man and believe in the Bible; and please forgive him for burning me, for I don't think he meant to do it."

When Phin reached the lower floor, he stamped his foot, and muttered as if in anger, but his anger was not directed against Kit.

When Melissa, in the course of the evening, said something about the place at Stillwell's, she was promptly silenced.

"Kit can't go now: her arm is too bad. And I don't know that I shall let her go at all. We can't spare the only saint in the family. Eh, Kit? Come here."

Kit came trembling, for she never knew what to expect.

"So you don't want to go and earn wages, and have all the candy you can eat? You would rather stay with Symantha?"

"Yes, I would," replied Kit, taking courage. "I don't care about candy, and I don't want to go away. Please, uncle Phin, don't send me."

"Well, I won't, then, not just now, at any rate. I thought perhaps you would like a change. Is your arm so sore?" he asked, as Kit winced on his touching it. "Let me see."

He undid the arm tenderly enough. It was red and angry, and had the peculiar odor of a bad burn. Phin looked grave over it.

"If this is not better by Monday, we must take you to the doctor," said he, carefully replacing the bandage. "You don't think I did it on purpose, do you, if I did burn the book?"

"No," answered Kit. "Anyhow, I cared more about the book than I did about my arm."

"I'll get you a prettier book than that some day. There, give me a kiss, and go to bed."

"Oh, very well," said Melissa in an affected tone of carelessness, which nevertheless trembled with anger. "I'm sure I don't care. If pa thinks he can afford to quarrel with Stillwell, it is nothing to me."

Phin made no reply, and the matter was dropped.

Sunday morning rose warm and beautiful, with that indescribable atmosphere of tranquil repose which belongs to Sunday in the country, and especially in New England. By ten o'clock, however, the roads were alive with teams of all sorts, from Mrs. Van Zandt's phaeton and Mr. Weston's roomy family carriage, to old Miss Jewsbury's venerable "one-horse shay," and Mr. Bassett's long wagon, with its straight-backed, splint-bottomed wagon chairs, with its crickets and cushions put in here and there for the accommodation of the smaller fry, for Mrs. Bassett always took her children to church by the time they were three years old.

Manifold were the greetings and hand-shakings as groups of friends and relations alighted at the horse-block by the door of the old church on the green, and many and kind the inquiries for this or that one detained at home by illness in their families.

"No, Celia isn't out this morning," said Miss Delia. "She had one of her bad headaches last night, and they always leave her kind of prostrated for two or three days. Who is going to preach?"

"I am not sure we shall have any one," answered Mr. Weston, to whom the question was addressed. "Mr. Martin sent word the last minute that he could not come—"

"Just like him," interposed Miss Delia.

"Oh, come, you mustn't be hard on him. Perhaps he couldn't help it," said Mr. Weston. "Dr. Chase drove over to Oldbury last night to see if he could find any one, but whether he succeeded or not, I don't know. However, we shall soon find out."

"Well, I shall be glad when we have a settled minister again.—How is your mother, Agnes? I see she isn't out."

"No: Mrs. Richmond and Milly wanted to come, so ma staid at home with Cordelia. I am going home after Sunday school, so she can come this afternoon."

"How do you do, Mrs. Richmond?" said Miss Delia as that lady sailed up the steps attired in a silk which had once been rich and handsome, but was now decidedly the worse for wear.

Mrs. Richmond had a way of wearing out her old finery in the country. She seldom went to church in Oldham, or, indeed, anywhere else. But she had a desire to get, as she said, a good look at Mrs. Van Zandt. She acknowledged Miss Delia's greeting with great condescension; while her daughter did not notice it at all, but hastened on to speak to Selina Weston.

"Well, Selina, how have you been? I've been looking out for you all the way. I have wanted to see you so! You don't know how often I have thought of you."

"Yes, you must have thought of me very often," answered Selina coolly, "you wrote to me so many times."

"Oh, my dear, you don't think how many engagements I have in town. And besides, I don't know how it is, I haven't any taste for writing letters: I can't express what I feel, and writing seems so cold and heartless. But I have thought of you, whether you believe it or not. I should have come over to your house yesterday, only we were so busy getting settled, and poor Cordelia was so tired with the journey."

Amelia Richmond was one of those people whose very voices are suggestive of flattery; a "palaverer," Miss Delia called her, but Miss Delia was a little apt to be severe.

"Do you sing in the choir now?" asked Amelia. Then, as Selina nodded, "I mean to sit up there this morning, and then we can get together in sermon time. Oh, you needn't look so shocked. I don't mean to talk, of course, but just for the pleasure of sitting by you."

"Come, then," said Selina; "it is time we were in our places."

"Wait just a minute. I want to see the Van Zandts come in. Well, they don't mean to hurt themselves dressing, but I suppose any thing is good enough for the country, as ma says. Anyhow, if I was heiress to half a million, like Miss Bogardus, I would wear something better than satteen."

"Her dress is elegantly made, though," said Selina, feeling all the time that she ought not to be discussing such matters in church. "See that other young lady. Doesn't she look like a cloud in all that soft cream-color?"

"You goose! It is only nun's veiling, and did not cost a cent over fifty cents a yard," said Amelia, who estimated every thing by the price. "Well, they are no great sight, after all. Here comes the preacher, I suppose. Who is he? Some stupid old country parson, I dare say."

"Do be quiet," whispered Selina: "everybody will hear you. Come, we must go up-stairs."

"On second thoughts, I believe I will sit with ma," said Milly. "I want to get a nearer look at Miss Van Zandt's dress."

Selina was not sorry. She had been brought up to behave properly in church; and greatly under Milly's influence as she was, she could not bring herself to believe that whispering and laughing in the sanctuary of God were any marks of high breeding. Selina had come to church more than usually disposed to serious thought. She could not, perhaps, have given any reason for her state of mind that day, but she felt almost ready to say, once for all, that she would take a decided stand, and enlist openly under the banner of her rightful King. She took her seat quietly, arranged her books, and then opened her Bible to look over her lesson.

Oldham church was a simple, pretty building, quite plain but comfortable, and perfectly adapted to the purpose for which it was used, if it had been kept in order. But the green blinds were faded, and rusty with the dust of many summers. The high white-glass windows cast a light which, though dim, was by no means "religious," as the poet has it, being darkened, not from being "richly dight," but by successive deposits of dirt and cobwebs. Dust and flue lay in corners, yes, even of the chancel itself. The chimneys of the kerosene lamps were dark with smoke and fly-specks, and the lamps themselves looked as if the wicks had not been changed since kerosene was invented.

Of all the notable housewives who came thither to worship Sunday after Sunday, not one, probably, would have allowed such a state of things, even in her garret; yet they saw it in the house of God without even a thought of incongruity. Now and then somebody would make a remark about the dust or the smoke, but that was all. It was Mr. Archimball's business. He was a most respectable man and a church-member, and nobody liked to hurt his feelings by suggesting to him that his business was not attended to.

But somehow that clean-swept, well-aired schoolhouse had waked people up wonderfully. Mr. Bassett sniffed the air as he entered, and said to himself that it was "stuffy." And his wife saw the dust in the corner by the stove as she had never seen it before. Patience Fletcher looked at the windows, and thought she should really enjoy washing them. And Mrs. Weston had to make an effort to withdraw her mind from a calculation relative to the number of yards of new carpet which would be required for the chancel and aisles. It is to be feared that more than one feminine mind was a little distraught during the service.

But dust and cobwebs and carpet were all forgotten when the preacher began his sermon. He was an old gentleman, very plain and quiet in appearance; and his voice, as he gave out the text, was somewhat low and tremulous:

"Come up hither, and I will show thee things which must be hereafter"
(Rev. iv. 1).

He had not spoken five minutes when the attention of the whole congregation was fixed as one man. It was not the brilliancy of his style, which was simple with the simplicity of much reading and study: it was his intense earnestness, and his evident deep conviction of the awful truths which he set forth. The discourse was upon the "last things,"—death and judgment, hell and heaven. Even poor, frivolous Mrs. Blandy forgot to study the dress of the strangers in church, and almost resolved that she would think more of these matters. To many of the congregation, the words were as the bread of life.

To say truth, Oldham had not of late been greatly favored in the matter of preaching. Mr. Martin, the late rector, had prided himself on being liberal and broad in his views. A clergyman, he thought, should keep up with the interest of the day; so he talked much of science and criticism, and gave his hearers hashes of certain monthly magazines, slightly warmed and mildly seasoned with Scripture quotations, or preached mild little moral essays, adapted, as he was wont to say, to that class of minds which make up most country congregations. In truth, Mr. Martin felt himself thrown away in Oldham; and he did not make things any more pleasant for himself by saying so, and by his continual complaints of the hardships of his position. He had at last given up that position for the place of assistant in a large city church, but the large city church had not found Mr. Martin any more congenial than he had found the people of Oldham, and he was at present living at home with his mother.

But this present preacher spoke of things which every one wished to hear. Agnes Gleason drank in every word, only wishing that her mother was there. Selina listened intently, forgetting for the time to wonder whether some one did not think Myra Bassett's voice better than hers. She had naturally a fine taste, and she had read good books. She appreciated the finished elegance of the discourse, but that was not all.

As the preacher, with the solemnity of deep conviction, set forth "the things that must be hereafter," Selina felt that these were indeed the real things which make life worth living, which give to worldly things all the significance which they possess, which must have a being after all the triumphs and treasures, the battles and victories, of this world, are but forgotten dreams. She made up her mind that she would no longer live as she had done; she would strive to live as a Christian should, to fulfil the vows of her baptism: and then—here the little mean bosom snake of envy reared its head—then father and mother would think as much of her as they did of Lizzy. Selina was not to blame for the voice of the tempter any further than that she had given him encouragement before. She might have silenced him by refusing to listen to him, but she did not. She began thinking, how much more devoted she would be than Lizzy had ever been, how she would teach others, how she would influence Milly Richmond, and make her a Christian, and, perhaps, go on a mission, as Miss Armstrong had done.

"But I won't come home the first minute I get sick. No, indeed! I will die on the field of battle," she said to herself. And then she recollected herself with a blush, and found she had lost the thread of the discourse.

"I won't be so silly again," she said to herself. "I believe I 'am' always thinking about myself, as father says."

She managed to elude Milly when she came down, and went straight into Sunday school.

"Wasn't that a noble sermon?" whispered Faith as Agnes and Selina came into the class. "Don't you wish we could have him all the time?"

"Yes, indeed. Who is he?"

"Dr.— Somebody from New York, I did not catch the name. See, Mrs. Van Zandt is speaking to him."

"I wonder what we shall do for a teacher," said Agnes. "I am so sorry Miss Celia isn't here. I wanted to see her particularly."

"Perhaps Miss Armstrong will teach us," observed Faith.

"No, she won't. The doctor has forbidden her teaching in Sunday school this summer," replied Selina. "See there, girls; father is speaking to Mrs. Van Zandt. I wonder if he is asking her to hear us. I wish she would. She is so sweet-looking."

"You will have your desire, then," said Agnes, "for here she comes."

"O mother, how I wish you had been in church!" said Agnes after Sunday school, coming into the room where Mrs. Gleason was pouring out an after dinner cup of tea for her boarders. "We did have such a noble sermon!"

"Is that so?" asked Mrs. Gleason. "Mrs. Richmond did not like it."

"You see, it is not the kind of preaching I am used to," said Mrs. Richmond in a tone which always seemed to say, "See how superior I am." "In the city, one hears such a different style. You should hear Dr. Madison,—that is an intellectual feast, though I admit that he is rather old-fashioned. And such a congregation as he has! You can't hire any kind of a pew for less than five hundred dollars."

"It was Dr. Madison who preached this morning," said Agnes quietly, but with a gleam of mischief in her eyes.

"Nonsense!" said Milly. "A likely story, indeed, that Dr. Madison would be preaching in a place like this!"

"It could not be 'our' Dr. Madison," added Mrs. Richmond. "Very likely that might be his name, however: it is not an uncommon one."

"All I know is," said Agnes, "that Mrs. Van Zandt taught our class. Dr. Madison came into Sunday school, and Mrs. Van Zandt introduced him to us. He said a few words on the lesson. Afterward I asked Mrs. Van Zandt where he preached, and she said in St. Timothy's Church in New York. She goes there, so she ought to know."

"Dear me!" said Mrs. Richmond. "I am so very short-sighted, and I am sure the dear doctor did not do himself justice this morning. But he is growing old, poor dear man."

"Well, I never wish to hear a better sermon than he gave us this morning," said Agnes.

"You are a judge, no doubt," sneered Milly; "you have had so many opportunities of forming a taste."

"It is not a matter of taste exactly," said Agnes, getting hold of her temper, which was in some danger of escaping from her control. "Dr. Madison's sermon was just what I wanted to hear. It went straight to the right spot, as poor Aunt Betsy says about her coffee. And what he said in Sunday school was so nice. He did not talk baby-talk, as some do, or tell funny stories, but spoke as if the children were rational beings. You must go this afternoon, mother. Do get ready. I will do up the work."

"I believe I will go too," said Milly. "I want to see whether it was really Dr. Madison."

"I thought you would stay with Cordelia," remarked Mrs. Richmond. "I want to lie down a while. My head aches very badly."

"Oh, she won't want any thing," replied Milly carelessly. "You can just as well lie down in her room." And, without saying more, she went away to get ready for church.

Her mother looked after her with a sigh. She often had occasion to deplore Milly's selfishness, but it never occurred to her to think that it was the direct result of her own training.

"I will stay with Cordelia, Mrs. Richmond," said Agnes. "I will put the dishes to soak, and wash them after supper. And you can lie down in my room, and have a good sleep. I am sure you need it."

This was something of a sacrifice for Agnes. She had been looking forward to a quiet afternoon with her Bible. She was fond of Cordelia, and sorry for her. But the poor, feeble child was often fretful and hard to please, and Agnes sometimes thought she invented wants to keep her attendants from sitting still. But Agnes had a new principle of action within, which made her apply to herself the Golden Text she had recited that very morning,—"For even Christ pleased not Himself."

"Thank you, my dear; you are really very kind," said Mrs. Richmond. Hard, worldly woman as she was, nothing touched her so quickly as kindness shown to her sick child. "But I don't like to deprive you of the pleasure of hearing your favorite preacher."

"Oh, I shall hear him again some time," answered Agnes: "he is going to stay at Oldfield all summer. And, besides, I did not mean to go to church this afternoon, at any rate. My room is shady and cool, and I hope you will have a nice nap. Don't you think I might draw Cordelia out on the veranda? IL is sheltered on that side of the house, and the air is lovely."

"I should be very glad if you can persuade her to go out," said Mrs. Richmond. "The doctor says she must have as much fresh air as possible, but it is hard to get her to move."

"You will have your hands full," said Mrs. Gleason as Agnes helped her to put on her shawl. "The poor child is worse than I ever saw her."

"Cross?" asked Agnes.

"No, not exactly, but nervous and full of fancies. It seems she did not want to come away from home. She says she knows she shall never be well, and it is just tormenting her for nothing."

"I believe she is right there," said Agnes. "She has failed a great deal this winter. I wonder her mother doesn't see it."

"Folks can't see what they won't see," was Mrs. Gleason's remark. "Perhaps Cordelia may go to sleep, and then you can have a nice time reading."

But Cordelia had no mind to go to sleep. She had always been a delicate child, and was now fading away in one of those mysterious "declines" for which no reason can be given, suffering much at times from neuralgia, and always from that nervous weakness which is still harder to bear.

"Where is mother?" was her first question.

"She has a bad headache, and has gone to lie down. You can stand it with me a little while, can't you?" asked Agnes cheerfully.

"Why don't you go to church?" was the next sharp inquiry.

"Because I staid at home to let mother go, and to take care of you."

"I am sure that was very good of you," was the somewhat unexpected answer. "I don't think I am very entertaining company."

"We don't expect sick people to be entertaining," said Agnes. "But, Cordelia, I wish you would let me put you in your chair, and take you out of doors. You don't know how lovely it is."

Cordelia objected at first, but suffered herself to be persuaded.

Agnes wrapped her up carefully, and, putting her into her wheeled chair, drew her out upon the broad old-fashioned "stoop" before the front-door, which commanded a lovely view of field and mountain.

"Isn't this nice?" said she as she settled her charge in the pleasantest, shadiest corner, and arranged her wraps, for Agnes was a born nurse. "Look, you can see the people going into church."

"I wish I could go," said Cordelia with a deep sigh. "But I shall never go anywhere again: I know that very well, for all they say about my getting better."

Agnes did not answer, except by a kiss upon the pale forehead. She knew how to be silent when there was nothing to say. She brought her Bible, and sat down on the step by Cordelia; and the two were quiet for some time.

"Who is that very dark, very old-looking man walking up the street?" asked Cordelia at last. "There, he is just going up the church steps."

"That is old Abner Kettle," answered Agnes. "He is the last full-blooded Indian left anywhere about here. He is a hundred at the very least. We know that, because he remembers the Revolution quite well. He has a very nice little place of his own over on Indian Hill, and works in his garden as well as any one, besides walking to church every Sunday. We must ask him up here some day. You would like to hear him talk."

"And I am only fifteen, fifteen my next birthday, and I shall never walk again anywhere," said Cordelia in a tone of deep sadness. "But there, I won't bother you. Read your book in peace. What is it?"

"The Bible," answered Agnes. "I was going to look over my Sunday school lesson, but I can do it another time if you would rather talk."

"I don't mind," said Cordelia. She was silent a while, and then spoke again,—

"Agnes, isn't there a chapter in the New Testament somewhere about 'many mansions,' or some such thing as that?" ¹

¹ This may seem improbable, but I have met with worse cases. An elderly lady asked me if "Do as you would be done by," or "something like it," was not in the Bible. This same lady, by the way, could talk quite glibly about "the latest results of German criticism."

"Yes: in the fourteenth chapter of St. John's Gospel. Shall I read it to you?"

"Yes, please."

Agnes read the chapter. She had a pleasant voice, and read well and reverently. It seemed to her as if the wonderful words had never seemed half so wonderful before.

"Thank you," said Cordelia when she had finished. She was silent a little, and then said, with a kind of abruptness,—

"Agnes, how should you feel if you knew you were dying, as I am?"

"I don't know," answered Agnes. "I never was dangerously ill a day in my life. But what makes you think you are dying, Cordelia? The doctors do not say so, and your mother thinks you are better."

"What do 'you' think?" asked Cordelia with a kind of fierceness. Then, as Agnes did not reply, she said more gently,—

"Do tell me just what you think. I can't say a word to mother, because she cries so; and Milly only laughs, and says, 'Oh, you are notional.' Do tell me."

"I think you are not as well as you were last summer," answered Agnes.

"But now, suppose I were your sister," persisted Cordelia, "would you have any hopes of me?"

"No," answered Agnes, "I don't think I should."

"Thank you," said Cordelia. She was silent a little, and then asked,—

"Agnes, would you be afraid to die?"

"I don't know," answered Agnes. "People are not always afraid. There was Jenny Bassett, Myra's cousin, who died last summer of consumption: she had no more fear than you have of coming out here. And it was the same with young Mrs. Fletcher."

"But it is so dreadful," said the poor girl, shuddering, "to go away from every one you have ever known, out into another world, one doesn't know where; and that fearful judgment!"

"I will tell you what I think, Cordelia, if you will try to be quiet, and not agitate yourself," said Agnes. "I am only a girl like yourself, you know."

"Never mind. Tell me what you think."

"It is just like this," said Agnes: "if we are children of God, we don't go out into a strange world among strangers. We go home to our Father's house, as the chapter says, where He is, and where our Saviour has gone to prepare a place for us. We don't know very much about it, to be sure; sometimes I wish He had told us more. But we know that there will be no more pain, or sorrow, or death; that our Lord will be there, and He will wipe away all tears from our eyes. So we shall not go among strangers. And, as to the judgment, I don't think we need fear that, because He says—See here." Agnes turned to the first chapter of the First Epistle of John, and read,—

"'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our
sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.'

"And there are other places where it tells of our sins being blotted out, and remembered no more. I don't think we need fear the judgment, after that."

"But that is for Christians, and I am not a Christian."

"But you may be, Cordelia."

"I don't know how."

"The Bible tells us. We have only to believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and we shall be saved."

"That seems very simple and easy," said Cordelia doubtfully.

"That is what St. Paul said to the jailer when he asked what he should do to be saved,—believe on Him, and take Him for your Saviour; that is all. Oh, do try! You don't know what a difference it will make. I am not fit to teach you,—I have only just begun myself," said Agnes, blushing. "But I know how different every thing looks to me from what it did a week ago to-day. But, Cordelia, doesn't your minister ever come to see you?"

"We haven't any, not really," answered Cordelia. "Mother and Milly don't belong to any church, and they don't go anywhere regularly. They just run about from one church to another to hear any famous preacher, or for the sake of the music. A lady we know—Miss Little—did use to talk to me sometimes when I was first sick, and she used to read good books to me, but mother did not like it. Last winter, I wanted to see a minister, but she said he would only put gloomy thoughts in my head. ¹ As if the gloomy thoughts did not come of themselves!"

¹ A literal fact.

"I hope I have not hurt you," said Agnes.

"No, indeed. You have done me good," said Cordelia. "You don't know what a comfort it is to open my mind to some one. But, Agnes, are you sure that is all,—just believing?"

"I am as sure as that I sit here."

"But why doesn't every one do it, then?"

"Well, you see, it involves a good many things. People have pet sins that they don't like to give up."

"That would be just my trouble," said Cordelia thoughtfully. "I know I am horridly cross and selfish a great many times; and I try not to be, but I always get beaten sooner or later."

"There is just where the help comes in," said Agnes eagerly. "If you ask Him, He will give you help to conquer those very things. Of course, we can't do it alone, but St. Paul says, 'I can do all things through Christ who strengtheneth me.'"

"How much you know about the Bible!"

"I ought to; I have had pains enough taken to teach me. But, Cordelia, I dare say Dr. Madison will come to see you if you ask him. He is going to stay in Oldfield all summer."

"I will speak to mother about it. Agnes, you don't know how much good you have done me." She coughed as she spoke, and Agnes's quick eye saw that she was tired.

"Don't talk any more now," said she. "Let me turn your chair back, so that you can rest. And then I will read to you, and perhaps you will go to sleep. What would you like to hear?"

"I would rather hear the Bible than any thing," replied Cordelia, "I know so little about it. Begin the Gospel of St. John."

Agnes turned the reclining-chair into a comfortable couch, added another shawl to Cordelia's coverings, and sat down to read. Cordelia listened at first with earnest attention, but by degrees her eyelids drooped, and presently her soft, regular breathing showed that she was asleep.

"How like death she looks!" thought Agnes, as she gazed at the white cheek and almost transparent eyelids. "How can they think she is better? Well, at any rate, she has freed her mind, poor child. I am so glad I staid with her!"

Meantime, Amelia Richmond had been engaged in a very different fashion.

"Why, Milly, I didn't expect to see you to-day," said Selina as they met at the church door. "How quickly you slipped away! I meant to ask you to come into Sunday school."

"Thank you," said Milly. "I don't go to Sunday school, and I don't imagine I should gain very much from your dear cousin Celia's instructions."

"You might," returned Selina. "Father says cousin Celia is one of the best Bible scholars he ever knew. But we had Mrs. Van Zandt this morning. Cousin Celia is not well."

"What, the old lady? I would have staid if I had known that," said Milly. "What was she like?"

"I thought she was lovely," answered Selina. "She introduced our class to Dr. Madison, and he spoke to us so nicely. Didn't you like him this morning?"

"Not so very much," answered Milly. "I thought it was a canting, gloomy kind of sermon. I like intellectual preaching, about science and art, and so on."

"We don't go to church to hear about science and art, but to hear the gospel," said Selina.

"Oh, come, now, don't 'you' begin," said Milly. "Has Miss Armstrong got you under her thumb already? She might well say she was coming on a mission to the heathen."

"I don't believe she said any such thing," returned Selina, coloring.

"I happen to know that she did. However, it does not matter. I ought not to have repeated it, I suppose, only I don't like to see people imposed upon. Miss Van Zandt's dress is not nun's veiling, Selina," added Milly, with a sudden change of subject, as Mrs. Van Zandt's carriage came in sight. "It is real China crape. I should not think she would wear such an expensive dress to church in the country, especially as they are not rich, but I dare say her aunt gave it to her."

"I must go to my seat," said Selina, feeling, for once, a desire to get rid of her companion.

"I will go with you," said Milly. "I like to sit up-stairs: one can see every one so nicely."

Selina was not pleased, but she had so often asked Milly to sit with her, that she did not know how to decline her company. Milly made herself very much at home, rather to the annoyance of Myra Bassett, with whom she was no favorite, and she indulged herself very freely in making remarks upon the congregation.

"Do look at that woman in the blue bonnet with green and red flowers. I wonder where her milliner lives. I should like to employ her. Who is she?"

"Mrs. Bettys. Do be quiet, Milly."

Milly was silent for a moment, and then began again.

"Do look at Mrs. Chase. What a figure she does make of herself! With all her husband's practice, she might dress decently, one would think. Who are those girls in white, Selina? I never noticed them before."

"The Jewsburys. They live in our district, but they hardly ever come to church. They were at the Bible class Thursday night, I remember."

"Oh, they are some of Miss Armstrong's heathen converts, I suppose. She means to get you all under her thumb."

This was a little too much for Myra's patience.

She leaned forward, and said in an energetic whisper,—

"Miss Richmond, will you please be quiet? We are not used to hearing such talk in the house of God."

Milly tossed her head, but she saw the eyes of some of the elders fixed upon her, and she did not venture to say any more. All through the sermon, which was a continuation of the one in the morning, she did her best to distract Selina's attention by writing notes and passing candy.

Myra Bassett was furious. With all her good qualities, she had not her tongue under the most perfect government in the world. And the moment service was over, she turned upon Selina.

"The next time you bring a stranger into the choir, Selina, I hope it will be some one who knows how to behave at least like a lady. I never was more ashamed in my life. I wonder what your father will say. It was a regular disgrace."

"Don't distress yourself, Miss Bassett," said Milly, taking the words out of Selina's mouth, as she was about to answer. "You are not responsible for my conduct. I hope every one could see that I do not belong here."

"I hope so too," returned Myra. "I should be sorry if they could not."

"Do be quiet, Myra," said Selina "What a fuss you do make about nothing! I should think scolding and quarrelling in church was as bad as any thing Milly or I did. If you had been attending to the sermon, you would not have known any thing about us."

Myra blushed. She felt, that, though her cause was just, she had put herself in the wrong by her hasty speech. She began to say something more, but Milly interrupted her.

"Oh, you need not apologize: I shall not bear malice," said she with a lofty tone of condescension. "We all know you are a well-meaning young woman, but you should think before you speak. When you have had more opportunities, you will know better.—Come, Selina." And she drew Selina away, leaving Myra wondering how she had been put down, and why she should be so angry at being called "a young woman." She did not consider that the simplest epithet may be made abusive by the way it is applied.

"Didn't I shut her mouth nicely?" said Amelia, laughing, when they reached the stairs. "She won't begin on me again in a hurry."

"Well, she was right," said Selina with some spirit; "I was ashamed, myself. What did make you act so, Milly?"

"What did I do?" asked Milly. "Are you going to set up too? But I see how it is," she added. "They have fairly conquered you, and broken your spirit among them, so that you don't care for me any more. The next thing, mother Weston will say, 'Selina, you must not go with Milly any more,' and then farewell to our friendship. You will never speak to me again."

Selina did not quite know what to say to this. She knew in truth that mother Weston did not approve of the intimacy.

"You will be setting up to be very pious next," continued Milly, as Selina did not reply. "We shall hear of you speaking in meeting, perhaps preparing to go on a mission, like dear Miss Armstrong."

Selina blushed, and Milly saw that her random shot had hit the mark. This conversation had taken place in a little recess under the gallery stairs, where the girls were out of sight. At that moment, Selina heard her father's voice calling her, and went forward, Milly remaining where she was.

"Are you too tired to walk home, Selina?"

"No, father: I should like it."

"Then I shall take Mrs. West. Don't hurry, there is plenty of time. Go round by the brook, and you will have it shady all the way."

"Are you going to walk? Good! I will go with you," said Milly, joining Selina on the green before the church.

"I am going round by the brook," remarked Selina. "It will be longer for you."

"I don't care for that, unless you want to get rid of me. If you do, say so," returned Milly.

Selina would have liked to say so, but she had not the courage. And the two walked on in silence for a few minutes.

Then Milly began again:—

"So you really mean to give me up, Selina?"

"I have never said so," replied Selina.

"Actions speak louder than words," said Milly with a sigh. "Well, I suppose it is all right. You are dependent on Mr. and Mrs. Weston, and of course you ought to please them. Oh, yes, it is all right, but I am sorry. I thought we were going to have such a nice time this summer. But if you are going to set up for a saint—However, you ought to please Mr. and Mrs. Weston, of course."

"I have never said either that I was going to give you up, or to set up for a saint," said Selina somewhat angrily. "I don't know what you want me to do, Amelia."

"I want you to be your own independent self, and not take all your opinions—your likes and dislikes, and all the rest—from some one else; no, not even from Mrs. Weston or dear Miss Armstrong," replied Milly. "If Mrs. Weston were your own mother, it would be different, though even then I think you would have a right to a mind of your own. But come; as you say, we won't quarrel. I do hope you won't give me up, Selina. You are the only friend I have. I never can get on with Agnes Gleason; and Cordelia is worse than nobody, poor thing. I wanted mother to leave her at the Sanitarium with a nurse, and take me to Newport or Saratoga, where I could have some advantages of society, but every thing is Cordelia with her. She would put me in the stove and burn me up to warm Cordelia's feet. But you won't give me up, will you, Selina? I will promise not to say a word against religion. I am sure your mother would do me a great deal of good if she would only be kind to me. Come, now, say you will be friends."

What could Selina do but say she would always be friends with Milly? The two girls sealed their league on the spot with a sentimental embrace; and Milly began at once to exert her powers of conversation, which were not small, for the benefit of her companion. She began with a description of a grand ceremony she had attended at the Roman-Catholic cathedral. From that, the divergence was easy to the park, and from thence to various gayeties, ending with a masked ball in which Milly had sustained a prominent character, had danced a minuet, and, according to her own account, had been the observed of all observers.

When Selina reached home, all serious thoughts were completely dissipated. Her head was full of visions of that gay world in which Milly moved, and her heart of murmurs that she should be so wholly shut out of it. When she retired to her room after tea, it was not, as usual, to study her lesson for the next Sunday. The Bible lay untouched; while she indulged in dreams in which her own mother figured in the character of a lady of wealth and fashion, whom circumstances had compelled to abandon her child for a time, but who now turned up to claim her, and re-instate her in the splendor to which she was born. The birds of the air had picked up the seed pretty thoroughly.