Chapter XI: New Projects

KIT'S arm was better on Monday, but nothing more was said about her going to Oldbury. Symantha had an argument with Melissa on the subject of the place at Stillwell's, but Melissa was not to be moved. She knew her own mind, she said, and she could take care of herself. Symantha need not be troubled about her. She gathered her possessions together on Monday morning, and departed. The two sisters had never got on well together, and Melissa did not express any regret at parting. She did not speak to Kit; and Kit, on her part, made no secret of her pleasure on the occasion. Melissa had been her tyrant and torment ever since she could remember. It was she who had destroyed her cherished fragment of the "Pilgrim's Progress," and had instigated Phin to the burning of her beloved Testament. She felt sure that the proposition to send her to Stillwell's had come from Melissa in the first place. She did not feel safe till the wagon containing Melissa and her uncle was finally out of sight, and then it was with a rejoicing heart that she began to get ready for school.

"Well, Kit, I suppose you are perfectly happy to think that you are going to school this morning, instead of in the wagon going to Oldbury," said Symantha.

"Ain't you glad too?" asked Kit.

"Yes, I am. I don't want you to go to any place just now, certainly not there, to sell whiskey and beer."

"I never would do it," said Kit firmly. "They should cut me to pieces first. I hate the very name of drink. I don't believe uncle Phin would ever be ugly to me if he let the beer alone."

"I believe you are right," said Symantha, sighing. "I wish all the beer in the world were poured into the sea."

"Then the fishes would all get drunk," replied Kit, laughing. Then, with a sudden change of tone, as she glanced at Symantha's face, "Don't you want me to stay at home this morning? You will be alone all day."

"I thought you liked to go to school better than any thing," observed Symantha.

"Well, I do, but I would stay at home to help you."

"I know you would, but I would rather you went to school. I want you to learn all you can, now you have such a good chance."

"I wish uncle Phin would let me go to Sunday school, as the other girls do," said Kit. "There is not a girl in our school but me who does not go to Sunday school, and they get such nice books. I don't see what harm it would do."

"Nor I," answered Symantha. "You should go, Kit, if it depended upon me, but I don't think you had better say any thing about it at present. I am sure pa would not let you go, and it would only make a fuss. Make the best of your day-school, and learn all you can. There, good-by."

Symantha kissed Kit,—an unusual demonstration of affection,—and the child went on her way with a light heart.

She was happier than she had ever been before in her short life. She was used to the shadows of her home,—to her aunt's wretched state of health, and her uncle's varying humors, and Symantha's occasional impatience,—and did not mind these things as another child would have done. She loved with a kind of passion the beautiful things about her; all the more, that the last two years of her life had been spent in a wretched street of a wretched Western town, which had been left behind by an exhausted mine and an abortive railroad. She loved her school and her teacher, and found keen pleasure in the acquisition of knowledge for its own sake. And, above and beyond all, she rejoiced in her new-found inheritance in the kingdom of heaven. She had received it, indeed, as a little child, without a doubt or question.

She could never be quite forlorn or alone again: for, let what would happen, she had a Father and a Saviour in heaven, who would never leave nor forsake her; and a home, sure to be hers some time, where she should never be unhappy, and never do wrong again. For there were times when the sense of sin pressed heavily upon her. She had never known that many things were wrong which now appeared very dreadful to her. Like older people, she found herself hindered by "the bands of those sins which, by her frailty, she had committed," and from which she longed to be released. The temper would rise at any obstacle or annoyance; and the hard names and wicked words came to her mind, and fell from her lips, almost unawares. Now she felt these thing to be sins, and grieved over them, but there was comfort even there. That same Father in heaven, whose name and nature had been so lately made known to her, hated sin, but then, He loved her, and therefore, Kit reasoned, He would help her to get rid of what He hated. It was a very happy little girl who went singing over the hill-pasture that morning.

Three or four weeks went on very quietly in Oldham, and especially in the red schoolhouse district. In the village, indeed, there was a little stir, occasioned by the startling proposition brought forward by the church-wardens, in a parish meeting called for the purpose in the parlor of the hotel, namely, that the church should be cleaned and painted before the arrival of the new minister.

If it had been proposed to blow up the church with dynamite, some people could not have been more astonished. And the most astonished of all was Mr. Archimball, the shoemaker, who had been sexton for years. He had, for the most part, confined his duties to ringing the bell, making fires in winter, and dusting the great Bible and other books, and sometimes the pulpit-cushions, on a Sunday, and filling and trimming the lamps when they absolutely refused to burn any more without.

"Such a lot of new-fangled notions!" said he sulkily. "Always the way when women-folks take hold of things. What's the matter, anyhow?"

"The matter is, that the church is dirty, and needs cleaning," said Mr. Weston.

"Where's the dirt?" snarled the sexton.

For answer Mr. Weston pointed to the windows.

"They 'are' kind of cloudy, that's a fact," said Mr. Andrews, the storekeeper.

"'Kind of cloudy!' I should think so," said his wife. "I wonder what you would say, Mr. Andrews, to see such windows in your own house."

"Well, you know, Harriet Anne, you never thought of the windows yourself till last Sunday," said Mr. Andrews mildly.

"That's true, and more shame for me. Anyhow, I'm ready to do my share of the work."

"And so am I," "And I," added several voices; and more than one notable lady felt a thrill of joy at the thought of a house-cleaning upon so large a scale.

"The sisters seem to be all sound upon the cleaning question," said Mr. Weston, smiling.

"The women-folks are for any thing that will make a fuss, and give 'em a chance to gossip," muttered the sexton.

"Now about the painting," continued Mr. Weston, without noticing the interruption.

"That's another thing," said Mr. Blandy. "That will cost money."

"Most things do," said Dr. Chase.

"And how are you going to raise it? That's the question," continued Mr. Blandy.

"Yes, that's the p'int," said Aunt Betsy. "How are you going to raise it?"

"By subscription among ourselves," answered Mr. Weston. "I have made a calculation that two hundred dollars will cover the whole expense."

"Two hundred dollars is a good deal of money," said Mr. Andrews. "Still, if every one will do his share—Would that cover the blinds, think, squire?"

"Yes, I think so. As you say, if every one will do their share, the thing can be accomplished; not otherwise."

"Yes, but you'll see they won't," said the sexton. "It's one thing to stir up a lot of women, and another to get the men started."

"We have made a good beginning already, I am happy to say," remarked Mr. Weston, taking up a paper which lay before him on the table. "Dr. Chase has headed the list with twenty-five dollars; another person has put down the same; and the ladies at the stone house will give us twenty, and more if it is needed."

"Seventy dollars; that 'is' a good beginning," said Mr. Bassett. "Put me down ten anyhow, Squire Weston. I will do more if I can, but that freshet which knocked down my dam has made it a kind of an expensive year for me."

"Put me down five," said Mr. Fletcher.

"Eighty-five dollars. Who next?"

"My sister and myself will give five dollars between us," said Miss Celia.

"Seems to me that's a good deal for you," said Mrs. Burr.

But Miss Celia did not answer. It was a good deal; but the two old ladies had consulted together, and had agreed to give up their annual summer visit to Elmfield if needful.

"I don't believe in this subscription business anyhow," said Mr. Blandy. "We might get up a fair, or dinner, or something, and raise the money that way, or at least a part of it; and the rest might wait till it came handy to pay."

"And so saddle ourselves with a debt," said Dr. Chase. "No, thank you; I have seen enough of that."

"Every one does it," persisted Mr. Blandy. "That fine new church in Oldbury has a twenty-thousand-dollar mortgage on it this minute."

"Yes, and what is the consequence? Every time they try to raise money for some church or benevolent object, there comes up the debt. There is so much interest to be met, that great debt to be provided for, they can't even raise funds for a new Sunday school library. No, no! Bad as the church looks, I would rather it should stay so than that we should run in debt."

"That fifty dollars we raised for missions would come handy just now," said Mr. Blandy with a sneer. "I always thought charity began at home."

"It is to be hoped the charity of this church is not to begin, after an existence of nearly a hundred years," said Mr. Weston. "For my own part, I do nor regard the money given to support my own church as given in charity, any more than that I use to pay my bills at Mr. Andrews's store. I get it all back, and a great deal more. Which of us would be willing to do without the help we get here, even if it cost twice as much to keep the church going?"

"Nobody, I guess," answered Mr. Andrews. "I don't know but you are right, squire, though I must say I never looked at it in that way before. Well, you may put me down for twenty dollars, to begin with."

A few more subscriptions were given in, and a committee appointed to canvass the town. The ladies decided upon a day to begin operations, as a good deal of cleaning was absolutely needful before the painting could be commenced. And the meeting was about to be adjourned when Mr. Archimball rose up to fire his great gun, which he had kept till the last moment. He had much to say about his long and faithful services, extending over a period of twenty-five years. Twenty-five years he had rung that bell for service, and tolled it for funerals, yes, for the grandfathers and grandmothers of some of the folks present. But it appeared that folks were not satisfied. Very well. If he, Joseph Archimball, did not suit them, let them get somebody that did. He washed his hands of the whole business. He resigned his place as sexton. There were the keys of the church. He shook off the dust from his feet.

So saying, he threw down the keys on the table, and departed, rather wondering that no one tried to detain him.

"But they will be after me," he said to himself. "They won't find it so easy to do without me. They will come asking me to take the keys again. But I won't—not unless they offer me at least ten dollars a year more than I have had before."

As the time went on, however, and nobody came after him, Mr. Archimball began to wish he had not been so hasty. As it drew toward the end of the week, he decided that he would not say any thing about that increase of salary. And on Saturday morning, he made up his mind that he would go down and get the keys, open the windows, and even air out the cellar. The women-folks must be out of the way by that time. Lo and behold! When he reached the church, the windows were already open, and a young person of the colored persuasion was going about with a duster,—actually with a duster, and a feather duster at that,—daintily passing this unheard-of instrument over the backs of the old pews.

"Halloo!" said Mr. Archimball. "Who are you? And what are you doing here?"

"I am Edward Kettle, at your service," returned the stranger, with his best bow, which was, indeed, a very fine one. "As to what I am doing, I am putting the church in order for Sunday, seeing that the gentlemen has made me sexton."

Mr. Archimball felt that his great gun had "kicked," as sportsmen say. He could hardly believe his own senses.

"'You!'" he gasped, like the caterpillar in "Little Alice." "Who are 'you'?"

"I've told you my name already. As to my family, I am old Abner Kettle's grandson; and me and my wife has come to live near the old gentleman. As I said before, the church has given me the appointment to take charge of this building, which the ladies has just cleaned up in the most elegant manner; and I calculate to do it."

So saying, Mr. Kettle hung up his duster, and producing a sickle from his basket of tools, began a vigorous attack upon a colony of burdocks and thistles which had flourished at the side of the church steps from time immemorial.

To say that Mr. Archimball was disgusted, is to give a faint idea of his sensations. He was stunned. To think that he, he whose grandfather and great-grandfather were buried in that very burying-ground, should be turned out, supplanted by a colored man, and one who was half Indian at that! And for what? Just because people had taken some new notions into their heads about dust and air, and so on. It was too bad! He went home almost resolved never to enter the church doors again.

The subscription went on prosperously; and by Sunday, Mr. Weston was able to announce that the money was raised, and every thing ready to begin the work. It was with no little satisfaction that the ladies who had been engaged in the cleaning looked at the clear glass, and noticed the difference in the air.

"Isn't it delightful to have the church so clean! And won't it be fine when it is all painted!" said Faith Fletcher to the other girls as they stood at the door for a moment before Sunday school. "And, oh, isn't it nice to have Dr. Madison again!"

"I wish we could have him all the time," said Agnes. "Don't you, Selina?"

"Oh, I don't know. I think I shall like Mr. Brace quite as well," answered Selina indifferently. "I don't see any thing so very remarkable about Dr. Madison's preaching. He just says the same things that one has always heard."

"He tells 'the old, old story,'" remarked Faith. "What do you think, Agnes?"

"I think the old story is better than any new one," replied Agnes. "What else could he tell us about? I thought you liked him ever so much last Sunday, Selina."

"I haven't said I didn't like him," said Selina rather shortly. "All I say is, that he isn't any thing so very wonderful. Why didn't Milly come this morning, Agnes?"

"I don't know that she had any reason, only that she did not care about it. She got a parcel of new books last night, and I fancy she preferred to lie abed and read. Mrs. Richmond staid with Cordelia."

"How is Cordelia?" asked Faith.

"Her mother will have it that she is better, but we think she fails all the time," answered Agnes. "Cordelia has given up all hope of ever getting well, herself. She wants to see a minister, and I asked Mrs. Richmond if I should not ask Dr. Madison to come over, as he is staying at Mrs. Van Zandt's, but she won't hear of it."

"How cruel!" said Faith.

"Well, no, she does not mean it for cruelty. She says she can't have Cordelia's mind filled with gloomy ideas. She must be kept cheerful. She didn't like it a bit because I read the Bible to her last Sunday, and she hasn't let me be alone with her since."

"She is as bad as Phin Mallory with Kit," said Faith. "That poor child would give her eyes, almost, to come to Sunday school; and he won't let her. I do wish we could do something for her. She looked so sad when we were fixing the schoolhouse for meeting last Friday. You can't scold her now for not knowing the Lord's Prayer, Selina, she reads her Testament every chance she finds."

"I suppose she does not have many books of any sort," remarked Faith. "But I do believe Kit is a real Christian. I never saw any child try harder to be good."

"She knows how to flatter Miss Armstrong, and get on the blind side of her," said Selina. "You needn't look so shocked. I do think so. Miss Armstrong thinks any one is perfection who can talk about religion. Amelia says she is just so in the city, and that it is the same with all the city missionaries. That is the way all sorts of humbugs impose upon them."

"Amelia knows all about city missions, no doubt," said Agnes. "How many mission Sunday schools do you suppose she ever saw? I don't believe Miss Armstrong has any blind side, to begin with; and I don't believe poor Kit ever thought of looking for it. She is a good, honest little thing, worth a hundred of Milly Richmond, and not so very much more ignorant, either. Just think! Milly did not know that our Lord and the apostles were Jews, and she thought the ancient Romans worshipped the Virgin Mary."

"O Agnes!"

"She did, really."

"And you told of it," said Selina. "I don't think that is very nice,—to go telling of things that were said in your own mother's house, just to get people laughed at. I wonder what your dear Miss Armstrong would say to that?"

Agnes colored, and her eyes flashed. She did not speak for a moment, and in that moment, she had gained a victory.

"She would say I was wrong, and so I was," said she quite gently. "You are right, Selina: it is not fair to tell tales. Come, we ought to be in our places."

The painting began next day, and, of course, took longer than any one expected. It was discovered that some other very essential repairs were needed. Indeed, when the committee appointed for the purpose came to examine the tower, they found it in a really dangerous condition.

"So you are going to repair the tower, too," said Aunt Betsy. "That will cost more money. It is always the way; when folks begin to tinker, there is no end to it. When the tower is done, you will find something else to do."

"There would be an end to somebody if we didn't begin to tinker," replied Mr. Weston, "and that pretty soon. A very little would have brought the bell crashing down into the porch. Suppose such a thing had happened when the tower-room was full of the little children?"

"It makes me shudder," said Mrs. Weston. "Who noticed it first?"

"Edward told me, the very first time he rang the bell, that he thought there was something wrong. But I had no idea things were so bad till I came to look into them."

"Archimball never said any thing about it, did he?"

"Not he. I don't suppose he has been into the belfry for years. The fact is, we have all neglected our duty. Selina did not think what a very large kettle of fish she was going to stir up, when she made that proposition about cleaning the church."

"Yes, that is always the way when folks go to stirring up things," said Aunt Betsy. "Let well alone, I say."

"A great bell hung on a rotten beam over people's heads can hardly be called well," said Mr. Weston. "We may be thankful it was looked to in time."

"And what are we going to do for a church while all this fuss is going on?" asked Aunt Betsy.

"We shall meet in the large room at the academy."

"Well, nobody need think I am going there, to sit on those hard benches," said Aunt Betsy. "I shall just stay at home till things get in decent order again.—Abby, I should like to know what price you gave for this tea," she added, lifting to her nose the cup of black tea Mrs. Weston had just filled. "Seems to me you must have got cheated."

"It is the same tea we have been drinking all winter, Aunt Betsy. I am sorry it does not suit you."

"Oh, I can drink it, I suppose," said Aunt Betsy with an injured air. "I calculate to get some myself as soon as I can go over to Oldfield. Mr. Andrews hasn't any that's fit to drink. He gave me a quarter of a pound, and I was glad when it was gone."

"That old lady isn't burdened with gratitude, is she?" said Miss Armstrong when Aunt Betsy had finally taken her tea and departed.

"I doubt whether the idea of gratitude has ever occurred to her mind," replied Mrs. Weston. "She thinks she has a right to all she gets, and a great deal more."

"Mrs. Richmond says she wonders the church don't put her into the widows' asylum at Oldbury," remarked Selina. "She was talking to Mrs. Blandy about it yesterday, and they both agreed it would be cheaper. Her place would sell for enough to pay her entrance fee and more."

"There would be several objections to that," replied Mr. Weston. "In the first place, she would never consent to go."

"She would have to go, I suppose, if people left off helping her."

"I doubt it; and, in the second place, there is no reason why she should go. Her land brings her in something, and the neighbors must do the rest. Why should we turn one of our old church-members over to the Oldbury folks to take care of, when we are able to do for her ourselves? There are a great many more poor people in Oldbury than there are here."

"But she is so cross and disagreeable."

"Well, she may as well be cross and disagreeable here as in Oldbury," said Mrs. Weston. "If she is so trying when she only comes in now and then, what would she be to those who lived with her all the time? The poor old soul is as much attached to her home and her church as if she were the pleasantest person in the world, and it would be cruel to send her to finish her days among strangers."

"According to that, there need be no asylums of any sort, if people only took care of their own neighbors," said Selina.

"Perhaps we could not go so far as that, but certainly much fewer would be needed. You are quite right there," said Miss Armstrong. "As to poor Mrs. Burr, I can assure you, my dear, she is a very mild specimen of her class compared to some that I know. There is a woman in an aged-women's home that I know of, who regularly tells every one who comes to the house, never to get into that place if they can go anywhere else. I have known her, when the matron was conducting visitors through the house, to come out into the hall, and ask in the humblest tone if she might not have just a crust of bread, she was so faint and hungry, or if she might not have an old carpet or something to put on her bed, she was so cold at night. And yet she is really better off than ever she was before in her life."

"I dare say."

"Oh, well, we must not be too hard on Aunt Betsy," said Mrs. Weston. "She is old and lonely, and we can very well bear with her humors. We are none of us any too grateful for what we receive."

Selina chose to take this remark to herself, though nothing was farther from Mrs. Weston's thoughts than such an application.

"If you think I am so ungrateful and unthankful, mother, I think I had better go and live somewhere else," said she, rising from the table, and bursting into tears. "I suppose I could earn my living; and, at any rate, I should not—" The rest was lost in sobs.

"What is the matter now?" said Mr. Weston in surprise.

"If you want to find fault with me, you might speak out, and not keep talking at me," sobbed Selina. "I wish you had never taken me from the asylum."

"Take care you do not make other people wish so," said Mr. Weston. "Now stop that noise at once. Go and wash your face, and then come and sit down to the table, and finish your supper. Do you hear me? And do you mean to mind me?" he added more sternly than before. "Come, we have had enough of this. If you will behave like a spoiled child, you must be treated like one. Do as I tell you."

Selina was frightened. Never had Mr. Weston spoken to her in such a tone before. He was one of the most even-tempered men in the world, and generally left the whole interior government of the family in his wife's hands. He had always been very indulgent to Selina, and, on that very account, his severity was more effective now. As he kept his eye fixed on her, she felt that there was nothing for it but to obey. Not another word was addressed to her till supper was over, and Miss Armstrong had left the room.

Then Mr. Weston turned to her.

"You will help your mother do up the work, and then you will stay at home," said he. "Don't let me see you running away up to Mrs. Gleason's, as you have done every evening this week. You must turn over a new leaf, Selina, or I shall have to do it for you. I will not have your mother and the whole family made uncomfortable by you. Now, remember."

Never in all the seven years she had lived at the farm had Selina met with such a reproof. She felt small enough as she went about clearing the table, and worst of all was the growing feeling that she had made herself ridiculous. She did up the work sulkily, and then, retiring to her own room, she threw herself on the bed without a word of prayer, and cried herself to sleep.

"I don't see what has come over Selina," remarked Mrs. Weston as she took her knitting and sat down with Miss Armstrong in the wide hall, which was much used as a summer sitting-room. "She is certainly in a bad state of mind. I don't think Milly Richmond does her any good."

"From the little I have seen, I should not think Miss Richmond's society was calculated to be useful to any one," said Miss Armstrong. "She did me the favor to come to school as a visitor one afternoon last week, and certainly I never wish to have her visit repeated. It seems to me that poor Selina's great stumbling-block is her disposition to jealousy."

"Yes, that is the great trouble, and always has been," replied Mrs. Weston, sighing.

"It is a hard fault to deal with, because the person possessing it is so apt to take it for a virtue, or at least a mark of superiority," said Miss Armstrong. "However, it is a comfort that grace can conquer that as well as every other infirmity."

"I hoped that Selina was coming under the power of religion," said Mrs. Weston.

"And so did I. The first week or two after I came, she seemed much interested in the Bible lessons, and talked quite freely on the subject, but latterly I cannot get her to speak a word, and hardly to answer a question."

"Sometimes I think she is resisting conviction, and that makes her more irritable than she would be," remarked Mrs. Weston. "How does she behave in school in other ways?"

"I see an unfavorable change there, too," answered Miss Armstrong. "The first week she was a great help to me. I cannot say as much now."

"She is at a trying age," said Mrs. Weston, using the universal mother's excuse, which suits all ages from one to twenty-one. "Sometimes I think the fault must be in my management, and yet I don't know. I have never made any difference between her and Lizzy, and Lizzy never gave me an hour's anxiety in her life except from illness. I hear that Agnes Gleason means to be confirmed."

"Yes, she has quite decided to take the first opportunity. Her mother seems very much pleased."

"I was a little surprised when she said as much to me on Sunday," said Mrs. Weston. "Mrs. Gleason has never made any profession of religion. We thought she would do so when my sister and myself united with the church, and I dare say she would if her own mother had been alive. But she was boarding with Aunt Betsy at that time, and she held the child back. I think it was a great mistake."

"I believe it is a mistake in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred."

"I quite agree with you. Who is this coming in?"

"It is Ida Van Zandt and her cousin," said Miss Armstrong, rising. "You will like these girls, Mrs. Weston. They are as thoroughly genuine as any I ever knew."

Mrs. Weston was quite prepared to like her young neighbors. She went to call Selina, but Selina had gone to bed, and pretended to be asleep. The girls had two errands besides their desire to see Miss Armstrong. One was, to procure some guinea-hens' eggs. Amity had heard that Mrs. Weston had a very superior breed of guinea-hens, and she wanted to send some home to her grandfather, who was a great fowl-fancier.

"You had better let me give you a pair of the fowls when you go home. That will be the best way," said Mrs. Weston. "Eggs are rather uncertain, but I can let you have some to eat if you think your aunt would fancy them. They are very delicate."

"Thank you very much," said Amity. "I shall be glad of any thing to tempt aunt Barbara's appetite, for she is not very well just now. But, Mrs. Weston, I did not mean to beg your beautiful fowls."

"Oh, you are quite welcome. We should not keep them, and I am just so silly I would rather give the poor things away than have them killed, I have made such pets of them."

"I don't think it silly at all. I have just the same feeling," said Amity. "But if you please, Mrs. Weston, we will make it an exchange. I see you keep ducks, and I will have O'Connor send you a pair of our new Pekin ducks. They are the present rage in our parts.—And now for your errand, Ida," said Amity when these matters had been satisfactorily settled.

"Oh," said Ida, blushing. "Perhaps I ought to begin with an apology for 'assumacy,' as old Alice calls it. It has occurred to me, Miss Armstrong, that, as almost all the children seem to come to the Friday evening service, it would be rather a nice thing to meet them some time during the week and practise upon the hymns. What do you think?"

"I think it an excellent plan," answered Miss Armstrong. "I have been regretting, ever since I came here, that I cannot sing. I suppose you mean to teach the class yourself, Ida?"

"Oh, yes: I am to be professor."

"I proposed something of the sort to Selina," said Miss Armstrong, turning to Mrs. Weston, "but she seemed to think it would not do."

"I don't see any objection to it," said Mrs. Weston, "that is, supposing Miss Van Zandt is willing to take the trouble."

"Oh, I shall like it," answered Ida. "I do think I have some gift that way, too, though I say it that shouldn't. I have taught singing in our mission school for two winters; and really, they do very well, don't they, Amity?"

"Indeed they do, but I fancy you will find it rather different teaching Miss Armstrong's children."

"I should imagine so," said Ida, laughing. "I heard a lady on Sunday talking about those little Irish children in the infant-class, and saying they ought not to be allowed to come in such a state. I wondered what she would say to your infants, Amity."

"Oh, my infants are not so bad. Even the Flynns come with clean faces now and then. Norah had a patch on her dress the last Sunday, and actually a clean apron."

"Mrs. Weston opens her eyes," said Ida.

"Oh, I have seen mission schools, though I never taught in one," said Mrs. Weston, smiling. "I should think it might be trying work sometimes."

"Well, it is; and yet it has its rewards too."

"Where is Mr. Weston?" asked Miss Armstrong. "We must have his sanction before we do any thing."

"What a lovely woman!" said Ida as Mrs. Weston went out to call her husband. "Is she as sweet as she looks?"

"Sweeter, if any thing."

"Her daughter does not look at all like her," said Amity. "She is a handsome girl, too; but she has a discontented, almost envious expression. She has a fine voice: I noticed it on Sunday."

"Yes, I think she would sing uncommonly well if she would take more pains. Mr. Weston is as good as his wife. I never met two more excellent people."

"Is Selina the only child?"

"No, they have a married daughter in Oldbury,—a very lovely woman in all respects. Both she and Selina are adopted children; and they had another, a very fine young man, who died a year or two since. They have had several children of their own, who all died in infancy. Here comes Mr. Weston. You must sing for him, Ida: he loves music, and understands it too."

Mr. Weston listened attentively while Ida unfolded her plan, which was to meet the school-children twice a week, and sing with them the hymns and tunes used in Sunday school and at the Bible class, and any other music which might be deemed desirable.

"It seems a very nice plan," said Mr. Weston, "but it is a good deal for you to do."

"I shall enjoy it," said Ida. "I love children, and the practice will keep my hand in. Of course I shall not give them much instruction in the theory of music, but perhaps they may learn to read notes. I think children pick that up pretty easily."

"Well, Miss Van Zandt, I will talk it over with the other trustees," said Mr. Weston. "I can't think any one will object, but there is no telling. I expect we are going to have a fight over the Bible-reading at the next school-meeting. Phin Mallory says he means to put a stop to it; and like as not Tom Jewsbury will support him, just to show off what he calls his liberal ideas."

"If they turn the Bible out, they will turn me out," said Miss Armstrong. "I will never teach in any school where the Bible is shut out."

"Oh, they won't succeed,—we have not many of that sort,—but they will make a fuss."

"Perhaps it will be better not to have any connection between the singing-school and the day-school," remarked Amity. "Ida might just ask for the loan of the schoolhouse for her class to meet in."

"And I will have it directly after school, because then the children are together, and it is the most convenient hour for me," said Ida. "Yes, that will be best."

"People will be asking what your terms are," said Mr. Weston, smiling.

"But I haven't any terms," said Ida. "I don't propose to ask any thing, Mr. Weston. It is just because I like children, and because it is so nice for them to know how to sing."

"Well, I will let you know in a day or two. Meanwhile, perhaps you will sing something for me."

Ida complied at once, and sang song after song, grave and gay. She had a noble voice which had received every advantage of cultivation, and had "not" been spoiled thereby.

"That is grand!" said Mr. Weston. "I'll tell you what, mother, if any one makes an objection, we'll just ask Miss Van Zandt to come in and sing for them."

"One thing more," said Miss Armstrong; "that is, if you are not tired, Ida."

"Not at all. I am never tired of singing."

"Then sing 'I know that my Redeemer liveth.'"

"I am not sure that I can do it justice," said Ida: "I have not tried it in some time. But I will do my best."

There was a moment's silence after that most beautiful of all sacred songs was concluded, and then Mr. Weston and his wife both drew a long breath.

"That is wonderful!" said Mrs. Weston. "How I wish Selina could sing that!"

"I dare say she could learn," replied Ida. "She has a fine voice. I noticed it in church. It is a pity it should not be cultivated."

"I have always meant Selina should have some good singing-lessons," said Mr. Weston. "I have thought of sending her to her sister's in Oldbury. They have an excellent professor in the school there, or so I have been told."

"Really, Ida, we must go," said Amity: "it is growing dark. Aunt Barbara will think we are lost."

"I will walk with you, if you will allow me," said Mr. Weston. "I was going over to the Corners, at any rate, and your house is but a few steps out of my way."

"What charming girls!" said Mrs. Weston. "Miss Bogardus's money does not seem to have spoiled her."

"Not a bit. She is one of the hardest-working, most self-denying girls I ever knew. Ida is a good child too."

"It shows that wealth and beauty do not of themselves hurt people. I hope this singing-school may be a success, for Selina's sake," said Mrs. Weston.

But Selina had already made up her mind on that point. She had been waked by the singing, and had been listening with all her ears. Envy and jealousy are reptiles that can find food anywhere,—even in heaven, if they could get there.

"Her voice isn't one bit better than mine," Selina said to herself: "it is only that she has had such good lessons. I don't think she sings so much better, either. I don't see what call she has to be setting up a singing-school here. We don't want any of her patronage."

And Selina resolved, that, if she could help it, the singing-school should not be a success.