Chapter V: The Sewing-Meeting

THE next day was Sunday. Mary changed her dime and had a two-cent piece to put into the collection. It was rather less than she was in the habit of giving, but it looked more important to her because she felt that it was really her own offering. Matilda had no money, as usual, and Ida "forgot hers, but would bring it next Sunday."

"Do you know how many Sundays in succession you have said that, Ida?" asked Miss Ackerman.

Ida did not know—she thought only twice.

"This is the fourth time."

"I suppose she wants the money to spend herself," said Matilda. "I'd say so right out, and not pretend to forget every time."

"I don't, either," said Ida, very much hurt.

"No, you always think you are just going to get your money, and then you think of something else and forget all about it, just as you do about everything else," said Julia.

"Ida needs to exercise a little more care about such things—to make them a matter of duty and conscience," said Miss Ackerman gently and gravely.—"As to Matilda and Julia, what they need is more of the Spirit of Christ."

Julia drew herself up, tossed her head, and pressed her lips together, as she always did when reproved.

Matilda colored furiously. "I don't believe all this nonsense about missions and collections, anyway," said she; "ma don't, either. She says it is just a contrivance to get money out of poor people, and that every sixpence that is given costs a dollar to send."

"We will talk about that another time," said Miss Ackerman. "I should like to have you all meet at my house with your mission-work on Thursday afternoon at two o'clock. My mother hopes you will all come prepared to stay to tea and spend the evening. There is the bell, so we must stop talking and give attention."

Ida heard this invitation with anything but pleasurable feelings. She slipped away from the other girls when school was dismissed, and walked home by herself. As soon as she had put away her hat, she opened her closet and took out her work-basket. There lay the two chemises—one not begun, the other with the seams sewed up and partly hemmed round the bottom. There also lay the hair-pin trimming, with about half a yard done on it.

"I can't sew to-morrow, because it is my music-lesson day, and mother wants me to go to town with her on Wednesday to see about my teeth. Oh dear! I wish I had never touched the things, or seen them. Why can't this Ethelind make her own clothes?" And Ida rather unreasonably felt vexed at Ethelind, as if the poor child were in fault for not making the garments she had never seen or heard of.

"I can't go to Miss Ackerman's on Thursday," Ida continued. "The girls will all laugh at me, I know, even if they don't tell me so; and Julia will be sure to say something disagreeable, and so will that Matilda Jenkins. I wish the superintendent would classify her somewhere else. But how shall I contrive to stay away? I believe I will ask mother to let me stay all night with Aunt Barbara. She is sure to invite me—she always does—and I dare say I shall have a headache after going to the dentist's; so that will be a good excuse. Oh dear! It won't be half as much fun to sit and play backgammon all the evening with Aunt Barbara, and be told once in ten minutes to sit up straight and not poke my chin and hear,—

"'When I was a little girl, children were not allowed to do so and so.'

"But then Aunt Barbara is sure to give me some money to spend, and I can buy something pretty to put in the box."

And so Ida dismissed the subject from her mind, and went down to dinner. She did not say even to herself that she would pretend to have a headache, but that was what she really meant. Ida was getting a fixed habit of making excuses to herself and other people, and such a habit and that of exact truthfulness do not long live together.

On Thursday afternoon the girls of Miss Ackerman's class were gathered at her house with their work. Ida was the only one absent. She had carried out her plan, and was at that very time sitting by Stewart's counter wondering when Aunt Barbara would have finished choosing between napkins at ninety cents apiece and napkins at a dollar apiece, and thinking all the time what a nice time the girls were having at Mrs. Ackerman's.

"Where is Ida? Does any one know?" asked Miss Ackerman.

"I called for her," replied Eunice. "Mrs. Van Zandt told me that she went to the dentist's yesterday, and had a headache after it, so that she stayed all night with Mrs. Barbara Van Zandt. Her mother said she expected Ida by the morning train, but she had no doubt Mrs. Barbara had kept her to go shopping."

"Poor Ida!" said Percy, who had had some experience of Mrs. Barbara and her shopping-expeditions.

"But I should not think Ida would have stayed when she knew the class-meeting was this afternoon," remarked one of the girls.

"I dare say she could not help it. I know by experience that it is not easy to get away from Mrs. Barbara," replied Percy.

Julia smiled maliciously. "I dare say Ida knew what she was about," said she.

"Oh yes, I dare say," chimed in Matilda Jenkins. "It wouldn't be a bad spec to go round shopping with a rich old aunt. I heard Ida say herself that the old lady always gave her something."

Julia looked intensely disgusted at this interpretation of her words.

"Oh, Matilda, I am sure Julia did not have any such meaning as that."

"Of course not," replied Julia. "Ida is not the kind of girl to think of a 'spec,' as Matilda elegantly calls it. 'Young ladies' don't do such things," she added, with a decided emphasis on the words "young ladies." "What I meant was that I presume Ida has not finished her work, and is ashamed to show herself, and so she stayed in New York, so as to have an excuse."

"Well, I don't think you have mended the matter, I must say," returned Matilda with some justice. "I don't see how it would be any better to make a false excuse, especially one that needed so much contrivance, than it would be to go shopping with an old lady in hopes of a present."

"Nor I," said Percy; "I think one supposition is quite as uncharitable as the other, and I see no need of either of them, since Ida has done nothing wrong that we know of. Now let us get out our work.—How much have you done, Anita?"

"I have accomplished the two skirts," answered Anita with her usual deliberation. And she held up the dainty garments for inspection.

"But what a trimming you have put on them!" exclaimed Percy and Amity together. "What splendid trimming! I don't know whether to call it lace or embroidery; I never saw anything like it."

"That is nothing," replied Anita. "All the Mexican women do make much of it to trim their garments, and often very fine. This is not fine, you see. I like it for amusement—what you call 'play-work'—and I had it begun, so I thought it would please the little girl."

"But it is lovely," said Eunice. "I don't see how you do it."

"I will show you with much pleasure," replied Anita. "Not many people know to do it in this country."

"Well, I don't see what 'you' want to learn it for," said Julia. "What good will it do you?"

"As much good as any one else, I suppose," replied Eunice, flushing at the rudeness, but determined not to be ruffled. "I am fond of fancy-work, and I always find a use for every kind I learn."

"So do I," remarked Amity. "I have learned how to do a great many little trifling bits of work, such as making paper flowers and knitting fancy stitches, and I always find some corner where they fit exactly.—But let us see your work, Eunice."

Eunice displayed a pair of long crimson stockings, beautifully shaped and as even as if done on the machine, and then took out of her basket a pair of little baby-socks knitted in soft white yarn, with a little crimson vine running round the tops. The girls all exclaimed at their beauty.

"They are the prettiest I ever saw," said Amity.

"I got the pattern out of the book Miss Ackerman lent me," said Eunice. "I tried it on some worsted I ravelled out, and showed it to Mrs. Ray, and she said if I would make a pair for her, she would give me wool enough to make some for the box. I thought it would be pleasant to give something of my own."

"Well, I shouldn't think Miss Ackerman would thank you for giving her patterns to all the shops in town," said Julia.

"Julia, do behave yourself!" said Amity in an energetic whisper. "What possesses you to insult Eunice so? What has she ever done to you? For shame!"

Julia had her own reasons for not offending Amity, and she relapsed into a sulky silence.

"Now, Mary," said Percy.

Mary displayed her half dozen of handkerchiefs neatly hemmed and prettily marked with Ethelind's initials in satin stitch. She then produced two more of finer material and with pretty colored borders.

"I bought those in the city," said she; "I thought Ethelind ought to have two nice ones. Sister Helen picked them out and taught me how to mark them. Don't you think Ethelind will like them?"

"She will be very hard to please if she does not," replied Amity. "We must mark them with your name, as they are your own present."

"I suppose her father gave her the money," said Matilda in a loud whisper to one of the other girls. "It is easy to make presents at that rate."

"No, I bought them with my very own money," said Mary, overhearing the whisper. In fact, the handkerchiefs had come out of the price of Flora Arabella.

"Now, Julia," said Amity.

"I have finished the night-gown," said Julia shortly. And she laid it on the table.

"And very nicely too," remarked Amity as she looked it over. "What neat button-holes! Will you take another to make?"

"Yes, I suppose so, if the rest do," was the ungracious answer.

"There is mine," said Matilda, throwing the garment on the table. "'Tain't fussed up with lace and fancy-work, but I guess it will do for poor folks. It is the first time I ever heard of giving lace and cambric handkerchiefs to beggars."

"What do you mean, Matilda?" asked Miss Ackerman, who had been detained by company, and entered the room in time to hear Matilda's remark. "Who are the beggars?"

"Why, these missionary folks. I say I don't see the sense of sending them such fine things. Why, our church, where we lived before, sent a box, and there wasn't one new thing in it. * Mrs. Benson had an old alpaca frock she was going to cut up for carpet-rags, but she put it in the box instead, because she said it wasn't hardly strong enough to do much good in the carpet. I was going to give one of my old frocks, but I don't think it would do very well to go with all these fine things."

* A fact, I regret to say.

"That is easy to decide, Matilda. If the frock in question is one you would like to have any one give you under the same circumstances, or if you would not hesitate about wearing it yourself, you need not be afraid to send it. But, putting any feeling aside, you must see that it would be a waste of money to pay express charges all the way to Dakota on what would be only fit for carpet-rags when it got there."

"There would be a great deal more merit in giving something that one wanted one's self, wouldn't there, Miss Ackerman?" said Phebe Goodman, a quiet, unassuming girl who had lately joined the class.

"As to that, Phebe, I think we may put merit out of the question."

"I don't quite understand," said Phebe.

"I will try to explain what I mean," returned Miss Ackerman. "Suppose I tell you a story to illustrate it?"

"Oh do, please, Miss Ackerman," said several voices together.

"There was once a young man, whom we will call Philip," began Miss Ackerman. "He belonged to a good family, to begin with, but by his own folly and wickedness he had sunk from one degree of misery to another till he had made himself liable to the law, and he was at last taken up and thrown into prison. He had lost his friends by his misconduct, ruined his health by dissipation, and he had no prospect before him but that of lingering out his life in miserable and hopeless captivity.

"Under these circumstances, however, an unexpected friend appeared for him. Philip, as I said, was of good, family—in fact, he was allied to the blood royal—and had at first, before he fell into evil courses, borne a strong resemblance to the king. The crown prince, hearing of Philip's sad state, took compassion on the poor prisoner and paid in his own person the enormous debt he had contracted, and which Philip could never have hoped to discharge. Nor was he content with this. He took Philip out of prison, cured his diseases, washed off the defilements he had contracted, and clothed him in new and clean garments from head to foot. Neither did he stop here. He set Philip up in a good way of business, employing him about his own affairs, and from time to time gave him what money he needed to carry on his work.

"At first, Philip was overflowing with gratitude, and could not do enough for his benefactor or say enough in his praise. But as time went on, the memory of his past troubles became fainter, and he began to look on and use the means put into his hands as if they were his own.

"One day the prince came to him on a matter of business.

"'Philip,' said he, 'there's a man in the next town who was taken from just such misery as you were, and has been ever since employed in doing my work among the unfortunate, and teaching them to whom they may apply for liberation. Spending all his time in this way, he has neither leisure nor opportunity to accumulate wealth, and both he and his family are suffering for the necessaries of life. I wish you to supply his needs out of the means I have given you that he may go on doing my work among the poor and afflicted.'

"Having delivered this command, the prince withdrew.

"The time had been when Philip would have received this command as a proof of the favor of his beloved friend and prince, and would have hastened to lay at his feet the best treasure in his possession. But times were changed. The memory of his old lost and ruined state had in a good measure faded away. He had learned to look on the treasure he possessed as his own, and he hated to part with it. He was very busy too—so busy that even when the subjects of the prince were called together to meet their lord and lay their wants before him, he could not always find time to go; and as for inquiring out those who were sick and in prison, and directing them to the only source of help, it was a long time since he had thought of doing any more in that line than just asking the prince in the most general way to have mercy on them.

"Philip went into his wardrobe and began looking over his garments. He had plenty of clothes, new and old, and he laid them out and inspected them one by one. Some he thought were quite too good for the purpose, and these he put away again. He stood for some time balancing between two overcoats—one pretty good, the other old and thin and soiled.

"'I might wear this one a good many times,' he said to himself; 'it would do me good service on rainy days; but, after all, I will send it. There will be more merit in sending something which I could use myself.'

"Philip felt very virtuous as he laid aside the overcoat, but his face fell as he looked up and met the stern glance of his prince.

"'Philip,' said the prince, 'who gave you all these things?'

"'You, my lord,' faltered Philip.

"'Yes, that is true,' said the prince. 'It was I who rescued you from prison and death, who set you up in business, and supplied you with means to carry it on. All you have is mine, and I could rightfully resume it all. Is not that true?'

"'Yes, my lord,' answered Philip. 'I have nothing that I did not receive.'

"'Why, then, do you boast as if you had not received it?' asked the prince. 'You confess that yourself and all you have are rightfully mine, and yet when I ask you to give me a small portion, you hesitate and talk of merit in giving one thing more than another. Wherein lies the merit of giving me back my own?'

"Philip saw his error. He fell at his master's feet, confessed his sin, and begged for forgiveness.

"The prince was graciously pleased to pardon him, and as a mark of his favor, he allowed Philip not only to help the man of whom he had told him, but to be himself the means of releasing several prisoners.—That is the end of my little allegory. Do you understand it, Phebe?"

"I think I do," answered Phebe. "The Prince is our Lord Jesus Christ, and Philip is a sinner that he has saved."

"And the other man is a missionary or preacher like Mr. Swift," said Mary Edgar.

"Exactly; and so long as he devotes his whole time and labor to bringing souls to Christ, his fellow-disciples owe it to their common Master to see that he does not want for what he needs. And when we supply his wants we are only giving that Master back a little of his own."

"According to that, there is no merit in anything," remarked Matilda.

"No, if by merit you mean deserving anything of God by what we do."

"'Ye are not your own, for ye are bought with a price' (1 Cor, vi. 19, 20)," said Eunice. "And if we ourselves are not our own, we can't call anything else our own."

"Exactly. St. Paul praises the Corinthians because when they contributed to the needs of the saints, they first gave their own selves to the Lord. 2 Cor. viii. 5."

"Well, I don't like that notion, I must say," remarked Matilda, who possessed an outspoken frankness which made Miss Ackerman more hopeful of her than she would otherwise have been. "I don't like the idea that one can't do anything that has any merit in it. I like to be somebody, for my part. That notion just makes us all beggars together."

"Exactly," said Miss Ackerman, smiling—"one as much as another—all lost sinners together, helpless and hopeless, unless the Prince takes pity on us and lets us out of prison."

"I don't see why we should complain of that, so long as the Prince stands ready to help us whenever we ask him," said Eunice.

"I suppose you think he has helped you?" remarked Matilda—not scornfully this time, but rather curiously.

"I know it," replied Eunice, coloring high.

"Well, I guess you're right," said Matilda good-naturedly. "I think you're a pretty good girl, and I'm sorry I have hurt your feelings; so, there!"

"I don't know that you ever have," replied Eunice.

"Well, I meant to.—But, Miss Ackerman, now just suppose there was a poor person who wanted to give something and she hadn't anything but what was old, oughtn't she to give it?"

"Certainly, my dear. Let the rich give according to their abundance and the poor according to their poverty. As to the quality of what is given, the rule of doing as we would be done by is a good one. Let us remember that those to whom we are sending are children of our Father, and then we shall not go far wrong."

"I expect Anita likes lace on her skirts, so she thought she would put some on Ethelind's," remarked Matilda.

"No, I do not care greatly for such things, though I do like to—to construct them," replied Anita. "But I thought this little lady is poor and cannot have many pretty things; she will be pleased to see this lace, which will also show her that some one has taken thought for her tastes."

"Exactly so," said Percy.

"But don't you really care for fine things—lace and such?" asked one of the girls.

"No, not very much."

"I dare say you would if you couldn't them," remarked Matilda. "It is very easy to be economical when one's folks are as rich as Crœsus," (Matilda pronounced the monarch's name Greases), "and one can have all one wants."

Anita smiled: "It may be that you are right, Matilda; we have a proverb in the Spanish that 'it is easy to walk when you lead your horse by the bridle.'"

"But now about the missionaries, Miss Ackerman," said Matilda. "You said we would talk about that—what I said, you know." And Matilda blushed a little.

"Oh yes," replied Miss Ackerman. "You mean the statement that 'every sixpence given to the heathen takes a dollar to send it.' It is a statement which is altogether improbable on its face, and has been disproved over and over again, and yet people go on repeating it. The fact is, that, as a general thing, not more than five and a half per cent. of the money contributed for missions is used up in necessary expenses. In some cases, the proportion may be more, but I can safely say that the business of the mission-boards in general is as carefully and economically managed as any in the world."

"And do you think they really do so much good? Foreign missions, I mean," asked Matilda.

"We will reserve that question for another meeting," said Miss Ackerman. "Meantime, Matilda, I am very glad to see you interested in the subject of missions."

"Well, I am interested," said Matilda. "I never cared a pin before, but, somehow, working for this little Ethelind makes things more real to me. I seem to realize that the folks are real folks and the places real places, and not just names in the geography-book."

"Exactly so," replied Miss Ackerman. "That is one use of missionary-boxes."

"But don't you think it would be a great deal better, Cousin Margaret, if the missionaries were paid salaries large enough to enable them to buy things for themselves?" asked Percy.

"In some ways undoubtedly it would be better, but I think the boxes have their uses too, besides the comfort they bring to the missionary families. For one thing, as Matilda just said, they wake up a living interest in the subject. Then, again, they afford opportunities for people to give who have no money to contribute."

"Like me," said Eunice.

"Exactly; and people who are much poorer than you."

"There is another thing," remarked Percy. "Missionaries are often stationed where money is of very little real use to them, just as army officers are. I know very well what it is to be not only 'twelve miles from a lemon,' but a hundred miles from a hair-pin. When I was at Round Springs, the school-girls sent a box to an old gentleman up in Maine almost on the borders of Canada. He had a wife, a widowed daughter, and a little grandchild eight years old. The girls in our corner—that is, Blandine, Jenny, and myself—got a good substantial work-box and filled it full of sewing-materials and little things of that sort—tape, needles, pins, buttons, thread and silk, bodkins, and the like. The school had a very nice letter in return, and the old lady spoke particularly about the work-box. She said she often found it difficult to get a spool of thread she could use."

"What did they send the little girl?" asked Mary Edgar, very much interested.

"Oh, all sorts of nice things—clothes, and books, and so on. Then the little girls in the Kindergarten bought a doll and made up quite a wonderful wardrobe for it."

"What did they make?" asked Mary.

"More things than I can tell you—a wrapper, and a travelling dress, and a silk dress, and underclothes without number—or rather unnumbered. Mrs. Hermans, the housekeeper, helped them, and really I never saw anything prettier. I wish I could have seen the little girl when she saw the box opened."

Mary's eyes sparkled and her face dimpled with smiles as she said to herself; "I know what I mean to do."

"And now, as you have all been sewing steadily for more than two hours, I move that the work be laid aside and we take a little exercise in the garden," said Mrs. Ackerman.—"By the way, Eunice, have you used all your yarn?"

"Nearly all, ma'am. I might have enough for a pair of stockings for a child two years old, but I think it doubtful. These long stockings use up a good deal of yarn."

"I know. I asked because I mean to have some more for you. And while I think of it, I will say that when this box is done with, I should like you to knit three or four pairs of baby-socks for a present. I will pay you whatever Mrs. Ray says is right."

As they were going into the garden, Anita took Eunice aside.

"You spoke of learning to do this Mexican work," said she. "There is a lady in New York—oh she is very rich and expends much money—whose daughter is to be married. She told my mother she would give almost any price to a person who could work for her some of this trimming. Now, I could soon teach you the stitch, for it is in truth very simple, and then, if it please you, I could get you some work from this lady, who visits often at our house. I hope that it is not a liberty for me to say this," added Anita with a little anxiety; "I would not hurt you for the world."

"No indeed; I am ever so much obliged to you," replied Eunice. "But it will be giving you a great deal of trouble, Anita."

"Oh no, it is no trouble. I like the work, and I like you, Eunice. I think we should be great friends if we were more acquainted."

"And I am sure I like you," returned Eunice, kissing Anita. "I did the first minute I saw you."

"And will you do me one favor, Eunice? You know about wool and yarn and such things. Would you select for me some wool at Mrs. Ray's suitable to crochet a—I know not the word—like that pretty thing Miss Ackerman wears on her head?"

"'A fascinator,' they call it."

"That is an odd name—'a fascinator.' And will you teach the way to make one?"

"Certainly I will, with all the pleasure in the world. I am glad I can do anything for you."

"Then that is settled. When will you come and spend the afternoon?"

"Next Friday, if that will suit you. And I will buy the wool and bring it up with me. What shall I want for my work?"

"Only a ball of lace-thread and a bit of rather coarse linen—a little worn is best to learn on. But you need not trouble to bring it; I have abundance. Ask Mrs. Ray to add the wool to mamma's account."