In her darkness she felt gropingly, feebly, for the old paths, and thegood Spirit was all the time leading her back to the light. I can notretrace for you all the way that she came. I only know that gradually,surely, the night wore away, and the Sun of peace shone upon her soul.She went to the church, where the song had that night staid herfootsteps, and listened to the words of life.
Her life became a blessing; for her nature was broadened, deepened andpurified. The sick and needy learned to be glad at her coming, andlittle children ran to meet her.
And did Bessie Lane ever come again?
Yes, when June smiled upon the earth, the childish figure once morepaused at the gate, but the blue eyes gazed bewildered around. "Thisisn't the place. Aunt Ruth must have moved away." Well might she thinkso; the house was neatly painted, the yard fence repaired, and up anddown the path all sorts of flowers were blooming. Just then Bessiedescried a neatly dressed old lady tying up some vines.
"Aunt Ruth must have moved away."]
"Bessie sprang into the woman's arms."]
"Can you tell me where Aunt Ruth Jones has gone that used to"--Bessiestopped, and with one bound sprang into the woman's arms, for it wasAunt Ruth herself.
"It is so beautiful here! how did it all happen?" cried the delightedchild.
Aunt Ruth smiled brightly, and, taking Bessie by the hand, passed intothe neat, cheerful room, and up to the south window, where the carefullytended rose was putting forth beauty and fragrance.
Bessie fairly danced with delight at sight of the rose, but Aunt Ruthseated the child gently by her side, and told how it had happened; howthe little flower had at first whispered to her heart of the long ago;of the holy song that would not let her sleep; and, lastly, of God'sgood Spirit that had so tenderly led her straying steps to the sun-giltpath of peace.
A STORY FOR SCHOOL GIRLS
It was recess at Miss Capron's school. The girls stood together in onelarge group, talking very earnestly.
"I think it was a shame," said Marcia Lewis, "for her to make me facethe corner for an hour, just because I spoke half a dozen words toNellie Jones."
"I think so, too," chimed in a half a dozen other voices.
"She delights in showing her authority," said Lottie Barnes.
"So she does, or she wouldn't have kept Anna Mory and me on therecitation seat, for missing one or two questions in arithmetic."
"Don't you think she is dreadfully cross? I guess if we should try tokeep account of all her cross words and looks, we would have to bepretty busy."
"Wouldn't that be a nice idea? Let us make a mark on our slates everytime she is cross, and see what a long string of marks we shall get."
"Oh yes! let's do it! Yes! yes!" chimed in a dozen voices in fullchorus.
Poor Miss Capron! With a sinking at her heart she saw the unloving looksin her scholars' faces as they entered the schoolroom after this stormyconsultation. She had a severe headache that afternoon, so that,altogether, she did not wear nearly so smiling a face as usual; and thegirls, prejudiced as they were, found ample occasion for setting downtheir cross-marks.
Pretty soon Lottie Barnes held up her slate to view, displaying a longrow of marks. Anna Mory imitated her example; then Lottie Jones; and inless than two minutes the whole school followed suit. This, of course,called for a reprimand from Miss Capron; and then there was a terribleclicking of pencils. Soon Marcia Lewis dropped her slate on the floor,and the next instant every slate was on the floor.
"Girls! girls!" said Miss Capron sternly; "you seem to have bandedyourselves together to trample on the rules of order. I shall proceed nofurther with recitations until you have become quiet and orderly."
But even this seemed to fail of producing the desired result. The girlswere quiet only a few minutes. Nellie Jones remembered that she had inher pocket a bottle of snuff for her grandmother, and in ten minutes theschoolroom was resounding with sneezes. Next, little paper balls beganto fly mysteriously from all sides, and every girl appeared intent uponher lesson. Presently, a half-suppressed titter from Marcia Lewisawakened an answering one from Mattie Lee, and one after another joined,until at length there was an almost deafening peal of laughter.
"The very spirit of mischief seems to have made headquarters here thisafternoon," said Miss Capron. "It is useless to try to proceed withrecitations, while my whole attention is needed to keep you in order. Iwill give you another recess of fifteen minutes, and if you do notsucceed in getting rid of your excess of fun and frolic, I shall takevery prompt and decisive measures to help you."
The girls felt some little twinges of conscience, but, after all, werequite delighted with the success of their experiment.
"I tell you what it is," said Marcia Lewis, "Miss Capron has no businessto be so awful cross. Only think what a sight of marks we got. Let's actjust as bad when we go into school again, and she will have to dismissus, and then we'll all go down to the falls and have a nice time."
"Would'nt it be grand," said Nellie Jones.
"Splendid," replied Mattie Lee.
"Why! what is the matter?" said Mary Paine, who had been absent fromschool during the day until then and was surprised to find her usuallypleasant companions so excited. When she had heard the whole story, shelooked very sad:--
"Poor Miss Capron! How could you treat her so!"
"It is just what she deserves for being so cross," said Lottie Barnes.
"Oh, you have been looking at the wrong side, girls. I have heard astory of a lady who began to find faults in her son's wife. The more shelooked for them, the more she found, until she began to think herdaughter-in-law the most disagreeable person in the world. She used totalk of her failings to a very dear friend.
"Finally, her friend said to her one day, 'No doubt Jane has her faults,and very disagreeable ones, but suppose for awhile you try to see whatgood qualities you can discover in her character. Really, I am verycurious to know.'
"The good lady was a little offended at her friend's plain suggestion;but finally concluded to try it; and long before she had discovered halfher good traits, she began to regard Jane as a perfect treasure. Now youhave been doing just as this lady did, in looking for faults. Let us belike her the rest of the afternoon in looking for pleasant things. Letus see how many smiles we can get from Miss Capron."
Mary Paine was one of the oldest girls in the school. She gave the girlssubjects for their compositions and helped them out of all theirtroubles. So being a favorite they consented, half reluctantly, to do asshe said.
Miss Capron dreaded to ring the bell. The fifteen minutes passed, andshe felt compelled to call her scholars. They entered in perfect order.
"She felt compelled to call her scholars."]
Each took her seat quietly and began studying in real earnest.Frequently, however, a pleasant smile would seek an answering one fromthe teacher, and then one would be added to the rapidly increasing rowof smile-marks. The good order and close application to study, and thewinning looks, soon caused a continual smile to lighten Miss Capron'sface, till the girls finally rubbed out the marks, saying it was of nouse to try to keep account.
Marcia Lewis wrote on her slate, "It's smile all the time."
Before Miss Capron dismissed the school at night, she said:--
"My head ached sadly before recess, and I fear I was impatient with you.Your good conduct since has convinced me that I must have been in fault.I thank you, my dear girls, for your love and kindness, and hope youwill forgive my faults as freely as I do yours. School is dismissed."
Instantly she was surrounded by all the girls and showered with kisses.
"We have been very wicked," said Marcia Lewis, "and it is not your faultat all."
Little Libbie Denny then related the whole story of the conspiracy, andwhen she told the part that Mary Paine had taken, Miss Capron put herarm about Mary, and kissing her, said, "Blessed are the peacemakers, forthey shall be called the children of God."
"Well, my dears," she added, "which was bes
t, looking for frowns or forsmiles?"
"O, the smiles," said they all together.
"I wish you might learn a lesson from this, to remember all through yourlives. Overlook the bad and seek for what is good in everybody; and soyou will help to make both yourselves and others happier and better.What is the lesson, girls?"
And each voice responded, "We will overlook the bad, and seek only forwhat is good in those around us."
WHAT ONE LIE DID
It was winter twilight. Shadows played about the room, while the ruddylight flickered pleasantly between the ancient andirons.
A venerable old lady, whose hair time had silvered, but whose heart hehad left fresh and young, sat musing in an armchair, drawn up closely bythe fireside. Suddenly the door opened, and a little girl hurried to herside.
"Well, Bessie," said the old lady, laying her hand lovingly on thechild's sunny ringlets, "have you had a good slide?"
"Beautiful, Aunt Ruth; and now won't you tell me one of your nicestories?"
Bessie was an only child, whose mother had just died. The little girlhad come to visit her aunt, who had learned to love her dearly becauseof her winning ways and affectionate disposition.
But Aunt Ruth's eyes were of the clear sort, and she soon discoveredthat Bessie was not only careless about telling the truth, but that shedisplayed little sensitiveness when detected in a falsehood.
_The Spelling Class_]
Now, if there was any one trait for which Aunt Ruth was particularlydistinguished, it was her unswerving truthfulness; and if there wasany one thing that annoyed her more than all others, it was anythinglike falsehood.
"A liar shall not stand in my sight," was the language of her heart, andso she determined, with the help of God, to root out from her darling'scharacter the noxious weed, whatever effort it might cost her. Of thisshe had been musing, and her resolve was formed.
"Get your rocking-chair, dear, and come close beside me;" and in amoment the child's blue eyes were upturned to hers.
"I am old now, Bessie," and she tenderly stroked that fair brow, "and mymemory is failing. But I can recall the time when I was a littledancing, sunny-haired girl, like you. You open your eyes wonderingly,but, if your life is spared, before you know it, child, you will be anold lady like Aunt Ruth.
"In those young days I was in a spelling-class, at school, with a littlegirl named Amy, a sweet-tempered, sensitive child, and a very goodscholar. She seemed disposed to cling to me, and I could not well resisther loving friendship. Yet I did not quite like her, because she oftenwent above me in the class, when, but for her, I should have stood atthe head.
"Poor Amy could not account for my occasional coolness, for I was tooproud to let her know the reason. I had been a truthful child, Bessie,but envy tempted me, and I yielded. I sometimes tried to prejudice theother girls against Amy, and this was the beginning of my deceit. Shewas too timid to defend herself, and so I usually carried my point.
"One day our teacher gave out to us the word, _believe_. In her usuallow voice, Amy spelt _'b-e-l-i-e-v-e, believe.'_ Her teachermisunderstanding her said, quickly, 'Wrong--the next;' but turning toher again, asked, 'Did you not spell it _l-e-i-v-e?'_
"'No ma'am, I said _l-i-e-v-e_,'
"Miss R----, still in doubt, looking at me, inquired, 'You heard, Ruth;how was it?'
"A wicked thought occurred to me,--to disgrace her, and raise myself.Deliberately I uttered a gross falsehood, 'Amy said _l-e-i-v-e_,'
"The teacher turned toward Amy, who stood, silent, distressed andconfounded by my accusation. Her flushed face and streaming eyes gaveher the appearance of guilt.
"'Amy,' said her teacher sternly, 'I did not expect a lie from you. Go,now, to the foot of the class, and remember to remain after school.'
"I had triumphed, Bessie; Amy was disgraced, and I stood proudly at thehead of my class, but I was not happy.
"When school was dismissed, I pretended to have lost something, andlingered in the hall. I heard the teacher say,--
"'Amy, come here,' and then I caught the light footsteps of the gentlechild.
"'How could you tell that lie?'
"'Miss R--- I did not tell a lie,' but even as she denied it, I couldsee through the keyhole that in her grief at the charge, and her dreadof punishment, she stood trembling like a culprit.
"'Hold out your hand.'
"There I stood, as if spellbound. Stroke after stroke of the hard feruleI heard fall upon the small white hand of the innocent child. You maywell hide your eyes from me, Bessie. Oh, why did I not speak? Everystroke went to my heart, but I would not confess my sin, and so I stolesoftly from the door.
_"Miss R--- I did not tell a lie."_]
"As I lingered on the way, Amy walked slowly along, with her books inone hand, while with the other she kept wiping away the tears, whichwould not yet cease to flow. Her sobs, seeming to come from a breakingheart, sank deep into my own.
"As she walked on, weeping, her foot stumbled, and she fell, and herbooks were scattered on the ground. I picked them up and handed them toher. Turning toward me her soft blue eyes swimming in tears, in thesweetest tones, she said,--
"'I thank you, Ruth.'
"It made my guilty heart beat faster, but I would not speak; so we wenton silently together.
"When I reached home, I said to myself, 'what is the use, nobody knowsit, and why should I be so miserable?' I resolved to throw off the hatedburden, and, going into the pleasant parlor, I talked and laughed as ifnothing were the matter. But the load on my poor heart only grew theheavier.
"I needed no one, Bessie, to reprove me for my cruel sin. The eye of Godseemed consuming me. But the worse I felt, the gayer I seemed; and morethan once I was checked for my boisterous mirth, while tears werestruggling to escape.
"At length I went to my room. I could not pray, and so hurrying to bed,I resolutely shut my eyes. But sleep would not come to me. The tickingof the old clock in the hall seemed every moment to grow louder, as ifreproaching me; and when it slowly told the hour of midnight, it smoteupon my ear like a knell.
"I turned and turned upon my little pillow, but it was filled withthorns. Those sweet blue eyes, swimming in tears, were ever before me;the repeated strokes of the hard ferule kept sounding in my ears. Atlength, unable to endure it longer I left my bed, and sat down by thewindow. The noble elms stood peacefully in the moonlight, the penciledshadow of their spreading branches lying tremulously on the ground.
"The white fence, the graveled walks, the perfect quietness in whicheverything was wrapped, seemed to mock my restlessness, while the solemnmidnight sky filled me with a sense of awe which I never felt before.Ah! Bessie, God was displeased with me, my conscience was burdened anduneasy, and I was wretched.
"As I turned from the window, my eyes rested on the snow-white coverletof my little bed, a birthday gift from my mother. All her patientkindness, rushed upon my mind. I felt her dying hand upon my head. Ilistened once more to her trembling voice, as she fervently besought theblessing of heaven upon me:--
"'Oh, make her a truthful, holy child!'
"I tried to banish from my thoughts this last petition of my dyingmother; but the more resolute was my purpose, the more distinctly didthose pleading tones fall upon my heart, till, bowing upon the window, Iwept convulsively. But tears, Bessie, could give me no relief.
"My agony became every moment more intense, till at length, I rushed,almost in terror, to my father's bedside.
"'Father! father!' but I could say no more. Tenderly putting his armaround me, he laid my throbbing head upon his bosom; and there hegently soothed me, till I could so far control my sobbing, as to explainits cause. Then how fervently did he plead with, heaven, that hissinning child might be forgiven!
"'Dear father,' said I, 'will you go with me to-night to see poor Amy?'
"He answered, 'To-morrow morning, my child.'
"Dear Father, will you go with me to-night to see poorAmy?"]
"Delay was torture; but striving to suppr
ess my disappointment, Ireceived my father's kiss and went back to my room. But slumber stillfled from my weary eyelids.
"My longing to beg Amy's forgiveness amounted to frenzy; and afterwatching for the morning, for what seemed to me hours, my anguish becameso intolerable that I fled once more to my father, and with tearsstreaming down my cheeks, I knelt by his side, beseeching him to go withme to Amy that moment; adding, in a whisper, 'She may die before shehas forgiven me.' He laid his hand upon my burning cheek, and after amoment's thought, replied,
"'I will go with you, my child.'
"In a few moments we were on our way. As we approached Mrs. Sinclair'scottage, we perceived lights hurrying from one room to another.Shuddering with dread, I drew closer to my father. He softly opened thegate, and silently we passed through it.
"The doctor, who was just leaving the door, seemed greatly surprised tomeet us there at that hour. Words cannot describe my feelings, when inanswer to my father's inquiries, he told us that Amy was sick with brainfever.
"'Her mother tells me,' he continued, 'that she has not been well forseveral days, but that she was unwilling to remain from school. She camehome yesterday afternoon, it seems, very unlike herself. She took nosupper, but sat at the table silently, as if stupefied with grief.
"'Her mother tried every way to find out the cause of her sorrow; but invain. She went to bed with the same heart-broken appearance, and in lessthan an hour, I was summoned. In her delirium she has been calling uponher dear Ruth, beseeching you with the most mournful earnestness to pityand to save her.'