Nine Little Goslings

  MISTRESS MARY.

  IT was the first of May; but May was in an April mood,--half cloudy,half shiny,--and belied her name. Sprinkles of silvery rain dotted theway-side dust; flashes of sun caught the drops as they fell, and turnedeach into a tiny mirror fit for fairy faces. The trees were raining too,showers of willow-catkins and cherry-bud calyxes, which fell noiselesslyand strewed the ground. The children kicked the soft brown drifts asidewith their feet as they walked along.

  The doors of the Methodist meeting-house at Valley Hill stood open, andcrowds of men and women and children were going into them. It was notSunday which called the people together: it was the annual Conferencemeeting; and all the country round was there to hear the reports andlearn where the ministers were to be sent for the next two years.Methodist clergymen, you know, are not "called" by the people of theparish, as other clergymen are. They go where the church sends them, andevery second year they are all changed to other parishes. This, it isthought, keeps the people and pastors fresh and interested in eachother. But I don't know. Human beings, as well as vegetables, have atrick of putting down roots; and even a cabbage or a potato would resentsuch transplanting, and would refuse to thrive.

  Sometimes, when a parish has become attached to its minister, it willplead to have him stay longer. Now and then this request is granted;but, as a rule, the minister has to go. And it is a hard rule for hiswife and children, who have to go too.

  The Valley Hill people "thought a heap" of their minister, Mr. Forcythe,and had begged hard that he might stay with them for another term.Everybody belonging to the church had come to the meeting feelinganxious, and yet pretty certain that the answer would be favorable. Allover the building, people were whispering about the matter, and headswere nodding and bowing. The bonnets on these heads were curiouslyalike. Mrs. Perry, the village milliner, never had more than one patternhat. "That is what is worn," she said; and nobody disputed the fact,which saved Mrs. Perry trouble. The Valley Hill people liked it just aswell, and didn't mind the lack of variety. This year Mrs. Perry hadannounced yellow to be the fashion, so nine out of ten of the hatspresent were trimmed with yellow ribbon crossed in just the same wayover a yellow straw crown; and the church looked like a bed of sisterlytulips nodding and bowing in the wind.

  Bishop Judson was the person to read the announcements. He was a niceold man, kind at heart, though formal in manner, and anxious eyes werefixed on him as he got up with a paper in his hand. That importantlittle paper held comfort or discomfort for ever so many people. Everyone bent forward to listen. It was so still all over the church that youmight have heard a pin drop. The Bishop began with a little speech aboutthe virtues of patience and contentment, and how important it was thateverybody should be quite satisfied whatever happened to them. Then heopened the paper.

  "Brother Johnson, Middlebury," he read. Middlebury was a favoriteparish, so Brother Johnson looked pleased, and Sister Johnson wascongratulated by the friends who sat near her. "Brother Woodward, LittleFalls; Brother Ashe, Plunxet; Brother Allen, Claxton Corners." And soon. Some faces grew bright, some sad, as the reading proceeded. At last"Brother Forcythe, Redding; Brother Martin, Valley Hill," was announced.A quiver of disappointment went over the church, and a little girlsitting in the gallery began to cry.

  "My dear, my dear," whispered her mother, much distressed at her sobsand gulps. People looked up from below; but Mary could not stop. Shetook her mother's handkerchief and held it tight over her mouth; but thesobs would come. Her heart was half-broken at the idea of leaving ValleyHill and going to that horrid Redding, where nobody wanted to go.

  Old Mrs. Clapp, from behind, reached over and gave her a bunch offennel. But the fennel only made Mary cry harder. In Redding, she wassure, would be no kind Mrs. Clapp, no "meeting-house seed;" and her sobsgrew thicker at the thought.

  "I observe that your little daughter seems to be distressed," saidBishop Judson, as Mrs. Forcythe led the sobbing Mary down from thegallery at the end of service. "Children of her age form strongattachments to places, I am aware. But it is well to break them beforethey become unduly strong. Here we have no continuing city, you know."

  "Yes," said poor Mrs. Forcythe, with a meek sigh. She had been marriedfourteen years, and this was her seventh move.

  "Redding--hum--is a desirable place in some respects," went on theBishop. "There is a great work to do there,--a great work. It requires aman of Brother Forcythe's energy to meet it. Mistress Mary here willdoubtless find consolation in the thought that her father's sphere ofusefulness is--h'm--enlarged."

  "But we shan't have any garden," faltered Mary, "Tilly Brooks, who wasthere before, says it isn't a bit nice. She never saw a flower all thetime she was there, she said. I'd just planted my bed in the gardenhere. Mrs. Clapp gave me six pansies, and it was going to be so pretty.Now I've got to--leave--'em." Her voice died away into sobs.

  "Tut, tut!" said the Bishop. "The customs of a church cannot be setaside to accommodate a child's flower-bed. You'll find other things toplease you in Redding, Mistress Mary. Come, come, dry your eyes. Yourfather's daughter should not set an example like this."

  "No, sir," gulped Mary, mortified at this reproof from the Bishop, whowas an important person, and much looked up to. She did her best to stopcrying, but it was hard work. When they reached home, the sight of thepansies perking their yellow and purple faces up to meet her, renewedher grief. There was her mignonette seed not yet sprouted. If she hadknown that they were going away, she would not have planted any. There,worst of all, was the corner where she had planned such a nice surprisefor her mother,--"A. F." in green parsley letters. A. F. stood for AnneForcythe. Now, mother would never see the letters or know any thingabout it. Oh dear, oh dear!

  Mrs. Forcythe's own disappointment was great, for they had all made surethat they should stay. But, like a true mother, she put her share of thegrief aside, and thought only of comforting Mary.

  "Don't feel so badly, dear," she said. "Recollect, you'll have Papastill, and me and Frank and little Peter. We'll manage to be happysomehow. Redding isn't half so disagreeable as you think."

  "Yes, it is. Tilly said so. I was going to have radishes and arose-bush," replied Mary tearfully. "There's a robin just building inthe elm-tree now. There won't be any trees in Redding; only horrid hardcobble-stones."

  "We must hope for the best," said Mrs. Forcythe, who did not enjoy theidea of the cobble-stones any more than Mary did.

  "Only ten days more at Valley Hill," was the first thought that cameinto Mary's mind the next morning. She went downstairs cross and out ofspirits. Her mother was laying sheets and table-cloths in a trunk. Thebooks were gone from the little book-shelf; every thing had alreadybegun to look unsettled and uncomfortable.

  "I shall depend on you to take care of little Peter," said Mrs.Forcythe. "We shall all have to work hard if we are to get off nextMonday week."

  Mary gave an impatient shrug with her shoulders. She loved little Peter,but it seemed an injury just then to have to take care of him. All thetime that her mother was sorting, counting, and arranging where thingsshould go, she sat in the window sullen and unhappy, looking out at thepansy-bed. Peter grew tired of a companion who did nothing to amuse him,and began to sprawl and scramble upstairs.

  "O baby, come back!" cried Mary, and, I am sorry to say, gave him ashake. Peter cried, and that brought poor weary Mrs. Forcythedownstairs.

  "Can't you manage to make him happy?" she said. Mary only pouted.

  All that day and the next and the next it was the same. Mrs. Forcythewas busy every moment. There were a thousand things to do, anotherthousand to remember. People kept coming in to say good-by. Peterwandered out on the door-steps when Mary's back was turned, took cold,and was threatened with croup. Mrs. Forcythe was half sick herself fromworry and fatigue. And all this time Mary, instead of helping, was oneof her mother's chief anxieties. She fretted and complained continually.Every thing went wrong. Each article put into the boxes cost her a floodof tears. Each friend who
dropped in, renewed the sense of loss. Shescarcely noticed her mother's pale face at all. All the brightness andbusy-ness in her was changed for selfish lamentations, and still theburden of her complaint was, "I shan't have any flowers in Redding. Mygarden, oh, my garden."

  "I don't know what's come to her," said poor Mrs. Forcythe. "She's notlike the same child at all." And old Mrs. Clapp, who had been very fondof Mary, declared that she never knew a girl so altered.

  "She's the most _contrary_ piece you ever saw," she said to herdaughter. "I could have given her a right-down good slap just now forthe way she spoke to her mother. It's all her fault that the baby tookcold. She don't lift a hand to help, and I expect as sure as Fate thatwe'll have Mrs. Forcythe sick before we get through. I wouldn't havebelieved that such a likely girl as Mary Forcythe could act so."

  Poor "contrary" Mary! She was very unhappy. The fatal last morning came.All the boxes were packed. The drays, laden with furniture and beds,stood at the gate. Mrs. Clapp, and Mrs. Elder, the class-leader, weregoing over the house collecting last things and doing last jobs. Marywandered out alone into the garden for a farewell look at her pets.

  "Good-by, pansies," she said, bending over them. There were only five inthe bed now, for Mary had taken up one and packed it in paper to carrywith her. A big tear hopped down her nose and splashed into the middleof the yellow pansy, her favorite of all. It turned up its brightkitten-face just the same. None of them minded Mary's going away.Flowers are sometimes so unkind to people.

  "Good-by, rose-bush," proceeded Mary, turning from the pansy-bed."Good-by, honey-suckle. Good-by, peony. Good-by, matter-i-mony." Thissounds funny, but Mary only meant by it a vine with a small purpleflower which grew over the back-door. "Good-by, lilac," she went on."Good-by, grass plot." This brought her to the gate. The wagon stoodwaiting to carry them to the railroad, three miles away. Mrs. Forcythe,with the baby in her arms, was just getting in. "Hurry, Mary," calledher father. Slowly she opened the gate, slowly shut it. Her fatherhelped her over the wheel. She sat down beside Frank. Mrs. Clapp wavedher handkerchief, then put it to her eyes. Mary took a long look at thepretty garden just budding with spring, and burst into tears. Mr.Forcythe chirruped to the horse; they were off,--and that was theirgood-by to Valley Hill.

  Redding was certainly very different. It was an old-fashioned town withnarrow streets, which smelt of fish. Most of the people were sailors, orhad something to do with ships. There were several nice churches, andoutside the town a few handsome houses, but there were a great many poorpeople in the place and not many rich ones.

  In the very narrowest of all the streets stood the parsonage; a littlebrick house with a paved yard behind, just wide enough forclothes-lines. When the wash was hung out there was not an inch tospare on either side. Mary gave up all hope as soon as she saw it. Therewas not room even for _one_ pansy. The windows looked out on chimneysand roofs and other backyards, with lines of wet clothes flapping in thesun. Not a tree was to be seen. Any one might be excused for thinking itdoleful; and Mary, having made up her mind beforehand to dislike it,found it easy to keep her resolution.

  There was no possibility of getting things to rights that night; thoughseveral people came in to help, and a comfortable supper was readyspread for the travellers on their arrival. Mrs. Forcythe was cheered bythis kindness, but Mary could not be cheerful. She had to sleep upon amattress laid on the floor. At another time this would have been fun,but now it did not seem funny at all; it was only part and parcel of themisery of coming to live in Redding. She cried herself to sleep, andcame down in the morning with swollen eyelids and a disposition to makethe very worst of things,--easy enough for any girl to do if she setsabout it.

  She scarcely thanked her father when he went out and bought a red potfor the unlucky pansy, which, after its travels and its night in brownpaper, looked as disconsolate as Mary herself. "I know it'll die rightaway," she muttered as she set it on the window-sill. "Oh, dear, there'smother calling. What _does_ she want?"

  "Mary, dear," said Mrs. Forcythe when she went down, "where have youbeen? I want you to put away the dishes for me."

  "I'm so tired," objected Mary crossly.

  "Don't you think that mother must be tired too?" asked her fathergravely.

  Mary blushed and began to place the cups and plates on the cupboardshelves. Her slow movements attracted her father's attention.

  "What's the matter?" he said. "At Valley Hill you were as brisk as abee, always wanting to help in every thing. Here you seem unwilling tomove. How is it?"

  "I--don't--like--Redding," broke out Mary in a burst of petulance.

  "You haven't seen it yet."

  "Yes, I have, Papa. I've seen it as much as I want to. It's horrid!"

  "I never knew her to behave so before," said Mr. Forcythe in a perplexedtone, as Mary, having unpacked the dishes, sobbed her way upstairs.

  "She'll brighten when we are settled," replied Mrs. Forcythe, indulgentas mothers are, and ready to hope the best of her child. "Oh, dear!there's the baby waked up. Would you call Mary to go to him?"

  So it went on all that week. Mr. and Mrs. Forcythe were very patientwith Mary, hoping always that this evil mood would pass, and theirbright, helpful little daughter come back to them again. She neverrefused to do any thing that was asked of her; but you know thedifference between willing and unwilling service: Mary just did thetasks set her, no more, and as soon as they were finished fled to herown room to fret and cry. Her father took her out to walk and showed herthe new church, but Mary thought the church ugly, and the outside viewof Redding as unpleasant as the inside one. Dull streets, small houseseverywhere; no gardens, except now and then a single bed, edged with arow of stiff cockle-shells by way of fence, and planted with pertsweet-williams or crown imperials. These Mary thought were worse than noflowers at all. Every thing smelt of fish. The very sea was made ugly bywarehouses and shabby wharves. The people they met were strangers; and,altogether, the effect of Mary's walk was to send her back more homesickthan ever for Valley Hill.

  By Friday night the little parsonage was in order. Mrs. Forcythe was acapital manager. She planned and contrived, turned and twisted and madethings comfortable in a surprising way. But she overtired herselfgreatly in doing this, and on Saturday morning Mary was waked by herfather calling from below that mother was very ill, and she must comedown at once and stay with her while he went for a doctor.

  "Oh, dear!" sighed Mary, as she hurried on her clothes. "Now mother issick. It's all this hateful Redding. She never was sick when we lived inthe country."

  But the hard mood melted the moment she saw her mother's pale face andfeeble smile.

  "I hope I'm not going to be very ill," said Mrs. Forcythe; "probablyit's only that I have tired myself out. You'll have to be 'Mamma' for aday or two, Mary dear. Make Papa as comfortable as you can. See thatFrank has his lunch put up for school, and don't let Peter take cold.Oh, dear!--my head aches so hard that I can't talk. I know you'll doyour best Mary, won't you?"

  Guess how Mary felt at this appeal! All her better nature came back in amoment. She saw how wrong she had been in nursing her selfish griefs,and letting this dear mother over-work herself. "O mother, I will,indeed I will!" she cried, kissing the pale face; and, only waiting todraw the blind so that the sun should not shine in, she flewdownstairs, eager to do all she could to make up for past ill-conduct.

  The Doctor came. He said Mrs. Forcythe was threatened with fever, andmust be kept very quiet for several days. Mary had never in her lifeworked so hard as she did that Saturday. There was breakfast, dinner,supper to get, dishes to wash, water to heat, the fire to tend, rooms todust, beds to make, the baby to keep out of mischief. She was very tiredby night, but her heart felt lighter than it had for many days past. Doyou wonder at this? I can tell you the reason. Mary's troubles wereselfish troubles, and the moment she forgot herself in thinking ofsomebody else, they became small and began to creep away.

  "Pitty, pitty!" said little Peter, as he heard her singin
g over herdish-washing. Mary caught him up and gave him a hearty kiss,--a realValley Hill kiss, such as she had given no one since they came toRedding.

  "Mary is doing famously," Mr. Forcythe told his wife that night. "Shehas a first-rate head on her shoulders for a girl of her age." Maryheard him, and was pleased. She liked--we all like--to be counted usefuland valuable. The bit of praise sent her back to her work with redoubledzeal.

  Next morning Mrs. Forcythe was a little better. Her head ached less; shesat up on her pillows and drank a cup of tea. Mary was smoothing hermother's hair with soft pats of the brush, when suddenly the churchbells began to ring. She had never heard such sounds before. The bell atValley Hill was cracked, and went tang--tang--tang, as if themeeting-house were an old cow walking slowly about. These bells had adozen different voices,--some deep and solemn, others bright and clear,but all beautiful; and across their pealing a soft, delicious chime fromthe tower of the Episcopal church went to and fro, and wove itself inand out like a thread of silver embroidery. Mary dropped the brush, andclasped her hands tight. It was like listening to a song of which shecould not hear enough. When the last tinkle of the chime died away, sheunclasped her hands, and, turning from the window, cried, "O mother!wasn't that lovely? There is _one_ pleasant thing in Redding, afterall!"

  I do not think matters ever seemed so hard again after that morning whenMary made friends with the church bells. It was the beginning of abetter understanding between her and her new home; and there is a greatdeal in beginnings, even though they may work slowly toward their ends.

  By the close of the week Mrs. Forcythe was downstairs again, weak andpale, but able to sit in her chair and direct things, which Mary felt tobe a great comfort. The parishioners began to call. There were no richpeople among them; but it was a hard-working, active parish, and did agreat deal for its means. The Sunday-school was large and flourishing;there was a missionary association, a home missionary association, amite society, and a sewing circle, which met every week to make clothesfor the poor and partake of tea, soda biscuit, and six sorts of cake.Beside these, a new project had just been started, "The Seamen'sDaughters' Industrial Society;" or, in other words, a sewing-school forlittle girls whose fathers were sailors. There were plenty of suchlittle girls in Redding.

  "Your daughter will join, of course," said Mrs. Wallis, when she came tocall on her minister's wife. "It's important that the pastor's familyshould take a part in every good work." Mrs. Wallis was the mostenergetic woman of the congregation,--at the head of every thing.

  "I'm afraid Mary's sewing is not good enough," replied Mrs. Forcythe."She isn't very skilful with her needle yet."

  "Oh! she knows enough to teach those ignorant little creatures. Half ofthem are foreigners, and never touch a needle in their homes. It'severy thing to give them some ideas beyond their own shiftless ways."

  "Would you like to try, Mary?" asked her mother.

  "I--don't--know," replied Mary, afraid to refuse, because Mrs. Wallislooked so sharp and decided.

  "Very well, then I'll call for you on Saturday, at half-past ten," wenton Mrs. Wallis, quite regardless of Mary's hesitating tone. "I'm gladyou'll come. It would never do not to have some of the minister'sfamily. Saturday morning, at half-past ten! Good-by, Mrs. Forcythe.Don't get up; you look peaked still. To-morrow is baking day, and Ishall send you a green-currant pie. Perhaps _that'll_ do you good." Withthese words she departed.

  "Must I really teach in that school?" asked Mary dolefully.

  "I think you'd better. The people expect it, and it will be a good thingfor you to practise sewing a little," replied her mother. "I daresay itwill be pleasanter than you think."

  "It seems so funny that I should be set to teach any one to sew," saidMary, bursting into a laugh. "Don't you recollect how Mrs. Clapp used toscold me, and say I 'gobbled' my darns?"

  "You mustn't 'gobble' before the seamen's daughters," said Mrs.Forcythe, smiling. "It will be a capital lesson for you to try to teachwhat you haven't quite learned yourself."

  Punctual as the clock Mrs. Wallis appeared on Saturday, and bore theunwilling Mary away to the sewing-school. Mrs. Forcythe watched themfrom the window. She couldn't help laughing, their movements were socomically different,--Mrs. Wallis was so brisk and decided, while Marylagged behind, dragging one slow foot after the other as if each momentshe longed to stop and dared not. Very different was her movement,however, two hours later, when she returned. She came with a kind ofburst, her eyes bright with excitement, and her cheeks pinker than theyhad been since she left Valley Hill.

  "O mother, it is _so_ nice! Ever so many children were there,--thirty atleast; and Mrs. Wallis said I might choose any five I liked to be myclass. First, I chose the dearest little Irish girl. Her name is Norah,and she's just as pretty as she can be, only her face was dreadfullydirty, and her clothes all rags. Then her little sister Kathleen criedto come; so I took her too. Then I chose a cunning little German totnamed Gretchen. She has yellow hair, braided in tight little tails downher back, and is a good deal cleaner than the rest, but not very clean,you know; and she hadn't any shoes at all. Then Mrs. Wallis brought upthe funniest little French girl, with a name I can't pronounce. I'mgoing to call her Amy. And the last of all is an American, real pretty.Her name is Rachel Gray. Her father is gone on a whaling voyage, andwon't be back for three years. Don't they sound nice, mother? I think Ishall like teaching them so much!"

  "Do they know any thing about sewing?" asked Mrs. Forcythe.

  "Not a thing. They made dreadful stitches. Kathleen cried because theneedle pricked her, and Rachel wanted to wear the thimble on the wrongfinger. Amy did the best. When they went away they all wanted to kissme, and Norah said she guessed I was the best teacher in the school.Wasn't that cunning? Mrs. Wallis is real kind. She brought ever so muchgingerbread, and gave each of the children a piece."

  "I'm glad it begins so well--"

  "Yes. There's just one thing, though. The children's faces! You can'tthink how dirty they are. I should like to give them a good scrub allround."

  "Well, why don't you?"

  "How can I? There isn't any wash-bowl down at the school-room."

  "If you liked you might have them all come here at ten o'clock, and walkdown with you. Then you could take them up to your room, wash theirfaces and hands, and brush their hair smooth before you start. I reallythink you would enjoy your teaching more if the scholars were clean."

  "May I really do that?"

  "Yes. I'll buy you a fresh cake of soap and a brush, and you can taketwo clean towels from the drawer every Saturday morning. Make it a rule,but be very gentle and pleasant about it or the children may refuse."

  "O mother, what a good plan! Thank you so much," said Mary withsparkling eyes. "Now I shall have real comfort with them."

  There was great excitement in the sewing-class when they were told thatin future they were to go to "Teacher's" house every Saturday, and walkdown to school with her. They were a droll little procession enough whenthey appeared the next week at the appointed time. Norah's toes were outof her shoes. Her tangled curls were as rough as a bird's-nest, and thehat on top of them looked as if it had sailed across every mud-puddle intown. Little Kathleen's scanty garments were rather rags than clothes.And Gretchen, tidiest of all, had smears of sausage on her rosy face,and did not seem to have been brought into contact with soap and waterfor weeks.

  Mary led them up into her own room, which, plain as it was, looked likea palace to the little ones after the dirt and discomfort of theircrowded homes. There were the nice clean towels, the new hair-brush, andthe big cake of honey-soap, mother's contributions to the undertaking.The washing was quite a frolic. Norah cried a little at having her hairpulled, but Mary was gentle and pleasant, and made the affair so amusingthat the children thought it pleasant to be clean, instead of dislikingit. She rewarded their patience by a kiss all round. Kathleen threw herarms about Mary's neck and gave her a great hug. "You're iver so nice,"she said, and Mary kissed her again.
br />   So every Saturday from that time forward, Mary went to school followedby a crowd of clean little faces, which looked all the brighter andhappier for their cleanliness. She was proud of her class, but theirragged clothes distressed her greatly.

  "It is such a pity," she told her mother. "They are so pretty, and theylook like beggars."

  Mrs. Forcythe had only been waiting for this. She was not a woman togive much advice, even to her own child. "Drop in a seed and let itgrow," was her motto.

  "There's that old gingham of yours," she suggested. "You could sparethat for one of them, if there were anybody to make it over."

  "_I'll_ make it!" cried Mary, "only--" her, face falling, "I don't knowhow to cut dresses."

  "I'll cut it for you if you like," said Mrs. Forcythe quietly.

  "Will you, mother dear? How splendid. I'll make it for Norah. She's theraggedest of all."

  The gingham was measured, and proved enough to make frocks for Norahand Kathleen too. Mary had double work to undertake, but her heart wasin her fingers, and they flew fast. It took every spare moment for afortnight to make the frocks, but when they were done and tried on tothe delighted children, they looked so nicely that Mary was rewarded forher trouble and for the many needle-pricks in her forefinger.

  "Only it's such a pity about the others," she told her mother. "They'llthink I'm partial, and I'm not, though I _do_ love Norah a little bitthe best, she's so affectionate. I wish we were rich. Then I could buyfrocks for them all."

  "If you were rich, perhaps you wouldn't care about it," said her mother."A little here and a little there, a stitch, a kind word, a smallself-denial, these are in the power of all of us, and in course of timethey mount up and make a great deal. And, Mary dear, I've always foundif you once start in a path and are determined to keep on, somebody'ssure to come along and lend a helping hand, when you think you have gotto the end of every thing, and must stop or turn back."

  "Well, I've got to the end of every thing now," said Mary. "There aren'tany more old frocks to make over, and we can't afford to buy new ones."

  "Don't be discouraged," said her mother. "The way is sure to opensomehow."

  "How wise mother is," thought Mary, when the very next week on their wayback from school Mrs. Wallis said, "I noticed that two of your scholarshad respectable frocks on to-day. I wonder if their mothers made them?If they did, I've an old chintz dress which I could spare, and perhapsGretchen's mother and Amadine's could take it and fit them out too."

  "I made the dresses," cried Mary joyfully. "And if you'll let me havethe old chintz, I'll make some more for the others, Mrs. Wallis. Oh, I'mso glad."

  "Did you make them," said Mrs. Wallis in a pleased tone. "Well, that'sfirst-rate. I'll send the chintz round to-night; and any other oldthings I can find to help along."

  So that night came a great bundle, which, on opening, revealed not onlythe chintz, but a nice calico, some plaid ribbon, a large black alpacaapron, and an old shirt of Mr. Wallis's. Such a busy time as Mary had inplanning how to make the most of these gifts. The chintz was long andfull. It had a cape, and made two beautiful frocks. The calico madeanother frock and two nice pinafores, the black alpaca some smallaprons. Mary trimmed the two worst hats with the ribbon. Last of all,she cut and stitched five narrow bands of the linen, which mother washedand starched, and behold, the class had collars! I don't know which wasmost pleased at this last decoration, Mary or the children.

  "They are just as good as dolls to you, aren't they," said her father.

  "O Papa! much better than _that_. Dolls can't laugh and talk, and theydon't really care any thing about you, you only just make believe thatthey do. It's horrid to fit a doll's clothes; she sticks her arm outstiff and won't bend it a bit. I'd rather have my class than all thedolls in the world."

  "Teaching those children is having a capital effect on Mary herself,"said Mrs. Forcythe to her husband after Mary had gone away. "She gainsall the time in patience and industry, and is twice as careful of herthings as she used to be. I found her crying the other day because shehad torn her oldest frock, and the darn was sure to come in a bad placewhen the frock was made over for Gretchen! Think of Mary's cryingbecause of having torn any thing!"

  Time flies rapidly when people are busy and happy. Days crept intoweeks, weeks into months; before any one knew it two years were passedand another Conference day was at hand. It met this time at Redding.

  Mary, a tall girl of fifteen now, went with her mother to hear theappointments read. The Redding people had applied to keep Mr. Forcythefor another term, but the request was denied; and, when his name wasreached on the list, it appeared that he was to go back to Valley Hill.

  "There's one person I know will be pleased," said the Bishop, pausing onhis way out of church to speak to Mrs. Forcythe. "Mistress Mary here!She'll be glad to go back to Valley Hill again. But, hey-day! shedoesn't look glad. What! tears in her eyes. How is this?"

  "I--don't--know--" sighed Mary. "I thought--I thought we should stayhere. Of course I feel sorry just at first."

  "Sorry! Not want to leave Redding! Why, what a contrary little maid youare! Don't you recollect how you cried, and said Redding was horrid."

  "Yes," said Mary, on the verge of a sob. "But I like it now, Bishop. Idon't mind the fish a bit, and the funny old streets and the posy-bedswith cockle-shell edges are so nice, and the bells sound so sweet onSunday morning!--I like Redding ever so much."

  "But your garden,--I remember how badly you felt to leave that. Youcan't have a garden in Redding."

  "No, but I have my little girls. I'd rather have them than a garden, agreat deal!"

  "What does she mean?" asked the Bishop, turning to Mrs. Forcythe.

  "Her sewing-class," replied Mrs. Forcythe, smiling.

  "There they are!" cried Mary eagerly. "They're waiting for me. Do lookat them, Bishop; it's those five little girls in a row behind the secondpillar from the door. That big one is Norah, and the one in blue isRachel, and the littlest is named Kathleen. Isn't she pretty? They'rethe sweetest little things, oh, I shall miss them so. I shan't ever havesuch good times again as I've had with them." Her voice faltered; a lumpcame in her throat. To hide it she slipped away, and went across thechurch to where the little ones sat.

  "That's a dear child of yours," said the good Bishop, looking after her."I guess she'll _do_ wherever she goes."

  And I think Mary will.