A Round Dozen

  A FORTUNATE MISFORTUNE.

  EMMY GALE was far from anticipating misfortunes or suspecting that shewas going to have any as she packed her trunk for the much-talked-ofvisit to Elliott's Mills. The very putting of the things into the trayswas a pleasure, for it meant the satisfaction of a long-deferred wish.To go to Elliott's Mills had been the desire of her heart ever since shewas a little girl of eight, and she was now fourteen; and she folded herdresses and patted each collar and pair of stockings into place with aglad feeling at her heart.

  I must tell you about Elliott's Mills, or you will not understand whyEmmy was so pleased to go there. It was a very small village in thewestern part of New York. To reach it you had to take, first a wholeday's journey by rail, and then a two-mile drive over a rather roughroad. When arrived there you found yourself in an ugly, unattractivelittle wooden hamlet, set down among low hills and tracts of woodland.This does not sound over-delightful, does it? But what made Elliott'sMills so charming was that Aunt Emma lived there during the summer, andthe life that she and her family led had an inexpressible fascinationfor all the young people in the connection.

  Aunt Emma's home had always been in New York City until her husband, whowas a lawyer, came into possession some years before of an enormoustract of land, some thousands of acres in extent, in the western part ofthe State. It became necessary for him to spend some months there everyyear to look after it. First he built a small law office and a couple ofbedrooms for use on these occasions. Then Aunt Emma wanted to go withhim, and another room or two was added for her; and so it went on tillthe little law office had grown into a big, rambling country house ofthe most irregular shape, with small chambers opening out of large ones,doors, cupboards, entries, and staircases where you least expected them,little flights of steps leading up into rooms and down into rooms--justthe sort of house, in short, which boys and girls delight in. Aunt Emma,who was a woman of admirable sense, made no attempt to introduce theelegances of the city into the woods, not even when it grew to be herhome for the greater part of the year. Air, space, and freedom to do asyou liked were the luxuries of the place. All the bedrooms werefurnished with the same small-patterned blue ingrain carpet and littlesets of oak-painted furniture precisely alike. The big parlor anddining-room had wicker chairs and willow tables, roomy sofas and couchescovered with well-washed chintz, and skins and rugs on the mattedfloors. Deer's antlers in the hall held hats, whips, and coats. Therewas a garden of sweet common flowers to supply the summer vases,crackling wood-fires for cool evenings, and a bookcase of light readingfor rainy days. The table was deliciously supplied with game and trout,wild fruits and country cream, and you might sit on the floor and tellghost-stories till midnight if you cared to do so. In the big stables alittle troop of Indian ponies, broken to saddle or harness, were kept.Most of them had Indian names, in honor of the half-civilized tribewhich lived close by on their reservation. There was Chief Blacksnakeand Lady Blacksnake and Young Blacksnake, Uncas and Pottomet and"Xantego," commonly pronounced "Want-to-go," and riding and driving wenton the summer through among the visitors who filled the ample,hospitable house. There seemed to be a pony for everybody, and everybodyliked to have a pony, and the ponies themselves enjoyed it.

  Emmy Gale was her aunt Emma's namesake, but, as it happened, she hadnever been at Elliott's Mills, though her elder sisters, Bess and Jean,had made many visits there. This was partly accidental, for twice it hadbeen arranged that she should go, and twice illness had prevented. Once,her cousin Lena had measles, and the other time Emmy herself had scarletfever. Nobody was in fault either time, still it rankled in Emmy's mindthat she should never have seen the place about which Bess and Jean wereforever raving. And now her time was come; she was actually packing hertrunk. No wonder she was pleased.

  I must just say one word about Emmy before I start her on her journey.She was very tall of her age, thin, and rather awkward, as overgrowngirls are apt to be. A passionate desire to be liked was one of theruling motives of her nature, but she was very apt to fancy that peopledid not like her, and to worry and grieve over it in a morbid manner.When quite at her ease, she was an attractive girl, loving and brightand funny, but poor Emmy was seldom quite at ease. She could only bethat when she forgot herself, and that was not often; for what withwondering if people would approve of her, and vexing herself with theidea that they did not, and fidgeting as to _why_ they did not, shecontrived to be the subject of her own thoughts for a considerable partof the time.

  Her escort was an old gentleman, a friend of her father's. He did notsay much to Emmy, but he was very polite as old gentlemen go, and in thecourse of the long day's journey bought for her three illustratedpapers, half a dozen beautiful red apples, and a "prize package ofpop-corn," which, had it chosen to live up to its label, _might_ havehad a gold bracelet in it, but in reality contained nothing better thana brass ring. Emmy liked the apples, and did not at all resent herescort's lack of conversation. In fact, she scarcely noticed it, so busywas she in thinking of the joys to come. With her eyes fixed on the longreaches of soft red and yellow woods which seemed to be running pastthe train as the train ran by them, she made pictures to herself of whatwas going to happen. Lena would come down at the carriage to meet her,she was quite sure. And perhaps Bess or Jean, who had been at Elliott'sMills for the past month, would come too. It would be about half-pastfive when the train was due, so they could reach the house just beforesupper, which is always a pleasant time to arrive anywhere. It allseemed most promising as she thought it over.

  The first bit of ill luck which befell Emmy was that the train proved tobe behind time. There were tiresome stops and unaccountable delays. Atnoon the conductor owned to being two hours late, so they kept on losingtime. Railroads are like a dissected puzzle--if one piece gets out ofits place it makes the other pieces wrong. They had to wait for all theother trains, and telegraph and stand still. Tired and vexed, Emmy satwith her nose pressed against the window, looking out into thedeepening dusk as the engine puffed and snorted and ran the train slowlyback and forward, on to sidings and off them. Her impatience grew andgrew, till it seemed as if she _must_ jump out and push something, thelocomotive or the conductor--she didn't care which--anything to makethem go on; and when eight o'clock came and nine, with the Mills stationstill far ahead, she felt so worn out and discouraged that she couldeasily have cried, except that girls of fourteen do not like to cry inpublic. The only thing that diverted her from her woes was watching twogirls of her own age who sat in front of her, and were "capping verses"to pass away the time. The train made a great deal of noise, so thatthey had to scream to make themselves heard; then the roar and rumbleceased suddenly in that queer way which is common to all railroads, anda very high-pitched voice was heard to shriek out the followingextraordinary question,--

  "Pray how was the Devil dressed? D--" Everybody jumped, and Emmy's oldgentleman put on his spectacles and gazed long and solemnly at the youngladies who seemed to be conversing on such extraordinary topics, whilethey hid their faces and giggled violently for two miles.

  It was exactly ten when they finally reached the Mills station. The oldgentleman helped Emmy out, the train rushed on, and she found herselfstanding alone on a wet platform beside her trunk. Her aunt's manWilliam came to meet her, swinging a lantern.

  "Didn't any one come down to meet me?" she asked.

  "No, miss. Mr. Tom drove down for the two o'clock express, and sent backword that your train would be late, and I must be sure to fetch a biglantern, for the road is all washed away by the freshet. Is that yourbox, miss? We'd better start at once, for it's going to take us twohours and a half to get over to the village."

  "Two hours and a half!" gasped Emmy.

  "Yes, miss, because of the roads. They're almost dangerous. We'll haveto walk nearly the whole way, for it's so dark that we can't see wherewe're going."

  It was quite two hours and a half before they reached the house. Emmyhad fallen asleep half a dozen times, and waked up to be conscious th
atshe was stiff, chilled, and aching in every bone, and that William waswalking at the horses' heads, holding the lantern up high to make sureof the road. At last they turned in at a gate and he came to the windowto say encouragingly, "Just there, miss."

  "What time is it?" asked Emmy.

  "Nigh on to one, miss."

  "Oh dear, and they will all be in bed!" thought Emmy; but she was reallytoo tired to care much about it. A sleepy-looking maid was sitting up toreceive her. Mrs. Elliott had left her love, she said, and the younglady must take some hot soup and get to bed as fast as possible. It wasnot at all the reception which Emmy had dreamed of, but she was so wornout with fatigue that bed seemed the only thing in the world worththinking of just then, and there, with the assistance of the maid, shesoon found herself.

  When she woke, the room was bright with sun, which streamed into thewindow with such an "up a long time ago" expression, that Emmy knew shemust have slept late. She was still tired, and lay quietly looking abouther and recognizing all the little conveniences and devices of which shehad heard from her sisters, till a little tap sounded, the door softlyopened, and Aunt Emma's kind, handsome face looked in.

  "Good morning, my dear; I hope you are rested," she said, with a kiss."I would not let any one wake you, for you must have been tired out. Nowyou must have some breakfast." And in another moment, with the easewhich seemed to characterize all arrangements in which Aunt Emma had ashare, in came a napkin-covered tray borne by a neat little maid, with_such_ a nice breakfast! A big pink-and-white cup full of hot cocoa,broiled chicken, delicious potato stewed with cream, two white rolls,and a baked pear in a saucer. Nothing could have been more tempting tohungry Emmy, but even as she sipped the first spoonful of cocoa, thequestion at her heart found its way to her lips: "Aunty, where are thegirls?"

  "The girls," said aunty in her pleasant, decided voice, "are gone toNiagara for two or three days. A party was made up for some friends ofyour cousin May's who are staying with us, and Bess and Jean and Lenawent too. They will be back day after to-morrow, and meanwhile you willhave a chance to get thoroughly rested."

  "Gone to Niagara!" exclaimed Emmy. "Oh, why didn't they wait till Icame!"

  "That would not have been possible, my dear," said her aunt. "TheJarvises, for whom the party was made, only stay with us till nextThursday, and May expects other guests early in the week, so she couldnot be away later." Then some one called her, and Aunt Emma went away,just saying kindly as she walked off, "Make a good breakfast, dear!"

  Poor Emmy! she was too hungry not to eat, but the meal was literallymingled with tears. She sobbed with each mouthful, and more than onesalt drop hopped down her nose to flavor the baked pear. It was foolishof her, I admit, but disappointments are hard to bear when one is onlyfourteen years old and very tired into the bargain, and this was areally great disappointment. Three whole days all alone with aunty, andthe others away enjoying themselves at Niagara without her! She wasrather afraid of her aunt, and, though very desirous to win her goodopinion, this hidden fear made Emmy so shy and awkward that she neverappeared at her best when in her company.

  Sadly and languidly she got up and began to dress, feeling as if theheart was taken out of everything. Raising the lid of the soap-dish,there on the nice little pink cake of soap lay a note with "Emmy"written on it. Much wondering, she opened. It was from her sister Bess,and it read:--

  "DEAR EMMY,--Don't be poky because you find us gone. It's only for a day or two, and we shall be back almost before you miss us." ("Not much chance of that!" reflected Emmy, dolorously.) "Be a good girl, laugh and talk with aunty, pet Uncle Tom, _don't poke_, and be glad to see us on Saturday night.

  "Your loving "BESS."

  "How can I help poking, and what does she mean anyway?" thought Emmy.However, this proof that she had been remembered cheered her a little,and she went on with her dressing in better spirits. A long folded slipof paper was pinned round the handle of the water-jug. Another note!from Jean this time.

  "DEAR LITTLE EMMY," (Emmy was half a head taller than Jean!)--"We hate to go away and leave you, and we wouldn't if it were not so perfectly splendid to see Niagara. It won't be long before we come back, and you mustn't be lonely. Aunty is so nice, and, dear, if only you wouldn't be afraid of her! She doesn't like shy people, so don't be shy. There's a lovely story-book in the bookcase in the dining-room: 'The Dove in the Eagle's Nest.' It's on the third shelf from the top. Do read it while we are away! You will like it, I am sure.

  "Your affectionate "JEAN."

  Jean was the kindest little soul in the world, but this hint about AuntEmma's not liking shy people was a mistake. It made Emmy more frightenedand ill at ease than ever.

  Washing over, she went to the dressing-table to braid her hair. Behold!another billet on the pincushion. This was in rhyme:--

  "O Emmy tall, O Emmy fair, Don't forget to brush your hair. Pin your ruffle neat and straight, Be down to breakfast at half-past eight; Don't crook your shoulders when you sit down, Don't rip the gathers of your gown, Don't set up to be lonesome, pray, Because we girls are gone away, But cheer up auntie and Uncle Tom, And we'll be back anon, anon!" "ANON-Y-MOUS."

  This made Emmy smile, and she did her hair quite cheerfully. When sheopened the top drawer to put away her comb and brush, she spied a smallparcel directed to herself, and laid there to catch her eye. She gave alittle laugh. How nice in the girls to do this for her!

  The parcel was from Lena. It contained a very pretty velvet pincushion,mounted on a fluted shell, and a note.

  "DEAR EMMY,--We are _so_ sorry not to be here when you come, but we shall only be gone a little while. Marian Jarvis is such a nice girl! She wants to see you _dreadfully_. I do hope you will like her. You must do everything pleasant that you can think of till we come back.

  "Your loving "LENA."

  One more surprise awaited Emmy. She was just leaving the room when shespied a large piece of brown paper pinned to the wall. On it was thefollowing mysterious inscription,--

  "N. E. corner of room, under edge of carpet. Search rewarded."

  It took her some time to make out which was the northeast corner; whenat last she identified it, all that appeared from under the carpet was asimilar bit of paper with another mysterious inscription,--

  "S. W. corner of room, under edge of carpet. Search rewarded."

  The reward of search in this instance was a long narrow parcelcontaining two brand-new hair-pins and a single line of writing,--

  "Behind looking-glass on bureau."

  Highly diverted, Emmy hastened to tip the glass, and there, stored awaybehind it, she beheld a small white jam-pot. A label tucked in betweenlid and jar said succinctly,--

  "Plum jam at bedtime eaten with a hair-pin is _goloptious_! Try it!"

  All these jokes and surprises raised Emmy's spirits so that she randown-stairs quite gleefully. But there things went wrong again. AuntEmma was deep in household accounts. She nodded kindly to Emmy and saida few pleasant words; then she became absorbed in her reckonings andforgot her for the moment. Emmy was by no means one of those childrenwho can be trusted to entertain themselves _in the room where any oneelse is sitting_. She was too self-conscious, too apt to imagine thatpeople were criticising what she did or said. She wanted to ramble aboutthe house and identify the things and places she had heard described,and if she had done this simply and naturally as Jean would, or Bess, noone would have been disturbed, least of all Aunt Emma.
But a sense ofshy awkwardness prevented, and what she did was to wait till her auntwas in the very middle of a long column of figures, and then saytimidly,--

  "Aunt Emma, may I--may I--go into the dining-room?"

  Mrs. Elliott stopped, lost her count, and after trying in vain torecover it, said with a little natural impatience,--

  "My dear, never interrupt any one who is adding up a sum, if you canhelp it. You have lost me all my last ten minutes' work. What did yousay? go into the dining-room? why, of course, go just where you like."Then she began to cipher again.

  This was quite enough to make Emmy miserable. She had done wrong. Shehad put Aunt Emma out. Aunt Emma did not love her. She never would loveher as she loved the other girls! These reflections passed through hermind as she sat before the glass door of the bookcase, not even tryingto look up the story which Jean had recommended. Uncle Tom coming intothe room noticed her melancholy attitude, and said in his hearty voice,"Well, my little maid, you look dumpy. All your contemporaries gone,heh! Never mind; they will all be back soon, and meanwhile you mustcheer up the old folks." Jean or Bess would have dimpled and giggled atsuch an address, and perhaps run across the room and given Uncle Tom akiss; but Emmy only shrank a little and said nothing; so that her uncle,as he drank his glass of Apollinaris water, said to himself, "A sulkychild, I'm afraid." So easy it is to be misjudged in this world.

  At dinner, Emmy's evil angel took possession of her again. She answeredin monosyllables when her uncle and aunt spoke to her, and poked herfood into her mouth with a nervous haste which brought on a fit ofchoking. This mortified her deeply, for she imagined that Aunt Emma wasthinking, "What an ill-mannered girl she is!" whereas Aunt Emma wasreally thinking, "Poor thing! what can I do to make her feel morecomfortable?" It would be a convenience, sometimes, if we might haveglass panes in our hearts, so that people could look in and see what weare really feeling.

  The evening seemed dreadfully long. Emmy pretended to read "The Dove inthe Eagle's Nest," but a sort of spell of stiff misery was over her allthe while. She was conscious of her knees and elbows, her upper lip kepttwitching, she neither acted nor spoke naturally. Mrs. Elliott pitiedher, but she could not help saying to herself, "What a self-consciouschild she is; how different from Jean and Bess!" And what was worse,Emmy suspected that aunty was thinking exactly that, and sufferedaccordingly.

  Tom came home next day. He was an immensely tall, handsome, good-naturedyoung man. Bess and Jean adored him, and were always telling storiesabout the things he said and did, but to Emmy he seemed a formidableperson. He was fond of teasing and of banter, and it was another of hispeculiarities to be particularly observant about a lady's dress. Henoticed at once that the braid was ripped off the edge of Emmy's skirtso as to form a dangerous little loop, and told her of it. She went awayat once, and sewed it fast, but she felt disgraced somehow, and markedout as a slattern, and could not help shedding a few tears as sheworked. Then Tom, who saw everything, observed the red marks under hereyes, and the melancholy droop of her mouth, and he too set her down assulky, and, supposing that she had taken offence at some of his harmlesspleasantries, forbore to joke with her thenceforward. This made her surethat Tom did not like her either, which was another affliction, forEmmy was most anxious to be taken into the circle of his pets andfavorites.

  In the afternoon she had another mishap. Aunt Emma sent her to get apaper out of her writing-desk, and Emmy somehow managed to hamper thelock so that the key could not be turned. Nobody scolded her, but Mrs.Elliott looked sorry and perplexed, as well she might, with the nearestlocksmith twenty miles distant, and Emmy felt that her cup of misfortunewas full. That night she cried herself to sleep.

  On the third day the party from Niagara came back, and the house all ina moment seemed to fill with bright life and gayety. Cousin May'sfriends, the Jarvises, were handsome, well-bred girls, with a great dealof air and style about all their appointments. Cousin May herself was abelle and beauty, and had always been the object of Emmy's wildestadmiration. Several gentlemen were of the party, and there were Jean andBess running about with the rest, on the friendliest terms witheverybody, and as much at home as Lena. It made Emmy feel left out andlonely, for her shyness was by no means lessened by the arrival of allthese strangers, and she had the painful sensation of being separatedfrom the others by a sort of invisible wall, which she could not, andthey would not, pass over. Jean and Bess did what they could to cheerher, but a great deal was going on in the large gay household, and theyhad not much time to spare for the little sister who could not explaineven to herself why she felt so forlorn.

  Lady Blacksnake was supposed to be Lena's own particular pony. Lena hada little wagon of her own too; and on Monday she took Emmy out with her.This went delightfully till, as they were coming home late in theafternoon, Emmy coaxed Lena to let her drive. What she did to LadyBlacksnake no one ever knew, but all in one minute that excellent animalput her head down and ran away.

  "Oh," screamed Emmy, "shall we jump out?"

  "No," said Lena, perfectly calm, though her face was very white. "Sawher mouth."

  So she took one rein, and Emmy the other, and they sawed LadyBlacksnake's mouth with hard, regular pulls, till the wild paceslackened first to a gallop and then to a trot, and they were goingalong at their old rate, only Lady Blacksnake's heaving flanks and theirown frightened countenances telling the tale of their late danger. Itwas real danger, for once during the run the hind wheel absolutelygrazed the edge of a sharp bank, and had they met another carriage theycould scarcely have escaped a collision; but they both agreed to make aslight of the incident as they could when they got home, lest they shouldbe forbidden to go out again by themselves. Their account of theaccident therefore was given with a levity which quite angered UncleTom.

  "Upon my word, young ladies," he said severely, "you seem to think it afine thing to have been in danger of your lives. If you had reallybroken all your bones it would have been funnier still, I suppose. Whaton earth _are_ you laughing at?" for somehow this address tickled thegirls' half-hysterical mood into paroxysms of giggling which continuedtill they cried, and the more Uncle Tom frowned the more they giggled.Aunt Emma saw how it was, and ordered them off to bed, and next morningthe reaction had come, and they were pale and nervous and depressedenough to please the most exacting friend who might be anxious to makethem "sensible of their escape."

  Wednesday, the day before the Jarvises were to leave, had been set asidefor a picnic. Emmy had looked forward eagerly to this; so you canimagine her feelings when on Tuesday a hard toothache set in which kepther awake all night, and left her next morning still in such pain andwith such a swollen face that it was manifestly impossible for her toleave the house. Kind little Jean offered to give up the picnic and stayat home with her; but neither Emmy nor Aunt Emma would hear of this,and it ended in everybody's going and leaving her in the care of oldEliza, aunty's housekeeper, who had been nurse to all the children inturn, from Tom to Lena, and liked nothing better than a chance to cuddleand cosset any one who was ill.

  Her warm fomentations and roasted raisins and pettings and pattings wereso effectual that by afternoon Emmy felt quite comfortable again. Shegrew very fond of kind old Eliza, and her heart being opened by thesituation, she ended by telling her how miserable and "unlucky" she hadbeen all the week.

  "And indeed I can't see any reason for it, though I'm sorry enough it isso, Miss Emmy," declared Eliza when she had listened to the tale. "Neverany young person came here before who didn't look upon this house as akind of a paradise."

  "I know. That's just the way Jean and Bess feel. But then they aredifferent from me. Everybody likes them," said Emmy.

  "And pray why shouldn't they like yourself, miss, I'd like to ask?"

  "I--don't--know," slowly. "I'm always getting into scrapes and makingmistakes, and things don't happen nicely with me as they do with them.Just think of all the misfortunes I've had this week since I came! Mytrain was late, and I was all tired out, and the girls went t
o Niagarawithout me, and I broke Aunt Emma's lock, and the horse ran away, andnow this toothache! I am _very_ unfortunate."

  "Well, I _have_ heard of other people's trains being late afore now,"replied Eliza, dryly. "And though I'm sorry you didn't have the tripwith the rest, miss, it wasn't nobody's fault that you didn't come intime. It was a pity about the lock, to be sure--the Madam hasn't got itopen yet, I know--but so far as the horse goes, it's no more than I'malways expecting, letting Miss Lena drive out by herself with themvicious little rats of ponies. And God sent your toothache, miss, Isuppose you know that."

  "Well, God made me shy, too, I suppose, and that's my worst misfortuneof all," declared Emmy.

  "I'm not so sure about that, either," remarked the shrewd old Eliza. "Inmy opinion, what folks call shyness is very often just another name forselfishness. If you thought about yourself less and about other peoplemore, Miss Emmy, you wouldn't be so shy, as you call it. You'll getbetter of it as soon as you're old enough to find out that for the mostpart of the time nobody is noticing what you do or thinking about you atall."

  There was a certain tonic in this speech of Eliza's which did Emmy good.She lay meditating upon it that night after the girls had come in tokiss her and say how dreadfully they had missed her at the picnic, andhow she must get quite well before next Monday, when they were going tohave another. She had slept so much during the day that she was notsleepy now, and she lay turning over in her mind what Eliza had said._Was_ shyness selfishness? and was it her own fault that she got on sobadly and made so many mistakes? or was she really marked for misfortuneand doomed to be misunderstood, as she had sometimes imagined? Shethought of Bess and Jean with a little wonderment of envy. How prettyand nice they were! how people liked them! how easy it seemed to them tobe graceful and natural and at ease with strangers!

  While she was thus thinking, a queer little noise met her ear, like someone snapping two sticks together. Again it came and yet again, and Emmywas sure that she smelt a slight smell of burning. All her littlefoolish fancies fled at once. She jumped out of bed, lit a candle,slipped on her dressing-gown, and opened the door. The burning smell wasstronger in the entry, and the air was dim with smoke. Not nervous nownor cowardly, Emmy ran down-stairs with all her wits about her,following the smoke till she came to Uncle Tom's office. The doorstood half open, and inside she saw a flaring light. The carpet was onfire in front of the grate, flames were creeping up the legs of thetable, which was covered with papers. Emmy knew that some of thesepapers were valuable, and without a thought of fear she hurried in,gathered as many as she could in her hands, flung them into the hall,ran back for more, and never stopped till all were safe. Then she ran toUncle Tom's dressing-closet for a pitcher of water which she knew waskept there, and dashed it on the flames, all the time calling at the topof her voice, "Fire! fire! fire! O Tom! O aunty! O Uncle Tom! Osomebody! Come, please come! Oh, why don't you hear!"

  It is astonishing how long it takes to wake up people who are soundasleep. Emmy had time to fetch another pitcher of water from thekitchen, and the fire was nearly out before the family came rushingdown, half dressed and bewildered, to her aid. Fires are easilymanaged if they are taken in hand exactly at the right time, but halfan hour more or less makes a great difference. Emmy had acted at thecritical moment, and her courage and presence of mind had probably savedthe house.

  Uncle Tom declared that he owed her ten thousand dollars. Part of thisdebt he paid the very next week by the present of the prettiest littlegold watch and chain ever seen, with the date of the fire engravedinside the watch-lid. Aunty, too much agitated to speak, folded Emmy inher arms and gave her a great squeeze which said more than words. Tom,when he understood the whole, said that she was "a brick," and that notone girl in a thousand would have been so plucky or shown so much sense.So poor, awkward Emmy, who had fared so ill up to this time, got up nextmorning, like Lord Byron, to find herself famous, and the heroine of thehouse.

  To be praised and made much of does some people harm, but to others itdoes a great deal of good. Emmy did not grow vain when she foundherself thus made important. She only felt that she was liked, andapproved of, and it set her at her ease. From that day Elliott's Millsgrew delightful to her as it had always been to her sisters. She ranabout freely among the others, talked, laughed, shared in the fun thatwas going on, and enjoyed every moment of her visit.

  Years afterward, when she and Aunt Emma had grown intimate, Emmy toldthat dear friend and relative whom she had learned to love and admirebetter than any one else except her own mother, the story of her foolishtroubles.

  "But indeed," she ended, "they were lucky troubles to me, for I neverwas so bad after that. I think what old Eliza said about selfishnessstuck in my mind, and I found out after a while that she was pretty muchright, and that the way to be comfortable and at ease was to think aboutother people instead of myself."

  "And I am sure," replied Aunt Emma, "that your troubles were luckytroubles for us. If you hadn't had the toothache and lain awakemeditating on that and your other sorrows, I'm sure I don't know wherewe should all be now, my dear little Emmy."