No Talent: A Golden Text story; and, Phil's Pansies: A Golden Text story, by Lucy Ellen Guernsey │ Project Gutenberg

"No Talent."—Frontispiece.
Amity told her story, and the men clustered round to look at the dog.

NO TALENT.

PHIL'S PANSIES.

NO. 1122 CHESTNUT STREET.
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NEW YORK: 8 & 10 BIBLE HOUSE, ASTOR PLACE.
CHICAGO: 73 RANDOLPH ST.

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"Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren,
ye have done it unto me."—Matt. 25:40.

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NO. 1122 CHESTNUT STREET.
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NEW YORK: 8 & 10 BIBLE HOUSE, ASTOR PLACE.
CHICAGO: 73 RANDOLPH ST.

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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1880, by the

AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

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CHAPTER FIRST.

AMITY BOGARDUS sat in the little summer-house, which stood on the top of the great pile of rocks in her grandfather's grounds. To speak with precision they were her grounds, for this little plain Amity, who was sitting in such a mournful posture coiled up on the rustic sofa, was the owner of this great place with its grand old stone house, its beautiful gardens and great trees, and lawns shaven as smooth as velvet, with gray, mossy rocks sticking up through the turf here and there. The greenhouses, and hot-houses, and grape-houses, the carriages and horses, and high-bred Alderney cows, and all the rest belonged to her. Yes, the prettiest and grandest place in all Brookvale belonged to this little plain girl, and thousands upon thousands of dollars beside.

"An heiress!" says somebody. "Oh, then we know all about her. She is a vain, proud girl, who looks down on every one, and thinks nothing of people who are not rich. And then she is going to lose all her property somehow, and get good all of a sudden. That is always the way with heiresses."

I confess that is very apt to be the way with heiresses in books; but it was not at all the way with Amity Bogardus. A more humble-minded child, one who thought less of herself and more of her neighbors, it would be hard to find. Indeed, the mean opinion she had of herself, her looks, her manners, her talents, often made her very unhappy, as was the case just now. She was apt to steal away by herself, and sit and think how very sad it was to be a poor, homely little girl, with a round Dutch face all of a color, grayish hazel eyes, and straight hair, which was only light—not golden, nor flaxen, nor auburn, nor even red—which would have been something.

"It is just the color of the light part of Aunt Julia's Pug," said Amity, pulling a lock of the offending hair round into the light, with a spiteful little twitch, as if the poor hair could help its color. "And, to make the matter better, I must have dark eyebrows coming together over my nose and green eyes."

And then Amity pushed the offending hair off her forehead and laid her head down on the window seat, and cried a little, as she reflected how delightful it would be to be as handsome and accomplished as her aunt Julia, till from dreaming awake she came to dreaming in earnest. She was waked from her nap by the sound of voices near by.

"Shall we take the trouble to climb up to the summer-house?" said Aunt Julia. "It is so hazy I am afraid the view would hardly pay us for the labor."

"Suppose we sit down here in the shade," said another voice, which Amity knew at once to be that of Mrs. Paget, a lady whom Amity had often admired at a distance, but with whom she had been too shy to make acquaintance.

"If she is her mother over again, she must be a very good child," said Mrs. Paget. "A more blameless person than Anna Van Schoonhoven I never knew."

"Oh, the child is good enough—that is, I have never seen anything to the contrary," answered Miss Julia, carelessly. "But the trouble is she is so totally uninteresting. She has no talent."

"Of any kind?" asked Mrs. Paget. And Amity knew by the tone of her voice just how her eyebrows went up as she spoke.

"Why no," answered Miss Julia. "She has no ear for music; in fact she can hardly tell one tune from another. She has no talent for drawing, and I don't believe she will ever pronounce French decently. And then she is so hopelessly common looking. Her figure might be improved by proper corsets, I think, but she complains that they hurt her, and so papa won't let her wear them. Such absurd ideas men have! But it don't make much difference. No dressing will ever make anything of her but a dowdy Dutch doll. It is really a great disappointment."

"I want papa to send her to Mrs. Green's," continued Miss Julia: "I am sure she will make something of the child, if any one can; but he has taken up the most singular prejudice against Mrs. Green, and won't let her go. He says Mrs. Green has no reality in herself, and takes all they have out of her pupils. I wish you would use your influence with him."

"I am afraid I do not like Mrs. Green any better than Mr. Bogardus does," said Mrs. Paget. "But where is Amity? I have not seen her at all."

"Oh, she is moping about the place somewhere, I suppose," said Aunt Julia. "She is given to that kind of thing. See, there is a carriage. Shall we go in?"

"I don't think I will. I don't care about meeting strangers," said Mrs. Paget, glancing at her deep mourning. "I will climb up on the rocks and look at the view—I should like to see the summer-house again."

Mrs. Paget was a light, active little body, and she did not seem to find the steep path up the side of the ledge at all fatiguing. She had another object in the climb besides the view. She had seen the flutter of a little black dress, and she was quite sure she had heard a suppressed sob; and the idea crossed her mind that Amity might have overheard the talk below, and been hurt by it.

She was quite right. Amity had overheard her aunt's remarks, and been cruelly hurt by them. To be sure she had said the same thing to herself a hundred times, but nobody had ever spoken it out in plain English before. It seemed somehow to make matters a great deal worse.

Yes, that was all she was, or ever would be, and there was no use in trying. She wished she were a Roman Catholic, so that she might go into the great convent down by the river, and hide herself from the relations that were ashamed of her. Or else she wished she could die; then they would have the money and the fine place, and she would be with her mother, who loved her dearly, and had never been mortified because her little girl was not a beauty nor a genius. These were foolish thoughts, and rather naughty besides, but Amity was a poor, lonely, unhappy little girl, with nobody to whom she could tell her troubles; so it is no great wonder that she gave way to impatience.

"Poor little thing! I imagined as much," thought Mrs. Paget; but she did not say a word.

She was one to whom God had given a great many talents, and among them was that of sympathy. She knew how to comfort others with the comfort wherewith she herself was comforted of God, as the apostle indicates (2 Cor. 1:4). She saw that Amity was greatly hurt and excited, and not in any state to hear reason; so she just sat down, and lifting the little girl's head from the hard bench laid it in her lap, on her cool, soft cambric handkerchief, and stroked the hair as gently as if it had been the most beautiful wavy auburn hair in the world—stroked it as no one had ever done since the child's mother died.

Somehow her very touch calmed and comforted Amity. Presently she raised her tear-stained face.

"I am afraid it was very naughty to listen," said she, in a quivering voice; "I didn't mean to, but I was caught here, and did not know what to do at first."

"I understand," said Mrs. Paget; "I don't think you were at all to blame, so don't fret about it, my dear. Was that what you were crying about?"

"But, my dear, you must not let idle words hurt you so much. There are plenty of them always flying about, and if we let them sting us every time they come near, we might as well live in a wasps' nest."

"If they had not been true, I would not have minded," said Amity. "But it is all so. I am just what Aunt Julia called me, and I shall never be anything else. Even 'a Dutch doll' is good to play with, and I am not that."

"No: grandpapa is so polite he would never hurt any one's feelings; but I am sure he is disappointed because I don't look like his family. I suppose when I am of age I shall have ever so much money, and perhaps I can do some good with that," continued Amity, who somehow felt as if it would be a comfort to tell all her thoughts to her new friend. "But I don't think it is always easy to do good with money either."

"Very true and besides, you would have a good while to wait. Eleven years is a long time to live in the world without doing any good in it; don't you think so?"

"Yes, ma'am," answered Amity, slowly. "I don't know what I can do though. It is just as Aunt Julia says: I have no talent. I don't like music, at least I don't care about any but hymn tunes, and such like. I can't draw one bit—not even a straight line."

"And I am very slow about learning," continued Amity, "especially French. I can't catch the sounds somehow, and I hate the sound of it. It is just like a wagon rattling over a rough road."

"You make out a hard case, Amity. But now will you let me ask you two or three serious questions?"

"I suppose so," answered Amity. "The trouble is to find out what he wants me to do."

"If you really wish to work for him, I don't think you will fail in finding work," said Mrs. Paget. "I never knew any of his children to suffer in that way. The difficulty often is that they are not willing to do the work which he provides, but they want to do something else—something which shall make a great figure in the eyes of the world, or perhaps of the church; something which will be pleasant and easy, or for which they fancy they have a particular genius, which nobody appreciates. A young lady thinks it would be a fine thing to be a 'Sister of Charity,' though she cannot possibly sit up at night with a sick neighbor, or help to lay out a dead child. She wants to go on a foreign mission, but she can't take a class in Sunday-school or sewing-school."

"That reminds me of something," said Amity, eagerly. "I heard you say the other day that you wanted some patchwork basted for the sewing-school, and I thought perhaps you would let me do it. Mother taught me to sew when I was very little, and I like patchwork. I have made a whole bed-quilt for a lady in the hospital since I came here."

"Then it seems you have one talent, and a very useful one. As to the patchwork, I assure you I shall be glad to turn the whole basket over to you, if only I can depend on your having the work ready—if you won't get tired of it after a week or two."

"I don't think I shall," said Amity modestly. "I almost always do stick to what I begin, because I hate to leave things half done."

"But, after all, I am a homely little thing," said Amity, recurring to her first grievance. "If only my eyebrows were not so ugly, I don't think I should mind the rest."

"The ancient Greeks would have considered your eyebrows a great beauty," said Mrs. Paget. "I am not going to flatter you, Amity, by telling you that you are pretty, or to say that beauty is of no account. I don't think so. Beauty is like other gifts of God, to be used for his service and glory. He has not seen fit to give it to you, and you must try to be content without it. Your duty toward your neighbors requires you to be neat and tidy, and to dress so as not to offend the taste of those about you. After that, the less you think of your looks the better.

"As to the rest, do whatever comes in your way; help when you can and comfort when you can, and do all in the name of the Lord Jesus, remembering his words, 'It is more blessed to give than to receive,' and 'Whosoever shall give to drink unto one of these little ones a cup of cold water only in the name of a disciple, verily I say unto you, he shall in no wise lose his reward.' Do you love him, my dear?"

Amity looked down on the floor, and a color came to her face which made her look lovely for the moment.

"Yes, ma'am," she whispered. "I love him because he died on the cross for my salvation."

"Then let that be your first work. Now we have talked enough; only remember this, my child: every person has at least one talent given him, for which he must answer to him who gave it. Remember, too, that the man who had one talent was the man who hid it away, and was judged and punished accordingly. Now let us go up to the house."

CHAPTER SECOND.

MRS. PAGET did not go back to the house after all. At the turn of the road she met her carriage, with a note from her daughter telling her of the arrival of friends from a distance; so she got into the carriage and went home, leaving with Amity a note for Miss Julia.

Amity, left alone, turned out of the broad gravel road into a little path which went winding among the shrubs and trees. She knew she would not be wanted at the house, and she felt as if she would like to think over what she had heard.

She thought to such good purpose that her eyes grew bright, her head was raised, and the corners of her mouth lifted themselves up as if somebody had put little pulleys in them. Before she had finished her walk, she had come to the wise conclusion that she had been making herself very unhappy for nothing, and that after all she had a great deal to be thankful for. Every one was good to her—even Aunt Julia, who, after all, had not meant to hurt her feelings, since she could not know that any one was in the summer-house. She had books and flowers, and grandpapa let her have as many pets as ever she liked, and had promised her a pony.

"And if I am not handsome, why, then I am not, and that is all about it," said Amity, very wisely. "Miss Lilly Paget is not handsome either, and every one likes her quite as well as they do Aunt Julia, for aught I know. And if I can't play or paint, or do any of the grand things, I must be content with the little ones, that's all."

And then Amity fell into a still graver way of thinking. She was a thoughtful little girl; she had been her mother's only companion and comfort for years. Mrs. Bogardus had not been a happy woman. I cannot tell you all about it here, but there had been a sad family quarrel, which lasted for years. It grew out of the fact that Mr. Henry Bogardus married the daughter of his father's half-brother, against the will of the parents and other friends on both sides. There was a great deal of money involved, and many lawsuits grew up, and, as I said, the quarrel lasted for years, long after poor foolish young Henry Bogardus was lying in his far-away grave in South America, whither he had gone in hopes of doing something for his wife and child.

But the feud was made up in the last year of Mrs. Bogardus's life, and Grandfather von Schoonhoven, seeing that he could not possibly take his great property into the grave with him, gave it all to little Amity. She was left to the guardianship of old Judge Bogardus, and all the family had come to spend the summer at Pine Ridge.

Amity, having been for some years her mother's only companion, was old—rather too old—for her years.

And Miss Julia replied, "That is another reason for sending her to Mrs. Green's."

At which, Mrs. Paget tossed up her beautiful chin in way she had, and said nothing more.

Amity turned aside once more to a little rustic seat around the trunk of a great chestnut, and sat some little time leaning her head on her hands. Then she arose and went down a somewhat steep path with something like a dancing step till she came to a little bridge which was thrown over a deep hollow or chasm in the ground, at the bottom of which was a small pond. There was a way to get down to the water, but it was steep and rather dangerous. Amity was about to cross the bridge when she heard a pitiful whine, and looking down she saw an old friend—or I might better say an old enemy—in great trouble.

Pug raised his little black nose and gave a pitiful howl, as if he would say, "The question is how I am to get up again."

He had fallen into the pond and seemed to be hurt, for he could hardly keep his head above water; and though he was close to the edge of the pond, he could not scramble out.

Now Amity had no reason to like Pug, who Was a sadly-spoiled dog. He would never be friends with her; he often barked and snapped at her; and he expected her to get up and open the door for him twenty times in an hour, if he chose to go in and out as often.

But she could not see the poor little fellow in danger of drowning without feeling sorry for him. At first she thought she would call one of the men; but it was a long way to the house or barn, and she felt sure that Pug would be drowned before she could get back. She looked at the path.

"It is pretty steep; but after all, I have been up and down a great deal worse places than that, in Vermont," said she. "I can't go and leave him there. Yes, poor fellow, yes, Mite is coming!"

"Mite" had been Mrs. Bogardus's pet name for her little girl, and Amity loved it dearly; but nobody called her by it now. She went slowly and safely down the path, and holding fast by a stout bush, stooped down, and, by the aid of Pug's collar, she succeeded in landing him safely on the bank.

The poor dog yelped piteously, and Amity rather expected he would snap at her; but instead of that, he licked her hand. He was very much hurt—so that he could not stand; one of his paws was cut, and Amity thought his leg was broken.

Pug whined and licked her hand again, but he could not tell his story. The fact was he had seen a water-rat, and being a rash and inconsiderate, as well as a brave, dog, he had jumped after the rat without even thinking how or where he was to land. The result was that he did not land at all, but fell first on a sharp ridge of rock, and then tumbled into the water.

"Now I should like to know how in the world I am to get you up," said Amity. "I don't see how it is to be done, unless I carry you in my apron—if only you won't bite me!"

But Pug had no notion of biting. He was a sensible dog, with all his faults, and he perceived that Amity was trying her best to help him, so he submitted patiently when Amity gathered him up in her apron. And though the journey up the bank hurt him cruelly, he only whined to himself, and never offered to bite.

"You are a darling dog, so you are!" said Amity, patting the poor, piteous little black nose which Pug held up to her. "I suppose I had better take you straight to Aunt Julia. She must be very uneasy about you."

Aunt Julia was standing out on the lawn with some visitors, and she looked—like a queen, Amity thought, with her lace shawl, and her shady hat with a long white feather curling round the crown. In her interest for the dog, Amity quite forgot to be shy of the strange ladies. She had draggled her frock in the wet bushes, and the blood from Pug's wound had soaked through her white apron, so that she made rather an untidy figure.

"No, ma'am," answered Amity: "it is Pug who is hurt. He has fallen down the bank by the pond, Aunt Julia, and I am afraid his leg is broken. Just see!"

"Don't bring him near me, child! I never can bear the sight of blood. I dare say he will go mad and bite somebody. Take him away, and tell some one to drown him."

"Oh, I wouldn't do that!" said the lady who had spoken to Amity. "I dare say he can be cured."

"I don't believe it," said Miss Julia: "he will be limping about, a horrid object for ever so long. Little wretch! After my giving forty dollars for him, to go and spoil himself so."

"Well there, do take him away, and relieve our eyes and ears," said Miss Julia. "You should never have brought him here."

"I shouldn't have done so, only I thought you loved him, Aunt Julia," said Amity; and she walked away without another word.

"Take him down to the stable, my dear, and ask my man Lewis what to do with him," said she. "Lewis knows all about animals, and he is a famous dog-doctor. He will tell you whether the poor little fellow can be cured, or whether it will be more merciful to put him out of pain. You are a dear little girl, I think. Will you come some day and make me a visit?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Amity. She would hardly have answered "Yes" so readily if she had not been thinking more about Pug than herself.

"To think that she would not even look at the poor thing!" said she. "I don't believe she can love anything."

Amity was nearly right. Miss Julia had lived for amusement so long that she really cared for very little else. She had bought Pug because he was of a very pure and rare breed, and because it was the fashion to have such a dog; and also because another lady wanted him. He had amused her for a while with his tricks for he was an accomplished dog, but she had grown tired of him lately.

Lewis, Mrs. Barnard's coachman, was sitting on a block by the stable door talking to William, her grandfather's man. He started at the sight of Amity and the pug-dog.

"Stand away, can't you, and don't crowd the young lady," said Lewis, who was a very genteel colored man indeed. "'Pears like you ain't no manners at all. Haven't you got a basket or something to put him in, William?"

William produced a basket, and folded an old blanket in the bottom. Pug was laid in his bed, and Lewis proceeded to examine his hurts.

"His leg is broke, but it can be set," he said presently. "He is a good deal bruised, too, but he'll get over that. Oh yes, miss, he'll do well enough, and be as good as a new dog yet! I'll whittle out some splints for his leg directly; but you had better go away, for I shall have to hurt him some, and little ladies are mostly so soft-hearted they don't like to see things hurt."

Amity patted and stroked Pug while Lewis was contriving and cutting out his splints, and explained to him that his leg was going to be set, in order that it might get well; and that he must be a good dog and not bite Lewis, but try to bear the pain patiently. She was so busy with her pet that she did not see any one coming, until she was startled by hearing her grandfather say, in a tone of displeasure,—

"Amity, is this you? What are you doing here at the barn? This is not a proper place for you at all!"

A few days before, Amity would have crept away without a word, to hide in some corner; but she was not thinking of herself now.

"It was Pug brought me, grandpapa," said she. "He has fallen down and hurt himself dreadfully; but Mrs. Barnard said Lewis might tell whether he could be cured, so I brought him down to see."

"Oh, very well! If it is a work of mercy, I have nothing to say," answered Judge Bogardus, smiling. "What does Lewis think of his patient?"

"Very well; do your best for him. Come, my dear; you had better walk up to the house with me."

"So you went down to the pond," said the Judge, as they walked along. "Were you not afraid?"

"Oh no, grandpapa! I used to climb about everywhere when I lived in the Green Mountains."

"So much the better for you. And do you like it here as well as you did in the mountains?"

The Judge pressed Amity's little fat hand warmly, but he did not speak just then. Presently he said in a cheerful tone:

"If you like mountains so well, we will go over to the Mountain House some time and spend a week. Would that please you?"

"Very well; we will consider it an engagement then. Now it is time for you to dress for dinner. Put on a white frock. I like to see little girls in white."

Amity ran up stairs to her room determined to make herself look as nicely as possible. She brushed her hair till it shone like satin, and took pains with the tie of her neck and sash ribbons as she had never done before. Since grandpapa really cared how she looked, she would try to please him.

"Well, how did you leave your patient?" said Mrs. Barnard to Amity, near whom she sat at lunch. "Does Lewis think he can be cured?"

"You owe Amity a great debt for saving the life of your favorite, Julia," said the Judge. "She showed a good deal of courage and presence of mind in the way she saved Pug."

"I think she would have done quite as well to let him alone," said Miss Julia. "I told her to let the men drown him, but it seems she has taken her own way about the matter. There, I am not blaming you, child," she added, good-naturedly, seeing that Amity blushed.

Miss Julia was almost always good-natured, unless she was uncomfortable. She was "pleasant when she was pleased," as the saying goes, and that was something, for a good many people are not even that.

"May I have Pug, if you don't want him when he gets well?" asked Amity, when she had a chance of speaking to her aunt after dinner.

"To be sure, if you want him, child," answered Miss Julia, in some surprise; "but I thought you and Pug were not very good friends."

"We never have been, but he was just as grateful as he could be when I took him out of the water; and besides," said Amity, sighing a little, "you know he will want some one to like him."

Miss Julia stooped down and kissed her little niece—a thing she had hardly ever done before of her own accord. "You are a good little soul," said she. "Yes, you may have him and welcome. I dare say you will make an excellent mistress for him."

"Oh, thank you, Aunt Julia! And there is one other thing: Mrs. Paget wants me to baste the patchwork for the sewing-school girls. May I?"

"Mrs. Paget has sewing-school on the brain, I think," said Miss Julia. "Yes, to be sure, if you like to do it. Why do you ask?"

"And a very good plan it is, when one has a mamma to ask. Yes, baste as much patchwork as you please. Tell Anna to give you my old pink and white cambric; that will make you some very pretty pieces. I like to help people amuse themselves in their own way, even when that way is not mine. But remember, if I find you bent into a heap over your work, I shall take it away from you."

"What a pleasant day this has been!" said Amity to herself. "I am so glad I saw Mrs. Paget. I think she is right: I won't think about my looks, only to try to be nice and dress as grandpapa likes to see me; and I will try to be useful and pleasant. After all, Aunt Julia is very kind to me, and all people can't be alike; only I do think it is queer that she shouldn't care anything about Pug."

CHAPTER THIRD.

THE next morning Lewis came with a note and a large Fayal basket, both directed to Amity. Perhaps you have never seen one of these baskets. They are brought from Fayal, in the Azores Islands. They are made of wide thin strips of cedar plaited together, and are very pretty and convenient. The note was as follows:—

"DEAR AMITY: I send you the basket of patchwork, which you will find in a sad state of confusion. There are hardly two blocks of a size in the whole concern. So much for people not doing what they undertake. I shall be very glad if you can put enough to rights for us to begin upon next Saturday: a dozen good-sized blocks will do. I am going to give you a 'Golden Text' to go with this work and any other you may have to do. There are only a few words in it, but they mean a great deal:

"'YE HAVE DONE IT UNTO ME!'

"I dare say you know where it is to be found.

"I hope Pug is better. Lewis says he has as much sense about being sick as a man—which is not saying a great deal.

"Faithfully yours,

"HELEN PAGET."

Amity knew very well where to find the words of her Golden Text, and she repeated them to herself:

"'And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.'" (Matt. 25:40).

"Then I can do this for him," thought Amity—"even such little common work as this. He will know it and be pleased with it."

And Amity waited a minute before opening the basket, while she asked that she might have help to do the work faithfully. There is no kind of good work in which we cannot ask his help.

"But I can't think what any one could be thinking about to cut patchwork like that," said Amity as she spread out the pieces on the floor. "Just see here, Anna, what work! There are no two pieces alike."

"That comes from cutting one piece by another," said Anna, who was an excellent seamstress and a very good girl beside. "You must have a stiff paper pattern and measure by that. Keep to your pattern all the time: that is a good rule for more things than patchwork. But what is it all for, Miss Amity?"

"Dear heart, how very nice!" said Anna, who was an English girl. "Where I came from, we all learned to sew in school. I think it would be good for you to have a class, Miss Amity; it would be a very nice diversion for you."

"I am hardly old enough for that," said Amity, smiling. "I'm afraid the girls wouldn't respect me, and I should be dreadfully afraid of them. And besides, Anna, I don't think I should quite like to do such work for a diversion."

"I shouldn't wonder if you were right, miss. Well, I'll get you the red wrapper Miss Bogardus said you were to have; it will be very pretty to put your stripes together with."

Amity found her work more difficult than she expected; but she was very persevering, and she had Anna to appeal to in any difficulty. By Saturday she had a large number of pieces basted and ready for use.

"Ah! That is something like," said Mrs. Paget as she looked over the box which Amity brought her. "If you can do as much for us every week, it will be a very great help. Did you find a roll of aprons in the basket? I have mislaid one somewhere."

"I dare say she has. She seems a persevering little body. I think it will be a very good thing if she takes a fancy to that kind of work, as she has really no talent for anything else."

"A talent for being useful is about as good a talent as any one can have in this world," said Mrs. Paget, "and perhaps in the other also. There seems, at least, some ground for thinking so."

Miss Julia only smiled. She was used to such remarks from her friend, and did not mind them in the least.

"Papa," said Miss Julia at dinner, a fortnight afterward, "Mrs. Roby called here this morning. She has taken a cottage at Long Branch, and wishes us to come down and spend a month with them. Have you any objection?"

"None in the least to your going, if you like it," answered Judge Bogardus. "As for me, I have another engagement, and with a young lady too: so that my going is out of the question, even if I wished it—which I don't."

"What engagement can you possibly have with a young lady?" asked Miss Julia, in surprise.

"I have engaged to take Miss Amity Bogardus to the mountains. We spoke first of the Catskills; but, if it is all the same to her, I think we will go to the White Mountains instead—eh, miss?"

"When you know grandpapa better, my dear, you will know that he never says anything he does not mean. So you think you will like the White Mountains, and perhaps a bit of Lake George, quite as well as the Catskills?"

"I wish you would learn not to color so at every little thing, Amity," said Miss Julia, a little pettishly: "it is very well for a dark girl, but it does not suit your style. Papa, do you really mean to take the child about with you in that way? Who will take care of her clothes and keep her decent?"

"We must try to do that between us, eh, Amity? Do you think you can do your part?"

"Well, I dare say you can. You are such an old-fashioned little body," said Aunt Julia, getting back her good humor, which indeed was seldom lost long at a time. "I must look over your clothes and see what you need. I suppose a flannel suit and two or three calicos, with a nice frock or two, will be best for the mountains."

"There is no great room for finery in such mourning as Amity's; and, besides, nobody puts it on children now. When will you set out?"

"Oh yes, sir!" she answered. "I have nothing to do except to finish my French Reader and baste up enough patchwork to last to the end of the school."

"Mrs. Paget has drawn Amity into working for the sewing-school," said Miss Julia. "Fancy her wanting me to take a class!"

"I haven't any talent for that kind of thing," said Miss Julia, shrugging her shoulders; "and I can't endure smells of boiled cabbage and onions, like Mrs. Paget."

"It seems rather a good thing that there are people who can," said Judge Bogardus. "Well then, we will consider the matter settled. Please see that she has everything needful, Julia."

"I will attend to it," answered Miss Julia. "I think we will go down to the city for two or three days; and then we can finish all our shopping at once. Will you like that, Amity?"

"You have one talent, I will say for you, and a very good one," remarked Aunt Julia—"that of being easily pleased."

"A great many people ought to be what they are not, my dear. Don't you want to run out in the garden and find some pretty buds for my hair? I am going to a little party at Mrs. Barnard's."

"She is a dear little thing, after all," said Miss Julia to her father, when they were alone. "I never saw a child who made so little trouble; and she has brightened up quite wonderfully lately. If only she were not so dreadfully homely."

"Now we will have some lunch, and after that we will go up to the Park for a drive," said Miss Julia.

They had been shopping all the morning and all the day before; Miss Julia had bought a good many beautiful things for herself, and some nice ones for Amity—among others a very pretty and convenient Russian leather writing-case and travelling inkstand.

"That is my present," said she. "I shall expect you to write me a letter telling me all about your journey and adventures."

"It does not seem as if I had any purse," said Amity. "I cannot get used to the thought that I shall have plenty of money of my own. Mamma had to be so careful and saving."

"Well, well, we won't think about that any more," said Miss Julia, hastily. "'Let by-gones be by-gones' is an excellent rule. What will you have for your lunch?"

"Please choose for me, Aunt Julia. I never know what I do want when there are so many things."

"You will soon get over that, my dear. I suppose something substantial, with an ice cream, will suit you."

Aunt Julia gave her orders, and then leaned back in her corner of the nice little sofa, reading a French book she had just bought, while Amity amused herself with looking about her at the gayly-dressed groups of ladies and children who filled the large restaurant dining-rooms. Presently a lady came in with a little boy who walked rather feebly with two crutches. She set him up in a comfortable chair, and, saying something which Amity did not hear, went out and left him. The child, who was about eight years old, sat very contentedly for a while, and then began playing with some marbles which he took out of his pocket. By and by two of them fell on the floor. The boy looked at them wistfully, but made no effort to pick them up.

"Aunt Julia, may I pick up that lame boy's marbles for him?" whispered Amity. "He cannot get them himself."

"I will make a fence, so they can't roll off so easily," said Amity; and taking a napkin she rolled it up and laid it on the edge. "There, that will make a nice fence—now they won't roll off."

"I like you," said the child, looking up in Amity's face. "You are not pretty, but you are lovely. Why do you wear black? Is your mother dead?"

"Mrs. Franklin takes care of me. She is good, but she is not like mother. Is that your aunt?"

"Say it again—slow, please. Amity Bogardus," he repeated once or twice. "There now, I sha'n't forget. I don't know much, you see, but when people are good to me, I like to remember them. Thank you, 'Amity Bogardus.'"

"What did that child say his name was?" asked Miss Julia, when they had finished their lunch and were in the carriage again.

"'John Hamilton,' aunt; and wasn't it funny? He said he didn't know much, but he liked to remember people that were good to him."

"He looked as if there were something peculiar about him," said Aunt Julia. "I wonder whether he can be Mrs. John Hamilton's son. I heard she left a boy who was quite deficient in mind and body."

"He said his mother was dead, and that Mrs. Franklin took care of him. Did you notice how dull his eyes were, aunt, as if there were a veil over them?"

"I did not like to look very closely at him," answered Miss Julia. "It is not kind to seem to stare at a person who is unfortunate in any way. See what a pretty pony that little girl is driving! I must have you learn to drive when you come home again."

"Oh, I know how," said Amity. "Old Deacon Bradshaw taught me; and he used to lend me his old white horse and the buckboard to take mamma out riding."

Miss Julia began to talk of something else. She did not like to think of the time when her sister-in-law was teaching a little school in Vermont, to support her worse than useless husband and her only child.

A month later Amity was standing in the long drawing-room at Congress Hall, in Saratoga. She had had, as she said, "a lovely time" in the mountains with her grandfather. They had come to Saratoga by the way of Lake George, and they were now expecting Miss Julia, who was coming from Long Branch to meet her father, and spend some time at the springs. Amity was very much tanned, which did not improve her beauty; but still she looked much better than when we saw her first. The sad, downcast look was gone from her face; she held up her head; and the little pulleys in the corners of her mouth had drawn it into quite a different shape.

So when people said of her, "What a very homely child!" they usually added, "but she has a pleasant face, after all."

Amity had been in the great hotel only two or three days, but she had made several acquaintances among the little girls, and to two or three of these she was now talking.

"Did you hear Johnny Hamilton cry last night?" said one of the girls, Emma Fairchild by name. "Poor little fellow, how he did scream!"

"Johnny Hamilton!" repeated Amity. She was trying to remember where she had heard the name.

"Hear him? I should think I did," said another girl, very much "dressed up" with a sash and scarlet stockings. "I never heard such a noise. Ma says it is a shame to have such a wretched object about the house, and she means to speak to Mr. H. about it."

"My mother says it is wrong to call 'an idiot,'" said Emma Fairchild. "He can talk plain, and sensibly too, only he is so very slow, and can't seem to think of what he wants to say. He likes to be read to, and you never saw any one so fond of music. Mrs. Franklin told mother that was one reason she staid here—because Johnny liked to hear the band and see the people. He has very bad attacks of pain sometimes, and then he cries as he did last night; but generally he is very good and pleasant."

"He hasn't sense enough to be anything else," said Maud, with the usual toss of her head.

"It takes very little sense to be disagreeable," remarked Emma, demurely. "See, there he comes! Let's go and speak to him. He always likes that."

Amity looked at the pale lame little boy, whom a kind-looking lady was carefully placing in an arm chair by the window. Yes, it was the same little boy she had seen in New York.

"Just see him!" said Maud, in a loud whisper. "Now doesn't he look like an idiot?"

"No, I don't think he does; and anyway, Maud, we ought not to stare at him. Aunt Julia says it is very rude to stare at a person who has anything odd or unfortunate about him. I have seen this little boy before. I wonder if he will know me!"

"She just wants to show how good she is, and that Amity is just such another," said Maud to her companions, as they went out of the room. "She knows she is homely, and she means to try the good dodge."

To do Maud justice, this spiteful speech was not original with her. She had heard it from her mother, who did not much believe in goodness, except for the sake of display. Mrs. Wickford was an unhappy woman. She loved the world dearly, and the world did not like her at all.

Johnny smiled as the girls spoke to him, and answered Emma's kind "How do you do to-day, Johnny?" slowly but distinctly.

"I know you," he said quite eagerly; "I know your name: I say it in my prayers every night. Amity Bogardus," he repeated slowly. "I remember your eyebrows like a bridge."

"She picked up my marbles for me," answered Johnny. "It was in a place where you go to have lunch."

"In a restaurant in New York," said Amity. "I did not think you would know me again, Johnny. You have a good memory."

"I can remember some things," said he. "You picked up my marbles and made a fence for them, and you spoke pleasantly to me. What is 'an idiot,' Emma?"

"An idiot is a person who does not know anything—not even his own name, or the days of the week," answered Emma. "Why do you ask, Johnny?"

"A lady said I was 'an idiot,'" replied Johnny, with a quivering lip: "I heard her just now; and she said I ought not to be here, because people did not like to see me, and it made it unpleasant. It was that girl's mother who wears the red stockings."

"Just like her!" said Emma, who was a kindhearted little thing, but rather too hasty and outspoken. "My mother says she is a horrid, vulgar woman. Never mind, Johnny; you are not an idiot at all, and I am sure you know lots of things."

"Yes; I like to see the pretty ladies, and to hear the music, and watch the water come out of the ground over there," and he pointed toward the park. "It acts as if it was glad to come out into the light. Do you think it is?"

"I like to hear stories, and verses, and hymns," said Johnny, "and to go to church, only I can't understand what the minister says very well. I used to like to knit, but I forgot how when I was so sick. Mrs. Franklin says she will get some one to teach me again when we get home."

"I don't think you are one bit like 'an idiot,'" said Emma. "Amity, I must go now: I have to take my bath at eleven."

"I will sit with Johnny a little while, till his nurse comes back," said Amity, who was considering whether it would be possible for her to teach Johnny to knit again. "It would be 'doing something for the Lord Jesus,' as Mrs. Paget says," she thought.

Johnny listened with great interest for a while, but presently grew sleepy and began to nod.

Amity was just considering what she had better do when Mrs. Franklin came in. Johnny roused up a little.

"Polite, you mean," said Mrs. Franklin, as Johnny stammered and tried to think of the word he wanted. "Never mind, my dear: the young lady will excuse you when she knows how little sleep you had last night. You shall lie down on this sofa and have a good nap, and I will sit by you. Poor little man! I am very glad to see him sleep," she added, as Johnny laid his head down and dropped off again. "I am very much obliged to you, Miss—"

"My name is Amity Bogardus," said Amity, as Mrs. Franklin paused. "I saw Johnny only once, in New York, but he knew me again directly."

"Yes, he has a good memory for those people who are kind to him. He has often spoken of you."

"He has always been a little peculiar, but he has been much worse since his mother died. He was very sick with the same fever that killed her, and since then, his mind has failed a great deal."

"Yes, and I mean to try to have him taught again, but I am not a knitter myself, I am sorry to say."

"Perhaps I could teach him," said Amity. "I know how to knit pretty well, and I have taught two or three children. I would not mind trying, if you liked."

"You are very kind," said Mrs. Franklin, looking much pleased, "but I am afraid you would find it a great deal of trouble."

"I don't mind trouble, if only I could do it," said Amity; "but there would be no harm in trying—would there, do you think?"

"My father and mother are dead, but I will ask my grandfather," said Amity, "and if he is willing, I will begin after breakfast to-morrow. Grandpapa reads his papers then, and does not want me."

CHAPTER FOURTH.

"I HAVE no objections," said Judge Bogardus, when Amity spoke to him about her plans; "only you know, my little girl, if you begin, you must keep on. It won't do to disappoint the poor little fellow because you get tired sometimes and want to do something else."

"I don't think I am apt to get tired of what I try to do," said Amity, thinking at the same time, "I am sure grandpapa need not have said that to me."

"You do not always have as many temptations as you do here," said her grandfather; "and let me tell you one thing, Amity: it is a very good way of getting ready for a failure to think too much of yourself. If you begin or try to go on in your own strength, you will never succeed."

Judge Bogardus did not often speak in this way, and Amity was all the more struck with his words. They seemed to bring her down somehow from a little pinnacle of self-conceit she had been standing on, and she answered quite humbly:

"Your mother was a good woman, my dear, and I hope you will be another. Teach the poor little boy by all means if you can, but don't expect too much of him; and now go and get your hat. I want you to ride with me."

The next morning the knitting lessons began. Poor Johnny was very slow, and it was two or three days before he could catch the motions so as to go on by himself; but at last he did so, and could make out to knit a row without dropping more than half the stitches. Amity used to knit every other row (a very good way to do when one is teaching any child to knit).

"Oh yes! You are doing a little better every day. Pretty soon you can begin to knit sponge-towel, and when it is done, you can give it to Mrs. Franklin for a present."

"Won't that be nice? When I go where my mamma is, Amity, I shall tell her how good you have been to her poor little boy, And you, too," he added, turning to Mrs. Franklin, who sat by as if afraid she might be hurt; "I shall tell her you were almost the same as my own mother; not quite the same, you know—nobody could be that."

"You are my dear little boy," said Mrs. Franklin, kissing the poor little thin hand Johnny held out to her; "but your hands are hot, Johnny; does your side ache again?"

"Where have you been, and where do you keep yourself all the mornings?" asked Emma Fairchild, as she met Amity on the veranda when the lesson was done. "Why don't you come out after breakfast when it is cool and pleasant?"

"I know what she does: she is teaching that idiot boy to knit," said Maud. "Mrs. Franklin told mamma so."

"Oh yes! He can knit quite a good deal, and he is so pleased, poor little fellow! But, Maud, you shouldn't call him 'an idiot.' He is not that, though he is backward, and oh, so slow!"

"Little hymns and verses and such things. He can learn almost anything with a rhyme to it."

"Well, anyhow, I think you are real good to teach him," said Emma; "isn't she, Maud?"

"Yes, I suppose so, but I shouldn't like it," said Maud; "and it isn't so very much to do, either. Mamma knows a lady that founded a hospital for poor children—paid for it all herself, and her name is on the front of it. That would be something worth while—something that every one would know."

"But we ought not to do good things just to have people know them, I suppose; should we?" asked Emma, doubtfully. "I should not think that was right."

"Of course it isn't right. It is just like the Pharisees sounding a trumpet before them," answered Amity, with decision.

"Everybody does, anyhow," persisted Maud. "My mother gave ten dollars and some clothes to the Old Woman's Home, and because it was not put in the paper with the other donations, she said she would never give them anything again. * But, Amity, you are very rich, ain't you?"

"Then I should think you would like to do some grand thing—like building a hospital or an asylum. Just think! You might have a beautiful building on one of the avenues, with your name on it for every one to read when you are dead."

"Oh, I don't say I should do it. That is quite another thing," answered Maud, arranging her sash as she spoke. "I believe in using your money for yourself and having a good time. People are never grateful for being helped—ma says so. She said, after Mrs. Franklin went away: 'Well, I only hope they will be grateful, that's all; but I don't expect it;' and she said it was a shame for Mrs. Franklin to impose on you so."

"Oh, well! It's all right so long as you don't think so," said Maud, with a disagreeable little laugh. "I should think it a good deal of an imposition if any one was to get all that out of me. Ma says, 'Mrs. Franklin knows which side her bread is buttered.'"

"It wasn't a very pretty speech if ma did say it," said Emma, imitating Maud's affected pronunciation. "Come, Amity, let's go and get some Columbia water."

The girls took their glasses of the clear, sparkling water, and then walked away through the grounds. Emma chattered away in her usual off-hand fashion, which, to do her justice, was usually a very pleasant and good-natured one. Amity was so silent that Emma presently broke off her prattle, and asked her what she was thinking about.

"About Maud," answered Amity. "I don't think you need have been so sharp with her, Emma. I am afraid she was offended."

"Well, I dare say you are right," replied Emma. "I don't think I am apt to be sharp," (which was quite true), "but, somehow, Maud does always rub me the wrong way—she and her mother. Well, I don't know how to say what I mean, but they somehow seem to me to care only for the outside—not for what things really are, but only what people will say about them."

"You needn't have mimicked her, or spoken so about her mother any way," said Amity. "You wouldn't like it yourself, and I think you ought to be more careful. People will think you are very inconsistent."

Now all this was true enough, and if Amity had hinted it or even spoken it out to Emma in a more gentle and humble manner, I have no doubt that the little girl would have taken it kindly, for she was really trying hard to be a good Christian child. But Amity spoke sharply, and with a tone of superiority which "rubbed Emma the wrong way," as she said directly.

"Well, you needn't lecture me if I did," said she, sharply, in her turn. "You talk just like that horrid girl in the book we were reading, who scolded her grandmother for wasting her time knitting a bed-quilt." *

* I cannot now remember in what book I met this young lady, but she is no creation of mine.

Amity drew herself up. "If you are going to talk like that, I think we had better drop the subject," said she, trying, without much success, to look and speak like Aunt Julia. But the air which may be quite imposing in a tall, handsome grown-up lady has quite the contrary effect in a dumpy, tow-headed little girl.

"Dear me, how grand!" said she. "But it isn't a bit of use, Amity: you can't look tall if you try."

Amity did not condescend to say another word. She turned and walked back as quickly as possible by the way she had come.

"Oh don't, Amity!" called Emma, sorry in a moment, as she always was if she hurt any one's feelings. "I didn't mean to make you angry; I was only in fun."

"Oh dear!" said Emma to herself. "How sorry I am! And she was right, too: I ought not to have spoken so to Maud. To be sure, she need not have put on such airs, but then I need not have laughed. I mean to find both the girls after dinner, and make it up."

And Emma, who, as I have said, was really trying to serve her Master, folded her hands and said a little silent prayer for forgiveness and help to do better another time.

It would have been well for Amity if she had done the same. But she did not. She only thought how unkind Emma had been, and how careless and thoughtless she was. And then she began to think about what Maud had said, and to wonder whether Mrs. Franklin and Johnny were really as grateful as they ought to be for her kindness to them.

In fact, Amity had for some days been getting into a bad way. She had been thinking how much better it was to be good and useful (as she was) than to be handsome like Emma, or splendidly dressed like Maud, or to play the piano and sing like Jenny Barnard! How good it was in her to stay a whole hour with Johnny every morning, instead of running out to play! There is no more sure and certain way of becoming worse than other people than this of thinking how much better we are than other people.

Then it was such a grand idea, this of founding an institution like the lady Maud had spoken of. What should it be—an orphan asylum, or a hospital for children, or a school for idiots like Johnny? All that money would be hers when she was twenty-five, and the great place at Rockside, and the two grand houses in Fifth Avenue that Aunt Julia had shown her. Perhaps she might turn Rockside itself into an asylum, to be called "The Bogardus Institute"; or should she call it "Amity Park"? Yes, that would be the best; then, when people asked the meaning of the name, they would be told that it was the name of the young lady who had given all her fortune to found this noble charity. The last phrase pleased Amity very much, for it sounded like something she had read.

The same evening Amity and Maud were standing together on the veranda. Amity had not seen Emma since their little tiff in the morning, but she had sought out Maud as soon as she returned from her afternoon ride with her grandfather.

"Perhaps I can do her some good," she had said to herself. "At any rate, I ought to show her that I don't mean to insult her, like Emma."

If any one had told Amity that she wanted to show how much better she was than Emma, Amity would have denied with scorn that she ever thought of such a thing.

As Maud and Amity were standing together, Emma came up to them, her cheeks very pink and her eyes looking brighter than usual, and a little as if the tears might be pretty near them.

"Maud," said she, winking rather hard, "I am sorry I mimicked you this morning, and spoke so about your mother. Please forgive me."

Maud stared a moment, as if she did not quite understand Emma's meaning. Then she laughed, not mockingly, but quite good-humoredly.

"My! That wasn't anything," said she. "I had forgotten all about it, and I didn't care anyway. I say a great deal worse things than that myself, very often. I couldn't think what you meant at first."

"No, not a bit. I am not so silly as that, I hope. I did not mind it at all and if I had, I should have got all over it by this time. I never can keep mad, if I try ever so hard. But anyhow, it is real sweet in you to come and say you are sorry—isn't it, Amity?"

"It is better to take care and not say things one has to be sorry for," said Amity. Somehow she did not feel pleased at all with the turn things had taken.

Her remark did not make Emma's task any easier, but she had come to do her duty, and she did it.

"And, Amity, I am sorry I laughed at you, and said you were like that horrid girl in the book. It was all true what you said, and I have been thinking about it ever since."

"If you are sorry, of course that is all about it," answered Amity, coldly; "only, another time I hope you won't be so ready to snap one up, that's all."

"Well now, Amity, I call that mean," said Maud, as Emma went slowly away, and entered the house.

"Taking Emma up that way, when she said she was sorry. I am sure it is more than I would have done, after what you said, and I don't set myself up to be pious either. I sha'n't forget it in a hurry. How lovely she looked, didn't she?"

"Handsome is that handsome does," replied Amity, quoting her grandfather's proverb. "She just wanted to make a scene."

"Amity, for shame!" said Maud, who had a good disposition, and might have been a good girl if she had been taught. "I don't believe she ever thought of such a thing."

"I don't know anything about it, nor you either," returned Maud. "You can't see inside of Emma's heart any more than I can. You know what we had in the Bible lesson only last Sunday—'Judge not, that ye be not judged' (Matt. 7:1)."

"What does it mean then? I don't pretend to be pious—sometimes I think I should like to be."

"Then why don't you?" asked Amity, contemplating her, and thinking that here was a nice opening for the "talk" she had prepared to give Maud.

"Well, for several reasons. I wasn't brought up that way, for one thing; but if I were going to be pious, I would rather have Emma's kind than yours."

CHAPTER FIFTH.

ALL that evening Amity staid by herself, thinking over the wonderful and glorious things she would do when she was grown-up, and had her fortune in her own hands. She had not been given to thinking very much about this fortune, and therefore it had hitherto done her no harm; for it is not money, but "the love of money," which "is the root of all evil." But now she was thinking of it, and that in one of the most undesirable ways in the world, for she was considering how she should spend it, not for the glory of God and the good of others, but to increase her own consequence in the eyes of the world.

The result was that she quite forgot the cotton and needles she had promised to buy for Johnny, and came near forgetting his lesson in the morning. She was so late in coming that Mrs. Franklin sent a messenger to know if she meant to give the lesson.

"Of course I do," answered Amity, so shortly that her grandfather looked over his spectacles. "I only wish I had said I would come every other morning."

"It might have been as well," remarked her grandfather; "but you cannot very well change the plan now you have begun, especially as we go away so soon. But don't waste any more time, for I want you to go over to Albany with me at half-past twelve to meet Aunt Julia, and it is after nine now."

"No, no, don't do that: the poor little fellow will feel very much disappointed. And besides, a promise is a promise; remember that, little girl."

"I wish grandfather would not always call me a little girl, and before people too," said Amity to herself as she went along the hall and up the long stairs: "I am not such a baby as all that. And I don't see why he should care so much more for Johnny's comfort than mine. I do think, as Mrs. Wickford says, it is taking a great deal out of me to expect me to spend an hour every day with that poor little idiot."

Johnny was looking out for Amity, and his first eager words were, "Have you got the cotton, Amity?"

Amity was vexed at her own forgetfulness, and seized the first excuse that came to her mind. Now excuses are very dangerous things to handle for people who wish to speak the exact truth.

"I haven't got the cotton, Johnny, because I am going over to Albany to-day, and can get it so much better there."

Johnny's pale face flushed and his eyes filled with tears. Like other people of deficient mind, he was apt to set his heart very strongly on whatever was promised him. People who have the care of such persons cannot be too careful not to disappoint them.

"But you said you would get it—you said you would!" he repeated piteously. "And now you haven't brought it at all!"

"Hush, Johnny; don't cry, my dear," said Mrs. Franklin: "you will make your head ache. Amity will get your cotton in Albany, and that will be a great deal nicer."

"Of course it will," said Amity, feeling both vexed and ashamed. "And besides, you will be able to knit a great deal better when you have had another lesson. We will begin the towels to-morrow."

"'To-morrow' never comes," said Johnny. "It is always to-day, all the time. I don't see the use of talking about 'to-morrow' when it never is 'to-morrow.'" *

"There is some truth in that," said Mrs. Franklin, smiling; then, in a low voice, she said to Amity, "Never mind—only don't disappoint him again. It is so hard to divert his mind from anything he has set his heart on, and especially anything that has been promised him."

"Well, come, Johnny, if you want to knit; I haven't any time to spare," said Amity, not in the pleasantest tone in the world. "Take care! You will have all your stitches off."

The sharp warning, as often happens brought on the very trouble it was meant to prevent. Johnny started nervously, and out came the needle. Johnny was not as well as usual, and he was already nervous and excited with waiting and with his disappointment. He dropped the work and began to cry.

"There now, don't cry," said Amity. "I will pick up the stitches, and you must be more careful another time. But do stop crying first of all!" she added, more sharply still, as Johnny sobbed. "I won't touch the work till you do. There is no earthly use in your being such a baby. Hush now!"

But for Johnny to stop crying when he once began was impossible, and the more Amity scolded him the more he cried. Till Mrs. Franklin, who had gone out, came back to find him utterly beside himself, sobbing and calling for "mamma" and "Aunty Franklin" by turns.

"You cannot do anything with him now," said Mrs. Franklin to Amity. "He will go on till he cries himself to sleep. I presume that will be the worst of it."

"I should think you would govern him, and not let him cry so," remarked Amity, vexed with herself, with Johnny, and everybody. "I don't believe it is any kindness to him to let him be so naughty and troublesome."

"Johnny is neither naughty nor troublesome," answered Mrs. Franklin, a good deal annoyed, for she was very fond of her poor little charge. "He is very good considering how many hindrances he has. Pray, Miss Amity, how would you go to work to govern a child with spinal and heart disease?"

"Anyhow, there is no use in my trying to do any more this morning," said Amity, as Johnny's sobs grew worse and worse; "and I must get ready to go to Albany with grandfather. Good-by, Johnny. I will buy your cotton in Albany, and if you will be good and not cry, I will begin your work to-morrow."

"Now you must not talk to me, my dear," said Judge Bogardus, when they were safely seated in the drawing-room car; "I have a paper to look over." So saying, he took from his pocket one of those long written papers which Amity was learning to know by sight, and Amity was left to her own thoughts.

They were not very pleasant. Amity had been brought up to speak the truth and to consider a lie one of the worst of sins; and as she looked back over the events of the morning, she could not but see that the excuse she had made to Johnny about the cotton was a false one. She had never thought of buying the cotton in Albany till that minute. She had forgotten all about it. Moreover, she had been cross and unkind to Johnny, and pert to Mrs. Franklin. In short, she had behaved like anything but a Christian.

"Well, I will buy his cotton, and that will make it true, and I will get him a pretty present beside. Let me see. I have four dollars that I meant for my sofa cushion like Mrs. Fairchild's, but the cushion can wait. I wonder if I could buy a little musical box for that. He would like it, I know, for he is so fond of music; and that would be giving up something, too, because I really want the cushion, and I shall not have any more money till next month. Yes, I will buy the music-box if I can find it, and if not, I will buy him a bird. That will do nicely."

Amity felt quite good as she made mind to sacrifice her cushion to Johnny, and the good feeling lasted till late in the evening, when they took the last train for Saratoga. Aunt Julia had not come after all. They had waited for her to the last minute, and then received a telegram that she would not arrive for two days more. Amity was tired and hungry. The car was too dark to read, and grandpapa was too sleepy to talk; so she had nothing to do but to think.

She had found a very pretty music-box for four dollars, and she had bought the cotton and some pretty wooden needles for Johnny beside, but somehow she did not feel satisfied. The lie she had told stuck in her conscience. You know you sometimes get a "pricker" in your finger, and do not feel it for some hours or even days. Then it begins to throb and burn, and unless you can get it out, you will have a bad time with it. Amity's false excuse was like the thorn. It had been quiet for a while, but now it began to trouble her. Conscience would persist in calling it by its right name, and in telling her that she had been unkind and unfaithful to the poor little motherless, helpless child, and perhaps had done him more harm than she would ever do him good. She had a very uneasy feeling as she remembered what Mrs. Franklin said about "heart disease." What if Johnny should die?

When a person has been brought up in the habit of listening to the voice of conscience, the habit is not easily broken up. That voice may be silenced or disregarded for a time, but in some interval of quiet it will make itself heard, and must be silenced a great many times before it ceases to speak whenever it has a chance. Now, as Amity sat in the quiet, half-lighted car, with nobody to talk to and nothing to look at but the lamps and the two or three gentlemen nodding in their chairs, her faults showed themselves to her in all their ugliness. She had been unkind to the poor, helpless little boy who loved her so dearly, she had broken a promise which she might just as well have kept, and she had told a lie to hide her own carelessness. Yes, a lie! She I called it by its right name now. She knew she could have bought the cotton in Saratoga just as well as in Albany, if she had not forgotten it.

But Amity had not yet gotten quite to the root of the thorn. She felt ashamed and sorry for her faults, and honestly asked for forgiveness, and for help to do better. Then she began to think how she had fallen into such trouble.

"It seems strange it should have come from my wanting to help Johnny!" she said to herself.

And then, all at once, as if some one had held a mirror up to her, she saw herself as she really had been for some days. She had not been thinking nearly so much of helping Johnny as of showing off herself—of showing how good and self-sacrificing she was—so much better than Maud, who cared for nothing but her fine white frocks and colored silk stockings—than Emma, who cared for nothing but play. She had been thinking how much better it was to be good, as she was, than to be dressy like Maud or beautiful like Emma. She had taken pains to have every one know that she spent an hour after breakfast teaching the little boy to knit, and she had been greatly "set up" in her own good opinion when the ladies praised her.

Then all those foolish dreams about setting up a hospital, and making her name famous—Amity could not think of them now without disgust. It had been her self—her own dear precious self—who was to be praised and glorified. Of her GOLDEN TEXT—of the motto which her friend Mrs. Paget had given her that day in the summer-house—she had never thought at all.

Amity buried her face in her hands, leaned her head against the side of the car, and cried bitterly. She had never been so ashamed and so unhappy in all her life.

"I wish I had never seen Johnny! I wish I had never come to Saratoga at all!" was her first thought. "But then I dare say I should have been just as bad anywhere else!" was her second. And she began to remember other cases where she had done things "to be seen of men."

It was a very sad two hours that Amity passed in the parlor-car that night, but it Was one of the most profitable evenings of her whole life. They were very late in reaching Saratoga, and Amity went straight to her own room. She was very tired and sleepy, and her head ached with sight-seeing and with crying, but she did not go to bed till she had kneeled down and confessed all her sin to her heavenly Father, and asked forgiveness in his name whose blood "cleanseth us from all sin" (1 John 1:7). Then feeling somewhat comforted she lay down to sleep, after she had taken from her bag the presents she had bought for Johnny, and set them on her dressing-table.

There was a good deal of moving about on the floor overhead, and once she thought she heard some one crying.

"I hope Johnny is not sick again!" she thought. "Poor dear little man! I will make it up to him somehow." And with this thought she fell asleep.

But Amity was to find, as so many other people have found, that it is not so easy to "make up." She slept rather late, and as soon as she was dressed, she took the little music-box which she had wound up, and the cotton, and went up to Johnny's room.

"I will take the things to him directly," she thought; "then he can amuse himself with them, and as soon as I have done breakfast, I will give him his lesson."

As she came into the hall where Johnny lodged, she was surprised to see that the door was open, and that several people were standing about it, among them Mrs. Wickford, who held up her finger as Amity drew near. Maud was leaning against her mother, with her face hidden, but Amity could see that she was crying.

"Hush, my dear!" said Mrs. Wickford, in a low tone. "The poor little boy is very near the end of his troubles. He will not suffer much more."

Amity looked into the open door. Johnny was sitting up in bed, supported by Mrs. Franklin. The doctor was on one side of the bed, and Mr. Gordon, a minister who was staying in the house, stood on the other, with a book in his hand, as if he had been reading or praying. Johnny seemed to breathe with difficulty, but his cheeks were a little red, and his eyes had dropped the kind of veil which usually covered them, and looked bright and clear, as Amity had never seen them before.

Mrs. Franklin was crying quietly, and Johnny put up his little hand and stroked her cheek, as he did when he wished to express affection. As he did so, his eyes fell on Amity, and he smiled brightly.

"Come and speak to him, Amity," said Mrs. Franklin. "He has asked for you several times."

As Amity drew near, and bent over to kiss the little boy, the music-box which she held in her hand began to play.

"It is a music-box I brought you from Albany," said Amity, trying to speak calmly, though she felt as if she should choke. She held out to him the pretty toy, which was playing Beethoven's last waltz. Johnny took it in his hand and held it up to his face.

"Pretty, pretty!" said he. And then, with a great effort, he added, "I was cross yesterday—I am sorry."

"Don't, Johnny," said Amity, feeling as if this was more than she could bear. "It was I who was cross, not you. But I have got your cotton, and we will have a nice time knitting when you get better."

"I shall never get better," said Johnny. "I am going to mamma, and I am glad." Then, looking at Mrs. Franklin, he added, "The watch—Amity—you said I might, you know."

Mrs. Franklin put her hand under the pillow and took out a pretty gold watch, which she gave to Johnny. Johnny laid it in Amity's hand.

"It is his mother's watch," explained Mrs. Franklin. "He wants to give it to you."

He lay still a few minutes longer listening to the music-box. Then he suddenly raised himself and stretched out his arms.

"Mamma!" he exclaimed, joyfully, and then, sinking back with a gentle sigh, he was gone!

That day's lesson was not lost on Amity, She had learned, by bitter experience, that it is not so easy to "make up" for unkindness and neglect. "That which is crooked cannot be made straight: and that which is wanting cannot be numbered" (Eccles. 1:15) or "made up."

"I feel as if I had killed him!" she said, later in the day, as she stood by Johnny's bedside. "Perhaps if I had not made him cry, he might have been alive now!"

"You must not feel so," replied Mrs. Franklin. "We have known for a long time that the poor child had but a little time to live. The doctor says it is a great wonder that he has lasted so long. He was not well yesterday morning, and that was the reason he cried so easily."

"And Amity was good to him, wasn't she?" said Maud, who had just come in with a box of beautiful flowers.

"I'm sure I wish I had ever done anything for him," continued Maud. "But I didn't. I wouldn't let him take my talking doll, and I called him 'an idiot.' Mrs. Franklin, won't you please take these flowers? I bought them with my own money. I felt as if I wanted to do something. I know one thing, anyhow," said Maud, as they walked away: "I never will call any one names again. I suppose we ought not to wish Johnny back, because he is a great deal better off; but I can't help wishing I could see him long enough to tell him how sorry I am."

"And what kind of a girl has Amity turned out?" asked Mrs. Paget of Miss Julia, when they met in Europe.

Miss Julia, however, was not Miss Julia now. She was the wife of an American embassador. Mrs. Paget had been abroad for some years.

"Amity! Oh, she is just the same homely little round-about thing she was at twelve years old. She has not changed at all."

"I did not think she would ever be handsome," remarked Mrs. Paget; "but how is she in other respects. Is she bright?"

"Why, I hardly know what to say. She is a good deal of a reader, and likes steady plodding work like mathematics. She is wonderfully industrious, too—always busy about something. She keeps house now, and really, for one so young, she manages uncommonly well. She is a great deal better at accounts than ever I was, and keeps the house cheerful and pleasant. Then she makes herself useful in the church—teaches in Sunday-school, looks after poor folks, and has a great sewing-class. She is always knitting babies' socks, or a shawl for some old woman, or a comforter for some urchin in her class. That is her style of fancy work."

"Oh, she does; but then she likes that sort of thing. To do her justice, she does not make any parade of her deeds, like some people I could name. She never seems to think of herself in connection with them."

"Oh yes, indeed she is. A more dutiful child than she is to father could not be. But she does not care at all for general society, and would rather stay at home and make babies' shoes than go to the best opera that ever was performed. In short, she is a good, honest, homely little body, but she will never make any figure in the world, with all her advantages. She really has no talent—none at all."

"Phil's Pansies."—Frontispiece.
"If you please, Miss, these are yours," said Phil.

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"Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shalt find it after many days."—
Eccles. 11:1.

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NO. 1122 CHESTNUT STREET.
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NEW YORK: 8 & 10 BIBLE HOUSE, ASTOR PLACE.
CHICAGO: 73 RANDOLPH ST.

CHAPTER FIRST.

MISS ISABEL had been taking great pains with her class that day. She had walked down to Sunday-school, more than a mile, in the rain to meet her scholars, and she was expecting to walk home again. She had spent much time in studying the lesson herself, and she had noted down some things which she hoped the boys would like to hear. The "Golden Text" of the lesson was this:

"Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shall find it after many days" (Eccles. 11:1).

Miss Isabel had been telling the boys of the custom to which this verse referred, and of which, as it happened, none of them had ever heard. She told them how, in some parts of the world, there was very little rain, and the lands were watered by streams from some neighboring river or reservoir; how the farmers scattered their grain on the surface, and then, as the water sank into the ground, how the seed was buried and took root and grew; and so, after many days, the farmer found his "bread" again in the shape of ripe, waving grain, ready for the harvest.

You might think the boys would have been pleased to hear such a story as this, and that they would have listened and remembered, when she told them of what the seed cast on the waters was meant to represent; namely, the word of God, and the other means of doing good which he has placed in our hands, and which we must use at the right time and in the right way, even though our doing so should seem as hopeless work as throwing seed into the water.

But Horace Maberly had his head full of a boating frolic, which he meant to tell the boys about after school, and Harry Merton was thinking whether his aunt meant to ask him home to dinner with her, and John Drayton was watching a wasp, and the others had their heads full of nothing but idleness,—all but one. Phil O'Connor listened with all his ears, and they were very large ones, and what was better with all his heart and soul; and when Miss Isabel stopped talking, he ventured to ask a question. It was the first time he had spoken a word in the class, and he was a good deal scared at the sound of his own voice, but he kept on:

The other boys stared at Phil, and Horace laughed rather rudely, but Miss Isabel turned to him with a smile. She had been feeling tired and sad, and it was a real pleasure to perceive that one of the class at least had listened.

"I don't think that ever happens, Phil," said she. "God gives every one of us some kind of seed to sow, and some kind of a place to sow it in. It may be a very small, narrow corner that we have to cultivate; but if we work faithfully at that he is sure to give us more. We can all speak kindly to some one, or give some one a little help, or take some hindrance out of their way. A very poor old man once gave a boy poorer than himself a pair of old shoes to wear, that the boy might go to church and Sunday-school. The shoes had holes in them. The old man was fond of his coffee for breakfast, but he went without a whole week that he might have the money to get the shoes mended. The boy went to Sunday-school, where he learned to read and love his Bible, and he afterward became a useful and learned Christian minister. That was a very little bit of seed—a pair of old shoes—and see what a great crop it bore."

"And suppose the boy's mother had sold the shoes for whisky, as the woman did whose girl mother fixed up last winter, what would have become of the seed then?" asked Horace, in rather a sneering tone.

"Sure, 'twould have done the old gentleman himself good, anyhow!" answered Phil, eagerly. "Wouldn't it, Miss?"

"You are right, Phil," said Miss Isabel. "The Lord says that he who gives even a cup of cold water in his name shall in no wise lose his reward, and that we are to do good and lend, hoping for nothing again, and our reward shall be great in heaven."

"A man wouldn't make much money that way, I guess," said Horace Maberly, who was taught at home that the chief good of life was money.

"I don't remember any place in the Bible where we are told that it is our duty to make a great deal of money do you?" asked Miss Isabel. "St. Paul says we are to be diligent and work with our hands, in order that we may be able to give to him that lacks, and also that we may not be burdensome to others, but we are nowhere told that it is our duty to be rich."

Horace looked a good deal vexed. In his home, money was the great thing thought about and talked about. His father had become very rich within a few years, and Horace thought himself a great person in consequence. He could not see how it was that Miss Isabel, whose own father was richer even than Mr. Maberly, should seem to care no more for him than she did for Harry Merton, or even for little Phil O'Connor.

Phil did not stay to church, though he would have liked to do so. He remembered that probably granny was alone, and she might want something. His mother would be sure to be at home in the evening, and he could come down to the prayer meeting. It would be sowing a little bit of good seed, he thought, if he went and waited on granny, instead of leaving her alone all the morning.

Phil had sown another seed of which he never thought. He had cheered up his teacher's heart, and given her new faith and courage. Here was at least one, Miss Isabel said to herself, who listened to what she said, and made an effort to understand it. The others had not seemed to care. She wondered what made the difference. They were all bright boys enough, and gave her very little trouble; but, somehow, they had no interest in the lessons. She could not make them see that the words they learned and recited had any relation to themselves. A very little excuse kept them away from school, and she was rather surprised at seeing so many of them together that rainy day. I think myself that they came to hear about the boating party which was to take place the next day.

Miss Isabel had for some time cast her bread upon the shallow or muddy waters of their minds with rather a heavy heart. She almost thought she would give up the class, and let some one else take it and try what could be done. But as she walked home in the rain that day—for the coachman was sick, and there was nobody at home who could drive—she felt her heart lighter, and she made up her mind to work and pray a while longer.

Phil's father was dead, and his mother and he lived with his grandmother in "Irishtown." Irishtown was not pretty like the rest of Rockside and Brookvale, though it was built on the side of a rocky hill where there were evergreen trees, and a pretty little brook, and such beautiful views as many a rich man would give thousands of dollars for. The houses were rickety and dirty, with broken windows which were stuffed sometimes with rags or old hats. There were no gardens about them, and many of the people threw their slops and refuse out on the top of the ground to rot in the sun and poison the air, and breed showers of flies to torment the children and sick people. There were plenty of sheltered spots and hollows among the rocks where the sun shone, and the soil was fertile, and these refuse things might have been dug into the ground where they would have helped to raise vegetables and flowers; but nobody thought as far as that.

Granny O'Connor could not be called poor, like many of her neighbors. She owned the land on which her house was built, instead of being a mere squatter on some other person's ground. She owned a cow, too, and a pig, and some chickens. She was too old and infirm to work herself, but her daughter-in-law, Phil's mother, went out washing five days in the week, and was well paid. Fanny, Phil's sister, had lately gone to a good place where she was to have a dollar a week, and more after a while if she made herself useful.

Phil was the youngest of the family, and had never been set to any harder work than watching the cow as she fed in the lanes and by the roadsides, and feeding the pig. Sometimes he went to the places where his mother washed, and carried away the slops from the kitchens for the pig and cow; but his chief business was to wait on the cow and on granny, who was growing very feeble and helpless.

As Phil had expected, he found granny alone, his mother having gone to gossip with some of her neighbors after being at mass in the morning. That was the way she kept Sunday. Granny had fallen asleep in her chair; the fire was nearly out; the ashes were scattered over the stove, hearth, and on the floor, and the room looked and felt forlorn and dismal. A few months before, Phil would not have minded these things, but he was learning how other people lived. When he went into the kitchens where his mother washed, and saw how neat and pleasant they were, he wished they could have things like that at home.

"It looks enough to break one's heart," said Phil to himself. "I might as well have stayed, after all."

And then he bethought himself that here was a chance for putting in practice of the things he had heard that morning. He found a broom, and swept up the floor and the hearth; made up the fire, and put on some water. When it was hot, he washed and put away the dirty dishes, which his mother had left standing, and would have left for a week if she had not happened to want them again, wiped off the table and the hearth—both with the same cloth—and put the room in the best order he could.

He then filled the tea-kettle, and set it on the stove, and began washing and paring some potatoes. Presently he saw that the old woman was awake and watching him. Granny was far more neat and economical than her daughter-in-law, and fretted not a little over the dirt and disorder she was too feeble to help, and therefore had to endure.

"Sure you're as handy as any girl, and better than most," said she. "You've made the place look as fine as a pin. But why didn't you stay to church, dear?"

"It's your granny's own boy you are!" said the old woman, fondly. "And did you have a good time at your school?"

"Yes, granny, and Miss Isabel gave me a nice book to read. Just look at the pictures."

"Miss Isabel? Sure, she's a good young lady entirely, and like the rale old gentry I used to work for at home. 'Tis a fine thing for you to have her for a teacher."

"I wish I could go to school week days again," said Phil, as he popped his potatoes into the pot. "I'm afraid I'll forget all that I learned."

"I don't see how I can, though," pursued Phil, still busy about his cooking. "What would we do about the cow?"

"Well, well, we'll see. Don't you fret. It'll all come round right. Sure, you're my own boy and all my comfort in life. It's myself and your father, that's in glory this minute, you take after, and not your mother's folks at all, at all. Them Mehans were always a shiftless set, not that I'm faulting your mother, dear. Considerin' her bringing up, she does wonderful; and she's kind to the old woman, too. But come now, sit down and read to me a bit out of the Bible. Them old ancient histories is wonderful entertaining."

As Phil saw how pleased his granny was with his care for her, he felt as if one of his seeds had come up already. He was not quite sure that her way of looking at Scripture was the right one, but he was glad to get her to hear it at all. He turned to the history of Joseph, and read several chapters before his mother came home to dinner.

CHAPTER SECOND.

THE next morning when Phil waked, he heard what seemed to be a lively discussion going on down in the kitchen, which was also the parlor and dining-room.

"Shure, the child's got learning enough for the likes of him already!" he heard his mother say. "Wasn't yourself saying yesterday he could read like a priest?"

"But he can't write, Mary—not to speak of. I'd like him to have a real good education, and you know, dear, it costs nothing with the free schools they have."

"Oh, well! Just as you like, granny dear," said easy-going Mary. "He's your own boy, and you can bring him up to suit yourself. It's a good boy he is, anyhow. But I must be start-in' out, or I'll be late at Mrs. Maberly's."

Phil hurried down stairs, but his mother had already gone. She took her breakfast where she washed, but she had got ready some tea, milk, and potatoes for her mother-in-law and Phil, whom she loved, as she would have said, "with all the veins of her heart."

With all the dirt and carelessness and waste of the household, there was more real love and comfort within its walls than in many a fine house kept in the best manner. But then, Mary might have been just as good-natured without leaving the potato parings in a heap on the floor by the stove, and her Sunday gown in another heap on a chair for the cat and kittens to make a bed of, spoiling it more than a year's careful wear and putting away would have done.

Phil, however, was used to his mother's heaps, and did not mind them. Granny did mind, but she could not help herself, and did not let her daughter-in-law's ways make her unhappy for more than a few minutes at a time. Phil hung up the gown, picked up the potato skins and gave them to the cow, and then sat down to breakfast. Looking at his grandmother as he gave her her cup of tea, he saw that she had been crying.

"No, dear; just nothing at all. I was thinking of old times, that's all. An old woman will have her thoughts."

"You are sure it isn't anything else? Have your pains come on again? Shall I go to the doctor for some medicine?"

"Well, you might just take the bottle down if you like. It's well to have it on hand; and as you go step into Mrs. Barnard's, and tell Mr. Regan I'd like to speak to him if he can spare the time to come round."

Phil made haste to finish his breakfast. He washed up the dishes, put the house to rights, and set within reach of granny's chair everything she was likely to want, that she might be spared the pain of moving. Then he washed his own face and hands, and "made himself decent" to go to the town.

He liked any business which took him down to Rockside, and he still better liked calling at Mrs. Barnard's. He was sure to meet the lady herself in her flower garden, and to have a kind word from her. He liked to walk down through the grounds, and peep through the windows of the green-house to see the strange and lovely flowers that grew there. All this was very pleasant.

Phil did not think of being envious or unhappy because none of these fine things belonged to him. It seemed to him quite natural that some people should have fine houses and gardens, and others should live in tumble-down houses, as at Irishtown, and have no gardens at all. He did his errand at the doctor's first, to make sure of finding him at home.

"Do you think granny will ever be well, sir?" he asked, when he had told the doctor just how granny was, and received directions to get the same medicine as before.

"Why, no, not well exactly," said the doctor, kindly. "You see granny is an old woman, and we can't make a mill to grind old people young again. But I presume that as the warm weather comes on, she will be much better, and be able to get about the house and out of doors once more."

Cheered by these words, Phil turned toward home. As he drew near a pretty little cottage on the street where the doctor lived, he saw a young lady come to the gate and empty a quantity of little folded papers from the pocket of her linen gardening apron into the road.

As she went back into the house, Phil stopped and picked up some of the papers to see what they were. They turned out to be little bags which had once held flower seeds. The young lady had planted most of the seeds, but as Phil felt the papers, he found that almost every one had three or four seeds left in it, and one, marked on the outside "Viola tricolor," was quite full, though it had been opened like the others.

"I wonder why did she throw that away?" said Phil to himself, as he stuffed the papers into his pocket and went on his way. "Maybe they wasn't a good kind. Anyhow, I mean to plant them and see what they turn out. There's the corner back of the cow-shed at the foot of the rock, where the wild flowers come out so early. There's a bit of a fence now, and I could mend it up with poles and things. Enough of those are lying round the place to fence an acre. I don't see why I shouldn't have a garden as well as any of them."

Phil's head was so full of his garden that he came near passing Mrs. Barnard's place without going in, but he recollected himself and hurried in at the gate. As he expected, Mrs. Barnard was at work among her flowers.

"Regan is in the green-house," was the answer; "you can go in and speak to him if you wish."

This was a pleasure Phil did not expect, though he had often longed to find himself within those curious glass walls. It was with great delight that he breathed the warm, damp, spicy smell of the green-house, filled with geraniums, roses, and all sorts of plants, some of which, Phil thought, must have come straight from Fairy-land.

"I'll step round this evening," said Regan, when Phil had delivered his message. "Did she say what she wanted of me?"

"No, sir, only that she wanted to spake to you. What a beautiful place! Shure, I'd like to be a gardener like yourself, Mr. Regan!"

"It's the sweetest trade and the wholesomest trade in the world, besides being the oldest," said Regan. "Adam was a gardener, you know."

"Yes, through keeping bad company, and not minding his work. You can stay and help me a bit if you like; I'm full of business this morning."

Phil knew he could be spared for an hour longer at least, and the time passed very happily in handing Mr. Regan the large pots he wanted to use, and piling away the small ones.

"You're a handy boy," said the gardener. "Here, you may have this fine red geranium to carry home if you like. Take care of it, and you'll have flowers all summer."

Phil was delighted not only with the present but with the kindness, for Mr. Regan was a great man in his eyes. He ventured to ask a favor.

"Viola tricolor—Pansy," read Mr. Regan from the parcel Phil gave him. "Well, some of them are like this, and this," pointing out some plants growing in the cold frame outside the door. "There's a great many kinds of them. Where did you get them?"

"I found them in the street along with these others," said Phil, producing the rest of the parcels. "They've all got a few seeds in them, and I thought I'd try to plant them."

"Dig up your ground well and put in plenty of manure, not too new, and you're sure to have them grow, only be careful to make your soil fine enough. You get it ready and I'll take a look at it when I come round to-night, and show you how to plant the seeds."

"Granny," said Phil, when he had given his messages and the bottle of medicine, and told his grandmother how he had been employed, "can't I have a garden of my own? There's that warm bit behind the cowhouse, where the violets come so early. Why can't I dig it up and make a little garden?"

"There's nothing in life to hinder, if you want to do the work," answered granny. "Your father used to have a garden bit in that very spot, and raise radishes and what not. You'll find all his tools up in the garret if you want them. But the fence is all down, isn't it?"

"Not so but I can mend it up again," said Phil. "I didn't mean a real garden though—only a bed for flowers and maybe some radishes or the like. I can dig up the ground and mend the fence and plant my seeds before it's time to take the cow out, and then they'll be growing while we're sleeping. Mr. Regan said he'd show me how to plant the seed. I'd like to be a gardener when I'm grown-up, granny. I think it is so nice all among the trees and plants; better than working in the dusty, woolly carpet factory, or in the hat factory among the dyestuffs and smells."

"Thrue for you, dear; I'd like it better for ye. Them factories isn't very healthy, they say."

"And it's a good trade too," continued Phil. "Mr. Regan gets large wages I know, and Mrs. Barnard thinks everything of him."

"Granny's got something on her mind," thought Phil as he climbed to the garret where he slept, and turned over a great heap of mostly useless lumber to find the tools he wanted. "I wonder what it is. Here's the things at last—spade, rake, and hoe—good luck to me. I'll want the hatchet too, so I'd best take it along."

Phil would have liked to go at once to digging, but his own common sense told him that there would be no use in making a garden for the neighbors' pigs to run over, so he set to work on the fence first. It was hard, tiresome work for one not very large boy, and more than once he was tempted to give it up. But the thought of his flower seeds and of what Mr. Regan would say gave him courage. He only stopped long enough to cook his own and granny's dinner, and by night he had made a pretty good fence and dug up part of his ground. It was the hardest day's labor of his life, but he felt rewarded when Mr. Regan looked over his work and declared that he had made a very good beginning.

"I'll give you a bit of a vine to run up on the rock here, and some morning-glories and scarlet beans. Oh! You'll have a fine garden if you take pains. But then you must remember that a garden is a thing that can't be just made and left. You've got to work at it every day, and pull up the weeds just as fast es they show themselves, or else they'll get ahead of you.

"Well, Mrs. O'Connor, I've looked at the cow all over, and I think I can in conscience advise Mrs. Barnard to take her at the price. She is a nice creature, and we know the stock she comes of. I'll let you know in two or three days."

He knew how much granny thought of Crummie, and with how much reason. Crummie was a nearly pure-blooded Jersey cow. Her mother had been given to granny many years before by a lady whom she had nursed in a very bad fever, and was of the best breed. Crummie might have been sold many times over, but granny had always refused to part with her.

"Well, yes, dear, I think I will," said granny. "You see what with me being helpless and your mother away all day, the poor thing don't get the best of care, and our milk customers is mostly fell off. I sha'n't be here long, anyhow, and I'd rather know she had a good home with a kind lady like Mrs. Barnard, than think she'd maybe grow old or go dry, and then be sold to a drover. And, besides, if there's no cow to tend, what will hinder your going to school? But don't you say a word till we see what the lady says. I don't want this one and that one coming and talking to me about it."

"Oh, never mind that, my dear. I'd be hard-hearted not to feel bad for the poor creature that I brought up from a baby, as I might say. But she'll be real well off with Mrs. Barnard."

"She'll have an elegant stable," said Phil. "Their barn is nicer than many houses, and as neat as a new pin."

"It isn't the elegant stable I'm thinking of," said granny. "The Maberlys have got that and more, and it's not to them I'd be selling a cow of mine. It's the care and the kindness, and not the fineness, that makes cows happy as well as children. Come, get your book and read me a bit to cheer me up a little before I go to bed."

CHAPTER THIRD.

IN two or three days' time the bargain was completed about the cow. Mrs. Barnard paid a good price for her, and Phil went with Mr. Regan, at his granny's desire, to put the money in the savings bank at Rockside. He was also allowed to lead Crummie to her new home, and give her her first meal in the fine cowhouse.

The poor thing was very unhappy and homesick at first, and lowed so pitifully when Phil left her that he had to go into the barn and cry a little.

"Don't you grieve, little boy," said John, the coachman. "She'll soon be wonted and as happy as ever she was."

"I know it," answered Phil, wiping away his tears; "but you see I've known her so long, and tended her every day since I was old enough."

"And that's true, and I don't blame you for not liking to part with her. But look here, didn't I hear your granny was wanting a cat?"

"Well, you may have your pick of these, or take two if you want them," said John, showing Phil an empty manger where some kittens by sleeping all coiled up in a warm, furry heap. "Maybe you'd better take two. They will be company for each other, and you can give one away when they grow older."

Phil was delighted. He chose a tabby, and a black kit with a white nose and white feet.

"Now, if you like. The cat has weaned them so they won't miss her. That is the way to have a nice, clean, useful cat, to let the mother bring them up herself."

"Shure, it stands to reason she would know best," said Phil, admiring and stroking the kittens, while John hunted up a basket to put them in. "Won't granny be pleased though? She says the house don't seem like home without a cat in it."

Granny was as much pleased as Phil had hoped she would be. The two kits soon made themselves at home, and were as happy and playful as possible.

It was now settled that Phil was to go to school, but he was obliged to wait till he could get some new clothes, his old ones being quite unfit. Even his Sunday suit was growing shabby, and it was decided that he should take this into every-day wear, while on Saturday his mother would go with him to the village and buy him an entire new suit with some of the money that had come from the sale of the cow.

Meantime, Phil worked in his garden and got it all in nice order. He had seen how Mr. Regan planted his seeds, putting down a flower-pot to mark an exact ring, and then marking a little trench for the seeds more or less deep according to their size. He made the mould very fine and picked out all the stones, just as his friend had done; for Phil not only had bright eyes to see, but good brains behind them to think and remember.

He had at last sowed all his seeds, and stood, looking at the ground with great delight, when he was startled by hearing granny's voice. The old woman was getting better with the warm weather, as the doctor had said she would, and she had crept out, with the help of her cane, to see what Phil was about.

"It's a nice little garden you've made, dear. And what have you got planted in all these places?"

"Flower seeds, granny—the seeds I picked up in the street, you know—and some morning-glories and scarlet runners that Mr. Regan gave me. This bed is the pansy seed. I'll have a lot of them, the bag was full."

"I'm not just clear about them seeds," said granny; "I mistrust you ought to have gone in and asked the young lady did she mean to throw them away."

Phil was a little vexed. He had "mistrusted" the same thing himself more than once; but then he wanted so very much to see what the flowers would be like.

"Anyhow, we can't help it now, they are in the ground," said he. "Mr. Regan said maybe she didn't think they were a good kind. The gentlemen and ladies are very particular what they have in their gardens. Mr. Regan was looking at the daisies he had in a 'cold frame,' he called it, the day I was up to see the cow. There was a good many that had a little bit of yellow in the middle. I thought they were as pretty as any, but he said he should only plant out the double ones, and I might have as many of the others as I liked. I'm going down to get them this very day. Haven't I made the fence good and tight? I put that bush at the top so the chickens couldn't fly over. See, the morning-glories and runners are planted down here, so when they grow they can run all over it."

"And that's a good plan too. But if you are going so far, you might step on to the village and get me some more medicine. The last did me a deal of good. There's fifty cents to pay for it, and you may have the change for yourself."

Phil undertook the errand with a very good will. He left his basket at Mrs. Barnard's, and went down town. Mr. Ryan, the nurseryman, had just brought in a wagon load of blossoming plants, and Phil stopped to look at them. They were geraniums, verbenas, plants with red and yellow and dark brown leaves like velvet, and a great many more of what are called "bedding-out plants."

A lady was also looking at the plants, and Phil listened with great interest to hear what she and Mr. Ryan were saying, as she took up one and another.

"Oh yes, ma'am. These are all bedding-out plants. This coleus is new, and one of the finest we have."

"From a dollar to a dollar and a half a dozen," was the answer. "From twelve to fifteen cents each, if we sell them singly."

The lady selected a few of the plants, saying she would look over her list and see what more she needed. She then asked for some flower seeds, and followed Mr. Ryan into the shop. Phil stood looking at the plants. Oh, if he could only have even one of those lovely velvety-leaved things! He knew just where he could set it, and how beautiful it would be all summer long, But fifteen cents! He had not so much in the world. Granny had said he might have the change from the fifty-cent piece, but that would be only five cents.

Suppose he should not pay for the medicine. He knew Mr. Eddy, at the drug store, would trust him, because he had done so before when granny was so sick. Then he could buy two or three plants of various kinds. But what would granny say when she knew it? She was, as Mr. Regan said, "honest as daylight," and nothing vexed her so much as a debt. She had more than once scolded his mother for buying even such things as sugar and tea on credit, and had declared that she would sell her place and go to the hospital or almshouse sooner than run into debts which she might never be able to pay.

"She need never know it!" whispered the tempter in Phil's ear. "You can earn the money somehow and pay the bill at the druggist's. You can save the money off your new clothes and pay it that way. You can tell her Mr. Regan gave you the plants."

"She's sure to speak about it the first time she sees him," said Phil to the tempter.

"She is old and forgetful," answered the tempter. "Come, you had better buy the plants now. They will be gone by Saturday perhaps, and then you will be sorry. Come, let us at least go in and ask the price. That can do no harm."

That is the way the tempter almost always acts. "That can do no harm," he says. "Let us just go a step further," and so he leads people on, till the way down hill grows so steep that they need no more leading, but run head-long down.

Phil followed the tempter into Mr. Ryan's shop, and then all at once he saw who had been leading him, and what he had been going to do. What was it that opened his eyes so suddenly? Just the sight of Miss Isabel in her pretty gray dress and India striped shawl, the very dress she had worn on Sunday, buying seeds at the counter. Just the sight of her made Phil open the eyes of his conscience and see what he was going to do. What would Miss Isabel think? What would his heavenly Father think?

"Why, Philip, is this you?" said Miss Isabel kindly. "How do you do, and how is you grandmother this fine weather?"

"Please, Miss Isabel, what kind of seeds can I buy for five cents that will make sweet-smelling flowers?"

"Is it sweet peas that are so many different colors—pink and white and purple?" asked Phil eagerly.

"The very same. I think you will like them best. Mr. Ryan, how many sweet peas can you afford to give this little boy for five cents?"

"Oh, quite a good handful," said Mr. Ryan, taking a little bag and filling it from a drawer that stood open. "There, that will make you a fine row, and very nice ones they are. Only if you want plenty of new flowers, you must keep cutting the old ones. Flowers mostly, madam, are like the riches of the man in the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' perhaps you remember:

"'A man there was, though some did count him mad,
The more he cast away, the more he had.'"

"True," said Miss Isabel. "So you have a garden, Philip. I must come and see it some day."

Phil paid for his seeds, and after buying his granny's medicine, he went on his way home. Perhaps you think the tempter let him alone after being defeated. Not at all. All the way home, he kept whispering, "How silly you were! You might just as well have bought the plants as not. Nobody would have known it." And Phil was just silly enough to listen to him, and let himself be put out of humor.

The daisies with which Mr. Regan filled his basket were just as pretty as they had been before, but somehow they looked like mean little weeds compared to the plants he had seen at Ryan's. He almost thought he would not set them out at all. He looked at the plants in the green-house and stopped to watch Mr. Anderson's gardener planting the odd-shaped flower beds in the lawn, and thought how small and rough his own little garden looked by the side of this grand place; why the very bed the gardener was filling with red geraniums was larger than his whole garden. What was the use of poor people trying to do anything?

It was in a very bad humor that Phil arrived at home, and found granny sitting on the bench in the sunshine. She exclaimed over the daisies; they were just such as used to grow in the old country, she said, and the sight of them warmed her very heart.

"No such great kindness," answered Phil, rather shortly; "he was going to throw them away if I hadn't taken them. But I suppose they are good enough for poor folks."

"It's likely they are, seeing who made them," answered the old woman, quietly. "Who did you see down town?"

"Yes, Horace Maberly. His mother wants Mary to go up and help the cook Saturday. It's a grand dinner they are to have."

"Just so she can't buy my new clothes!" said Phil. "It is just my luck. Everything goes wrong that I want to do."

"Take care it isn't yourself that's going wrong," said granny. "It is in a bad humor you are this afternoon. What's happened to you?"

Phil turned away without reply, and taking up his basket went to his garden. As he turned round the corner of his house, he started and ran as fast as he could go. The little gate which he had contrived with so much pains and fastened with so much care was open. An old hen and a flock of chickens were scratching in the fine newly-turned dirt, and a white goat, which belonged to a neighbor, was just cropping off the head of his beautiful geranium.

Now it is really one of the most vexatious things in the world to have a neighbor's hens come in and scratch up one's flower garden. I know, because I have tried it a great many times. Still I don't think Phil would have sworn as he did if he had not been listening to those whispers of the tempter all the morning. Nor would he have pounded the poor little nanny-goat, who did not know any better, with such a big stick; for he was very far from being a cruel boy, and he had not sworn for a long time before—not since he had been in Miss Isabel's class.

He drove the animals out, pelting them with stones, laming two or three of the poor little downy chicks, and killing one outright. It was this last act which brought him to his senses a little. He picked the chicken up and looked at it. The poor thing was not quite dead, and as he held it in his hand, it opened the little round eyes which had just been so bright, and looked at him as he thought with a glance of reproach, made a piteous little peeping noise, and then its eye grew dim and filmy, its little feet curled up—it was dead.

Phil stopped swearing, sat down on a stone, and cried as if his heart would break—partly for the chicken, partly for his garden. He did not despise it any more. Now that it was spoiled as he thought, it seemed to him that nothing could be more precious than the little bit of ground on which he had worked so hard. And then he was so sorry for the chicken. How pretty it was, and how happy! It did not know that it was doing anything wrong, and now he had killed it. And he had hurt the poor little white nanny-goat too. It limped as it ran away. As if that would bring back his geranium!

"What is it, dear?" said granny. She had heard the noise, and hobbled round the house to see what was the matter, and was surprised and alarmed when she saw the state Phil was in.

"What's the matter, dear?" she repeated as Phil did not answer. "What has happened to make you cry so?"

"The chickens and that white goat of Ryan's," answered Phil. "But they couldn't have got in unless somebody had left the gate open."

"She couldn't," answered Phil. "It was fastened with a wire as tight as it could be. I don't see who would have done such a mean thing."

"She's a troublesome beast, that same white goat," said granny. "I'd complain of her only she's all the dependence they have for the sickly baby that has no mother, poor thing! But there, don't cry." For Phil was crying harder than ever. "See, here's your best bed they haven't touched at all."

Phil looked. It was true. The pansies had quite escaped. That was some comfort. Perhaps they had not dug up quite all the seeds in the other beds, though they had thrown down the sticks with their labels, so that he would never know which was which. That did not matter so much if only the plants grew. But then his geranium! Nothing could help that.

"I may as well pull it up and throw it away," said he, when he had made all neat again and planted his sweet peas. "I can't bear to see the poor thing."

"I wouldn't," said granny, who had sat on a stone in the sun watching Phil at his work. "Maybe 'twill come out again. I've seen the gardeners cut them down as close as that, and they grew all the better. Just tread down the soil around it and give it some water. You mustn't be so easy discouraged, dear. Sure everything has hitches in it sometimes."

Granny did not reason with Phil just at that time. She saw that his heart was as full as it could hold, and she was a wise woman, though she could not read a word. There is a great deal of wisdom which does not of books. She coaxed Phil to go into the woods and see if he could not cut her a longer cane, as the end of hers was worn off.

"And maybe you'll find a pretty five-leaf vine to plant at the end of your garden and run up on the rocks. Not the three-leaved mind: that's poison, and will make your hands and face swell. And some of those brakes would look pretty growing in with your flowers."

"Mr. Regan has them I know," said Phil. "Well, granny, I'll get you your cane and the vine too, if I can find one. But it's no use: poor folks can't have anything."

"You just put that notion right out of head, Phil O'Connor," says granny severely, "It's envy makes you say that, and it's one of the devil's own weeds, worse than the three-leaved poison vine that spoils all it touches. Don't the poor have the blessed sunshine, and the sight of the trees and green fields, and all the fine things that God has made for all alike? Don't we have a roof over our heads, and plenty to eat and drink and wear? And don't you have the best of teaching on Sundays, and as good a chance to learn as anybody? Put all that out of your head if you don't want it to poison everything for you. It's an ill weed, and no plant of grace ever throve where it grew."

CHAPTER FOURTH.

AS I said, granny was a wise woman, though she could not write her own name or read it when it was written. She knew that there was no use in talking to Phil while his mind was so worked up and troubled with the misfortune to his garden.

"Sure it was enough to vex a saint," said she to herself, "but when the boy gets away from the sight of his trouble into the woods, and sees all the pretty things growing, he'll be diverted, and feel better, and then he'll be ready to hear reason. It's a real turn he has for the gardening, and as soon as he learns to write and gets a bit more learning in figures, I'll get Mr. Regan to look him up a place with some nurseryman or gardener where he can learn the trade—that's what we'll do. Pusheen!"

Granny always talked to animals as if they could understand every word. Pusheen (that was the name of the tabby kitten) looked very wise and solemn for just about half a minute, and then made a dive after Silvertoe's tail. Silvertoe was the name of the black kitten, but Phil called her Tozy "for short."

Granny was right. Phil walked on pretty fast till he came to the woods. They were such woods as some of my little readers have never seen—steep and full of gray mossy ledges of rock which seemed to stand straight up on their edges like books in a bookcase, while here and there were piled great loose rocks as big as houses. On these grew little clumps of white flowers called rock saxifrage, and tufts of red and yellow columbines nodding their pretty heads with every breeze, and sprawling ugly prickly pears which were just beginning to get the winter wrinkles out of their faces and to look as pleasant as the poor things knew how.

The ground in some places was white with anemones, and in others blue with violets. The ferns were sticking up their curly frizzy heads, and long wreaths and sprays of the evergreen ferns were lying on the moss beds, all the prettier for the cold weather they had been through. Birds of different kinds were singing in the branches, and the cat-bird was making fun of them all.

It was not easy for Phil to keep cross long at any time, and as he looked about him and breathed the sweet smell of the evergreens and other growing things, he almost forgot his troubles. "Almost," but not quite. He could not forget what wicked words he had used, nor how cruelly he had hurt the poor goat. He had a pain in his conscience, and that is the worst pain that I know anything about; but it has the advantage of other pains, because there is a cure for it which never fails.

Phil found a cane without any trouble, a very nice one with a natural crook for a handle. He knew that he might have it, for Mr. Anderson, to whom the woods belonged, had told him to get a cane for granny whenever she needed a new one. Then he began to look for a vine, which he also found without much trouble, for the woods were full of them. He dug it up carefully with as long a root as possible, and wrapped it in a paper which he had brought on purpose, that the roots need not get dry.

"What lovely flowers?" said he as he looked around him. "I mean to pick a good large bunch to take home. Granny always says it does her good to see them. And I will carry some to Matty Mehan too. Poor thing! She can't get away from the house and the baby for an hour's pleasure, let alone a day's."

Now Matty Mehan was the owner of the goat which had eaten Phil's geranium. She was the oldest girl in a family of four children. Her mother was dead; her father was away at his work all day, and Matty had to do the housework, look after the little ones, and take care of the poor sickly baby, which had never thriven since its mother died. The poor thing was thin as a little skeleton, and cried till the neighbors were tired of hearing it.

"It would be a good thing if the poor child were taken too," they said, but Matty did not think so.

She loved the little pale thin creature, that was hardly larger than a doll, though it was six months old, and she often wished she had nothing to do but to tend it. Bridget, her sister, was a good-natured little thing, but she was not old enough either to be trusted with the baby or to do the work. However, she helped Matty before and after school, and was always pleasant and good-natured, even when poor tired Matty was rather cross and unreasonable.

When Phil came down to the Mehan house, which was more properly a shanty than a house, he found Matty at the door stroking the white goat, while it ate some beans out of a pail.

"Just see here, Phil, how somebody has hurt our goat," said she, before Phil had time to speak. "Isn't it a shame? I'm afraid her leg is broken."

Phil felt his face turn scarlet as he bent down and carefully felt the goat's leg.

"Oh no, it isn't broken," said he, trying to speak cheerfully. "I dare say it will be quite well in a few days. See what a fine bunch of flowers I have brought you."

"Oh how lovely!" exclaimed Matty, who loved flowers as well as did Phil himself. "But won't you rob yourself?"

"I got them on purpose for you," said Phil. "I knew you couldn't get away. How's little Patsy?"

"I think he's a little better, poor dear," said Matty, looking tenderly at the thin little mite. "He don't cry so much, and he eats more. I'm sure I don't know what we shall do if the goat gets sick, for he won't touch any milk but hers. I don't see who could be so wicked as to hurt her."

"Well, to tell you the truth, Matty, 'twas myself that did it, but I didn't mean to—"

"Well, you see, Mr. Regan gave me a fine geranium, and when I came home she was just eating off the head of it, and 'twas kind of provoking, you see."

"What made you leave the plant in the poor thing's way then?" said Matty. "You know 'tis the beast's nature to eat every such thing. And now I dare say she'll die," exclaimed Matty, bursting into tears, "and then my dear precious little Patsy will die too, and you'll be just a murderer, Phil O'Connor, as bad as King Herod that killed the innocents."

Phil felt that this was unreasonable in Matty. The goat was not much hurt after all, and not in the least likely to die; and even if she did, there was a good deal of difference between killing several little babies on purpose and hurting a troublesome goat more than one meant. But then Matty was tired, and anxious about poor Patsy, and it was no wonder she was cross when she never had a bit of real rest, much less fun, from one week's end to another. I say he felt this. We often feel in an instant things it would take a long time to think.

"Oh come, Matty dear, 'tisn't so bad as that," said he; "Nanny isn't going to die—she'll be as well as ever to-morrow. I'm real sorry I hurt her so, but then you see 'twas vexing to have my only flower eaten up as cool as if it had been an old stump of cabbage. Come now, let me take Patsy and carry him about a little. See how he puts out his arms to me, the dear. Yes, he will come to Phil, won't he?"

Matty could not help relenting when she saw the poor baby stop its wailing, smile, and put out its hands to Phil, who took it carefully in his arms.

"I do believe he remembers you," said she. "I'll just put on the kettle for daddy's tea, and put my flowers in water, and then I must mend Bridget's frock decent for the sewing-school to-morrow."

"I'll tend him while you do it," said Phil, whose heart began to feel a good deal lighter.

He walked up and down, or sat on the seat by the door, crooning a song till the poor little baby fell fast asleep and had a good nap.

"Thank you ever so much; he'll be quiet now," said Matty. "Just lay him in his cradle. And, Phil, I'm sorry I said what I did."

"Oh, never mind; it didn't signify," answered Phil. "Do you mean to go to Sunday-school?"

"I can't get away, but I learn my lessons all the same," said Matty. "'Tis a beautiful Golden Text we have this week: 'If God so loved us, we ought also to love one another' (1 John 4:11). He gave his Son to die for us, and that's the way we are to be saved. Well, good-by, Phil, and thank you for the flowers, and for tending Patsy."

Phil planted his vines, and then went into the house, where he found his mother.

"I went to carry Matty Mehan some flowers, and then stayed to tend Patsy a bit," said Phil.

"Oh well, you're right to help the poor thing when you can," said his mother, who with all her careless ways was very kindhearted. "I think I'll go up to-morrow when I've done our own washing and wash their bits of clothes for them. But now look on granny's bed and see what fine clothes I brought you from Mrs. Barnard's the day, as good as new, and better than any new you would get at the store."

Phil took up the clothes and looked at them one by one. There was an entire suit, good as new, and, as his mother said, of better fashion and material than any he could afford to buy.

"They look as if they'd just come out of the store," said he in wonder. "Why did she give them away?"

"She said Mr. Cornelius had outgrown them—he grows like a vine in the spring—and she told me herself she had saved them for Phil, because she had heard from Miss Isabel that he was such a good boy."

Phil blushed to the top of his hair as he thought, "Miss Isabel wouldn't say so if she knew how I had sworn at the chickens and hurt the goat, and how I wanted to steal granny's money. Oh dear, if only I hadn't done it!"

He tried on the clothes and found that they fitted very well. They were somewhat large, but that was a "good fault," as granny said, since he was growing very fast.

"So now Phil is fixed for clothes," said granny, "and, Mary dear, you can take the money and buy yourself a new gown for summer."

"Oh, I shall do very well a while yet," said Mary pleasantly. "You need one more than I do."

Phil finished his supper, did up all the chores, and paid a last visit to his garden to see that all was right. As he did so his eyes fell on something half buried in the soft mould. He took it up. It was a handsome pearl-handled knife, with several blades and a corkscrew, and on the handle was a silver plate with the letters H. M. Phil knew the knife, which he had often seen in Horace Maberly's hands. He had evidently used it in opening the gate.

So Horace had left the gate open. Phil's blood tingled with anger again, but he stamped his foot and clenched his teeth so that not a word came through. He put the knife in his pocket, and getting out his Bible, he sat down in his favorite corner to learn his Sunday-school lesson. He looked up the Golden Text, though he had it on his "lesson paper," for he liked to read the verses which came before and after. "Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that he loved us, and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins. Beloved, if God so loved us, we ought also to love one another" (1 John 4:10, 11).

Phil did not know the exact meaning of all the long words, but he knew what Christ had come to do, to die for sinners that they might be saved. God loved us so well as that! And "if God so loved us, we ought also to love one another."

It is a very great thing when any person comes to know that God loves him—himself—despite all his faults and foolishness. It is too great a thing to put into any words of mine. It helps to make the hardest tasks easy and the heaviest burdens light, to conquer the worst sins and make us long to forgive those who have done us the most harm. And more than that, there is nothing which makes any one feel so little in his own eyes as the conviction that the great and wise and perfectly lovely God loves him.

So Phil felt. Oh how wicked and ungrateful and stupid he had been! How he had taken that holy name in vain, and insulted that one who loved him, even him, all the time! Phil went away up into a dark corner among the rocks, where two great slabs had fallen together so as to make a kind of little cave, into which he could just squeeze himself, though there was plenty of room to turn round and sit down when he got in. It had been a favorite playing place of his, and he liked it all the better because nobody else seemed to know of it. He crept into this little cave and knelt down.

There are, as you know, places on the railroad called switches, where two tracks come together. By means of a curious contrivance, a train of cars may be shifted from one track to the other. The two tracks are close together at first. You can hardly tell the difference. But the switchman puts down his lever, and the rail is moved a little tiny bit, and presently the train which would perhaps have gone to New York is flying toward Philadelphia, and the two tracks are growing farther and farther apart all the time.

There are just such places in people's lives. The lives which were going one way get what seems a very little push, and their whole course is altered. The life which might have gone right is turned wrong, and the life which seemed going to ruin is turned into the right track.

Phil had come to one of these switches this very afternoon. He had taken the right turn, and his whole life was going to be made the better by it.

CHAPTER FIFTH.

ON Sunday morning Phil set out for school dressed in his new clothes, with a clean shirt on, and his face and hair polished with extra care. He had his Bible in his hand, and in his pocket Horace Maberly's knife, which he meant to give him after school. He was quite early, and finding that nobody had come to church but the sexton, he chose a shady place behind the cedar hedge and sat down to look at his lesson once more. As he was thus sitting, he heard voices on the other side of the hedge.

"You ought to have heard him swear," said a voice which he knew to be Horace's. "The way he ripped out the big words! I only wish Miss Isabel had been there to hear her pattern boy."

"And I wish she had been there to see you, and somebody else with a good thick boot on," said another voice, John Drayton's. "I never heard of a meaner trick in my life—to turn a goat into another boy's garden."

"And a poor boy at that," said Henry Merton. "Phil thinks so much of flowers too. I've seen him go down on his knees and fairly worship a geranium or verbena."

"Garden—much of a garden! One of my father's hotbeds is bigger than the whole of it."

"What of that? It was all he had, and he thought all the more of it," said Harry, whose father was as rich as Mr. Maberly, and had beautiful grounds and gardens.

"Well there, you needn't make such a fuss," said Horace, who began to be sorry he had said anything, when he saw what the other boys thought of him. "I'll pay the little beggar for it, only I don't want him to know I did it. Those people are so revengeful, he might set our barn on fire."

This was a little more than Phil could stand. He jumped up and went forward so as to meet the boys at the gate.

"Here's your knife, Horace," said he, holding out the knife and speaking quite steadily. "You dropped it in my garden, and I found it."

"Oh ho, Paddy! So you were listening, were you? Just like your sort of people. You needn't look so mad. Here's money enough to pay for your beggarly old garden ten times over."

Phil dropped the bill which Horace had thrust into his hand, into a puddle which last night's rain had left at the gate, and walked into the church without a word.

"Well, I think he might have taken the money, so long as he is not too proud to wear Neil Barnard's old clothes. I knew them the minute I saw them."

"It's one thing to take a present given in kindness, and another thing altogether to take it when it is thrown in your face," said Harry. "You think you can do just what you like because you are rich; but there are some things money won't buy. Poor as he is, Phil is a better gentleman than you are."

Phil was sitting quietly in his place When the boys went in. They all spoke kindly to him except Horace, who felt very mean and very angry.

Horace had not had much chance to learn to be a good boy. He was the only son of a very foolish, uneducated father and mother, who spoiled him in every way, and made him think he was a person of very great consequence. Mr. and Mrs. Maberly thought and talked of nothing but money. They valued things for what they cost, and always told the price of everything to their visitors. It was quite natural, therefore, that Horace should do the same. Moreover, Horace had all his life been allowed to do any piece of mischief that came into his head; to torment cats, and dogs, and horses, and everything that fell in his way.

"He had such spirits," his mother said, "and bright boys are always full of mischief—" a very great mistake, by the way.

But Mr. Maberly was at last beginning to think that Horace was rather too full of mischief, especially since he had utterly spoiled a valuable horse which he had taken out without leave and then wantonly and cruelly over-driven. The horse would never be good for anything again.

"It is a dead loss of a thousand dollars," Mr. Maberly said to Horace, angrily. But he never uttered a word about the disobedience, nor about the cruelty to the horse.

Brought up in this way, it was perhaps no great wonder that Horace should think it good fun to let the goat and hens into Phil's garden, and then watch behind a rock to see what he would do and say.

Despite that Golden Text and the prayer behind the rock, Phil found it very hard to forgive. He felt that Horace had done him a wanton injury, and the way in which he had sought to pay for it only made matters worse. If Horace had only said he was sorry! But then it was plain to be seen he was not sorry. And yet he knew that he must forgive, or God would not forgive him.

"I mean to ask Miss Isabel after school," said he to himself, and this was in itself a victory, though Phil did not know it. It was a great thing for him to wish to forgive, and to try to find out the way to do so, for Phil, like almost all boys of his age, was very shy of talking about his feelings.

The lesson went on very pleasantly. The boys had all learned it, even including Horace, and Miss Isabel felt quite encouraged. Then came the Golden Text. Phil's voice trembled as he repeated it, and his eyes were moist.

"Miss Isabel, does it mean that we are to love real spiteful people?" asked Harry. "I don't see how we can."

"Well, just like this. Suppose I had a garden, and another boy should put a cow or a goat into it just to plague me, ought I to love such a boy as that?"

Horace colored and dropped his eyes, and Harry got a glance from Phil that he did not quite understand. It was as if Phil were begging him with his eyes not to say any more.

"You could not love such a boy as you would a good boy, it would not be right that you should," said Miss Isabel; "but you should forgive him, and try to do him a good turn if you get a chance. Turn over to Matthew 5:44, 45."

"'But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you; that ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven: for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.'"

"You see that God is good, even to those who never think of him, or who blaspheme his name and disobey his laws. And if we ask him, he will give us his Spirit to make us like him. I think too, Harry, that when we once come to have a real sight of our own sins, we shall not think so much of other people's sins against us."

"But suppose you do try to forgive and think you have, and then something makes it all come up again?" asked Phil eagerly.

"Yes; suppose the same fellow that spoiled garden should poke some money at you and say, 'There, there's enough to pay for your beggarly garden ten times over,'" said Harry, finishing his sentence in spite of Phil's beseeching looks. "What are you to do then?"

"Then you must forgive again, and keep on forgiving every time the anger comes up," answered Miss Isabel. She saw that there was something going on which she did not understand, but she was too wise to ask any questions. "Weeding our hearts is like weeding a garden—you cannot do it all at once, but you must keep at it all summer long, every time a weed shows its head. But we must not talk any longer."

"Didn't we make Hod Maberly squirm, though?" said Harry, as they were going home. "He was just in an agony for fear we should tell Miss Isabel."

"That's so," said John Drayton. "He don't get much that's good at home. His father don't believe in anything. If I had thought of that, I would have let him alone."

"If I had thought of that!" how much mischief it would have saved all the world over. Phil was right. Horace did not come to Sunday-school again.

Phil's garden grew and flourished all summer, and was the admiration of all the neighbors, though some of them wondered that he should take so much pains just for a parcel of flowers. If they had been potatoes now, or cabbages, they would have done some good. But granny said that the boy liked flowers and did the work, so he should plant what he pleased.

The hens had scratched Phil's seeds about badly, nevertheless he had a good many flowers. There were two or three kinds of portulacas, some sweet alyssum, and various others. The sweet peas turned out famously, and so did the morning-glories. Phil used to get up every morning by sunrise to see the beautiful twisted buds pop open as soon as the sun touched them. This was his time for working in his garden.

He went to school every day, and as he worked as hard at his books as he did at his flowers, he got on finely. The owlets liked him because he was so steady and industrious and made them no trouble. The boys liked him because he was so good-natured, always ready to help in whatever was going on. In short, he passed a very happy summer.

Phil did not forget what Mr. Ryan had said about cutting his flowers, and many a nosegay of sweet peas, violets, and other flowers did he carry to Matty Mehan, and to poor Jonas Smith, who was lame and never got out of his chair. His pansies were rather late in coming into blossom, but when the flowers appeared they were quite wonderful. Purple, yellow, brown, almost black with a yellow eye, almost white with purple rays, there were many varieties. The first Sunday that they were out in perfection, Phil gathered a bunch of them for Miss Isabel. He put no other flowers in his nosegay, only the seven different kinds of pansies, and surrounded the flowers with a little frame of small sprays of evergreen ferns.

"How lovely they are!" said Miss Isabel, showing them to a friend who was visiting her and had come to Sunday-school with her. "Look, Mary! Did you ever see a greater variety or finer flowers?"

"They are indeed quite wonderful," answered Miss Mary. "I love pansies above all other flowers, but I have none this year. A friend sent me a bag of very fine imported seed, but I carelessly threw it out into the street with some empty papers. When I missed it and went out to look for it, the papers were all gone. I suppose some child picked them up."

"Yes, it was a pity, but I dare say they grew somewhere and did somebody good," answered Miss Mary.

"We must go down and see Phil's garden some day," said Miss Isabel. "He is one of my best scholars."

Phil's head was so full of thoughts that day that he hardly paid so much attention as usual, till he missed a question, a thing he had not done for a long time. Then he roused himself and gave his mind to the lesson. It was about Ananias and Sapphira.

"Now what was the sin which these unfortunate people committed?" asked Miss Isabel. "Was it in not giving up all their property?"

"Yes, ma'am," said John, giving as usual the first answer that came into his head.

"I don't think so," said Harry, "because Peter said, 'Whiles it remained, was it not thine own? and after it was sold, was it not in thine own power?' That means, I suppose, that they had a right to give it or not as they pleased."

"Well, what was the sin then?" asked Miss Isabel, glad to see that Harry had thought about the matter.

"I think it was keeping back part, when they pretended to give it all," answered Phil slowly. "'Twas lying about it they did. They wanted to get the credit of giving it all, when they were keeping part, and maybe the very best, for themselves."

"That was it exactly," said Miss Isabel. "Just so some people do who profess to be Christians. They pretend to give up all to God and to forsake all their sins, but they don't do it. There is some little sin, or bad habit, or self-indulgence, that they don't like to part with: so they keep that while they pretend—often pretend to themselves—to give up all. Such Christians can never be happy or useful. There was once a very wise and witty man who said that all the riches and honors and pleasures in the world would be of no use to a man who was compelled always to wear a little sharp nail in the heel of his shoe. These concealed or reserved sins which we are not willing to give up are like the little sharp nail. They lame the man when he wants to walk, and torment and hinder him when he wants to work, and he can't even sit still in comfort. Now who can give me the Golden Text?"

"'If I regard iniquity in my heart, the Lord will not hear me" (Ps. 66:18), repeated all the voices together.

"I shall not talk about that," said Miss Isabel, "but I want you to think about it."

Phil walked slowly homeward thinking about the lesson. He had had a little—a very little—nail in his shoe all summer, and somehow it had grown a good deal longer and sharper since hearing about those pansies. He had said to himself a dozen times that he did not know what to do about it; that there was no help for it now; but he had never tried to find out whether there was any help for it or not. He went into his garden as soon as he came home and looked at his flowers. How beautiful they were! They were the glory of his garden-but then—

"Besides, she has no right to the plants either," said the tempter. "Wait till the seeds get ripe, and you can give her some of them."

"Maybe the seeds won't get ripe, or maybe I sha'n't live till then," answered Phil. "Anyhow, there's only one right thing to do, and I'm going to do it. There!"

Granny was almost well now. She could do many things about the house, which looked much neater than when it was left only to Mary.

"Oh, very well. Just look in at the cow, and give my duty to Mrs. Barnard if you see her," said granny, who had old-fashioned notions of politeness.

Phil found Mr. Regan busy in the garden, as usual, and at once asked his question.

"Not if you do it in the cool of the day, water them well, and shade them for a day or so," answered the old gardener. "How have yours turned out?"

"Famously," answered Phil, "only—well, you see, Mr. Regan, I feel all the time as if I hadn't any right to them, and so I'm just going to take them back to the lady that threw away the seed."

"You're a good boy and an honest boy," said Mr. Regan, "and you are going to do the right thing. However I wouldn't take them all up, for fear they shouldn't do well. Take the lady some of each kind, and then if they don't live, you can give her more. And stop in on your way home and I'll give you a lot of slips. It's such a growing time, the geraniums and things are getting out of all reason."

Phil waited till toward sunset, and then filling a basket with the very best of the pansy roots, he took them up to Mr. Anderson's, for he had heard Miss Mary say that she was going to spend two or three days with Miss Isabel. He found the two young ladies on the lawn admiring some double petunias.

"Why, Phil, what have you here?" asked Miss Isabel. "Some of your beautiful pansy roots."

"If you please, Miss, these are yours," said Phil, blushing scarlet and stammering a little.

"'Twas I that picked up the seeds and planted them in my garden," said Phil, taking courage. "I didn't feel easy about them—not just right in my mind, you know—and granny said she mistrusted I ought to have carried the seeds in, and I know it, and it has been like the little nail Miss Isabel spoke of, all the time tormenting me. So I asked Mr. Regan, and he said it would do them no harm to move them, if you'll please to accept them, Miss, and excuse me for not bringing them before. And I didn't bring them all, because Mr. Regan said I'd better wait and see if these do well. And so there they are, Miss, and I'm a thousand times obliged to you."

Phil's grammar was rather "mixed up," as the boys say, but his meaning was clear.

As for Miss Isabel, it would be the truth to say that she was more pleased than if any one had given her a hundred dollars. She had a good many hundreds of dollars already, but she did not often see such direct results of her teaching.

"But, Phil, I cannot consent to take all the pansies," said Miss Mary when she had looked at and admired the flowers. "True, I furnished the seed, but then all the work and care has been yours. In such cases the rule is that the one who furnishes the seed shall have half the crop, so one half of these plants are honestly yours. You must take them back again."

"I didn't move them all, as I told you, Miss," said Phil. "Mr. Regan said it was better not, because they might not do well, and then you would lose them all."

"Very well then, keep what you have and I will take these. They will be a great ornament to my little garden."

"What set you to making a garden in the first place, Phil?" asked Miss Isabel, who was busy cutting some fine flowers.

"'Twas something you said one day last spring, Miss," answered Phil. "Don't you remember the text we had, 'Cast thy bread upon the waters'? You said that bread meant seed, and that any little good thing we could find to do was seed. Granny loves flowers dearly, and I thought, what should hinder my raising some for her? And then I found the papers in the street with a few seeds in most all of them besides the pansies, and Mr. Regan gave me a few more, besides the sweet peas I bought, and he told me what to do to them."

"My father was one, and it's myself would like to learn the business, if I had a chance," answered Phil. "Mr. Regan said maybe he'd find a place for me some day."

"So you know Mr. Regan," said Miss Isabel, giving Phil the flowers she had been cutting.

And Phil bade the ladies good night and walked home as happy as a king. The nail was out of his shoe, and he could work at his pansy bed and enjoy its beauty without any more trouble.

"Yes, it is one of the greatest encouragements I have ever had," answered Miss Isabel, "and yet we might have called him the most hopeless case in the class. I heard Williams the gardener telling papa that he needed more help, and would like a boy if he could get a good one. I must tell him of Phil."

A proud and happy boy was Phil when, at the close of the summer term of school, he found himself installed as Mr. Williams's helper in the garden and green-house, and really learning the business of a gardener, besides earning a dollar and a half every week.

"It's just the place I would have chosen for you," said granny. "Mr. Anderson is a real fine man and will do well by you, and so is Mr. Williams, though he's a bit short tempered at times, as I mind your own father that's in glory this minute used to be when the work hurried him. As for Miss Isabel, she's just the darling of the world."

"I hope he'll get to be a good man, and that's better," said granny. "Greatness isn't the first thing to strive for, nor yet riches, nor yet learning even, though all are good in their way. And mind, Phil, that you don't get set up with pride, for if you do you'll have a fall. Mind you don't forget who it was gave you such an opportunity and such kind friends. Say your prayers every day, remembering that the blessed Saviour died on the cross for your salvation, and try to please him above all, for if he don't help you, it's little good any other help will do you."

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of No talent; Phil's pansies

NO TALENT.

PHIL'S PANSIES.

CHAPTER FIRST.

CHAPTER SECOND.

CHAPTER THIRD.

CHAPTER FOURTH.

CHAPTER FIFTH.

CHAPTER FIRST.

CHAPTER SECOND.

CHAPTER THIRD.

CHAPTER FOURTH.

CHAPTER FIFTH.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE