Chapter IX: Two Tea-Parties

WHEN Mrs. Weston and Miss Armstrong entered Mrs. Bassett's front parlor, they found the rest of the company assembled, and were welcomed by their hostess with "Why, how late you are! I was most thinking you were not coming. I'm afraid you're growing fashionable, Abby."

"Not a bit," answered Mrs. Weston. "It was not fashion that kept me, but flour. Mr. Bassett was so late with the grist that he made me late with my Saturday's baking; and I didn't like to leave it all to Selina."

"Do tell!" said Mrs. Bassett. "Pa has been very much driven with work, and Mr. Cook being sick puts him about. But where is Selina? I thought she would come too."

"I left her to keep house. She has to be elder daughter, now Lizzy is gone."

"Well, she must come another time.—Do take off your things, Miss Armstrong. I'm so glad to see you! I believe you know everybody here only Patience. Where is she? Oh, here she comes.—Patience, let me make you acquainted with Miss Armstrong."

"I feel as if I knew Miss Fletcher already through the children," said Miss Armstrong, cordially shaking hands with Patience. "I hope Ednah is none the worse for her adventure this morning. Poor child, she had a terrible fright."

"Oh, yes, with the snake," said Mrs. Bassett. "The scare was enough to kill her."

"I don't think she was as much frightened as Faithie was," answered Patience. "She says herself she didn't have time. But it is dreadful to think what would have happened only for Kit," she added, shuddering. "I little thought, when I was fretting about that child's coming to school with our young ones, what she was to do for them."

"Which shows what I am always telling you, Patience,—that there is no use in fretting and borrowing trouble," remarked Mrs. Bassett.

"Kit seems a well-disposed child in every way, I think," said Miss Celia, whose knitting-needles were pursuing their rapid, even rounds in the corner. "She brought home my tortoise-shell kitten when it strayed away. I can hardly think she belongs to these people."

"She don't," returned Aunt Betsy, who had fulfilled Myra's prediction by 'dropping in' a little before tea-time. "If she was a Mallory, we should know something about her, at any rate. They took her out of the poorhouse. I don't suppose anybody even knows whether she had a grandfather."

"It seems probable that she had one of some sort," said Mrs. Bassett. "Folks don't often come into the world like mushrooms, without any ancestors at all."

"She must have come of a good family somehow," said Miss Celia with mild persistence.

"I do not think that so certain," remarked Miss Armstrong. "I have had a good deal of experience with children in all positions, from what might be called the top of the social ladder to the bottom; and I have found all sorts of dispositions in all sorts of places. I have seen most beautiful growths of goodness and self-sacrifice in the midst of vice and ignorance such as you can have no idea of unless you have seen it, and I have seen very extraordinary tendencies to wickedness among children who had been most carefully brought up."

"Well, you won't persuade 'me' that it don't make any difference whether folks are respectable, decent folks, or loafers," said Aunt Betsy. "Nobody will ever make me think 'that.'"

"Anybody would be very foolish to try," said Mrs. Weston. "All Miss Armstrong says is that good and bad dispositions do not depend entirely upon family, or even upon training."

"Exactly so," assented Miss Armstrong. "Other things being equal, well-trained and well-nurtured children are likely to be better than those who are neither; but there are exceptions in all cases."

"To read some books, one would think that all people need, is to be shown the right way, and they jump into it at once," said Miss Delia. "I was reading one the other day, in which a young girl went to stay at a country village for the summer, and converted everybody in it. Just as if all one had to do was to catch folks, and do good to them!"

"I know the class of books you mean, and I have a special objection to them," said Miss Armstrong. "Old-fashioned people complain of novels because they give false views of life, and I find fault with these books for the same reason. Enthusiastic young people reading them are apt, as you say, to think that all one has to do to reform people is to set the good before them, and they take to it at once; whereas the fact is that sinners in general are not wicked because they know no better, but because they like wickedness the best."

"Just so," assented Mrs. Weston. "Look at the case of Harry Burchard, for instance," alluding to a somewhat famous burglar. "That fellow had a good bringing-up, and learned a good trade; and the same enterprise and ingenuity which made him such a successful burglar would have made him an equally successful business-man."

"And it was no want of grandfathers in his case," observed Miss Delia. "He is a great-grandson of old Mr. Wheeler, who used to preach in Oldbury in Revolutionary times. I've noticed in these same books, that in all the church work, the pastor is of no account whatever: it is the young folks that do every thing."

"Talking of pastors, is it true that Mr. Brace is coming in two weeks?"

"Quite true, I am glad to say," answered Mrs. Weston. "And that reminds me of something I want to talk about."

And Mrs. Weston forthwith plunged into the subject of the church-cleaning. All present took up the matter with enthusiasm except Aunt Betsy,—who was constitutionally opposed to every thing,—and Patience Fletcher. Aunt Betsy thought it would never do to make such a fuss about cleaning up the church: it would be as much as saying right out that it was dirty; that would hurt Mr. Archimball's feelings, which would be a shame after all the years he had taken care of the church.

"All the years he hasn't taken care of it, you mean," said Mrs. Bassett. "If Archimball had done his duty, things wouldn't be in the state they are. I don't think we are bound to sit in the dirt all our lives, to spare his feelings.—Well, Patience, what do you think?"

"I think it is an excellent plan," answered Patience, "and I only wish I could promise to help about it. But I don't see how I can, I've got so much laid out to do next week."

"Poor thing!" said Mrs. Bassett, laughing. "It is a pity, Patience, that you hadn't a baker's dozen of children, so you could get a little leisure. What is it that presses so dreadfully? Maybe I can help you a little."

"Well, I calculated to clean the spare bedroom, for one thing; and there are the curtains to wash and do up, and the children's clothes to see to. Eben and Eddy do make so much washing!"

"Sakes alive! What would you do if you had my two big boys, besides Mr. Bassett and the little ones? Come, Patience, let the spare room rest a week. I tell you it isn't good for any one to work all the time in a half-bushel. That's one reason why I am in favor of missionary work: it gives one an outlook,—makes a window into the world, as it were.—Don't you think so, Miss Armstrong?"

"I certainly do, but perhaps I am an interested party," answered Miss Armstrong, smiling. "I have been busy with missionary work of some sort ever since I was eighteen, and even before, for my father and mother were missionaries before me. But I think with you, Mrs. Bassett, that we all need outside windows in our lives. I believe many an overworked housekeeper would find her life lightened if she would interest herself in something outside her own household."

"Yes, it is easy to say that," said Patience, a little peevishly. "But there is only just so much time, anyhow; and if it is full, it is full."

"Very true," replied Miss Armstrong. "In that case we must consider whether there is not something that can be turned out."

"A man is to provide first for his own household," said Patience.

"Very true again; but to provide what? That is the real question, you see. Is a man bound to spend so much time heaping dollar upon dollar for his sons that he has no time to know what sort of companions they have, or where they pass their evenings? Or is a mother obliged to spend so much time and labor providing Sunday finery for her little daughter that she has no time to teach the child her catechism, or see that she understands her Bible lesson?"

"That is an extreme case," said Patience.

"It is a very common case, I am sorry to say," answered Miss Armstrong. "I know more than one mother of moderate means who thinks she has no time to attend to her daughter's lessons, because she must dress the child as finely as somebody else who has five times her income."

"I don't think I put much finery on our children," said Patience. "But I do like to have them look nicely,—as their mother would like to have them look if she could see them."

"I think you do keep them very nicely," said Miss Armstrong. "It is easy to see that Eddy and Eben are not neglected for the sake of any thing. I never saw two better-trained or pleasanter children."

Patience's pale cheek flushed with pleasure. These two babies, left her by her fair young stepmother, herself a dear friend and playmate, were as the apple of her eye.

"Pa and Faithie deserve most of the credit of that," said she frankly. "Perhaps I do think too much about my housekeeping and all that. You see, I was left in charge when I was very young, and I felt such a responsibility. Even when mother Hester came, she was such a delicate little thing, I felt I ought to spare her all I could. And she staid with us such a little time,—only a year and a half—"

"It was a dreadful foolish thing of your father, marrying that child, and when every one knew her family was consumptive," said Aunt Betsy.

"I don't think so," returned Patience. "It was one of the best things that ever happened in our house. Hester was like a sunbeam, or like an angel that came to make a visit, and then went back to heaven again. Eddy is just like her."

"Yes, I expect she'll inherit the disease," rejoined Job's comforter. "She has just Hester's clear blue eyes and red cheeks."

"Nonsense!" said Mrs. Bassett. "Eddy is as tough as a little knot. That is another notion that does no end of harm,—I mean, thinking a girl must needs have the consumption because her mother had it. My grandfather was bitten in two by a sperm whale, but I don't expect that is going to happen to me."

"Whales don't run in families," said Aunt Betsy with dignity, while all the rest laughed: "consumption does."

"Whales have run in my family for a good many generations,—ever since Nantucket folks took to catching them," said Mrs. Bassett. "But, as to Ednah, I do hope nobody will put such an idea in the child's head. I do believe prophecies of that kind sometimes bring their own fulfilment."

"I think you are right, Mrs. Bassett," said Miss Armstrong. "I have known of at least one case in which melancholy insanity was brought on, apparently from no other cause than the one you mention."

"Talking of insanity brings us round to Kit again," said Mrs. Weston. "I do wish something could be done for that child. I spoke to Symantha about her coming to Sunday school; and she said she should have no objection herself, but there was no use in talking to her father: he would never allow it, and would only be angry. I think she feared, though she did not say so, that he would visit his anger on the child."

"Yes, I know," added Mrs. Bassett. "He told pa he hated the very name of God.

"'That's queer,' says pa, 'to hate somebody you don't believe in. I'd never trouble myself to hate a man if I believed there was no such person,' says pa.

"And Phin never said another word. Well, we must just bear poor Kit on our minds, and maybe some way will be opened. She seems to have a sense of religion, too, from all I hear. Myra says she asked Sarah Leet if she didn't think the Lord told her how to catch the snake."

"No doubt He did," said Miss Delia, "but it isn't every one that would have minded as quick as she did. Some folks would have said, 'Oh, dear! Lord, I can't: I'm afraid.'"

"Good-afternoon, ladies. Settling all the affairs of the parish, I expect," said Mr. Bassett, appearing at the parlor door in his dusty miller's coat, his hair and face white with flour.

Mrs. Bassett looked scandalized.

"Now, pa, what do you mean coming in like that? Do go and dress yourself. There's your clean things all laid out for you, and you come in all over flour. I do declare, I never saw such a man! Go and get dressed, there's a dear, for I expect Myra has got tea all ready."

Mr. Bassett indulged in a jolly laugh as he withdrew, which was echoed from the great kitchen where Myra and her little sisters were getting tea. Such laughs were common in the Bassett family. The household was one of those through which a fresh, warm gale seems always blowing, making a good deal of noise and stir, but keeping every thing bright and sweet.

"Did you ever see such a man?" said Ma Bassett, appealing to the company in general, with wifely and motherly pride shining all over her comely face. "And he makes the children as bad as he is. Such hands to laugh, I never saw."

"The crackling of thorns under a pot, that's what Scripture calls it," said Aunt Betsy, who always resented a laugh as though it must needs be directed at herself.

"That is the laughter of fools," returned Miss Delia, bristling a little in defence of her host. "And I, for my part, would rather hear thorns crackling under a pot than the east wind screeching through a keyhole."

Aunt Betsy betook herself to her snuff-box, her usual refuge when worsted.

"Never mind, Delia; we all know Aunt Betsy's bark is worse than her bite," said Ma Bassett. "Ladies, will you walk out to supper?"

At the tea-table, the subject of the church-cleaning was renewed. Mr. Bassett approved heartily.

"Such a piece of work ought to be easy here," remarked Miss Armstrong: "you all seem so united."

"Yes, we are very fortunate in that," answered Mr. Bassett. "There has never been any church here but ours. There is a small Methodist society over at the cross-roads; very nice folks they are too, I must say."

"I don't see how you can say that," interrupted Aunt Betsy. "Joe Hilton belonged to them, and he got drunk at the county fair, and gambled away his cow."

"There are black sheep in every flock," said Miss Delia.

"And they took him back again, and he belongs there now," continued Aunt Betsy triumphantly, as though she considered the niceness of the Methodist folks forever disproved.

"Yes, they restored him in the spirit of meekness," said Mr. Bassett. "Poor Joe was a very hard case for many years before he joined the Methodists; and it was no wonder, perhaps, that the old temptation overcame him. He has worked for me all the spring, and I don't want a better man."

"Mr. Martin said the Methodist society was the natural refuge of the lower classes," observed Myra.

"Yes, I know he did; and that foolish remark repeated did more harm than he would ever do good. What business had he talking about upper and lower classes? His father was a foundryman, and his mother kept a little candy-shop to help them along."

"That was no disgrace to them," observed Miss Delia.

"Not a bit. It was an item to their credit, and ought to have kept him from talking such nonsense."

"What kind of a man was he?" asked Miss Armstrong.

"Well, he was a man of a good deal of talent and reading, but he did not get on, somehow," replied Mr. Bassett. "I don't know as I could tell what the matter was—"

"The matter was, that he was always feeling abused, and complaining because, as he said, he had no congenial spirits to associate with," struck in Miss Delia. "He had a great notion of himself and his own consequence, and thought himself buried in a country parish; and you see no church likes to be looked upon in the light of a tomb," added the little lady, laughing. "I hope Mr. Brace is not like that."

"He is not," said Miss Armstrong. "He is not a man to think himself buried anywhere, so long as he has work to do for his Master."

"Then you know him?"

"Oh, yes, I know him," answered Miss Armstrong: "we used to work together in New York years ago. I think you will all like him very much. He is very strong upon the proprieties of public worship," she added. "I could not help thinking of him last Sunday when I happened to notice that great cobweb in the corner over the organ."

"And that brings us to the church-cleaning again," said Ma Bassett, whose womanly eye saw that Miss Armstrong was a little bit agitated.

The subject was discussed in all its length and breadth. And before the party broke up, it was quite settled that the two church-wardens should take the first step toward calling a parish meeting.

When the friends separated, Mrs. Weston and Miss Delia were deep in some occult mystery concerning the coloring of carpet-rags, an art for which the little lady was renowned, and Miss Armstrong and Patience Fletcher walked on together.

"How easy Mrs. Bassett does take every thing!" said Patience. "I wish I was like her."

"Is she always so?" asked Miss Armstrong.

"Just the same, whatever happens. Even when her children were little, and they were not as well off as they are now, she never fretted. She always would take time to rest and read. I staid there once for three weeks when father had small-pox. Every day after dinner, when she had washed up the dishes and got the baby to sleep, she used to take her Bible or some other book, and lie down for half or three-quarters of an hour. Sometimes she would read, and sometimes she would take a little nap, but she always got up as fresh as a daisy."

"I suspect that is one secret of her cheerfulness," said Miss Armstrong. "She takes time to rest, and to feed her spirit."

"Well, I wonder if that is what ails me," said Patience.

"Does any thing ail you?" asked Miss Armstrong. "I thought you were a happy woman."

"Well, I am not," answered Patience. "I don't know what the matter is, either. It is all right enough outside, if I did not have quite so much to do. But I don't know how it is, I don't have any peace or joy in religion. I pray, of course, and go to communion, but I don't have any comfort in it. My prayers never seem to get outside of the room."

"Since the Hearer of prayer is undoubtedly in the room, there is, perhaps, no need of their getting out," said Miss Armstrong. "I understand the feeling, however, and it is a very sad one. But, Miss Fletcher—"

"Call me Patience, please. Everybody does."

"So I will, for it is a favorite name of mine. Are you sure, Patience, dear, that you are not starving your soul all this time? It must have nourishment, you know, as well as the body. Excuse the freedom of the question, but do you take time enough for your devotions?"

"I don't suppose I do," answered Patience. "I am so hurried in the morning, and at night I am so tired."

"But during the day, while the children are at school—"

"Yes, I know, but there always seems some sewing or cleaning to do, that takes up the time."

"Are you sure that all that sewing and cleaning are necessary? Or, if it is, why not leave some of it for Faith when she comes home? She ought to help you a good deal."

"Well, she does; and she would like to help me a great deal more. She isn't a bit of a shirk, Faith isn't. But—Well, the fact is, Miss Armstrong, I have my own ways and plans; and, if things are not done just exactly so, it puts me out, and makes me uncomfortable."

"Isn't it possible that you are making idols of your own ways and plans?" asked Miss Armstrong gently.

"Idols?" repeated Patience, as if a little offended. "I don't know what you mean."

"An idol is any thing which comes between us and God," said Miss Armstrong; "whatever we set up in His place is an idol. Your ways and plans may be ever so good; but if you allow them to take all your time and thoughts—" Miss Armstrong paused, and added, "The cares of this world, you know, can choke the Word as well as the deceitfulness of riches."

"Yes, I know," said Patience, "but if He sends the cares?"

"The cares He sends don't often have that effect. It comes from the cares we make for ourselves. Let me tell you a little story to illustrate my meaning. I once attended a missionary meeting in a certain city, and staid with a very kind lady with whom I was slightly acquainted. The first meeting was in the afternoon, and I asked Mrs. M— if she did not mean to go. She said it was impossible: she had been busy all the morning, and expected to be busy all the afternoon. I brought back with me another lady, who had been assigned to the same quarters. When we sat down to tea, we had four kinds of cake and two kinds of biscuit, besides a strawberry shortcake and some hot dish or other. We could not have eaten the four kinds of cake and the strawberry shortcake without risk to our lives; yet she must make them, though she lost the whole day's meeting. Now, were that lady's cares of the Lord's sending?"

"I suppose not," said Patience, laughing, as it seemed in spite of herself. "I don't think I am so bad as that, and yet I don't know. Perhaps I am. But, Miss Armstrong, I talked to Mr. Martin when he was here, and told him how I felt, and how little interest I had in religion; and he said it was the state of my health,—that people always felt so when they were not well, and that he was the same way himself."

"I think that excuse is used far too often," replied Miss Armstrong. "It seems your health does not hinder your taking such an interest in your household matters that you can allow no one to help you. And if so, why should it prevent you from being interested in your devotion?"

"There is something in that," observed Patience. "Mr. Martin himself was in a terrible taking because my Leghorn chickens were heavier than his. Besides that, it seems as if our religion can't be worth much if it is going to fail us when we want it the very most. Well, Miss Armstrong, I should not wonder if you were right. Anyhow, I will think it over."

"And pray over it," said Miss Armstrong. "And, dear Patience, remember that He who said, 'Seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness,' was one who knew every one of our burdens and hinderances as well as ourselves, or better."

"If one could always remember that," said Patience rather sadly. "Well, good-night, Miss Armstrong. I am ever so much obliged to you."

And Patience went home so full of thought that she actually failed to remark that Faith had hung up the dish-towels endways instead of lengthways, and had set up the teacups in twos instead of threes.

Another tea-party had been held that afternoon, quite as pleasant, though smaller and more informal.

"Kit," said Symantha after dinner, "don't you want to go up and play on the mountain this afternoon? I'm going to clean up the kitchen, and I want it all to myself."

"Yes, indeed, I should like it!" answered Kit. "But I thought perhaps you would want me to sit with aunt Martha."

"No, she had a bad time this morning, and she will be sure to sleep all the afternoon. I'll give you some gingerbread and a bottle of milk, so you can have a picnic and a nice time reading. Wait a minute: I've got something else for you."

She left the room, and presently returned with a book bound in colored calf, old but still in good preservation.

"That was my grandmother's book," said she as she put it into Kit's hands. "I found it this morning on the top shelf of a cupboard in the back room. Take good care of it."

Kit opened the volume, which proved to be a copy of the "Pilgrim's Progress" and "The Holy War" bound together.

"Oh, how glad I am!" she exclaimed. "Now I can read it all. Thank you, Symantha."

"I was looking for a Bible for you; and perhaps I shall find one yet, somewhere," said Symantha. "There ought to be one about the house, I should think."

"I have got a Testament," said Kit timidly.

"Have you? Where did you get it?"

Kit told the story. Symantha listened with her face turned away.

"Don't let pa or Melissa see it or know any thing about it," was her comment. "Keep it hid away. After all, I don't see why he should care," she added, speaking more to herself than to Kit. "If it is all a dream, at least it is one that gives people comfort; and there is not too much of that in the world."

"But it isn't all a dream, I am sure it isn't," said Kit with tearful earnestness. "I don't know as I could tell you why,—I am only a little girl,—but I am just as sure it is true as that I am alive."

"Well, child, think so if it does you any good. I wish I did, though I am badly off if it is," Symantha added with a bitter smile. "But there, run along, and have a nice time. Pa and Melissa have gone to Oldbury, and won't be at home till night, so you can stay as long as you like."

Kit kissed Symantha, and betook herself to her favorite place on the hill.

As she came round the end of the ledge, she saw two figures ascending from the other side, carrying a basket between them. And her heart beat with pleasure as she recognized the two young ladies from the stone house.

"Oh, I do hope they are coming here!" she said to herself. She was not mistaken.

"Here is our little hostess," said Ida. "I hoped we should find her. Kitty, my dear, will you lend us the use of your summer parlor this afternoon, and join us in a picnic? You see we have brought our basket."

Kit never knew exactly how she answered. But certain it is, neither of her guests found any fault with their welcome.

"Now, where shall we put our provisions, to keep them fresh and cool till we want them?" asked Amity.

For answer Kit moved away a thin slab of stone, and showed a deep, shady cavity, which seemed to be of some size.

"I call that my spring-house," said she. "There really is a spring in there. If you listen, you will hear it."

Both the girls bent down, and distinctly heard the silvery plash of water-drops in the little cave.

"How very pretty!" said Amity. "If we lighted a match, we might see the whole of it."

"I don't know as I want to," replied Kit a little shyly. "I like to think it is a great, deep cave with jewels and all kinds of beautiful things, and a lovely lady like the one in my old fairy-book."

"Exactly," said Ida. "I understand. You and I like to imagine, while Amity wants to go to the bottom of every thing with a match and a candle. However, we won't disturb your romance, Kitty. And now what shall we do to amuse ourselves? What book have you there?"

Kit displayed her treasure.

"What a nice old copy!" said Amity. "See, Ida, what a beautiful title page, with the warriors of 'The Holy War' winding down one side, and Christian and Hopeful toiling up the other. Suppose we take turns in reading aloud, Ida: I dare say Kitty will like to hear some of her book. And then you shall give us some music.—You will like that, won't you, Kitty?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am!" answered Kit with sparkling eyes. "But perhaps you and Miss Van Zandt would rather read your own books," she added with instinctive politeness, glancing at the volumes the girls had taken from their basket.

"No, indeed!" answered Ida. "The 'Pilgrim's Progress' is just the book for such a place and such an afternoon."

"Well, don't let us waste all our time getting ready," said practical Amity, producing her knitting, which her friends were wont to consider as much a part of herself as her fingers. "Begin at the beginning, Ida."

"'As I walked through the wilderness of this world, I lighted on a certain place where was a den; and I laid me down in that place to sleep.'"

How many children during the last two hundred years have had their attention arrested, and their imaginations charmed, by these words! I know of no book which gains more by being well read aloud than the "Pilgrim's Progress." And Ida read aloud uncommonly well, having been thoroughly trained in that most desirable accomplishment by her mother and aunt Barbara. I do not mean to imply that she was that fearsome creature, an elocutionist. On the contrary, she read like a lady, in a clear, soft voice, with due emphasis, and attention to stops.

Kit sat with folded hands, and listened as in a happy dream. The weather was perfect, sunny but not too bright, with fleecy clouds passing over the blue sky,—

"Shepherded by the soft, unwilling wind,"

which did not reach the sheltered hillside. She felt a pleasure in the pretty calico dresses and well-suited colors, the glossy hair and becoming hats, of the young ladies, in their well-trained voices and manners, and above all in the wonderful story. She did not, of course, understand it fully,—it is a book wherein the most experienced Christian may find much to ponder,—but she had a general idea of the meaning; while to her Christian and his wife, Obstinate and Pliable, Mr. Worldly Wiseman and the keeper of the wicket gate, were as real as uncle Phin and Mr. Bassett and all the other people she saw every day. Kit often looked back on that day as one of the happiest of her life.

"Now we will have some music," said Amity after they had got Christian safely to the House Beautiful. "What will you sing, Ida?"

"What would Kitty like to hear?" asked Ida.

"Please, would you sing the hymn they sang in the schoolhouse the other night?" asked Kit with bashful eagerness. "The first one, I mean."

Ida complied, and sang that most beautiful of hymns all through; Kit listening meanwhile as if her life depended on not losing a note.

"That is lovely!" she said, more to herself than to Ida, when the hymn was finished. "I think I could sing it now if I knew the words."

"Can you sing?" asked Amity.

"Yes, ma'am, I could always sing every thing I heard; but I never had a chance to learn many hymns. I can sing 'Swing low, sweet chariot,' through."

"Sing it," said Amity.

And Kit complied. Her voice, of course, was quite uncultivated.

"You ought to take singing-lessons," remarked Ida. "I suppose you never had any."

"No, ma'am. I never had lessons in any thing till I came here, only Symantha taught me to read and write, and to sew; and sometimes I would go to school a few weeks at a time, but not very often."

"You don't remember any thing about your mother?"

"No, ma'am, not really. Sometimes when aunt Martha is pretty quiet, and especially when I look at her asleep, she makes me think about my mother, but I can't tell why. Melissa says my mother died in the poorhouse, but she is such a liar I never believe any thing 'she' says," concluded Kit in a matter-of-fact tone which scandalized Amity.

"Hush, hush!" said she. "Little girls should not call people liars."

"Not when they tell lies?" asked Kit. "Melissa does; you 'can't' believe a word she says about any thing."

Ida bent down to hide a smile, and Amity found it convenient to change the subject.

"Does not Symantha tell you any thing about your mother?"

"No, ma'am. I asked her once or twice, but she did not answer; and I saw she did not like it, so I didn't say any more. Symantha has so much trouble, and she is so good to me, I don't like to do any thing to bother her."

"Quite right," said Amity. "But you say you do not think you lived in the poorhouse. Why?"

Kit knitted her brows, and her eyes assumed the far-off look they always took when she tried to recall her faint recollections of her former home.

"Because of things I can recollect," said she. "I remember sitting on the floor, and tracing out the pattern of the carpet with my finger. When I saw Mrs. Blandy's carpet hung out, I thought of it. And I remember a gray bird in a round cage, and—I know that can't be true though—it seems just as if it could talk."

"I dare say it did," said Ida. "Probably the bird was a gray parrot. But don't you recollect any lady that took care of you, and that you called mamma or mother?"

"No, not really," said Kit. "Whenever I try, it seems for a minute as if I did; and then she gets all mixed up with aunt Martha. Only there is one thing I have thought of since you said that name Kathleen," added Kit eagerly. "I know that is my name; and somebody, I don't know who, used to sing a song about Kathleen,—'Kathleen My—' something. I think I should know the tune if I heard it: I always do remember tunes."

"Was this it?" asked Ida. And she sang a verse of the beautiful Irish song,—

"Kathleen Mavourneen, the gray dawn is breaking."

She had not finished the verse when Kit broke in, her eyes and cheeks blazing with excitement,—

"That is it, that is it! I have dreamed it sometimes, but I never could remember it when I was awake. Oh, I know it was my mother that sang that!" And she burst into such a passionate fit of crying and sobbing, that the girls were alarmed.

"Hush, my dear. Don't cry so; you will be sick," said Amity, putting her arm round the child. "There, try to quiet yourself."

Kit made a violent effort, and succeeded in regaining some degree of composure. "I can't think what makes me cry so easy," she said as she wiped her eyes. "I cried about the snake this morning. I think it must be because my hand keeps me awake nights."

"Perhaps so. Is your hand so bad?"

"Yes, ma'am; it is very sore."

"What was it about the snake?" asked Ida, looking nervously about her. She was dreadfully afraid of snakes, and was always suspecting them in every possible locality.

"Oh, there are none here," said Kit, seeing Ida's movement. "I never saw a snake on this hill. It was down at the schoolhouse. I think it did scare me, for I have felt shaky ever since."

"But what was it?" persisted Ida.

Kit told the story in as few words as possible.

"You dear, brave little thing!" exclaimed Ida. "How could you do it? It makes me shudder to think of it."

"Well, it wasn't 'nice,'" said Kit emphatically: "it felt so cold and horrid! I felt as if I wanted to wash my hands a dozen times over."

"I don't wonder. But don't let us talk about it any more now," said Amity. "I think we had better have our tea. I don't know how you two feel, but I am hungry."

"I have got some gingerbread and milk, if you like it," said Kit modestly. "Symantha makes real nice gingerbread."

"That will be a fine addition to our feast. Come, Ida, let us set the table; and Kit shall be the company, and look on."

Never was any thing so pretty, Kit thought, as the little china plates and cups produced from the basket, never any thing so wonderful as the spirit-lamp over which Amity heated up the tea, or so nice as the sandwiches and sponge-cake.

When all was ready, Ida made a sign to Amity, who bent her head and said a simple grace. Kit looked on with awe. It was the first time she had ever seen or heard of such a thing.

The girls ate their supper with abundance of jokes and laughter. Kit had not much appetite, but she enjoyed the delicate sandwich, and the fragrant cup of tea which helped the headache she had carried all day.

"Well, we have had a very nice time," said Amity after she had repacked the basket. "Now, Kitty, what can we do for you?"

"You have done too much for me now," replied Kit. "I never had such a nice time in my life. Only—"

"Only what?" asked Ida.

"I wish I had the words of that hymn," said Kit, blushing. "I think I could sing it sometimes if I knew the words. And that about the shadow of the wing is so nice: it makes me think of the little chickens running under the old hen when it rains, or they are scared."

"That is what it means," said Ida. "Let me tell you a verse in the Bible about that:

"'He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou
trust' (Ps. xci. 4).

"You shall have the hymn, Kathleen. I will send you a little book which has it and a good many more. I will give it to Miss Armstrong to-morrow. Good-night, my dear. I hope we shall have another nice picnic some time."

When Amity and Ida reached home, they told Mrs. Van Zandt what Kit had said, and how she remembered the song.

"I do believe she is Kathleen Joyce's child," said aunt Barbara. "But how should she come into these people's hands, and why should they wish to keep her away from every one?"

"I was struck with one thing she said," remarked Ida,—"that when she thought of her mother, she always got her mixed up with aunt Martha. Do you suppose it possible that she can be Mrs. Mallory's child?"

"It does not seem likely," said Mrs. Van Zandt. "Why should they wish to conceal it?"

"There might be some money in the case," said Ida.

"It is possible. I heard that Kathleen's husband became quite wealthy at one time, from some fortunate speculation."

"Did she never write to you after her marriage?" asked Amity.

"Never," answered Mrs. Van Zandt sadly.

"Perhaps her husband would not allow it."

"I think that very likely; he never forgave my opposition to the match. And some notion of loyalty to his memory might have kept her from writing afterward."

"It seems loyalty to his memory did not prevent her marrying again," said Amity.

"That is different, as the children say," replied Mrs. Van Zandt. "And besides, we do not know that it is the same person."

"Some people would consider poor Kathleen's conduct as an argument against the adoption of children," said Amity.

Mrs. Van Zandt smiled rather sadly.

"I have heard of other than adopted daughters making runaway matches," said she. "Moreover, on looking back, I can see where I was myself to blame in Kathleen's case. I indulged and petted her beyond all reason. I allowed her to please herself in all things, and never taught her to exercise self-denial or self-control. Spoiled children are not often grateful to their spoilers; and, indeed, I do not know why they should be. Well, my dears, we must keep our eyes on this poor little girl, and try to befriend her. Whoever she may be, she is one of the Lord's little ones. Perhaps the truth may come out some time. I am glad that you have given her at least one pleasant afternoon."