Chapter III: Kit at Home

KIT MALLORY went swiftly over the high pasture till she reached the little spring; and then taking an oblique direction, she descended till she came to an old wooden house standing on the lowest ridge or terrace of the hill. It had once been a roomy, comfortable farmhouse with a well-house, sheds, and barns; but the buildings were out of repair, and the whole place looked as if it had suffered from a long course of neglect. Nevertheless, the stones at the back-door were white and clean, and the windows bright; and a row of milk-pans turned up on a shelf showed that some one in the house was neat and pains-taking.

The back-door stood open. And as Kit approached, a middle-aged woman appeared in it, making a sign for silence. She was tall and dark, and would have been handsome but for the look of hopeless weariness and despondency which had settled on her face.

"Is aunt Martha bad again?" asked Kit in a whisper.

"Yes, I have had a terrible time with her all the afternoon. She has just dropped asleep, and I hope she will not wake for a good long while. What kept you so late?"

Kit gave a short account of herself.

"That was all right," said Symantha. "Is Miss Armstrong a nice lady?"

"She is just lovely!" answered Kit with enthusiasm.

"I hope she will be a good friend to you. You must try to learn all you can, and make the most of your time while we are here."

"Ain't we going to stay here, then?" asked Kit in a tone of anxiety and disappointment. "I thought uncle Phin owned this place."

"So he does—at least—yes, I suppose he does," answered Symantha with a curious tone of hesitation, which made Kit look at her in surprise. "But I have moved so many times, and about every time for the worse, that I don't believe I shall ever feel settled any where. What nice apples!" she added, as if hastening to change the conversation. "Where did you get them?"

"Mr. Weston gave them to me, and I brought them home for aunt Martha. Where are all the folks?"

"Pa has gone over to Oldbury after a load of lumber. And Melissa is down at the Corners, I suppose: I haven't seen her since morning. She always goes away if she can, you know, when ma gets one of her bad times; and perhaps it is just as well."

"How tired you look!" said Kit. She hesitated a moment; and then, postponing a plan she had meant to put in execution as soon as she reached home, she added, "You lie down and rest, and let me get the supper. I can do it as well as not."

"Well, you may if you like," replied Symantha. "You are a good little thing, Kit. I don't know what I should do without you sometimes." As she spoke, her face softened; and she bent down and kissed Kit, who returned the embrace with interest.

"I'm sure I don't know what I should do without you," said she. "If it wasn't for you, I'd run away and seek my fortune."

"Hush," said Symantha sharply. "Don't ever let father hear you say such a thing as that: I don't know what he would do to you. Yes, you may get the supper ready, and I will rest till milking-time."

Left to herself, Kit went about her work, doing every thing with marvellous quickness and quietness. Just as she had finished her preparations, she heard the sound of wheels and horses' feet; and presently a man entered the back kitchen. Kit made a sign for silence.

"Where's Symantha?" was the first question.

"She's lying down. Please don't make such a noise, uncle Phin: aunt Martha has just gone to sleep."

"Has she had a bad time?"

Kit nodded.

"Where's Melissa?"

"I don't know; I haven't seen her. Symantha says she has gone to the Corners."

"I'll teach her to run off and leave all the work for her sister," muttered Phin Mallory to himself. And then aloud, "Here, child, here's a reader and spelling-book for you. Halloo, what's that?"

"A picture-paper, I guess," said Kit; "and a little book," she added, taking out of the parcel an illustrated Sunday school paper, and a copy of that time-honored tract, "The Shepherd of Salisbury Plain," with a pretty woodcut on the cover.

Mr. Sandford at Oldbury was fond of this method of sowing seed, and seldom sold a book or parcel of books without putting in some similar document to that which Kit held in her hand.

"What stuff is that?" said Phin. "I'll teach old Sandford to be sending his rubbish into my house." He made a step toward the stove as he spoke, as if to throw the papers into the fire.

"Oh, please don't burn them up," entreated Kit, holding his hand. "I don't hardly ever see a picture, and these are so pretty. Please let me have them."

Phin still held the papers over the fire, but something in the pleading, upturned face seemed to move him, for he put them into her hand.

"Here, child, take them, then. You don't see many pretty things, that's a fact. There, put the supper on the table; I'll be back in a minute."

Kit carried her prizes off in triumph to her own little room up-stairs, and hid them away till she should have leisure to examine them. Then she hastened to finish her supper preparations, and had a comfortable meal ready on the table when Phin returned.

He was a lithe, alert little man, looking as if he had seen some hard times and some dissipation. And there was a watchful, furtive expression in his face, not pleasant to see.

"So you got beat out," said he to Symantha, as she appeared and took her seat at the table. "It was too bad in Melissa to run off and leave you with all the work. I'll tell her what I think about it when she comes home."

"She is just as well out of the way when ma has one of her bad times," replied Symantha. "But I don't see how any one can like to go visiting so, forever. I like to let other folks alone, and have them let me alone."

"Yes, you and pa would like to shut me up from one year's end to another," said Melissa, speaking for herself, as she came into the room with her hat on. "It has always been just so. But I'm not going to stand it. I like company, and I'm going to have it, so there!— Kit, take my things up-stairs, and get me a chair."

"Sit still, Kit," said her father. "You just wait on yourself, my girl. Kit has been at work while you have been at play."

Melissa muttered something, but it seemed as if she did not care to provoke a dispute. She threw her hat and shawl into a corner, and took a seat at the table.

"We're going to have new neighbors at the stone house," said she after a little silence, "some people from New York,—Van Zandt, or some such name.

"It was a Van Zandt that owned it before," remarked Symantha.

"Yes; he has left it to some old lady in New York, and she is going to have it all fixed up for a summer house. She has got no end of money, and is going to bring her horses and servants and carriages, and some young ladies, from New York; so we shall have quite a gay time."

"I don't see how 'we' shall have much to do with it," said Symantha. "I don't suppose you mean to go and call on them, do you?"

"Why not?" asked Melissa. "I should just like to know."

"Because I say you sha'n't, and that's enough!" exclaimed her father, striking the table with his hand so as to make all the dishes rattle. "I won't have you go near them, do you hear? Not one of them. You mind me, too, Kit: don't you go near the house."

"Don't, pa; you will wake mother," said Symantha.

"Dear me, what a fuss about nothing!" said Melissa. "One would think pa thought these people had the small-pox, or that he was afraid they would find out something."

Phin gave his daughter such a menacing glance that she evidently thought it better to say no more, and the meal was finished in silence.

Kit washed the dishes, brought in wood, and arranged matters for the next morning. By that time it was dark, and she was weary enough to go to bed.

Tired as she was, she did not forget to take out the card Miss Armstrong had given her, and read over the little prayer. She stood for a moment after she had finished, as if thinking, and then said, half aloud,—

"Please, our Father in heaven, I should like to have a Bible."

Then she crept into bed, and was asleep in a minute.

The next morning Kit was up early, so early that the sun was only just gilding the very top of Blue Mountain. Nobody else was stirring in the house. It was a good time to put her plan into execution.

There was a large, high garret to the old house, in which was stored the-accumulated rubbish of a hundred years. Here was a tall eight-day clock, the case of which would have thrown a collector into ecstasies, side by side with a broken and disused loom; there, a shelf full of bottles and more or less disabled crockery. A little room was roughly partitioned off at one end, and made a famous playing-place on a rainy day. It was in this garret that Kit had found her precious fragment of the "Pilgrim's Progress" lying on the top of a box full of old books and papers. It had occurred to her that in this same box she might possibly find a Bible.

She took out the volumes one by one, and looked at the titles. They were mostly old books of theology and collections of sermons; but there were two or three volumes of travels and memoirs, which looked, Kit thought, as though they might be interesting, and she laid them aside for future consideration. At last, near the bottom of the box, she found a small volume handsomely bound and closely printed. She looked at the title page.

"The New Testament of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ."

Was that the same as the Bible? Kit thought so, but she was not sure.

"I'll take it to school, and show it to Miss Armstrong. Anyhow, it tells about 'Him.' What is this, I wonder? Never mind, I can't look at it now."

Kit brushed the dust from her dress, washed her face and hands, and sat down to examine her new treasure. The first chapter seemed to be all hard names, so she opened about the middle of the book, and read about the shepherds who were watching their flocks by night, and were sent by the angels to find the babe lying in the manger, who was Christ the Lord. She read slowly, and had to spell some words; but the story lost nothing of its force by that.

"The very one Miss Armstrong was talking about," said Kit. "How strange! If he was a little baby once, and grew up into a man afterward, there must have been a time when he was just as old as I am now."

Kit had no time to follow out her meditations. A call from below summoned her.

"You can't go to school to-day," was the salutation which met her as she entered the kitchen. "Symantha's sick, or thinks she is, and I want you to help me."

"Oh, dear! And I did want to go so much!" said Kit. "Can't you do without me, Melissa? I hate to be so irregular."

"Let her go, Melissa," said Symantha's voice from the little bedroom. "I sha'n't want any thing. I dare say I shall be able to get up presently; it is only one of my dizzy headaches."

"Yes, that is very likely,—that she is going to school, leaving me with you and ma to wait on, and all the work to do. I don't believe pa will let her go, anyway, when he finds out about Miss Armstrong. They say she is a regular Methodist, has prayers in school, and teaches the children out of the Bible. I mean to tell pa about it; and then he won't let you to at all, Miss Kit, and serve you right too."

Kit was used to Melissa's tongue, and generally gave her back her sharp words with interest. But the prospect of losing her precious schooling and the society of her new friend was too dreadful, and she burst into tears.

"Hush, Kit; don't cry," said Symantha, raising her head, but obliged to drop it again. "Pa won't take you out of school. Oh, my head!"

"Is it so very bad?" asked Kit, forgetting her own trouble for the moment. "Can't I do any thing for you?"

"You may look in the front-room cupboard, and see if you can find the alcohol bottle," said Symantha, pressing her hand over her eyes. "I had it up there, I know."

Kit sped up-stairs, and found the bottle. As she passed the door of her own little room, she remembered her prayer of last night, and also that she had forgotten her promise to say one in the morning. "What a shame!" she said to herself. "And when He was so good, and gave me the Testament."

She went into her room, shut the door, and reverently repeated her little verse,—

"Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,
Look upon a little child;
Pity my simplicity;
Suffer me to come to Thee."

"Jesus! That is the very one I was reading about,—that very one that was a little baby. I wonder if He ever had to do things he didn't like. Perhaps He had to stay at home sometimes to help His mother, but I don't believe she was one bit like Melissa. But they were poor, I guess, and He must have had a great deal of trouble in His life, so He knows all about it. Perhaps He would like it if I was good-natured, and staid at home."

Kit had not been gone ten minutes when she came back with the bottle, and set herself to bathe Symantha's head and brush her hair. But in that ten minutes a great, change had come over her. She had entered into a new life. The little untaught, ignorant heathen had found her Saviour, had entered into conscious relations with Him, and made a sacrifice for Him. The little seed dropped by a skilful sower into her heart had taken root and sprung up. The plant was young and tender as yet, one would say, easily crushed by a careless foot, or nibbled off by some passing animal; but ONE was watching over it who is greater than all the changes and chances of this mortal life, and who makes them all work together for good to them that love Him.

Kit said no more about going to school. She went into her aunt's room, washed her face and hands, and coaxed her to drink a cup of coffee and eat a bit of toast. Mrs. Mallory must once have been a beautiful woman, judging by her regular features and still-fair complexion, but her hair was streaked with gray, her large dark-blue eyes, very much like Kit's in shape and color, were wild and wandering, and she had a despairing, anxious expression, pitiful to see.

"There, that is real good," said Kit, speaking as one would to a sick and wayward child. "Now you shall have a nice apple."

She produced one of the apples she had brought from Mr. Weston's, and the poor woman took it with some show of pleasure. Something about Kit seemed to arrest her attention, for she held the child's hand, and looked earnestly into her face.

"Who are you, little girl? Haven't I seen you somewhere?"

"Why, yes, aunt Martha. I am Kit. You remember Kit, don't you?"

Mrs. Mallory gazed at her a moment with a gleam of intelligence, and then, dropping her hand, sank back on her pillow.

"I don't know," said she. "It all goes away from me. Every thing went when they took Him away."

"Well, never mind," said Kit soothingly. "Eat the nice apple, and by and by you shall have another."

Seeing her aunt's attention diverted for the moment, Kit slipped from the room.

Melissa was by this time in a better humor. Her moods were very much the result of her bodily feelings; and she felt better, now that she had made her coffee as strong as she liked it, and eaten her breakfast.

Kit waited on Symantha, and brushed her hair softly till she fell asleep, got her aunt up and dressed her, and brought her some flowers from the neglected garden. The last Mrs. Mallory had been fond of flowers, and a few of the hardy perennials she had planted still struggled for existence; while in one corner, the dear old-fashioned rose of May, neglected and forgotten now, opened its pretty pointed buds. Mrs. Mallory loved flowers, and a nosegay would keep her quiet and amused longer than any thing else. Certainly Kit did her full share of the work, and more; for Melissa was an accomplished "shirk," and if she did not work herself, she was the cause of work in others. Symantha's nap carried off her headache, and she was able to get up to dinner.

"Halloo, what are you doing here?" asked Phin as he came in and found Kit dishing up the dinner. "I thought you took your dinner to school."

"I didn't go to school," answered Kit, busily stirring her gravy. "I staid at home to help Melissa."

"Then don't do it again, do you hear?" said her uncle angrily. "I am not going to have you staying out of school for every little thing."

"I didn't want to stay, I'm sure," returned Kit. And then, as some thought crossed her mind, she added in a gentler tone, "Symantha couldn't sit up, and Melissa wanted me to help her, so I did."

"It wasn't her fault," added Symantha: "Melissa kept her. Kit was very good-natured about it, I must say."

"Good-natured or not, it isn't to happen again.—Do you hear, Melissa?"

"Hear what?" asked Melissa from the next room. "I don't know what you are talking about."

"Then I'll make you know," said her father. "I say you are not to keep the child at home from school for any thing and every thing. I want her to go every day this summer. I've taught school myself, and I know what a nuisance it is to a teacher to have scholars so irregular. Mind, I won't have it happen again."

"Oh, of course you won't," replied Melissa sulkily: "you care for every one more than you do for me. Never mind, I am not going to be made a slave of forever. I shall look out for myself some day."

"You do that now pretty well," said Symantha.

No answer was returned, and the family sat down to dinner.

"Did you really keep school once, uncle Phin?" asked Kit.

"Yes," replied her uncle, "when I was a young man, I taught one winter in that very red schoolhouse. I was a good scholar once, thanks to my mother."

"Was your mother a nice woman?" asked Kit, who was always hungry for any thing like a story.

"That she was,—as good a woman as ever breathed," replied Phin, his hard face softening a little. "She had a great many notions that I don't believe in, but she was just as good as they make."

"What a pity her grand-daughters are not like her!" said Melissa sarcastically.

"It is a pity," replied her father dryly.

"Perhaps Kit may take after her if she keeps on going to school," continued Melissa. "Miss Armstrong is very pious, teaches the children verses out of the Bible, and talks to them like a Methodist class-leader."

"Maybe she will have to stop that some day," said her father. "But, anyhow, the red schoolhouse is the only one near here, and Kit shall go to school if the teacher talks all through the Old Testament, and the New Testament too."

"Am I to go to school this afternoon?" asked Kit as Phin rose from the table.

"It is hardly worth while, I guess: you won't more than get there before school is out. However, you can do as you like," said Phin.

Kit knew she should be in time for at least a part of the afternoon session, so she made herself tidy, and skipped away rejoicing, her precious little Testament safe in her pocket. She entered school somewhat out of breath, and slipped into her seat as quietly as possible.

"You are late, Kitty, and you were away this morning," said Miss Armstrong. "How does that happen?"

"Melissa kept me at home to help do the work," answered Kit. "Symantha had one of her sick headaches, and couldn't sit up a minute. But uncle Phin says I mustn't do it again. He says it is bad for me and bad for the teacher."

"How impudent she is, to answer Miss Armstrong so!" thought Selina. An undefined feeling of anger at Kit had been lurking in her mind ever since the day before, and she was glad to find something to justify it.

Miss Armstrong, however, did not seem the least disturbed.

"Your uncle is right," said she: "irregular and tardy scholars hurt both themselves and the school. Now you may take your book, and study your spelling and reading lessons."

It was with a feeling of satisfaction that Kit produced her nice new reader and spelling-book. The Red Hill district stuck to Webster's spelling-book, which was, perhaps, one reason why most of the children really learned to spell. The day before, Kit had been obliged to borrow her neighbor's books, which did not please her at all, for she had an independent spirit. She was tempted to look at all the pictures, and read all the stories, but she reflected that she could do that as well after school, and applied herself to her lesson with such zeal that she went up several places in the spelling-class. At recess, she brought her books to Miss Armstrong.

"Please, Miss Armstrong, will you write my name in my new books?"

"Certainly, my dear. What shall I write?"

Kit's face darkened a little. "That's just the trouble," said she. "I hate 'Keturah,' and I don't believe it is my name either."

"Suppose we write it 'Kitty,'" said Miss Armstrong: "that is short for Catherine, buy it will do quite as well for Keturah. But you should not hate the name of Keturah, my dear. She was a great lady, I suppose; at least, she was the wife of a very great man."

"Was she?" asked Kit, much interested.

"Yes: she was the second wife of Abraham, one of the most distinguished men that ever lived. Abraham was called the friend of God, and talked with Him face to face. So you see Keturah is not a bad name, after all."

"I shall like it better, now I know about it; but I don't believe it is my right name, for all that," said Kit. "But please, Miss Armstrong, may I ask you about something else?"

"After school," said Miss Armstrong, smiling. "I suppose, Kit, it never occurs to you children to think that a teacher likes her recess, as well as her scholars."

"I am real sorry I bothered you," said Kit penitently. "I won't say another word."

And, putting her books away, she went out to the playground, where a lively game was in progress.

"Here is Kit; she'll be it, I know!" exclaimed Sarah Leet. "You will, won't you, Kit?"

"Of course, when I know what you are playing," answered Kit. "What do you want me to do?"

"Oh, to be king. We are playing king's land; and it is Selina's turn, but she won't."

"I will, and I'll catch you too," said Kit, darting after Sarah, and catching her on the verge of her own territory. "There, I'll let you off, because it was not quite fair to catch you before you had time to get off.—Now, girls, look out for yourselves."

"What a nice, good-natured little thing she is, after all!" said Faith Fletcher as Kit darted hither and thither, always on the watch, and turning up where she was least expected.

"Oh, yes, very nice indeed!" said Selina, to whom the remark was addressed. "I wonder how long it will last."

"Well, I don't see how you can wish to spite the poor little thing so," said Sarah. "I should think you would have some feeling for her, trying so hard to make something of herself."

"I don't spite her, and you have no business to say so," said Selina angrily.

"Well, that's the way it looks to me. When a person never can say a good word for another, and never likes to hear any one else do it, it looks a good deal like spite. However, it is no business of mine.—I'm on the king's land; the king—Ah, you little spirit! I might have known you would catch me. There is the bell, so I don't care."

The verse Miss Armstrong gave the children that evening was rather a long one,—

"God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life" (St. John iii. 16).

She asked a few questions, which were answered intelligently, even by the little children, though the Fletcher twins could not tell where Christ was born.

"Sister is so busy, she has hardly any time to teach them," said Faith apologetically, after school, "but I thought they knew that."

"Cannot you teach them, Faith? Have you no time to tell these little ones about the Saviour who died for them?"

"They go to Sunday school always," said Faith, "every Sunday unless it is bad weather."

"Sunday schools are very good things, but they can never take the place of home teaching. Don't you help them learn their lessons?"

"There is always so much to do Sundays and Saturdays," answered Faith. And then she added frankly, "I guess the truth is, I never thought of it, but I'll try to get time before next Sunday."

"Do," said Miss Armstrong; "and Faith, when you go to bed, read the parable of the sower, and remember that the cares of this world choke the Word, and make it unfruitful, quite as often and quite as surely as the deceitfulness of riches. Good-night, my child.—Now, Kitty, what can I do for you?"

"Please, Miss Armstrong, is the New Testament part of the Bible?" asked Kit.

"Certainly, my dear, and a very important part. It contains the history of our Lord Jesus Christ. Why?"

"I was looking for a Bible up in the garret, and I found this," answered Kit, producing her treasure. "I read some in it this morning about Mary and Joseph, and the baby that was Christ the Lord. Was He really?"

"Really and truly, Kitty,—as really and truly as that He now sits at the right hand of God the Father, ready to hear and help us in all our troubles."

"That is very strange," said Kit. "But I think it is lovely, too," she added, her eyes lighting up with their peculiar sapphire-like brilliancy. "Isn't it wonderful to think that He knows all about us?"

"The more you know of the matter, the more strange and lovely it will appear to you, my dear. Now, let me advise you to begin here at this second chapter of St. Matthew's Gospel, and read this book through, and at the same time ask God to teach you to understand it."

"And will He?"

"Yes: He has promised He will, and He always keeps His word."

"I'm sure I'm glad of it," said Kit in her matter-of-fact way; "because I don't have any help only what you give me. I can't go to church and Sunday school, like the others."

"If you could, my dear, if you had all the human helps in the world, you would need God's help just as much. The most learned man in the world needs it just as much as you do. Now, see here; I have something else for you. Here is a card with the Lord's Prayer printed on it in nice plain letters; I want you to take it and learn it, so you can say it with the others. It is in your Testament too."

"Is it called the Lord's Prayer because He made it?" asked Kit.

"Yes, for that very reason."

"Here is something else printed on the card, 'The Apostles' Creed,'" said Kit, spelling out the word with some trouble. "What is that?"

"That is what all Christians believe,—a kind of summing-up of all the truths of the Bible," answered Miss Armstrong. "Learn that too. Suppose you read it over to me."

"I have heard that somewhere, I know," said Kit when she had finished reading the Creed. "Seems to me it was in a church out West, but I can't tell exactly. I guess it was in the Indian church. But, Miss Armstrong, I shall have to learn these in school, I guess."

"Very well; we will make time for them. Now I must not keep poor Selina waiting any longer. Good-night, my dear, and God bless you!"