Chapter VIII: The Snakes

"WHERE is Miss Armstrong?" asked Mrs. Weston, as Selina came home alone.

"I suppose she will be here presently," answered Selina. "Kit Mallory was naughty, and she kept her after school. I would never do that: I would whip them, and let them go. I wouldn't punish myself too."

"That would be very well if one thought only of one's own convenience," remarked Mrs. Weston, "but I imagine that is not Miss Armstrong's way. What did Kit do?"

"She called Faith Fletcher bad names because Faith went above her in spelling. I hope Miss Armstrong will have enough of her, that's all."

Mrs. Weston gave Selina a look which checked her, before she said, "Poor Kit needs to have allowance made for her. She has had very few advantages. But you may set the table, Selina; I dare say Miss Armstrong will not be long."

Selina had not really meant to tell an untruth,—that is to say, she had not deliberately said to herself that she would tell a lie: that is something which people seldom do,—nor had she told a lie in direct words. It was in consequence of her naughtiness that Kit had staid after school. But Selina was under the dominion of what might be called her ruling passion,—a passion which makes people do as mean things as any which belongs to humanity: she was jealous. She had taken a great liking to Miss Armstrong when that lady first came, and had said to herself, that, as Miss Armstrong boarded at her father's house, she (Selina) would see more of her than any one else, and would therefore be the teacher's particular friend.

Now, there was no harm in Selina's wishing the teacher to like her; the trouble was that she did not want Miss Armstrong to like any one else. This passion of jealousy had been the bane of Selina's life. Mr. and Mrs. Weston had another adopted daughter, who had married and gone to live in Oldbury about a year before our story begins. Elizabeth had never been any thing but kind to Selina from the first day of her coming into the house, a rather forlorn little girl of ten years old. It had not given her a single pang when she was told of Mr. and Mrs. Weston's determination to adopt another child: on the contrary, she was glad that some one else should have the same happy home as herself. And when Selina was brought from the Oldbury orphan-asylum, the only home she could remember, Elizabeth, then a womanly girl of sixteen, had done her best to make her feel contented.

But no kindness can make a jealous person happy. In the asylum, Selina had always watched the other children's meals, to see whether some one had not a larger bit of butter, a fatter doughnut, a redder apple, than herself; and she brought the same spirit into her new home. She soon became quite sure that mother loved Lizzy the best, all because Lizzy had curly hair and red cheeks. Lizzy had a new summer frock, while hers was mother's last summer's dress made over; Lizzy had mother's beautiful gray merino made over for winter, while she had a woollen plaid out of the store at the Corners: and one was just as much a grievance as the other. She was glad when Lizzy married and went away. But now Lizzy had a boy baby which was named after Mr. Weston, and Selina was quite sure that father and mother would never care for her again.

Miss Armstrong had been very kind to her, that she must needs allow, but then, she had been just as kind to all the others, and Selina was quite sure that she liked Agnes Gleason's reading the best. That was always the way, she said to herself with a sigh. It was her fate, and she must bear it. Some time, perhaps, she would find some one who would love her best of all.

"So you had a case of discipline," remarked Mrs. Weston as the family sat down to the tea-table.

"I thought you'd find it wasn't all such plain sailing," said Aunt Betsy Burr, who had happened in to borrow a cup of maple molasses. Aunt Betsy's errands generally did bring her to her neighbors about meal-times. "There's some dreadful bad children about here. Those Bassett boys yelled right in front of my door last night when they were coming home from hoeing potatoes up to the hill farm."

"It was not a case of discipline, though it might have been if the culprit had not put discipline out of the question by her own act," replied Miss Armstrong. "The poor child did forget herself, but she acknowledged her fault, and asked pardon before the whole school, and that of her own motion. There was no room for discipline after that. I did keep her, but it was to comfort and help her a little. She has burned her hand badly, and was feeling very unhappy over the loss of an old Testament she had found somewhere."

Mrs. Weston looked at Selina, who looked at her plate.

"I am sorry for that child. I think she has hard times," said Mr. Weston. "I met Phin Mallory at Oldbury yesterday, and he told me he was going to make a fuss at the next school-meeting about having the Bible read in school."

"And what did you say?" asked his wife.

"Well, I tried to reason with him at first, but I found there was no use in that, so I told him to make all the fuss he wanted to."

"I don't know, though," said Aunt Betsy. "I ain't sure it is lawful to take up the time of the scholars with Bible lessons."

Miss Armstrong only smiled.

"And so poor Kit has lost her Testament," remarked Mr. Weston. "Well, we must try to let her have another. Does she think so much of it as all that?"

"She does, indeed," answered Miss Armstrong. "I have never met any one who seemed to have a greater craving for the truth. I believe that child is going to grow up a true Christian in spite of her adverse circumstances."

"I should think she took a queer way to show it,—calling the other girls names," said Aunt Betsy. "For my part, I don't believe she will ever be any thing but a regular little reprobate."

"Who is calling names now, Aunt Betsy?" asked Mr. Weston, smiling.

Aunt Betsy maintained a dignified silence, and betook herself to the consumption of canned cherries as if that were the only object in life worthy her notice.

"The truth often finds readier entrance into such a heart as Kit's than into one which had heard the gospel preached, and remained closed against it," remarked Miss Armstrong; "at least, that has been the result of my observation both with the heathen and among the mission children in the city."

"You are right," said Mr. Weston. "The hardest sinners to melt are gospel-hardened sinners. I thought a good many people seemed touched last night. The Jewsbury girls were very attentive, I observed, and so was Agnes Gleason. That is another child I feel great interest in."

"I must not violate confidence, but I may just say I have reason to hope we may hear good news of Agnes," said Miss Armstrong, smiling. "I had a nice little talk with her, which was another thing that kept me."

"Well, I hope her mother won't put no stumbling-blocks in her way if she really is trying to be a Christian, that's all," remarked Aunt Betsy. "Almira is a dreadful worldly woman, and always was. The way she 'nips' into church on Sunday with that black silk dress of hers, and brushes off the seat before she sits down! You needn't laugh, Abby. I've seen her do it with my own eyes, so there!"

"I don't so much blame her for that," said Mrs. Weston. "I never go into the building, that I don't want to go to house-cleaning."

"Wouldn't it be fun to make a 'bee,' and clean the church before the new minister comes?" said Selina. "We might do it next week."

"I declare, daughter, that is an excellent idea," said Mrs. Weston. "It wouldn't be such a very great piece of work if we all took hold of it.—What do you say, father?"

"I agree with all my heart," answered Mr. Weston. "I don't believe the place has had a thorough cleaning in twelve years, and it is longer than that since the old house was painted. How long is it, Aunt Betsy?"

"Twenty-five years this coming July," answered Aunt Betsy. "Don't you remember, it was the year old Dr. Munson died. He 'was' a man! It will be a long time before we have any one to fill his pulpit. This Mr. Brace isn't going to do it. Why, Dr. Munson's folks were among the first settlers of Oldfield County."

"Well, if you come to that, Mr. Brace's great-grandfather was one of the first settlers of Rivermouth County," said Mr. Weston. "You may find his name in Barber's 'Historical Collections.' Though, as he is to preach, and not his great-grandfather, I don't see what difference it makes."

"Well, anyhow, he ain't going to fill Dr. Munson's pulpit," persisted Aunt Betsy. "Just hear him read the lessons! And he sings himself, for I saw him."

"And I heard him, and thought he had a very fine voice. Why shouldn't he sing, as well as any one else?"

"Dr. Munson never did. I remember him as if I had seen him yesterday."

"Dr. Munson was a fine man, no doubt, but he has been dead and buried this many a year, and I only wish his ghost did not walk," said Mrs. Weston. "Every time we have a new minister, somebody compares him with old Dr. Munson, and says he never will fill Dr. Munson's pulpit."

"If Dr. Munson wanted to keep the pulpit himself, he should have taken it away with him," said Selina rather pertly.

"I don't believe he did," said her father. "He was by far too good and too humble-minded to wish to remain a standard for the measurement of all who should come after him.—But as to this plan of the child's, mother, you talk it up with the women, and I'll do the same with the men; and we'll see what can be done."

Selina went to her room in a comfortable frame of mind. She had escaped the blame which she had expected, and she had been commended for her idea of cleaning the church, and might expect still more praise, for her mother would be sure to say it was Selina's notion in the first place. Her self-complacency began to sink a little as she heard her mother coming up-stairs, and remembered how she had misrepresented the matter of Kit's staying after school.

"Now mother Weston will be coming to talk to me," she said to herself. She had a great dread of these talks, which always left her feeling very small in her own eyes.

But mother Weston had no such intention this night. She began to think there was no use in talking to Selina: so, like Christian in the dark valley, she betook herself to another weapon, called All-prayer, which was very familiar to her hand, as it is, thank God! to the hands of most Christian mothers.

Selina was destined to hear of her fault from another quarter.

"Selina, how did Mrs. Burr know about Kitty's fault yesterday?" asked Miss Armstrong as they met on the way to school next morning.

Selina had not been without her fears on this point, and she had set out before Miss Armstrong by a different route expressly to escape this interview. But as so often happens when we try to avoid a person, she came plump upon her about a quarter of a mile from the schoolhouse.

"Oh, Aunt Betsy—every one calls her Aunt Betsy about here—she hears every thing!" answered Selina with assumed carelessness. "And she thinks all young people are dreadful. You heard what she said about the Bassett boys, and they are forever doing things for her."

"Yes, I heard. But that is not the point," said Miss Armstrong, seeing Selina's object, but not to be diverted from her purpose. "Your mother, too, spoke of a case of discipline. What did you say about it?"

"I am sure I don't remember," answered Selina. "Mother asked me where you were, and I said you had staid after school with Kit Mallory. Then she asked what Kit had done, and I told her. I did not see that Aunt Betsy was there, or I should not have said it. Why, Miss Armstrong, don't you want me to tell mother what happens in school?" asked Selina, thinking she saw a way of "getting out of it," as she said. "I always do tell mother every thing."

"And you are careful to tell her every thing just exactly as it happens, of course," said Miss Armstrong, with a look which made Selina feel that she was seen through. "For instance, you told her last night that Kit had of her own accord confessed her fault, and made all the amends possible, before I said a word to her on the subject."

"I didn't say any thing but what was true," said Selina somewhat sullenly.

"Yes, but did you tell all the truth? It is possible to deceive even by silence; and it is the deception that makes the lie, you know, my dear."

"I will thank you not to call me a liar, Miss Armstrong," said Selina, feeling that she was in a tight place, and trying to get out of it by means of a fit of virtuous indignation. "That is what nobody ever did; and I am not going to stand it, even from you."

"I have not called you a liar, Selina, as you know very well. What your own conscience tells you, is another matter. Only remember this, that, while I make no objection to your telling your mother every thing that concerns yourself, I shall be very much displeased if I hear of any gossip outside about matters that go on in school."

With these words, Miss Armstrong went into the schoolhouse, leaving Selina very angry with the teacher, herself, and all the world. There is nothing so exasperating as an accusing conscience when one is determined not to listen to it. Selina had no mind either to join Miss Armstrong in the schoolhouse, or to be left to the company of her own thoughts. And seeing the Fletcher children coming down the road in company with Myra Bassett, she went to meet them.

"Why, Myra, are you coming to school?" she asked in surprise, for Myra was a grown-up girl, and had been to boarding-school in Oldbury.

"Well, no; at least, I am not going to begin Saturday morning, though I am not sure I should not do it if ma could spare me," answered Myra, smiling. "I have taken a great liking to your Miss Armstrong. I think you are greatly favored in having her for a teacher."

"I guess we all think so, don't we, Selina?" said Faith.

"Of course, though I don't see any thing so very wonderful about her," answered Selina. "But all new brooms sweep clean, with some people."

"Why, what is the matter now?" asked Sarah Leet. "I am sure you began with thinking her a regular 'tarragon,' as poor James Davis says. What has she done to you?"

"I did not say she had done any thing to me," answered Selina somewhat angrily. "I can have my own opinion, I suppose. I haven't any fault to find with Miss Armstrong, only I do think she makes a ridiculous fuss over that little Kit Mallory."

"Oh!" said Sarah in a tone which implied, "Now I understand."

"I don't see that she makes any great fuss over her," said literal Faith. "Of course we all feel interested in Kit. I don't know how any one could help it, seeing how hard she tries to be good. Wasn't it sweet to hear her ask pardon in the class, as she did yesterday?"

"Oh, very sweet," answered Selina with what she meant to be a tone of sarcasm, but which was, in fact, an ill-natured sneer. "She thought she was going to get a whipping, and took that way to get out of it, and get round Miss Armstrong."

"Well, I don't believe that," said Agnes Gleason, who had joined the group in time to hear the remark. "In the first place, Kit gets too many whippings to care very much about them; and in the second place, she couldn't possibly know that she would get out of it in that way. I believe she really was sorry, and said so."

"I think so too," returned Faith.

"And so do I," said Sarah. "But, Agnes, I didn't expect to see you so early, or looking so happy."

"Why not? Oh, I know: because the Richmonds have come. Well, mother says I shall not be hindered as I was last summer. She told Mrs. Richmond last night that she and Milly must get up to breakfast with us at half-past seven, as she could not keep me at home to cook a second breakfast. Wasn't I glad!"

"And what did Mrs. Richmond say?"

"Oh, she didn't like it at first, and talked about finding another boarding-place. And mother told her she could do as she pleased about that. I don't think she would be very sorry if they did go, only we all like poor Cordelia."

"And is poor Cordelia to get up at half-past seven too?" asked Selina. "That is rather hard, I think, considering what bad nights she has."

"Of course not," replied Agnes with some indignation in her tone. "Cordelia always has her breakfast in bed, and never takes any thing anyway but a cup of tea and a bit of bread or toast. That is a very different thing from getting a second hot breakfast, an hour after we have finished our own, for two healthy women."

"Very different," said Sarah. "But I thought Milly alone would be enough to bring a cloud to your placid brow, as the magazine-writers say."

"Oh, well, perhaps I have been hard upon Amelia," replied Agnes. "She does come across me in so many ways, she makes me feel like a cat stroked the wrong way. But I don't mean to quarrel with her if I can help it. There comes Kit. How pale she looks! I wonder if her arm is so bad."

At this moment, the conversation was disagreeably interrupted. It is a fact that Oldfield County, and especially the town of Oldham, has always enjoyed, and what is worse, has deserved, a very bad reputation in the matter of snakes. It is a snaky town at all times; and there are certain years, when, for some reason unknown, snakes do much more abound than at other times. This was a "snake summer."

The men wore their thickest and highest boots when they went into the mowing-lots and the low meadows, and the children were cautioned to keep a bright lookout in their expeditions after wintergreens and wild flowers. Mr. Bassett had killed a big rattlesnake in his own pasture; there were stories of copperheads; and old Miss Jewsbury declared that she had seen a serpent as thick as a clothes-post and as long as a well-sweep, crossing the swamp at the foot of her garden. But Miss Jewsbury was given to seeing wonderful sights under the inspiration of a certain black vial in the corner of her cupboard, and nobody believed very deeply in the accuracy of her snake story.

The Fletcher twins, Eddy and Eben, had run on before to meet Kit, who was a famous playmate, and very fond of the younger children. Just as they came near her, Ednah stood still literally, and, fortunately for herself, too much scared to move; while Eben screamed,—

"A snake, a snake! O Faithie, come!"

Faith stopped, frozen with horror, and pointed to the child.

A brown snake had actually wound itself round her ankle. Before any one could move, Kit turned, saw the situation, and was mistress of it.

"Don't move, Eddy; stand still!" said she in a crisp, clear tone of command. Then, reaching the spot with one of her agile, panther-like springs, she bent down, caught the snake with her thumb and forefinger just behind the head, and, throwing it on the ground, set the heel of her thick boot on its head. ¹

¹ This is no fiction, but an actual incident.

"Quick, girls!" she cried. "Kill it before it gets away."

Agnes and Sarah sprang to the spot, and the snake was soon despatched. Faith snatched up Ednah, and began stripping down her stocking.

"Oh, it didn't bite her: it didn't have a chance," said Kit, with a laugh that sounded slightly hysterical. "But it was a close shave, wasn't it, Eddy?"

"I should think it was, you dear, blessed child!" exclaimed Sarah, sitting down on a stone, and taking Kit on her lap. "There, sit still a minute. How you tremble! And no wonder.—Agnes, get her some water."

"I don't think there is any thing to be so scared at," said Selina. "It was only a garter snake."

"Garter snake! So are you a garter snake!" said Sarah contemptuously. "Did you ever see a garter snake that color?—Mr. Bassett!" she added, calling to the miller, who was just passing, "Please come and tell us what kind of snake this is."

"It's a real copperhead, and no mistake," pronounced Mr. Bassett. "It is rather a young one, but there is no mistaking the nature of the animal. See its poison teeth. Take care! Don't touch 'em: the least scratch might do for you. Who killed it?"

Agnes told the story, while Miss Armstrong fanned Kit, who was leaning, very white, against Sarah's shoulder.

"Well, you are a brave child," said Mr. Bassett. "How came you to think of acting so?"

"I didn't think: it just came to me," said Kit, sitting up. "I can't think what makes me feel so queer, only I didn't sleep much, my hand hurt me so."

"There isn't one man in a hundred would have had the presence of mind, even if he had the courage," said Mr. Bassett. "Myra, hadn't we better take her over to our house, and let her lie down a while. I'll carry her."

"Perhaps that will be the best way," said Miss Armstrong. "Wouldn't you like to go with Mr. Bassett, and rest a little?"

"And have a nice cup of coffee?" added Myra.

Kit shook her head. "I should like it," said she, with a loving and grateful look at Myra and her father, "but uncle Phin wouldn't. He has told me never to go into the neighbors' houses for any thing, and I think I ought to mind him."

"Of course you ought," replied Mr. Bassett, exchanging glances with Miss Armstrong.

"I'll run home and get the coffee, anyway," said Myra, whose kindness, like her mother's, was apt to take a substantial form. "I am sure she needs something.

"And do you sit quietly here in the shade, and rest," said Miss Armstrong. "Sarah shall sit with you, lest you should be faint again."

"What do you think about Kit now?" asked Agnes of Selina, in a low tone, as they were hanging up their hats.

"I think a great fuss is being made about nothing," said Selina. "I or anybody could have done as much."

"Why didn't you, then?" asked one of the little girls, who was near. "You were as close to Eddy as Kit was; and you just stood still and screamed, for I saw you."

Selina found it convenient not to hear this remark. She was listening to the hissing of a snake in her own heart, worse than any copperhead that ever crawled in Oldham,—the serpent of envy and jealousy. The copperhead could, at worst, only have killed the child's body, but her bosom companion was poisoning her very soul.

"Don't I tire you?" said Kit as Sarah settled her into an easier position.

"Not you, you little shrimp; I could hold a dozen of you. Sit still if you like it."

"I do," said Kit. "It seems so good to be babied a little," she added with a little tremor in her voice.

Sarah drew Kit's head closer to her, and kissed the brown cheek. But she did not speak, and Kit lay in a kind of dreamy content.

"Sarah," said she at last, rousing herself just as she seemed to be falling asleep.

"Well, dear."

"Do you think it was the Lord put it into my head,—how to catch the snake, I mean?"

"I suppose so," answered Sarah, who was a girl who thought about things. "Every thing good is from Him. I don't see where else it could have come from."

"I am so glad I could do it," said Kit. "How dreadful it would have been if the snake had bitten Eddy! She might have been dead by this time."

"And suppose it had bitten you?"

"Well, that wouldn't have mattered so much, for I am not anybody's girl as Eddy is. I suppose Symantha would have been sorry, though, because she loves me. She said she did, yesterday."

"She must be a queer woman if she didn't," said Sarah. "See, here is Myra with some nice coffee for you."

"Did you think I was ever so long?" said Myra, setting down her basket, and taking the cover off a little tin pail which gave out a delicious odor. "Ma made fresh coffee, and cut some cold chicken, because she says you ought to try and eat a little. There, drink, little one. What are you looking at?" For Kit was regarding the mug Myra handed her, with a dazed expression, knitting her brows as if trying to recall something.

"At the mug," said Kit. "Somehow it makes me remember something, and I can't tell what it is. It is just as if I had seen it before. I remember those little blue folks on the bridge, and somebody telling me a story about them."

"I dare say you may have seen something like it," said Myra "It is very old china. Ma's grandfather used to be a sailor, and he brought a great many curious things from China and India. There, do drink your coffee: it will be cold."

"How good it is, and how good you all are to me!" said Kit. "I am so glad uncle Phin came here to live! I hope we shall never move away. Symantha says so too. She says she has been about the world all she ever wants to."

"Then you have moved a good many times?" said Sarah, who shared in the general curiosity about Phin Mallory,—a curiosity not at all unnatural in a place where everybody knew everybody, and everybody's grandfathers, to the third and fourth generation.

"Oh, yes! We have lived in five different places since I can remember. St. Louis was the first I know. Then we went farther west to a new town in Kansas, and then into the Indian country. I liked it there."

"Were you not afraid of the Indians?" asked Myra, whose notions of that people were derived from legends of the French and Indian war, still current in Oldfield County. "I should be."

"Oh, no, you wouldn't, not of those Indians. They were real nice folks, and so kind to us, especially when aunt Martha was sick. They were good Christians too. Uncle Phin was away a good deal; and sometimes, when he staid over Sunday, I used to go to their church. I was very little then, but I remember the beautiful singing, and the prayers they used,—little bits of them. 'We have strayed like lost sheep,' that was one; I knew it the minute Mr. Weston read it last night. And the people used to say, 'Good Lord, deliver us,' when the minister prayed. But we didn't stay there long. Uncle Phin says the Indians are treacherous dogs, no better than wolves, but I like them."

"Have some more coffee," said Myra. "Well, where did you go then?"

"We didn't stay long anywhere; we just travelled about. Finally we came here, and I do hope we shall stay!"

"So do I," said Myra. "You must learn all you can, in case you have to go away again. Do you feel better?"

"Oh, yes! I am quite well now. I guess I will go into school. Thank you for the coffee and for being so good to me."

"Please ask Miss Armstrong to step to the door," said Myra, gathering up her basket and other matters. "Mother sent me on an errand to her, and I nearly forgot it." Myra's errand was, to ask Miss Armstrong to come to her mother's house to tea that afternoon.

"Mrs. Weston is coming, and so are Miss Celia and Miss Delia: that's all, only I suppose Aunt Betsy will turn up, as usual; oh, yes! and Patience Fletcher, if she can get away. Do come, Miss Armstrong. Ma wants to see you so much, and I want you to see grandma. She is such a dear old lady!"

Miss Armstrong smiled, and promised to come. She would have preferred to spend her half-holiday quietly. But she knew this party was made for her, and she had been used, all her life, to putting herself out of the question.

Of course, all the children went home with their heads and mouths full of the snake story, which lost nothing in the telling. Kit was the only one who did not mention it.

Agnes Gleason told of it at the table. She had gone to her mother's room the evening before, and opened her heart to her with some misgivings, for Mrs. Gleason was not a woman who made any profession of religion. She was agreeably surprised at the way in which her communication was received.

"I am just as glad as if you had given me a fortune, and more," said Mrs. Gleason. "I always have hoped you would be a Christian."

"You never said any thing about it to me, ma," said Agnes. "I've wondered sometimes why you didn't."

"Well, I thought it wouldn't sound very well coming from one who made no profession of religion herself. But you know, Agnes, I always have kept you at Sunday school, and I have taken pains to have you learn your catechism."

"Yes, I know. Mrs. Martin used to say she wished all mothers would do as much. I'm so glad you are pleased, ma. It makes me happier than I was before," said Agnes, her eyes overflowing with joyful tears.

"Well, I 'am' pleased," said Mrs. Gleason with emphasis. "But I want to tell you one thing, daughter: I want you to join the church the very first time there is a confirmation; that is, if you are sure you know your own mind, and I guess you do. You are pretty apt to, I will say that for you."

"I think so," said Agnes. "I should like to be confirmed. It seems as if that and the communion, and all, would be such a help and safeguard. I thought perhaps you would think I was too young to come forward."

"I don't," replied her mother. "Your grandfather Gleason was a minister of great experience, and I have heard him say that the proportion of backsliders among young church-members is much less than among those who wait till middle life. And it stands to reason, too, because they are not so fixed in bad habits."

"How did it happen, ma, that you never were confirmed yourself?" asked Agnes.

"Well, it was just that way. We had a large class confirmed when I was about your age. I was very serious at that time, and I wanted very much to come forward. Dr. Munson was in favor of it; and probably, if my parents had been alive, I should have done so. But I was living with Aunt Betsy then, and she was against it. She said I was too young to understand what I was about, and not serious-minded enough, and so on; and she wouldn't give her consent. Then I went away to Elmsbury, and there I fell in with a good deal of gay society; and—Well, I don't know how it was, but I lost my hope, and never found it again. And sometimes I think I never shall," added Mrs. Gleason sadly. "Aunt Betsy always says it shows she was right about me."

"I think it shows she was wrong," said Agnes.

"And so do I. I have got to answer for myself, of course, but I can't help blaming her for part of it. And I made up my mind that I should take a very different course with you."

"I am so glad!" said Agnes. "But, ma," she added timidly, "why don't you come forward now? It would be so sweet for us to go together. We always have been together in every thing, you know, ever since I was a little girl."

"Yes, I always have made a companion of you. Sometimes I'm afraid I put too much on you."

"No, you don't either," said Agnes, with some indignation. "There isn't a girl in Oldham has better times than I do, only for—"

"Only for the summer boarders," said Mrs. Gleason as Agnes paused. "Well, I hope we shall not have to take them again. I have calculated that this season will pay off the mortgage, and after that we shall be easy enough."

"But won't you think about it, ma?"

"Child, I have thought enough, if that would do any good. But, I don't know how it is, my heart seems as hard as the nether millstone, or like the Bald Rock on Indian Hill, where neither sun nor rain will make any thing grow."

"But we can 'do' right, whether we 'feel' right or not," said Agnes.

"There is something in that," replied her mother. "But we must not talk any more to-night. Go to bed, dear, and I will come as soon as I have set the bread.—Bless the child! I only wish her dear father knew it," added Mrs. Gleason to herself as she went about her bread. "I wish that Milly Richmond wasn't here: she is one of those birds of the air we read of in the parable. But I don't think my girl is a wayside hearer."

"I shall not dare to step out of doors all the time I am here," was Milly Richmond's comment on the snake story.

"You will get rather tired of that," said Mrs. Gleason. "I have known several 'snake summers' since I have been here, but I have seldom known of any one's being hurt. It was a narrow escape for little Eddy, however, and for Kit herself. I can't think how the child should know just what to do."

"She asked Sarah if she didn't think it was the Lord who showed her," said Agnes, "and Sarah said she didn't doubt it."

"Oh, I didn't know Sarah had taken up the pious dodge," remarked Milly, with a sneer. "Does the new teacher go in for that kind of thing?"

"What kind of thing?" asked Agnes. Then, as Milly only laughed, she added, "Miss Armstrong is a Christian woman, if that is what you mean; and we like her the better for it."

"Of course she is. Don't you know, Milly, we heard all about her from Miss Brown? She is a great friend of old Mrs. Van Zandt and that set," said Mrs. Richmond, who would have given one of her fingers for a call from aunt Barbara at her fine new house. "I wonder what brought her up here."

"Perhaps she came on a mission to convert the natives," said Milly, who never lost an opportunity of showing that she looked down on the people where she spent her summers. "Maybe she will convert you, Agnes."

"Maybe she has," said Agnes. "So much the better for me."

"Grandfather Gleason used to say that conversion is not the work of man, though man may be the honored instrument," said Mrs. Gleason. "Agnes has got a great deal of good from Miss Armstrong already, and I hope she may get more. It is a pity you would not try going to school to her yourself, Milly. Perhaps she might do something, even for you."

Milly curled her lip and tossed her head. But she had come off second best in more than one encounter with her hostess, and she did not care to try another. She made up her mind, however, that if Agnes had taken up any such notions, she would soon laugh her out of them. Mrs. Gleason had rightly called her one of the birds of the air. But such birds have no power over the seed sown in good ground; it is only that which falls on the hard-trodden wayside which becomes their prey.