Chapter IV: Flora Arabella

LITTLE Mary Edgar went home from her visit at Miss Ackerman's with her head full of serious thoughts. She was much the youngest of Miss Ackerman's large class—so young, indeed, that the orderly and systematic superintendent thought that she ought not to be there at all, and had proposed removing her, to Mary's great dismay.

But Miss Ackerman had her own ideas about such matters. She liked order, but then she thought classes were made for something else besides being classified. Mary was a bright little thing, and had been specially recommended to Miss Ackerman's care by her dead mother. All the older girls helped and petted Mary, and thereby helped themselves. Besides, Mary was very useful. She was class-secretary, and kept her little book with great exactness and method.

Matilda Jenkins, indeed, had asked on the third or fourth Sunday of her attendance, with her usual graciousness, "What that young one was there for?"

"Because she is one of the pupils," answered Anita Ferarra in her pretty, precise Spanish-English. "We have all great affection for Mary. She does learn her lesson 're-markable' well." English was still a foreign language to Anita, and she spoke it with great pains.

"Well, I think she ought to go into the baby-room as well as my little cousin," returned Matilda. "But then Mary Edgar is a rich man's daughter; so of course it is all right."

"If your cousin is able to learn the lessons, you are quite welcome to bring her into the class," said Miss Ackerman, who was nearer than Matilda supposed. "Perhaps she might do so if you gave her a good deal of help through the week."

"My! I haven't got time to help her," returned Matilda, considerably abashed, but determined, as she said, not to be put down. "It is all I can do to learn my own lessons."

"A little more, it seems," whispered Kitty Lee to Anita. "She has not had a decent lesson since she came into the class."

"Mary is rather young for the class, it must be admitted," continued Miss Ackerman; "but her sister helps her learn her lessons, and she has them very nicely. And no one can say that she does not behave perfectly well. I think the girls would be very sorry to lose Mary."

"Yes indeed," said half a dozen voices.

And Ida added, "She is the dearest little thing that ever lived. I do think she is a real little Christian; I know I wish I was half as good."

Matilda tossed her head, but said no more; she felt herself overawed, in spite of herself.

Mary was very much the youngest of quite a large family—so much the youngest that all the rest were grown up when she was born, and she had several nephews and nieces older than herself. Mary had lost her mother before she could remember, but her widowed sister-in-law, who kept her father's house, had so well supplied her place that Mary had never missed a mother's care, unless it might be in the want of a little wholesome restraint and discipline. Not that Mary was at all that odious creature, "a spoiled child." Her father and sister loved her far too well to let her be naughty. But she was the pet and plaything of the whole family—in fact, of the half dozen families which made up the Edgar clan in and around Rockdale. Her father never called her anything but Kitten, and hardly expected more of her than he would have done of her furry namesake. Her married sisters were always wanting her for long visits,—

"Kitten got on so nicely with the children and set them such a good example, and she was such an unaffected, simple little thing."

Her sailor-uncles brought her home trunksful of wonderful presents and curiosities from all parts of the world, and took her to all sorts of entertainments. In short, as Mrs. Helen Edgar said, if Mary was not completely spoiled among them all, it was because she was not spoilable.

When tea was over, Mary got out her work-box, that wonderful little work-box, all mother-of-pearl and gold and lacquer, which brother Courtland had brought her from Japan. She paused a moment to contemplate the picture of cranes on the top, and then, taking her little gold thimble and unrolling her bundle of handkerchiefs, she set to work at them with great earnestness. Thanks to Mrs. Helen, she could sew very nicely for a child of her age.

She made a very pretty little picture as she sat by the table under the lamp, her curly black head bent down over her work, her long dark lashes drooping, and the carnation on her cheeks beautifully deepened with the earnestness with which she worked. Her father watched her as she worked, and sighed as he did so, for Mary was an exact miniature of her beautiful young mother.

"Why, what is my Kitten so busy about to-night?"

"I am hemming Ethelind Swift's handkerchiefs, papa."

"And who is Ethelind Swift?"

"She is a little girl in Dakota, papa, and her father is—oh so poor! He is a minister, and preaches to the white people and to the poor Indians out there. And he has five children and a wife, and oh ever so little money for them to live on—only four hundred dollars a year. That is not much, is it, papa?" asked Mary doubtfully. She had about as much knowledge of the worth of money as her namesake and pet, the kitten.

"Why, no, it certainly is not wealth—not likely to lead him into much dissipation, I should say. Four hundred dollars among seven people! Missionaries ought not to have any wives and children."

"But, papa, if they had no wives or children of their own, how could they feel for those who have, or know how to teach them?" said Mary. *

* This remark was made by a child ten years old.

"There is something in that, I admit," said her father: "I believe my Kitten is learning to think."

"Well, papa, if I didn't think sometimes, I might as well be a real Russian kitten, with curls in my ears, like Olga. And I am not a baby any more; I am ten years old," said Mary with a pretty little air of dignity.

"So you are, I declare! That is the worst of kittens—they will become cats, sooner or later. And so you are working for this little girl in Dakota? Do you like that better than sewing for Flora Arabella?"

Now, Flora Arabella was the name of the twelve-dollar doll.

"Well, no, I don't know that I do—not really," said Mary candidly. "Hemming handkerchiefs is not very interesting. But then Flora won't suffer for the want of her new suit, you know, and Ethelind wants her handkerchief's."

"Flora's cost would have bought a good many handkerchiefs and, other things for Ethelind," said Judge Edgar. "What do you think Ethelind would say to a ten-dollar doll?"

"I dare say she would think it very nice," answered Mary. "Papa, I have been wishing all the afternoon that I had not asked you to buy Flora. It does seem extravagant to spend twelve dollars on a toy, when one hears about a lady cutting up her blankets to make flannel petticoats."

"Then you think I was foolish to buy the doll?"

"No, papa dear; you were only good, as you always are; but I think I was rather silly."

"Then, if I were to offer you ten dollars for Flora Arabella that you might give it to Ethelind, you would take it, would you?"

Mary hesitated a little. "You see, papa, that is rather different," said she seriously; "I have got attached to Flora now."

"But, after all, she is only a doll—only wax and kid and sawdust."

"I know it, papa, but if you had been a little girl and played with dolls, you would know that they are not only wax. But, if you please, I should like to think about it a little."

"Very well, my dear. Now go into the library and bring me the new reviews and my snuff-box. They both are on my writing-table."

"There is another thing I have been thinking of that I should like to tell you about, papa, if you don't want to read your reviews very much," said Mary as she sat down again to her hemming. She had been gone quite a little while, for the snuff-box was not on the writing-table and she had to hunt for it.

"Oh, the reviews will keep till my little girl has gone to bed," replied Judge Edgar. "Tell me what you have in your head while I cut these leaves."

"Then, papa, I have been thinking I should like to have an allowance."

"An allowance! And what is that?"

"Why, an allowance of money, papa—so much a week or a month. Amity Bogardus has one. Her grandfather gives her fifty dollars a quarter, and then she spends it, and keeps an account. Of course I should not want nearly as much as that, because Amity Is a young lady, and has to buy dresses and kid gloves and such things. And I should like to have mine oftener."

"But don't you have money when you want it, my dear?"

"No, papa, not always. Sometimes I want some very much when you are not here or sister Helen has no change. And besides, papa—I am not sure I can say what I mean."

"Try," said her father—"always try to put your thoughts into clear words, or else you cannot be sure that you know what you mean yourself."

Mary thought a moment: "Well, papa, it is like this: When I want money for the collections in church or Sunday-school, I just ask you for it and get it. That is not my giving at all; it is yours. But if I had just so much of my own, and no more, I should have to calculate and save, and perhaps go without things sometimes."

"Caramels, for instance?"

"Yes, papa, and little tin things for my play-house range—I do love nice little tin and iron things—and so it would be my giving, and not yours. Is that explained right, papa?"

"Very nicely indeed, my daughter. I see you have been thinking to good purpose. What put it into your head?"

"Matilda Jenkins, papa?"

"Why, what had she to do with it?" asked Mrs. Helen, surprised, for she knew something of the Jenkins family. "I should not have expected any such idea from her."

"It was last Sunday, sister Helen. Ida forgot her money—I think she is rather apt to forget, somehow—and Matilda had none; and then I put in mine.

"And Anita, who was taking up the collection, said, 'Mary's piece is always ready.'

"And Matilda said, 'No wonder, when she has only to put her hand into her father's pocket and take out as much as she likes. I don't call that giving.'

"So that set me to thinking, and I made up my mind that what she said was true, though it was not a very pleasant way to say it. And then what Miss Ackerman said this afternoon put it into my head again, and I thought there was no harm in my asking you. Was there, papa?"

"No, my love. There is no harm in your asking papa for anything you want, although he may sometimes think it best to refuse."

"I wonder when?" thought Mrs. Helen.

"But as to this matter of an allowance, I should like to think about it a little, as you say," continued Judge Edgar. "Let me see: this is Thursday; I will tell you my decision on Saturday."

"And may I think about the doll till then?"

"Oh yes, I will keep the offer open. And now put away your sewing for the present and read me this pretty story in the magazine. It is about a cat, so you will be sure to like it."

"What do you think of this idea of Kitten's about an allowance?" asked Judge Edgar of his daughter when Mary had gone to bed.

"I think it a very sensible one," replied Mrs. Helen. "I have had some idea of the same thing, but it is much better that the proposition should come from Mary herself. It is the way father used to do with me. You see, as things are, Mary has no chance to learn anything of the value of money."

"Any more than Etty has," said the judge, alluding to another of his daughters-in-law. "I believe that child thinks that money grows on trees, and one has nothing to do but to gather it when wanted."

"Exactly; and that is what I want to guard against with Mary. If she has just so much a week, she will learn how far it will go and what it will buy. I expect the trouble will be that you will be all the time adding to the allowance."

"No; if I make the agreement, I shall abide by it, so far as ready money goes, though I shall not bind myself not to give her a treat now and then. How much would be a reasonable sum to spend on candy and dolls' dishes? Ten cents a week?"

"Well, I think I would make it a little more than that. Mary wants to give her charities out of it, and I think I would require her to provide some necessaries for her own use, such as needles and thread, pens, pencils, and some other little things. That will teach her to be careful in the use of these things, and give room for the exercise of more judgment. I think seventy-five cents a month would do very well for the present, and you might increase the sum as she grew older."

"Oh, say a dollar," returned the judge. "Think what a family she has to provide for—almost as many as poor Mr. Swift himself. And, by the way, Helen, let me know when they send the box; I would like to put in a little something. I wonder what Kitten will do about the doll!"

"I think she will give it up, though it will be a hard pull," observed Mrs. Helen. "As she says, a doll is a great deal more than so much wax and leather to a sensitive, affectionate child. But Mary is conscientious, and she is beginning to be very much influenced by religious principle. It will be a great sacrifice, but I incline to think she will give up Flora Arabella for the sake of Ethelind."

On Saturday morning, after breakfast and prayers, Judge Edgar called Mary into the library.

"Now about this matter of an allowance," said he. "I have been thinking it over and talking to sister Helen about it, and I am inclined to believe your proposition a sensible one. Sister Helen thinks, however, that you should not use the money simply as pocket-money, but that you should provide some necessary things out of it."

"Well, I think that is a good plan too," said Mary.

"So far so good. Now call sister Helen, and I will read you the agreement I have drawn up."

So sister Helen was called, and Judge Edgar took from his desk and read aloud an important-looking legal document by which Richard Edgar agreed to pay to Mary Katherine Edgar the sum of one dollar a month, the said Mary Edgar, on her part, agreeing to provide out of this sum all her pens, pencils, needles, thread, shoe-lacings and button-hooks, and also to keep an account of all her expenditures, and balance the same at least once in every month. And in order that the said account might be properly kept, Richard Edgar bound himself to give to Mary Edgar a suitable book for that purpose, and to renew the same gift every New Year's Day thereafter so long as the agreement should stand.

"Now, tell me, Kitten, do you understand all this?" asked Judge Edgar.

"I don't quite understand that about balancing the account every month," replied Mary.

"It simply means that at the end of the month, you must add up all that you have spent and the cash, if any, that you have remaining from your month's allowance, and if the sum agrees with what you received, then your account is balanced. If it does not, you must try to discover where the mistake lies."

"I see," said Mary. "I think, papa, the best way will be to set down every day what I have spent that day, and then I shall not forget."

"Very true, my dear. You will find it will require a good deal of perseverance on your part, and more calculation and economy than you have any idea of, to make your money last round."

"Yes," said sister Helen; "you will find, Mary, that it will not do to lose four lead-pencils in one week, and more slate-pencils and needles than I dare to say. I think this arrangement a very good one, if it is only to teach you carefulness in such things."

"Well, I will try to be more careful, sister Helen—I will, truly," said Mary.

And Mrs. Helen was satisfied, for when Mary said, "I will, truly," she meant what she said. Kitten as she was, she did not make resolutions only to break them.

Then Judge Edgar and Mary both signed the agreement, and sister Helen witnessed it and took it in charge to keep for them.

"Now for the account-book," said the judge. He opened a drawer as he spoke, and took out a beautiful diary bound in Russia leather and containing a little pearl and gold pencil—such a one as Mary had long coveted. There were two pockets in the diary, and in one of them were four bright, new silver quarters. Mary exclaimed and danced with delight.

"That is the beginning of the economy, I suppose," said Mrs. Helen in a low voice to her father, smiling at the same time.

"Oh, well, diaries are cheap at this time of the year, and the child wants some encouragement. I told you I reserved the right to give her a treat now and then.—But we have another piece of business to settle, Kitten," he added aloud. "What about the doll?"

Mary was sobered in a minute. Her face Bushed and the tears came into her eyes.

"Papa," said she, "you will find a kind mistress for Flora, won't you? You won't give her to a careless little girl that will abuse her—not to any of Aunt Etty's children?"

"Oh no," answered the judge gravely. "I will find her a good home."

"Then, papa, if you please, I will let her go," said Mary bravely, though her lip quivered. "I have been thinking about it, and when I was out yesterday, I went and asked the prices of those warm waterproof ulsters with large lined capes, and I can get a nice one, large enough for Ethelind Swift, for five dollars and a half. And so I think I would rather—no, I don't mean I had rather, but I think I had better—let you have the doll."

"So that was what you were doing at the cloak-counter so long?" remarked Mrs. Helen. "I could not guess."

"It wasn't wrong to go and ask by myself, was it?" asked Mary.

"Not at all, my dear, but I don't think you will need to buy a cloak for the little girl. I heard Mrs. Paget say she was going to send one of poor Adeline's, which was as good as new."

"Then what shall I do with the money, sister Helen?"

"You would not like to buy something for yourself?"

"No, I shouldn't like to do that."

"It is not necessary to spend it at all," said her father. "There will be other people whom Mary will like to help, and she can put her money away and keep it against the time of need. But what about the doll's trunk?"

"I would advise Mary to keep the trunk herself," said Mrs. Helen. "It will be useful for a good many things; she can make a dressing-case of it, for one thing."

The doll was brought, and Judge Edgar wrapped it carefully in paper and locked it up in one of the drawers of his great bureau. Then Mary put her new diary away in her desk, and went to take a review of her work-box.

"I have two papers of needles, besides worsted needles," said she to herself, "and all the thread I shall want for some time. Now about pencils. I do use a dreadful quantity of them, and I don't believe there is any need of it. Slate-pencils don't get used up, they always get lost; and I am sure I never used a whole lead-pencil in all my life. It is just the same with my boot-lacings and buttons. I tangle the lacings and pull off the buttons because I am in a hurry. I must be more careful, that's all."

That night Mary found the day of the month in her new diary, and wrote under it—

"I think I have been an extravagant girl, but I am going to try to be more careful, and I hope God will help me."

Then she began to make some figures on a bit of paper, and at last she took a bright ten-cent piece and laid it in a place by itself.

"That has got to be saved for charity, 'anyhow,'" said she. "I hope I shall have more than that, but that is not mine any more."