Chapter III: Part 3

"Mr. Settson," said Calista, with flashing eyes and pale lips, "do you suppose Aunt Priscilla could have destroyed that last will?"

Mr. Settson was so startled by the question that it took a very large pinch of snuff to restore his equanimity.

"My dear Calista, you should think twice before even hinting at an accusation of such a crime against your aunt. No, I do not believe her capable of such an action—at least at that time. At present I do not hesitate to say that I should hardly be surprised. I believe the love of money has grown to be a disease with her, as it does with most people who indulge in it. Never let it get hold of you, my dear child."

"There seems no great danger of my having any money to love," said Calista, rather bitterly.

"Oh, but you may love money without having it," said Mr. Settson. "I suppose as many poor people love money as rich people—perhaps more in proportion."

"I am taking up a great deal of your time," said Calista, becoming suddenly aware of the fact, and rising as the church clock struck.

"You are welcome to it, my child. Sit down again for a moment; I have something more to say to you."

Calista sat down, wondering what was coming.

"My dear Calista, I have always been interested in you," began Mr. Settson, "for the sake of your grandfather, who was my father's friend and mine, as well as for your own sake, and also because I consider myself as your guardian by your grandfather's appointment. When Miss Druett brought you home, I applied to Miss Priscilla Stanfield for permission to take you and bring you up as my own, but this she refused, and for some reason, which I do not understand, has always refused. I have, however, kept my eye upon you. Thus I prevailed upon your aunt to send you to school—"

"I thought that was Miss Druett's doing," interrupted Calista, surprised.

"It was, in a great degree; that is, I should never have carried my point but for her. What I wish to say is, that you may always come to me for any advice or help you need. Consider me as standing to you in the place of a father."

"Thank you, sir," said Calista, gratefully; "I am sure you are very good. It is a comfort to think I have even one friend to look to."

"'You have one Friend far more powerful than I am, my child, if you will only seek him. Try to cultivate a sense of personal religion. Do you do so?"

"No, Mr. Settson," answered Calista, with the perfect frankness which was one of her best traits. "I don't even know exactly what you mean by personal religion."

"I mean personal loyalty to a personal God and Saviour," said Mr. Settson, emphatically. "You can understand that."

"Yes, sir; but I am afraid I don't feel it. Mr. Settson, will you just tell me one thing?"

"If I can, certainly."

"Do you really and truly, I don't say believe, but feel and realize it, that God is your own Friend and Father, and loves you so that he really cares for what you do and what happens to you?"

"I most certainly do!" answered the old lawyer, with an earnestness equal to her own. "I don't say that I am able to realize the fact at all times alike, but I know and believe it as firmly as I do in my own existence. Calista, I have had a reasonably prosperous and happy life, but I solemnly declare that, only for my children, if I believed this life was all, and that there was no God, or that God did not love and care for me, I would give up life as a bad business, and be rid of the trouble."

"But would that be right?" asked Calista.

"Perhaps not; but I fear the idea of right and wrong would not be very strong with me under such circumstances as I have supposed."

"What about Mr. Simpson's mortgage?" asked Calista, as she rose to go.

"Oh! Tell Miss Priscilla that the man has been sick and unfortunate, but he is sure to pay in the end, and I think she had better give him a little more time. The investment is safe enough."

"Please write it," said Calista. "She will only rave at me."

"Perhaps it would be better." Mr. Settson wrote his note.

Calista put it in her pocket and walked away, with her head fuller of thoughts than it had ever been before. She was so absent in school, and made so many mistakes that Miss Jessy observed to Miss Meeks that Calista's head was far too full of her fancy work, and Miss Meeks returned with a sarcastic smile, that she had never expected anything else.

CHAPTER SIXTH.

THE SECRET DRAWER.

FOR several days Calista went about like one in a dream. She was so absent that Miss Druett wondered what had come over the child; and she made so many blunders in school that she brought down on her head a sharp reprimand from Miss Meeks.

"It is just what I predicted when this nonsense fair was first gotten up," said that lady. "Your head is so full of your fancy work that you can think of nothing else."

"Eh! What is that?" asked Miss McPherson.

"It is that Miss Stanfield is so careless that there is no bearing it, ma'am," answered Miss Meeks. "Her exercise is just a disgrace with blots, and the writing looks as if a powowet * had wagged over it." Miss Meeks was apt to get to her Scotch when excited. "I tell her, ma'am, it is a poor return for your kindness about the knitting work," pursued the teacher; "verra ungrateful, I must needs say."

* A tadpole or pollywog, as we call it hereabouts.

"It was not the knitting work," said Calista, very much hurt, but trying to speak civilly, as she knew how Miss McPherson was vexed by any rudeness to poor Miss Meeks. "I have had a great deal to think of this week, Miss Meeks, and I know I have been careless, but I will try to do better. I handed you the first copy of the exercise instead of the second—that is all. Here is the right one."

Miss McPherson took it from her hand and looked it over. "That is not bad," said she; "but you should not allow yourself to write carelessly at any time. However, Miss Meeks will excuse you this once."

"Of course," said the teacher, not very graciously however, and as she went away, she murmured something about favorites and absurd indulgence.

Miss McPherson only smiled. She understood Miss Meeks's good qualities, and she knew that the poor lady's irritability had a better excuse than that of most people.

"Really, Calista, my dear, you must try to do better, for your own sake," said she, gently. "Remember that you are losing opportunities which you may not have very long, and for which you are responsible. Whatever it is that's occupying your mind, put it aside in school time and give your whole attention to your lessons."

Calista felt the wisdom of the advice, and tried to follow it in school hours, but out of school, all her thoughts were occupied about what Mr. Settson had told her. Then the old Stanfield place was really hers, by right. Her grandfather had meant her to have it; he had made a will to that effect, and her aunt had either hidden or destroyed it. Of that Calista had no doubt, and conviction embittered her feeling towards Miss Priscilla to an almost intolerable degree.

"Oh, if I could find a chance, wouldn't I take one good look into grandfather's room?" she said to herself, looking up at the shutters, which she had never seen unbarred since she lived in the house.

The room in question opened from the now never used back parlor, and had been the General's private office. The back parlor was high and spacious, and contained two or three tall book-cases, at which Calista often gazed with longing eyes. They were always kept locked, and the faded green silk linings of the glass doors hid their contents effectually. The front parlor was kept in some sort of order, but the shutters were always closed, and the room was forbidden ground to Calista.

It was Wednesday, and the afternoon session of school was to be devoted to working for the much-talked-of fair. Calista had asked to be excused, and had come home. To her surprise, she found no one in the sitting-room.

"Where are my aunt and Miss Druett, Chloe?" she asked, going into the kitchen.

"Gone to town to see about some law business, I expect," was the answer. "What brings you here at this time of day?"

Calista explained.

"Oh, all right. Honey, you won't be afraid to stay in the house alone a little, will you? I want dreadful bad to run over and see Sally a little. She's got some stuff for the rheumatism, and I want to get the receipt. You can lock the doors, you know, if you are afraid. You won't be scared, will you?"

"No, of course not," replied Calista, inwardly rejoiced at being left alone in the house; "but you know what aunt will say if she comes home and finds you gone."

"Let her say," returned Chloe; "anyhow, I shall be back before she will. But I'd lock the doors if I were you."

There was no danger of Calista's neglecting this precaution. She had no mind to be surprised in the work she proposed to herself.

With a beating heart, she betook herself to the back parlor. She found the book-cases all locked but one, which seemed to contain nothing, only odd bound volumes of magazines and old newspapers. From these, Calista extracted some numbers of the "Gentleman's Magazine" and a couple of volumes of "La Belle Assemblée," which she laid aside, intending to carry them to her room. She then closed the doors and proceeded to examine the drawers under them. They contained nothing but rubbish—bits of old fancy work and such like—but in one of them she discovered a pretty leather working-case or equipage, as is used to be called, containing a still serviceable pair of scissors. This she put in her pocket, not without some misgivings.

Then she went out to the kitchen, and finding all still, she returned and tried the door of her grandfather's room. It was locked, as she expected, but as she gave the door a push, something fell within, the lock turned in her hand, and the door opened. Astonished and almost terrified at her own success, she examined the door, and perceived that the socket which held the bolt had fallen through the decay of the wood.

She looked round her. The room was almost dark, but a little light came through the round holes in the top of the shutters, enough to show her the old mahogany desk and arm-chair, the silent clock, and the once rich Turkey carpet which partly covered the floor, and from which quite a cloud of little moths rose up as she stepped upon it. Over the mantlepiece hung a portrait which she supposed to be that of her grandmother, and under it a beautiful painted miniature of a little boy.

"That was my father, I suppose," said Calista to herself. "I am glad grandfather kept his picture, at any rate."

She advanced to the desk and lifted the lid. It was empty, save for a few papers which did not seem to be of any special value; only old bills and leases. There was a recess in which lay an old-fashioned gold seal; Calista took it up, and put her hand back to see if there was anything else. There was nothing; but as she felt about, she touched a spring, a small cupboard door opened, and she saw, lying upon its shelves, half a dozen or more bright gold pieces of different sizes.

A strange feeling came over Calista at this sight—almost like that of a starving man at the sight of food. She saw the gold, and felt as if she must have it at any price—at any risk.

"It is yours by right," something said to her; "that and a great deal more. Take it. Take a part of it, at any rate. Very likely Miss Priscilla does not know of its existence, and will never miss it. She never comes into this room. Take the gold. Who has a better right?"

It seemed afterward to Calista that she stood debating the matter with herself for an hour. In reality, it was not for two minutes. She listened to the voice of the tempter, and stretched out her hand for the gold. She would have taken it in another moment—made the false step which, perhaps, she would never have retrieved. What stopped her?

Merely an old recollection. Merely the words which had come to her mind that night when she had first spoken to her Creator. The remembrance of Miss Malvina's words, "Your mother was a true Christian, and is waiting in her heavenly home for her little daughter."

Calista drew back her hand, like one who had seen a rattlesnake coiled under the fruit he was just going to gather. In all haste she pushed to the cupboard door, closed the desk, and fled to her own room, utterly forgetting that she had left a witness of her presence behind her in the books she had laid aside. Once in her own room, she threw herself on the bed, sobbing hysterically.

"Oh, mother! I didn't take it—I didn't take it!" she cried, as if speaking to an actual presence in the room. "Oh, mother! You saved me! I did not take the gold! I am not a thief! Oh, how glad I am that I didn't even touch it—"

She was still sobbing when she heard the clock strike, and knew that her aunt must soon be at home. She arose, bathed her face and smoothed her hair, and went down to the kitchen just in time to let in Chloe.

"I didn't mean to leave you alone so long, honey," said the old woman. "There's a cake old Sally sent you, to make up for it. But what's the matter?" she asked, looking curiously at Calista. "Did anything scare you?"

"Yes; I was a little frightened at staying alone so long; but never mind. You must hurry and get tea ready, for my aunt will be here directly."

"That's so, and she'll raise old Ned if she's kept waiting. There, put your cake away up stairs, and keep it for yourself. But first run and pick up some chips for me, there's a dear."

Calista was not sorry to get into the fresh air. She picked up the chips, and then wandered across the road to the old graveyard, and read the inscription on her grandfather's monument.

"Twelve years ago he died," she said to herself. "For twelve long years all his money and land have been no more to him. No, not as much as this little wild strawberry is to me. And his life in the other world has hardly begun yet. Twelve years. My mother has been dead longer than that; and what difference does it make to them that one died rich and the other poor!"

"We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain that we carry nothing out." Calista had heard these words many times, till they were as trite to her as they are, perhaps, to you and me; but to-day, sitting by her grandfather's grave, they took on a meaning as new as though an angel had just spoken them in her ear. She saw, as it is given to people sometimes to see, this life and the next in their true proportions and relations. She saw how near that other life lay to hers; how her daily path ran along its very margin, which it might cross at any minute. She saw how immeasurably little—how absolutely nothing—were all the interests of this life compared with that. A few times in almost every person's life, the veil is lifted which hangs between this life and that, and the spectator is shown a glimpse of the fair and dreadful things behind it; and a voice, not of this world, says,—

"These, THESE are the real things!"

The others are but dreams and shadows; or, at most, empty toys, broken before enjoyed, wounding the hand that grasps them. Woe to him if, having seen that sight and heard that voice, he goes on still in his own way, living as if there were no such thing! The other day I saw some sparrows busily making a nest in a building which was at that moment being torn down. The silly little birds were wise compared to such a man.

Calista rose at last, and busied herself in pulling up the weeds and thistles which grew on her grandfather's and grandmother's grave. She would have done the same for that of the first Mrs. Stanfield, Priscilla's mother, but it was overgrown with a poison vine which she dared not touch. She had but just finished her task when she saw the chaise drive up with her aunt and Miss Druett. She gathered a bunch of the fragrant honeysuckle and some of the exquisitely fluted buds of the laurel, and went in.

It was very easy to see that Miss Priscilla was in one of her worst humors. Calista had not exaggerated in saying that at such times she was like some strong wild animal. She glared at Calista when she came in, but said not a word. Calista put her flowers in water and came down to tea. Not a word was spoken till Miss Druett said, not unkindly—

"I saw you come across the road, Calista. Where had you been?"

"Only in the graveyard, Miss Druett."

"And what took you there, child? It is not cheerful place."

"No, indeed. I took a fancy to read the inscription on grandfather's monument. It is terribly out of repair, and will be tumbling down if it is not mended. And, Aunt Priscilla, your mother's grave is all covered with poison ivy!"

Miss Priscilla set down her teacup with shaking hands and stared at Calista, while her cheeks and even her lips became white.

"How dare you go there?" she stammered. "How dare you speak to me of graves?"

"Why, where is the harm?" said Calista. "I wanted to see the monuments. We must all go there some time or other, I suppose. Death seems about the only certain thing one has to look forward to," she continued, musingly, and speaking more to herself than her companions. "We are sure of that, whatever else happens."

"Be still!" almost screamed Miss Priscilla. "I won't hear such words! Druey, make her be still! Send her away! I shall dream of dying—I know I shall—and of the grave!"

"Hush, Priscilla. Don't excite yourself so. The child meant no harm," said Miss Druett. "There, run away, child, and ask Chloe for some supper, or go up to my room if you like. There is something for you on the bed."

Calista obeyed, wondering at the storm she had raised. She did not care for more supper, so she went up to Miss Druett's room, where she found two cheap but pretty new frocks and a straw bonnet such as other girls wore. Miss Druett had evidently carried her point somehow.

She ventured down to the sitting-room after awhile. She found Miss Priscilla asleep in her chair, as usual, and Miss Druett looking out of the window, as usual. Calista stole to a low seat beside her, and Miss Druett laid a hand on her head.

"Thank you ever so much for the dresses, Miss Druett," Calista whispered; "I know they were your buying—were they not?"

"Partly, and partly Mr. Settson's. Calista, you must never again speak to your aunt as you did to-night. I thought she would have a fit."

"I did not mean any harm, Miss Druett."

"I know it, child."

"And surely Aunt Priscilla knows that she must die some time."

"We know a great many things we do not like to think or speak about, child; and Priscilla has a greater horror of death than any one I ever saw."

"I don't see why she should, when she thinks that death ends everything," observed Calista.

"Yes, but you see there is always a terrible perhaps; and then the thought of annihilation is dreadful to most people. But—not to talk any more about that—tell me, Calla have you seen Old Zeke or his wife anywhere about lately?"

"No, not lately; at least, not that I am sure of," said Calista, considering. "I saw a very tall woman on the edge of the woods as I was coming home yesterday, but I was not near enough to see what she was like, only, as I said, she was very tall. Why?"

"Can I trust your discretion if I tell you?"

"I think so," answered Calista—less proudly than she would have said the words in the morning, for she still felt humbled in her own eyes.

Miss Druett put her head down to Calista's and whispered very low—

"Because I am afraid they are getting an influence over Priscilla again. I am much mistaken if she has not had an interview with one or other of them, and she has dropped more than one hint about spies and so on. I want you to keep your eyes and ears open, and tell me if you see anything. Hush, she is waking up. Get your knitting, child. You should not sit idle all the evening."

Miss Druett said these words aloud.

Miss Priscilla glanced sharply at her, but apparently saw nothing to rouse her suspicions, and the evening passed away as usual.

CHAPTER SEVENTH.

MISS MEEKS.

CALISTA waked early the next morning, and lay a long time thinking over what had happened the day before. She shuddered at the narrowness of her escape.

"Oh, how differently I should be feeling if I had taken that money! It was mother who saved me," she said to herself.

And then a sensation of awe came over her as she asked herself the question, "But who was it that sent the remembrance of mother at the critical moment? Did he really care? Did he save me—me, who never did or tried to do one thing for him in all my life? Can it be that Mary is right, and that he really loves 'me?'"

Calista rose, dressed herself, and sat down in her accustomed place in the deep window. She revolved many things in her mind. She went back over her past life, and considered her present situation. She looked herself fairly in the face, so to speak, and she did not find a great deal in the view to flatter her vanity.

It was true, as Mary had hinted: she was in danger of thinking as much of money as Aunt Priscilla herself.

Looking back over the past few weeks, she was astonished to see how much of her time and thoughts had been bestowed on that subject alone. Walking by the way, alone in her own room, in the school-room when her book was before her and her mind should have been on its pages—even in the house of God itself—her one subject of contemplation had been money, or what money would buy; what she would do when Aunt Priscilla was out of the way, and the Stanfield place should be her own; and latterly, how she would find her grandfather's will; how she would confront Aunt Priscilla, and humble her in the dust; how she would take possession of the old mansion, and put it in perfect repair; these had been her dreams day and night. These had led her into temptation—had almost brought her to the commission of an act at the thought of which she still turned cold and sick.

"I am resolved I will do so no more," she said to herself, decidedly and almost aloud. "I will give my whole mind to my lessons, and so prepare myself to make my own way in the world. I will try to be civil to Aunt Priscilla, and not provoke her; but whatever I do, I won't be thinking of nothing but money all the time, I am determined upon that. She can't live forever, that is certain, and—"

And then Calista, pulled herself up short, vexed and ashamed to find her thoughts, even in the very moment of her resolution, going off into their old channels. She would find, as many another has found, that resolutions made in mere human strength are, as opposed to the force of inbred and indulged sin, as a rope of sand to a mountain torrent.

She rose with an impatient movement, and taking her grammar, which she had brought home, she set herself determinedly to commit to memory the notes under the rules, and to frame examples to illustrate them; and she grew so interested in her work as to be surprised when the clock struck seven, the signal for breakfast.

"Oh, Calista, why didn't you stay yesterday?" said Belle Adair, as Calista entered the school-room. "We had such a nice afternoon! Miss McPherson sat with us and told us stories about the time she went to school in Scotland and in Paris."

"That must have been lovely," said Calista. "I wish I had staid."

"Why didn't you?"

"I thought of something I wished to do at home, but I didn't accomplish it, so I might as well have been here, and better, too. What work did you do?"

"I worked at my lace veil, and Tessy began her curtains, and did quite a piece upon one; and Mary Burns has a rug of sewed-on work, and Elizabeth Howell a tucked skirt, and Clary Whitman a painted velvet stool, and I can't tell you all, only we had a lovely time!"

"All but Antoinette!" remarked Emma.

"Why, what was the matter with Antoinette?"

"Well, several things. In the first place, you must know that Miss McPherson has been changing the rooms about. She has put Tessy in the little room that opens from Miss Jessy's."

"Poor Tessy! She will have to learn to keep her things in order."

"Well, Tessy says she doesn't care: she wants to learn to be neat. And Antoinette is in the other little room by herself, next to Miss Meeks. She doesn't like it one bit, because she can't borrow of Tessy now without being found out, and none of the other girls will lend to her. Even Elizabeth Howell said to her, when she wanted some hairpins, 'Thee is just as well able to buy hairpins as I am!'"

"Well, so she is. Now Mary Burns is really poor, but you don't find her sponging!" said Emma.

"Well, but that needn't have spoiled Antoinette's comfort yesterday afternoon. What was the matter then?"

"Oh, Miss McPherson would not let her work the grand picture with the spangled shepherdess that she had set her heart on! She said that such things were going out of fashion, and that this would be so expensive no one would buy it, and she should do something less ambitious. Antoinette said pertly she did not care whether any one bought it or not, she should have the credit of it, and if the picture did not sell, she should have that too. You should have seen Miss McPherson look at her! And then Elizabeth Howell asked Miss McPherson if she did not think it would be better to have the things sent in just from the school, without any individual names at all."

"That is just like Elizabeth—especially as she is doing the prettiest piece of all; I mean her muslin apron. Well, what did Miss McPherson say?"

"She said we could take time and think the matter over, and then we could decide."

"And then Charity Latch—just think, Calista—Charity said for her part she wanted the credit for what 'she' did."

"She works so elegantly," said Calista, and all the girls laughed, for it was notorious that Charity had never learned to sew up a seam decently.

"But how do you like the idea, Calista?" asked Mary Settson.

"Oh, it suits me very well," answered Calista, with a little bitterness, "so long as I have nothing to do at all."

"I am sure your bureau cover will be lovely."

"It isn't mine, it is Miss McPherson's. How do you like it, Mary?"

"Well, I must say, with Charity, I don't see why we should not have the credit of what we do," said Mary. "I know I like to, for one, as well as she does."

"The Bible says we should not let our left hand know what our right hand does, thee knows, Mary," said Elizabeth Howell, who had joined the group in time to hear Calista's question and Mary's answer; "and we are not to love the praise of men."

"Not better than the praise of God," said Mary, quickly.

"And how is one to set a good example, if one's doings are never to be known?"

"I can't say I think much of examples that are set on purpose," remarked Belle Adair. "And I don't believe one ought to be always thinking about them, either. That just comes to thinking, what people will say about you. And I suppose it is just as much loving the world to care too much about being looked up to, as it is to care too much about money, like some folks."

"I suppose it is," said Tessy, thoughtfully, while Mary looked annoyed. "I thought it was every one's duty to set a good example. Have you learned a verse, Emma? This is Bible morning, you know."

"Yes; Miss Jessy showed me a nice one," answered Emma:

"'Whatsoever he saith unto you, do it.'" (John 2:5)

"Exactly," said Elizabeth, smoothing the little girl's hair; "let us only remember that, and our example will take care of itself."

"I wonder if Belle and Elizabeth think that I do love the world," thought Mary, as she took her seat; "I don't see why they should."

Calista did not find the day altogether a pleasant one. Her desk-mate, Antoinette, was in a desperate fit of the sulks, and she gave her companion the full benefit of it, making herself disagreeable in all the ways which the ingenuity of ill temper could contrive. Calista herself was preoccupied; and though she tried very hard to adhere to the rule she had laid down of thinking of nothing in school but her lessons, she did not succeed very well. She had allowed herself to fall into bad habits in this respect.

And she had, besides, a cause of considerable anxiety. Putting her hand into an inside pocket to find a pencil, her fingers encountered something hard, which her touch did not recognize. She drew it out, and there was the little working equipage she had found in the book-case drawer. She had taken it almost without thought, only considering that the scissors and bodkin would be convenient to use; but as she looked at it she saw that the little bottle, which still smelled of otto of roses, had a gold or gilded stopper, and that all the handles of the implements were the same. The whole was evidently of considerable value. Nor was that all. As Calista looked at it, she remembered the pile of books and magazines she had intended to take to her room, and which she had left lying on the floor by the book-case. Then, too, there was the broken lock to her grandfather's room She did not know whether Aunt Priscilla ever went thither, but if she did, she would be sure to see that some one had been meddling. She would suspect Calista, of course, as she always did suspect her of any mischief that was done in the house.

"Well, if she does, I must just tell her the truth, whatever comes," thought Calista. "After all, where was the harm? She never told me not to go there."

Calista still held the case in her hand when the recess bell struck, and she was roused from her reverie by hearing Antoinette, say,—

"Oh, Calista, what a pretty case! Where did you get it? Let me see it, won't you?"

"It is not mine," said Calista, holding it out for inspection. "I did not know I had it with me."

"Did your aunt lend it to you? How curious it is! Do you suppose those handles are gold? Let me take it, won't you?"

"No, I can't; I told you it was not mine," and Calista put out her hand for the box.

"But you can just lend it to me for a day or two. Come, do. I am going over to Graywich to spend Sunday, and it would be so nice to carry. Come, do."

"I tell you it is not mine," answered Calista; the more angrily because she was vexed with herself. "Give it to me this minute."

"Take it, then," said Antoinette, as angrily as herself. "For my part, I would not carry about such valuable things belonging to other people. Would you, Miss Meeks?"

Now, Antoinette had succeeded in getting on the favorable side of Miss Meeks—an operation which she had never performed with Miss McPherson. Moreover, Miss Meeks did not like Calista, who was somewhat opinionated, and had a way of asking questions and wishing to go to the bottom of things, not always agreeable or convenient to Miss Meeks. Therefore, when appealed to in this way, by Antoinette, she was quite ready to take up on her side.

"What do you say, Antoinette?"

"I say that, if I were Calista, I would not carry about a valuable gold-mounted working-case belonging to somebody else."

"Certainly not. It is very improper," said Miss Meeks, with sharp decision. "I wonder at you, Miss Stanfield—that is, I should if it were any one else. Pray, did your aunt give you leave to take her working-case and bring it to school?"

"It is not my aunt's working-case, that I know of, and I did not mean to bring it to school," returned Calista; answering sharpness with sharpness, and certainly speaking not very respectfully.

"Yes, that is very likely," sneered Antoinette.

"And if Antoinette thinks it so very improper to carry a working-case belonging to somebody else, I think it rather singular she should be so anxious to borrow this one to carry down to Graywich—that is, I should if it were any one else," added Calista, with a very successful imitation of Miss Meeks's manner.

"Miss Stanfield, you are very impertinent. I shall report you."

"Eh, what! What is the matter?" asked Miss McPherson herself, who had a habit of suddenly appearing where she was least expected.

"The matter is, ma'am, that Miss Stanfield is insolent and disobedient, as usual," said Miss Meek; in a tone and manner of irritability so disproportioned to the occasion that Calista looked at her in surprise. The poor lady's lips were white, and the drops stood on her forehead.

"How is that?" asked Miss McPherson.

"Miss Stanfield has brought to school a valuable working-case of her aunt's, as I understand without leave; and when I reproved her, she not only answered me back, but actually mimicked me to my face," said Miss Meeks, in a voice which shook so she could hardly articulate.

"How is that, Calista?"

"I will tell you all about it, Miss McPherson," said Calista, recovering herself a little, but still very angry. "I found this case in a drawer with some old rubbish, yesterday, and I put it in my pocket without looking at it very much; I thought I would ask Miss Druett if I might use it, because I have no scissors of my own. But she was not at home; and when she did come, my aunt was very unwell, and several other things happened, which, altogether, put the case out of my head, and I forgot I had it. I found it in my pocket, just now, and Antoinette wanted to borrow it to take down to Graywich with her when she went to spend Saturday and Sunday. I told her it was not mine and I could not lend it. Then she said she would not carry about valuables which did not belong to her, and appealed to Miss Meeks, who found fault with me, as usual. That is the whole story."

Miss McPherson looked seriously displeased, and her displeasure fell, to begin with, in an unexpected quarter. Antoinette knew how particular was Miss McPherson in exacting respectful treatment towards her subordinates, and particularly towards Miss Meeks, and she waited with ill-concealed satisfaction to hear what would be said to Calista. As it was, however, the principal's first words were addressed to herself.

"Antoinette, did I not strictly forbid your borrowing or asking to borrow anything whatever from your schoolmates?"

Antoinette, surprised at the sudden change of programme, could only stammer something about not meaning to use it in school time.

"Was anything said about school or school time? Did I not positively forbid your borrowing anything from your schoolmates on any pretext whatever? Answer me!"

"I didn't mean—" stammered Antoinette.

"Don't tell me what you meant! Answer my question."

"Yes, ma'am," Antoinette was forced to answer.

"And yet I find you trying to borrow this very working-case from Calista, and that when she tells you in so many words it is not hers. I want no more words. You will take your Racine, learn the first two speeches in Alexander by heart, and recite them to me to-morrow morning before breakfast. No crying," added Miss McPherson, as Antoinette burst into a flood of tears. "I will give you another ten lines for every tear you shed."

"Well, really!" said Miss Meeks.

"Excuse me, my dear Eliza, but had you not better retire to your room and rest a little?" said Miss McPherson in a tone of gentle authority. "I will deal with this rebellious girl, and see that she makes you a proper apology."

Miss Meeks murmured something not very intelligible, and went away rather against her will, as it seemed, and Miss McPherson drew Calista into her own special sanctum, a small, cheerful book-room opening from the school-room.

"Now, Calista," said she, after she had taken her seat and motioned Calista to another one, "I am going to read this article in the paper. I want you to employ the time in thinking over your conduct this morning, and then I shall request you to tell me whether your conduct to Miss Meeks was ladylike or becoming. I think I can depend upon you to be honest both with yourself and me."

Miss McPherson took up her paper and adjusted her double eye-glass, and Calista was left to her own reflections, which were not very agreeable. She was vexed with herself for taking the working-case at all, for bringing it to school, and for having lost her temper, at Antoinette for getting her into the scrape, and at Miss Meeks for her injustice and partiality.

"I need not have spoken so to her, and above all I need not have mimicked her; but it certainly is very vexatious to have some one always ready to see the wrong side of you, and make the worst of everything you say and do. Who would have thought of her getting in such a rage over such a trifle! Her very lips were pale. I thought she was going to faint. Oh dear, I wish I could ever have any peace or comfort in all my life!" thought poor Calista, and the tears rose to her eyes. "I should wish I were dead if it were not wicked, and if I were sure of being better off!"

Miss McPherson finished her article—I am able to inform the reader that it was a critique upon a volume of tales published by one Mr. Irving, then a young author of some promise—and laid down her paper.

"Well, Calista," said she.

Calista could not be obstinate under the kind, penetrating look of those dear motherly gray eyes. She said at once:

"Miss McPherson, I own that I was rude to Miss Meeks this morning. I did repeat her words, and I suppose I mimicked her. I am sorry. But if I am to say all I think—"

"Say on, bairn," said Miss McPherson, using a tender Scotch word, which she seldom did use. "Let me hear all that is in your mind."

"Well, Miss McPherson, I do think that Miss Meeks was unjust to me, as she most always is. She never stopped to hear what I had to say, but jumped to the conclusion that Antoinette was right and I was wrong. And that is the way she always does. I never can do anything right in her eyes, however much I try, and I do try to please her a great many times. I should not have minded so much this morning if I had not been troubled about other things. But, oh, Miss McPherson, I have such hard times at home, and then when I come to school thinking to have some rest and comfort, to be taken up so, I could not bear it."

And Calista burst into passionate tears.

"Hush, hush, my dear lassie! Don't cry so!" said Miss McPherson, gathering the bowed head and shaking form to her bosom as if Calista had been a little child she was comforting. "I know you do have hard times, and I know Miss Meeks is not always very wise; but, Calista, she has hard times too, and is likely to have harder. You, at least, have youth and health; poor Miss Meeks has neither."

"Isn't she well?" asked Calista, interested and diverted for the moment. "I notice she turns very pale sometimes. She did this morning. I thought it was because she was angry."

"I don't think so. She has times of great pain, and they are the harder to bear because she is so determined to keep them to herself. The very suppression makes her irritable. Can you understand that?"

"Yes, indeed!" answered Calista. "But what is the matter with her?"

"I do not know, though I may guess," answered Miss McPherson; "but, Calista, you must not breathe a word of this to any one. She cannot endure to have the subject mentioned."

"I am sure I will not," said Calista. "I am very sorry for her. Has she no friends?"

"Not one that I know of except a half-demented body of a sister who has just sense enough not to be put into an asylum, but not enough to earn her own bread or find for herself in any way. Miss Meeks maintains her almost entirely."

"Poor thing!" said Calista. "I suppose that is the reason she makes her dresses over and over, and wears her bonnets forever. If the girls knew that, they would not laugh at her stingy ways, as they call them."

"If we knew about the hidden life of most people, I dare say we should find more to pity than condemn," observed Mir McPherson. "But now that you know—in confidence, remember—thus much about poor Miss Meeks, I am sure you will go and ask her pardon and make friends with her."

"I will go this minute," said Calista, starting up; "and, Miss McPherson, I am sorry I have made you so much trouble."

"Pardon is granted, my child. As to the bone of contention—the working-case—I do not understand all the circumstances, and so I have nothing to say; only, my dear, whatever happens, never be tempted into being sly or doing anything underhanded. Mind, I don't say you have, but, situated as you are, the temptation is likely enough to beset you. For the sake of your own soul, I beseech you not to yield to it. Now go and find poor Miss Meeks."

Calista knocked at the door of Miss Meeks's room in the third story, and hearing a sound which she took for "Come in," she opened the door. The room was darkened, but she saw Miss Meeks leaning back in the rocking-chair.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Meeks," she began. And then, with a sudden change of tone, "But what is the matter?"

Miss Meeks did not answer except by a feeble motion of the hand and a moan. Much alarmed, Calista sprung to her side.

"Are you faint, Miss Meeks? Shall I call some one?"

"Shut the door!" whispered Miss Meeks.

Calista did so and returned, but Miss Meeks was clearly fainting. Calista had the nursing instinct—the capacity of doing the right thing—which is born with some people, and which others never acquire. She loosened the broad ribbon belt and buckle which Miss Meeks wore, and slipping her hand behind her, unhooked her dress.

"How can she dress so tight? No wonder she is faint!" was her thought.

Miss Meeks wore a thick white cape crossed over the bosom of her low-cut dress—all dresses were cut low at that time. Calista opened it to give the patient air, but with the instinctive delicacy of a born lady she closed it again. She had had a glimpse of poor Miss Meeks's hidden trouble, and a glimpse was enough.

"Poor thing! I won't bring any one to spy on her," her first thought.

She sought on the toilet table for a bottle of cologne, with which she bathed the face of her patient, and soon had the satisfaction of seeing her color come back. Miss Meeks opened her eyes, put her hand up to her neck, and started.

"You are better," said Calista, gently. "Shall I help you to lie down on the bed?"

"No, no; I am better in the chair. My drops—in a little bottle—do you see?"

"Is this it?" asked Calista. "How much?"

"Ten drops, in water."

Calista prepared the medicine and gave it into her hand.

She swallowed it eagerly, and then, looking up, seemed for the first time to understand who her companion was.

"Is this you, Calista? How came you here?"

"I came to tell you that I was sorry for being rude to you this morning," said Calista, blushing; "and then I found you were ill, and staid to wait on you. Are you better?"

"Oh, yes. It is over for this time. But you unfastened my dress!" she added, in a tone of alarm. "Did you see?"

"I saw you had a great trouble," answered Calista, gravely; "but don't be alarmed, Miss Meeks. I shall never mention it, I give you my word. But—excuse me—ought you not to have a doctor?"

"No, no, child. There is nothing to be done—at least, not yet. Oh, what will become of me and my poor sister?" Miss Meeks leaned against Calista, and gave way to a burst of agonized sobs.

Calista wisely let her cry on, supporting her, and looking down on her former enemy with a mixture of pity and reverence which she never thought she could feel for Miss Meeks.

"There is the bell," said Miss Meeks, starting; "I must go down."

"You are not fit," said Calista; "cannot you lie still and rest till dinner?"

"No; there are the little girls' spelling and reading classes; and Miss Jessy is too busy to hear them."

"Could not I hear them, for once?" asked Calista, wondering at herself. "They are all nice little things. I dare say they would be good with me."

"But your grammar lesson?"

"I learned it before I came to school. Do keep still and let me try, Miss Meeks. It won't do any such great harm if I don't succeed as well as you, for once; and I am sure you are not fit to go down. Your lips are white now."

"The pain takes a great deal out of me," said the poor lady, yielding to the temptation and leaning back in her chair. "Well, Calista, if you think you can, and Miss McPherson is willing, you may try. The children are good little things, as you say, and will make no trouble."

"And you will forgive me for being so rude this morning?" said Calista. "Indeed, Miss Meeks, I have my own troubles, too, or I should not have forgotten myself so."

"Oh, my dear, don't mention it. I dare say I was unreasonable. I have been in so much pain all the morning. You won't tell what you have seen—not to any one?" Miss Meeks held her hand and looked imploringly in her face.

"No, indeed," answered Calista, solemnly. "I promise you, Miss Meeks, I never will. Now, can I do anything else for you? For I suppose I should be going."

"Only hand me my Bible from the table. Thank you. Oh, my love, believe me, if you have trouble, as you say, this is the only source of comfort. I should die without it, or go mad. There, there, God bless you! Go."

"Who would have thought,—" said Calista, as, having obtained Miss McPherson's permission, she assumed Miss Meeks's place in the little school-room, and called the children to their lessons—"who would have thought that I, of all people, should be Miss Meeks's deputy?"

CHAPTER EIGHTH.

MARY.

"WHERE have you been all the morning?" asked Mary Settson, as she met Calista just after the noon recess was proclaimed. "I have not had a sight of you."

"You would never guess," said Calista. "I don't know how to believe it myself."

Calista spoke gayly. She felt in better spirits than she had done for a long time. Anything like a quarrel was always an annoyance to her; and she was very much pleased at having at last made friends with poor Miss Meeks.

Then she had thoroughly enjoyed her hour and a half of teaching. Every one likes to be of use, not to say of consequence. The little girls had been very good and orderly. They had read and spelled well, and recited their small portion of Pinnock's "Catechism" without a mistake; and Calista had rewarded them with the story of King Alfred learning to read and afterward watching the cakes. She had a great talent for narration, and had the pleasure of seeing her small audience listening with rapt attention, and of hearing a universal cry of:

"Oh, please, Miss Stanfield, go on. Tell us some more."

She had promised another story "some time;" and had promised to tell Miss McPherson and Miss Meeks how good they had been. So teacher and pupils had parted with mutual satisfaction.

"I am not good at guessing," said Mary.

"Well—but don't look incredulous, however strange my tale may appear—I have been sitting upon the throne of Miss Meeks and wielding her sceptre for a full hour and a half. In other words, I have been keeping order and hearing lessons in the little school-room. I—even I, myself. Think of that!"

Mary did think of it, and it did not please her. For the last year she had been used to being called upon to hear the little ones on emergencies; and though she was not fond of teaching, and often complained of the trouble, she did not dislike the consequence it gave her any more than did Calista. So it came to pass that there was some sharps in her tone as she said:

"How in the world did that happen? I should say you were the last one in the school likely to be called on to help Miss Meeks. I thought you had a quarrel only this morning."

"So we had, and that was exactly the way the wonderful event came to pass."

"You must speak more plainly if you want me to understand you."

"Well, it happened even so: Miss Meeks and I did have—well, not just a quarrel, but an outcome, as Miss Jessy says. It began with Antoinette in the first place, who called Miss Meeks to take her part, which she did, and scolded me as usual. I was vexed, and answered her back. Miss McPherson said I was rude—or, what was still worse, she made me say so,—" continued Calista, laughing and blushing—"and sent me to Miss Meeks's room to apologize. I found the poor thing very ill, and all but fainting away with a pain in her side, or something of the sort. She would not let me call any one, and I waited on her as well as I could, till she was better.