Chapter V: Part 5

"She missed you enough this evening, I am sure of that," said Calista. "She almost cried because there was no one to play cribbage with her. I offered to try to learn, but I think I must be very stupid, for I could make nothing of it. However, she did not scold me, and it helped to pass away a part of the time."

"Cribbage is a very intricate game, and Priscilla never had any faculty of teaching. I think, Calista, if you are not tired, we will go through the cellars—all at least that are unlocked. I should like to make sure of them."

"What a castle of a place it is!" said Calista, holding up her light and surveying the long gallery, floored with brick, and with heavy doors opening on either hand. "It looks like something in an old romance. What is in all these cellars, Miss Druett?"

"Nothing at all in most of them," answered Miss Druett. "There is some silver plate and china packed away in this one, and a good deal of valuable wine in that further one, at the end of the hall."

"Here is a door bricked up," said Calista. "What is that?"

"That is another small wine-cellar which has a history," answered Miss Druett. "When your father was born, your grandfather had just received a quantity of very fine Madeira, which had made the voyage to India. He ordered two small casks to be placed in this cellar and built up as you see, saying that one should be opened on his son's marriage, and the other at the weaning of his eldest child."

"And it has staid there, undisturbed, all this time," said Calista. "Father and grandfather are both gone, but the wine stays on. Perhaps it is just as well there as anywhere else. I sometimes think so much wine drinking is not very desirable."

"More people than you are beginning to think so," said Miss Druett. "Well, as everything is safe for the night, we may leave these old vaults to the centipedes and the efts." "Affets" she called them.

"See, there is one now!" said Calista, pointing out the little red lizard running up the wall. "Are affets poison, Miss Druett?"

"I don't know, child. I never ate one," answered Miss Druett, absently. Then, as Calista laughed,—"I do not know what I am saying. No, I don't think any lizards are venomous, though, I dare say, they might bite, like other creatures, if alarmed or provoked. Are you very tired? Do you want to go to bed directly?"

"No, ma'am," answered Calista. "Not if I can do anything for you."

"Come into my room and sit down a little. I have something to say to you, and I may not have another chance."

Calista obeyed.

The usually neat room was not disorderly—for nothing about Miss Druett could be that—but disarranged. A great trunk, nearly filled, stood open at the foot of the bed; a picture, which had always hung above the fireplace, was taken down; and some books were missing from their places. Miss Druett cleared a chair for Calista and took another herself, but she did not seem in a hurry to begin the conversation.

"Are you really going, Miss Druett?" asked Calista, presently, seeing that she did not speak.

"I have no choice, child, as things are at present. I have borne a great deal from Priscilla, and if I staid, I should, no doubt, bear a great deal more; but you must see yourself that I cannot remain in her house after she has ordered me out of it."

"Of course not. I only wonder that you should have staid so long."

"Well, your grandfather and Priscilla's mother were kind to me when I was an orphan and poor, and Priscilla and I were friends in youth. Latterly I have had another reason for staying. You heard what your aunt said, this morning, about your father." And Miss Druett blushed a vivid carnation blush, which gave an almost unearthly lustre to her dark eyes.

"I heard it," said Calista, "but I thought it was, perhaps, only one of the spiteful things she says when she gets angry."

"It was true," said Miss Druett. "I am going to tell you a little of my own history, Calista. It will help you to understand some things which must have seemed strange to you."

"I was left alone in the world at a very early age. My mother, who was a relation of the first Mrs. Stanfield, was clandestinely married to a British officer of high rank and small principle, at the time that New York was occupied by the British. When the city was evacuated, she was left alone, with a young baby, and no dependence but the old father whose heart she had broken, and who was sinking into his grave. General Stanfield, then recently married, found her out in her darkest hour of trouble. She was then alone in the world, sinking in a decline, having sacrificed everything to a man who cared for nothing but the amusement of a passing hour. Calista, whatever you do, never make a secret marriage."

"I never mean to marry at all," pronounced Calista, with all the confidence of sixteen.

"Of course not," said Miss Druett, dryly; "girls like you never do. To go on with my story: General Stanfield sent his cousin and her child home to the old house here. My mother revived with the change of air and the generous diet, and lived till I was about five and Priscilla twelve years old. Yes, there was all that difference in our ages, yet we were constant companions and friends.

"It was not a happy household. Two people less fitted to live together than General and Mrs. Stanfield were, perhaps, never united. He was open-hearted, liberal to a fault, fond of gayety, and much given to hospitality, both to rich and poor. She was proud and reserved, standing much on her dignity, very strict and narrow in all her notions, and as fond of saving as Priscilla herself. It was she who taught Priscilla to regard economy as an end, not a means. To save the consumption of a candle or an ounce of butter; to make a sixpence stretch as far as a shilling; to keep the whole household on half rations when the General went away—these were the triumphs of which she was most proud, and for which she lived. I heard her say once that she meant to save something for herself and Priscilla when the General was dead. But she died long before him.

"Priscilla mourned her sincerely; but she found consolation in walking in her mother's steps. But her reign was not a long one. In less than two years the General brought home another bride, not so very much older than Priscilla herself. She was a sweet, gentle, pretty creature, but she was not a fool by any means. She had a great deal of steady principle, and was very religious. She would go to church every Sunday, and read the Bible, both alone and with the servants. At first she had both the General and Priscilla against her; but latterly the General was won to go to church with her once on Sunday; and, though he never made any profession of Christianity, I think his feelings toward it were a good deal softened before he died.

"A cousin of my poor mother's, who had a good and popular school in Philadelphia, wrote, offering to give me an education, and General Stanfield accepted the offer for me. I staid with her ten years; first as pupil, then as teacher; till she died and the school was broken up. My cousin ought to have left a good fortune; but she was unfortunate and lost a good deal of money. The estate was divided, and all that fell to my share was a small house, a little way out of Philadelphia, and about a hundred dollars. Priscilla wrote for me to come to her, and I came. At this time, Richard—your father—was a gay young man, in college, coming home for his vacations, and turning his father and every one else—except Priscilla—round his finger, by his winning and coaxing ways. Even Priscilla herself was won by him while he was present, though she hated him when he was away."

"Why did she hate him?" asked Calista.

"Principally because he was extravagant and your grandfather indulged him in every whim. I cannot dwell on that part of it," said Miss Druett, with that vivid blush again. "He never cared for me. I don't suppose he ever imagined that I could care for him. I would have laid down my life for him, but he did not want it. I never supposed that even Priscilla suspected me till this afternoon. I had a long illness, and when I rose up from it, I was a soured, hardened, elderly woman.

"Then came the news of your father's death. Priscilla kept it to herself for a long time; your grandfather never knew it at all."

"Why didn't you tell him?" asked Calista.

"Because I did not know it myself. Priscilla always made a point of going to the office herself, and all the letters went through her hands. The first I ever heard of the event was when one of your mother's cousins wrote of her death. Your grandfather had been dead about six months then; and one day, to my utter amazement, Priscilla said to me,—

"'Druey, I am going to bring home that girl of Richard Stanfield's. A child like that won't cost much to keep, and when she grows up, she can be useful in the house. I want you to go and bring her here.'

"'Why, where are her parents?' was my natural question.

"And then, for the first time, I learned that Richard Stanfield and his wife were both dead.

"You know the rest of it. Do you remember anything that happened before you came?"

"Sometimes I do and sometimes not," answered Calista. "I have a kind of shadowy recollection of my mother, as a pale lady, in black, who used to dress dolls for me, and who taught me to say 'Gentle Jesus' and 'Now I lay me down to sleep.' I remember a sickly, lame little boy I used to play with sometimes, and an old lady I used to call Aunt Malvina. I recollect her perfectly. She was feeble, and I don't believe she was rich; but I was very happy with her. I thought of her to-day, when I saw those trunks. Oh, Miss Druett, I do think it is too bad that I cannot have my mother's things."

"It is a very hard case, I admit," said Miss Druett. "You had better consult Mr. Settson about the matter."

"But, Miss Druett, I can never stay here without you," said Calista. "You are the only friend I have ever had."

"And I have not always been very good to you—have I?"

"Yes, I think you have—only you do say dreadfully sharp, hard things sometimes. But you are not like Aunt Priscilla; and I am sure I can never live alone with her. I should be afraid. Do you think she can be a little insane?"

"No; no more insane than any person is who gives herself up to the dominion of one idea and the pursuit of one object," said Miss Druett. "She is sharp enough about business matters."

"She said, to-night, she had never been into grandfather's room since his funeral," said Calista. "Do you think it can be true?"

"I presume it is. She has an extreme dread of death, and everything connected with it. Did you go in? I thought I heard you."

Calista related what had taken place, and added that her aunt had given her permission to finish her term at school.

"I dare say she will take it back," she added. "She will want me to stay at home and cut carpet-rags."

"You had better say nothing on the subject, but take the permission for granted, and go as usual," said Miss Druett. "I want you to do several little things for me in town. But now, to finish my story: It seems that my father, Colonel Druett, had his conscience awakened in his latter days, and by his will left a few hundred pounds to his child and a small annuity to his wife. His brother, who was his heir, never took any steps to execute this part of the will; but his nephew was more honest or less indolent. He took pains to inquire me out, a few years ago, and actually sent me not only the five hundred pounds which was my due, but two hundred more on account of the annuity which my mother should have received. So that I have a reasonable provision for my old age."

"I wonder you should have staid on here under the circumstances," said Calista. "Why did you?"

"Why, for several reasons. I am attached to Priscilla, with all her faults, and know that I am necessary to her; and I remember old kindness at the hands of her parents; and besides all this," said Miss Druett, with that sudden, lightning-like smile which so transformed her face, "there was a certain wayward girl who had somehow contrived to win her way into my heart in spite of me, and I staid to look after her. And now I come to what I want to say particularly. I have, as I told you, a small house in the outskirts of Philadelphia. If I can get it into my own hands without too much sacrifice, I shall do so. Then, will you come and live with me, Calista? No, don't answer now," as Calista sprang up and threw her arms around her neck. "Take time to think about it. It may involve a good deal. You know Priscilla has all this property absolutely in her hands, and can leave it to whom she pleases. The property has greatly increased in value with the advance of rents, and she must leave a large fortune, supposing she does not lose everything in some wild speculation, which is not at all unlikely."

"Do you think so?" asked Calista, surprised.

"She has already spent hundreds of dollars on lottery tickets," said Miss Druett, "and would have spent more but for my influence. She wasted nearly as much with those miserable treasure-seekers, and is likely to do it again. I fear leaving her here alone. It is time for you to go to bed now. I will give you some money to lay out for me in the morning; and I should like to have you tell Mr. Settson of my plan, and ask him what he thinks about it. There, good-night, child, and God bless you. I have not made you as happy as I might, but at least you know the worst of me."

The next morning Calista prepared for school as usual, and then went to Miss Druett, who gave her a list of commissions and directions.

"They will take you some time, but I dare say you won't mind. Only, if you walk home, don't come by the river road. It is too lonely for you; and I don't fancy having you encounter Zeke or his wife. Here, you may buy yourself something with that," handing her a silver dollar—the very first Calista had ever owned.

"How nice!" exclaimed Calista. "Now I can have something of my own to give away."

Miss Druett smiled and sighed.

"Richard Stanfield, all over," said she.

"You don't mind, do you, Miss Druett?"

"No, no, child; use it in the way that will give you most pleasure. There, go; I hear Priscilla calling you. If she asks what we were talking about, you can tell her."

"Where are you going, child?" was Miss Priscilla's first question.

"To school, aunt. You said, last night, I was to finish the term."

"Humph! Mind, I didn't say anything about another. What did Druey want of you?"

"She wants me to buy her some handkerchiefs and a travelling bag and an umbrella, and to tell the man about her trunk. David took it in when he went to market."

"And did she give you the money?"

"Yes, aunt."

Miss Priscilla groaned. "Well, there, go along, child; and tell Chloe to bring me my breakfast. Does she mean to make me wait all day? But nobody cares what becomes of me. I suppose I shall starve when Druey is gone."

"Perhaps she will stay, aunt, if you ask her," said Calista, secretly hoping she would not; for the prospect of going to live with Miss Druett, in the little house with the garden and orchard, had already taken very strong hold on her imagination.

"Mind your own business," snarled Miss Priscilla. "There, never mind, child. Go along and send Chloe with my breakfast. And perhaps when you come home, you will look in that room again. You might find something else. Some people are lucky in finding things."

"Very well, aunt. I have no objection, if you wish it," said Calista, thinking again of the possibility of finding her grandfather's will. "Only, I am afraid you will accuse me of stealing again, as you did about the working-case."

"No, no, I won't. Here, you may have the working-case, if you like; only, don't lose it. It was your grandmother's, and perhaps she might be pleased—there, do go and send up my breakfast."

"Two presents from my aunt in two days—what is going to happen?" said Calista to herself. "Oh, how much I have had to think about! It seems a year since I went to school yesterday morning. How odd that she should speak in that way of my grandmother's being pleased, when she does not believe in any existence after death!"

CHAPTER ELEVENTH.

THE NEEDLE-CASE.

WHEN Calista arrived at school, she found Mary waiting for her at the gate. The occurrences of the afternoon had almost put those of the morning out of her head; but the sight of Mary renewed the sore feeling in her heart. How could she meet Mary and treat her as if nothing had happened, after her treachery of the day before? Fortunately, she had no time left her to debate the matter. Mary came forward to meet her, with both hands outstretched and her face dyed with blushes.

"Oh, Calista, won't you forgive me? I am so sorry—so ashamed. Do, please, forgive me."

It was not in Calista to resist such an appeal. Silently the two friends embraced and kissed each other.

"I went to Miss Meeks and told her just how it was," said Mary, as, with interlacing arms, after their old fashion, they walked toward the school-room. "And then I wanted to find you, but you were gone."

"Yes; aunt sent for me to go home."

"So Miss Meeks said. Calista, you were right: it was love of the world and its praise that made me act as I did. I saw that when I came to look myself in the face. I think there never was any one so inconsistent as I am," concluded Mary, with a sigh. "And how I have lectured other people!

"Well, you are the least bit given to preaching—that cannot be denied," said Calista, smiling.

Mary was a little piqued, notwithstanding her late resolutions. "Anyhow, I shall never do it again," said she.

"Oh, yes, you will—dozens of times," returned Calista. "If you were to see the state my desk is in, you would give me a lecture on the spot. Come and help me to put it in order before Miss Meeks catches me."

Somehow or other, Mary did not feel quite satisfied. She would have liked to have her penitence made of a little more consequence. So hard is it to put down in our hearts the love of the praise of men. She was, however, conscious of the feeling, and, instead of allowing it a lodgment, she resolutely turned it out and shut the door.

"Oh, Calista! How can you ever find anything in such a chaos?" she exclaimed, as the lid of the desk was lifted.

Then, as Calista laughed, she put down a rising feeling of anger and laughed too.

"Well, there! You see it is second nature," said she. "But seriously, Calista, if you really wish to be a teacher, you must learn to be more orderly."

"I know it; and really, Mary, I am improving. The fact is, I had all the things out of my part of the desk yesterday, preparatory to a grand 'redding up,' as Miss Jessy says; but then came the summons to go home, and I tumbled them back anyhow. Come, let us put it to rights before school."

"Was anything wrong yesterday?" asked Mary, as she collected a dozen quill pens, and set herself to mend them.

The making and mending of pens was a serious business in those days, and took up an amount of time which no teacher at this day can realize.

"Everything was the matter," answered Calista. "I never saw my aunt in such a tantrum. She declared at first that I should not come to school again, but should stay at home and cut carpet-rags. And she actually ordered Miss Druett out of the house."

"I wonder what she thinks she would do without her."

"I don't know, I am sure. She all but cried last night, because she had nobody to play cribbage with her. I tried to learn, to pacify her, but could make nothing of it. However, she was pleased with my trying, and said I was good-natured—the very first time I ever had a word of praise from her—and more than that, she gave me a sixpence."

"Not a whole one?"

"No, it has a hole in it, and I am not sure it is good; but I mean to try at Mammy Bates's, after school. And more than that, she gave me a working-case—the very one that brought down Alexandre on poor Antoinette's devoted head yesterday. See what a pretty, old-fashioned thing it is."

"Very pretty," said Mary, examining the little case. "If I were you, I would have Mr. Parvin sharpen up the knife and scissors. They are very good yet. I wonder what rattles so in the bottom. Does this little velvet tray come out?"

"I don't know; I have not tried. Yes, see, it does lift up, and—well I wonder what will happen next!" said she, as she turned up the case and shook out two English half-crowns. "That is the third sum of money I have found in twenty-four hours. I must be a lucky person, as aunt says. I wonder whether I had not better try my fortune on the pirates' treasure."

"Why, what were the others?"

"Oh, the sixpence, in the first place. That was in the pocket of one of the old coats I was to cut into carpet-rags. Then I was looking in an old drawer, and I found some gold pieces of grandfather's that Aunt Priscilla did not know of. That was a lucky find for me, for it put her in a good humor and gained me permission to finish my term at school. But there, Aunt Priscilla told me not to speak of it," said Calista, vexed at herself. "How careless of me! Please, Mary, don't say anything about it, will you?"

"Of course not," said Mary. "But do you really think Miss Druett will go away? How will you get on without her?"

"I shall not try," said Calista. "She has a plan for herself and me which she told me to talk over with your father."

"I am afraid you will not have the chance to-day," said Mary. "Father has gone up to Princeton, and will not be back till after commencement. Cannot you tell me? Would it be wrong?"

"No, I don't think so. She did not tell me not to tell," said Calista, considering. "Of course, I would not want the affair talked over, at least, not till it is all settled; but so long as I was to tell your father, I don't see any harm in telling you."

Calista then detailed her friend's plan; busying herself, meantime, in polishing the handles of the different implements in the equipage with a bit of chamois leather which she kept to wipe pens on.

Mary listened with great attention to the end. Then she said, gravely:

"Have you thought, Calista, how much this plan involves? If you leave your aunt in that way, will she not be very much displeased?"

"There is no telling whether she will be or not. One thing is certain, I cannot and will not live alone with Aunt Priscilla. I don't think your father would advise it. As to the estate, if that is what you are thinking of, I try to give up all thought of it."

"That is the best way, I suppose. And yet, do you think you shall like living with Miss Druett? Is she not very odd-tempered?"

"She is odd-tempered, but not ill-tempered, if you understand the difference," answered Calista. "She sometimes says very sharp and sarcastic things; but she does not delight to hurt and mortify one, like Aunt Priscilla; and she is very just. You always know where to find her. And she has not one way of Aunt Priscilla's which is particularly exasperating—that of taking up some perfectly harmless word or observation, and twisting and turning it into a great offence. Then, I know all her ways and she knows mine. We are used to each other, and, as old Mrs. Graves said the other day, when her husband died,—

"'We have lived together so long that we have got kind of wonted to each other.'"

"Would not you rather come to us, Calista, if it could be arranged so?" said Mary. "You know my father spoke of it the other day."

"Of course I should, for most reasons," answered Calista. "But then, you see, Mary, I owe a great deal to Miss Druett. She was my only friend for a great many years. I should never have had any education but for her; and now that I look back at it, I can see how she stood between me and Aunt Priscilla's stinginess and tyranny. I verily believe I should never have been anything but a down-trodden drudge of a servant girl but for her. She is very fond of me, in her way, too, and she has no one else. So, if she wants me to go with her, I think I ought to do it."

"But don't you owe any duty to your aunt, Calista?"

"No, Mary, I do not," said Calista, flushing. "I believe, at this moment, my aunt is keeping me out of my inheritance, and enjoying—no, not enjoying, but holding—what is my rightful property. She owes me a great deal more than the bare support she has given me. But there, I don't want to talk or think about that; it does me no good. See how beautifully these handles polish. I believe they are gold, and not gilded, after all."

"I should think so, but I am no judge. I dare say Mr. Parvin can tell you. See, I have rubbed up the velvet and morocco so that it is almost as good as new. You ought to take great care of this case, Calista."

"Yes, indeed; I mean to. I believe I won't take it out to the play-ground, but leave it here in my desk, behind these books. My pocket is worn so thin, it is not very secure. Come, let us go and see what the girls are all about. Oh, by the way, will you go out with me at noon recess? I have some errands for Miss Druett, and I ought to have done one as I came along, but the shop was shut. It was about her trunk that was sent in this morning. The rest can wait till afternoon."

"Oh, Calista," said Mary Burns, meeting her at the school-room door, "may I go to your desk and take out Miss McPherson's 'Deserted Village?' She said you had it, and I want to learn a piece out of it."

"Of course," answered Calista. "Why didn't you take it at once?"

"I didn't want to open your desk without asking you," answered Mary Burns.

"What a terrible thing if you had done so!" said Calista, merrily. "Who knows what dark and dreadful mysteries you might have discovered? However, I will say, Mary, I wish all the girls in school were as particular about such things as you are. It would save lots of trouble."

"Allow me to remind you, Miss Stanfield, that 'lots of trouble' is not a very genteel expression," said Miss Meeks, who was standing near.

"I know it, Miss Meeks, and I stand corrected," answered Calista. "You must allow that the sentiment was correct, though the expression was awkward, as you say."

Miss Meeks glanced sharply at the speaker, as if suspecting ridicule, which she always was suspecting, poor lady. But Calista's smile and glance disarmed her, and she said pleasantly:

"I quite agree with you there. I hope your desk is in order, Calista. You know I must mark you if it is not."

"Indeed it is, Miss Meeks; I have just put it all to rights."

"Then perhaps I had better look at it before you go back to it," said Miss Meeks, smiling, as she turned away.

"Just think! Miss Meeks made a joke," said Calista. "What is going to happen? It is as great a wonder as Aunt Priscilla's making a present. What is the matter, Mary?"

"Nothing," answered Mary Settson, resolutely bruising the head of a little serpent of envy and annoyance which had popped up and hissed in her heart at hearing another praised. "How does your work get on?"

"Nicely. I should have finished the middle last night but for taking a lesson in cribbage from Aunt Priscilla. I think I will knit the border in rosebuds."

"Do you think they wash well? You know you want to do up a bureau cover pretty often."

"Oh, yes; just as well as any other."

Two or three other girls now came up, and the conversation diverged to patterns, stitches, and other similar mysteries. Then Mary Burns brought "The Deserted Village," * and asked Calista's opinion as to what part she should learn.

* If, as I much fear, some of my readers have not read this exquisite
poem of Goldsmith's, I advise them to do so without delay.

"Take the character of the pastor," said Mary Settson.

"Begin at the beginning and go straight through," suggested Calista. "It is all worth remembering. I am doing that by the 'Lady of the Lake.' It is very nice to know plenty of pretty verses, especially if one has not many books."

Meantime, some one else had been at Calista's desk. Antoinette Diaments had not expected to go down to Graywich till Saturday morning, but her uncle from Philadelphia had called for her, and Miss McPherson had excused her in consequence. She had seen Calista with the coveted working-case in her hand, and had seen where she put it in her desk. Finding herself alone in the school-room, the temptation to examine the little equipage was too strong to resist. Just as she was about opening the desk, Mary Burns entered, and Antoinette stepped behind an open closet door watched Mary Burns as she examined two or three books, stopped to read a page or two in the "Lady of the Lake," and then, closing the desk, walked away with the book she had come in search of. Then she herself went to the desk and took out the working-case. It was prettier than ever.

"What hurt will it do for me just to take it down to Graywich with me? Nobody will know who took it, and I can slip it into the desk when I come back. It would be serving her right if I kept it altogether."

Antoinette dropped the case into her pocket and went away, first tumbling over Calista's papers and throwing the whole orderly desk into confusion. It was with a malicious smile that she saw Miss Meeks come into the room, open the desk, and frown as she observed the contents.

"I will teach you to interfere and get me into a scrape, Miss Stanfield," said she. "I should like to be by when your aunt asks you what you have done with her working-case."

"Miss Stanfield, what did you mean by telling me that your desk was all in order?" asked Miss Meeks, coming to Calista as soon as the school was opened.

Calista looked surprised, as well she might.

"See here," continued Miss Meeks, opening the desk. "Do you presume to call that order?"

"Why, who in the world has been at my desk!" exclaimed Calista, too much surprised to answer the question, or to modulate her voice to the proper pitch required by the school-room etiquette, which Miss McPherson and her assistants strictly enforced.

"Miss Stanfield, are you aware how loudly you are speaking? You forget yourself."

"I beg your pardon, Miss Meeks," said Calista. "But I was so surprised, I forgot myself, as you say. I assure you, I left it in perfect order, as Mary can bear witness."

"Indeed she did, Miss Meeks," said Mary, who had asked and obtained permission to occupy Antoinette's vacant place.

"Don't you believe me, Miss Meeks?" asked Calista.

"Certainly I do, Calista," answered Miss Meeks, in a more friendly tone. "But it is very singular. Who could have meddled with your things?"

"Mary Burns looked into the desk for a book she wanted," said Calista. "Mary is apt to keep her own things rather at loose ends, but I hardly think she would turn mine upside down in this way, especially as the book she wanted lay directly in front, on the shelf. Don't you remember, Mary? You put it there yourself."

"She might have accidentally displaced the books, if she were in a hurry," said Mary.

Now, it was an undeniable fact that Mary Burns, with all her good qualities—and they were many—was decidedly careless and untidy in her habits; and being so, she was a continual cross and annoyance to Miss Meeks. Consequently, she was no favorite with that lady, and it was with some sharpness that she called:

"Miss Burns!"

Mary rose from her seat and came to Calista's desk.

"Yes, Miss Meeks."

"What did you do to Miss Stanfield's desk this morning?"

"Nothing," said Mary, coloring scarlet as she met Miss Meek's severe glance, and the surprised looks of the other girls.

"What do you mean by saying, 'nothing'? Did you not open the desk and take something out of it?"

Mary was a shy girl and easily disconcerted; and she stammered from sheer nervousness as she answered—

"Yes, ma'am; I took out a book that Calista—that Miss McPherson—" and here she stopped from absolute inability to articulate another word.

"You mean that you took out the book of Miss McPherson's which she told you to ask me for," said Calista's clear, reassuring voice. "Did you notice then whether the desk was in order or not?"

"It was, I know," answered Mary, recovering herself a little.

"Allow me to manage this matter in my own way, and do not take the words out of my mouth, Miss Stanfield," said Miss Meeks, sharply—jealous for her own dignity, as usual. "Did you or did you not meddle with the other contents of Miss Stanfield's desk, Miss Burns?"

"I didn't meddle with anything; only, I took a book and read a little," said Mary. "The book I wanted was Miss McPherson's 'Goldsmith.' Calista had it, and I asked her if I might go to her desk and get it; you heard me."

"I am aware of that. What then?"

"Then I did go and get it. It lay on the shelf. I did not touch anything else, only the 'Lady of the Lake.' I took that up and read in it a little and put it back. The desk was all in order then, I am sure."

"Well, it is very odd, that is all I can say; and a great shame," said Calista, "to go and cheat me out of a credit-mark for order, when I get so few. I don't mean you, Mary."

"Allow me to ask whom you do suspect, Miss Stanfield? You say that you put the desk in order; Miss Settson says same. It is found in great disorder, and nobody is known to have been near it but Miss Burns."

"I don't know anything about it, Miss Meeks. But I don't believe Mary did it. If she had, she would say so—she would not tell a lie about it."

Now, it had unfortunately happened that Mary's extreme timidity had, once on a time, betrayed her into evasion, if not absolute falsehood; and this Miss Meeks remembered, as, unluckily, she always did remember anything which told against the character of a person she disliked.

"I wish I were as sure of that as you are, Miss Stanfield. Please look over your desk and tell me whether you miss anything."

Calista looked through her possessions, and turned, first red, then pale, as she pointed out a particular compartment in the desk to Mary.

"Well, what is it?" said Miss Meeks, sharply. "I see that something is wrong. What do you miss?"

"A little old-fashioned working-case my aunt gave me. It is the same one that Antoinette wanted to borrow yesterday. Miss Priscilla gave it to me this morning, and I brought it into town to have the knife and scissors sharpened; and because my pocket was not very strong, I put it away in my desk while I went out to the play-ground. I am quite sure Mary did not touch it."

"Did you see any one in the school-room when you were here?" asked Miss Meeks.

"No, ma'am—yes, ma'am," stammered Mary. "That is, I saw Antoinette Diaments come out of the room a few minutes after I did."

Miss Meeks's face grew rigid with displeasure.

"Your attempt to throw suspicion on a schoolmate will hardly save you, Miss Burns. Miss Diaments left for Graywich at eight this morning."

"I can't help that—I know I saw her," said Mary Burns, obstinately; her own "Scotch" getting up. "I could not be mistaken. She had on her bonnet and her gray riding-dress."

"At what hour did you come to school?" asked Miss Meeks, turning to Calista.

"I don't know exactly, Miss Meeks. It wanted a quarter to nine when I finished putting my desk in order. I looked at the clock to see how much time I had before school."

"You can go to your seat, Miss Burns," said Miss Meeks, severely. "And you will please remain there till the close of school. Miss McPherson is unfortunately laid up with one of her severe headaches; but I shall lay the matter before her as soon as she is able to attend to it, and perhaps some light may be thrown upon other events which have occurred lately."

"Miss Meeks," said Calista, warmly, "you may suspect Mary, if you please; but I shall never think that she either disarranged my desk or took anything that did not belong to her—never!"

"Miss Stanfield, you forget yourself. Go to your seat, as I tell you, Miss Burns. This matter shall be sifted to the bottom."

Mary obeyed with burning cheeks and a beating heart, and Miss Meeks went on with the business of the school. At recess all the girls gathered round Mary Settson and Calista.

"Have you really lost your needle-case, Calista? Do you believe Mary Burns got it?"

"No, I don't," answered Calista, shortly.

"But it could not go without hands, and who else could have touched it?" argued one of the girls.

"I don't know who did, but I know who didn't," answered Calista. "I wish the old needle-case had been in the bottom of the creek before I ever found it," she said to Mary, when they were alone. "It has made nothing but trouble so far. I no more believe Mary took it than I believe Miss Meeks did herself."

"But, you must admit, it had an odd look, Calista," said Mary. "I mean her stammering so, and her trying to throw the blame upon Antoinette, who must have been ten miles away."

"As to her stammering, she always does that," answered Calista. "As to her seeing Antoinette, I don't know exactly what to think; but I believe the truth will come out in time."

"Well, I must say you take the loss of your pretty case very philosophically—more so than I should," said Mary.

"I am not philosophical at all, I am very much vexed," returned Calista; "but I don't want to accuse any one falsely, and I don't see why Mary should say she saw Antoinette when she did not. I am very sorry Miss McPherson is sick; she would be at the bottom of the matter in no time. There is the recess bell. Where is Tessy to-day?"

"I don't know. Emma, where is Tessy?"

"Oh, she is quite laid up again with her ankle. She cannot walk at all. She thinks it is the weather, but I don't," added the little girl, with an air of wisdom. "I think it was going down to the milliner's after Antoinette's veil, which she forgot. And do you know, girls, the milliner would not let Tessy have it without pay, and Tessy was just silly enough to pay for it herself, after all."

"Well, she is a goose. Why did she do that?"

"Oh, she thought Antoinette would be so disappointed. Miss Jessy is as vexed as can be, and says Tessy's ankle will never be well unless she is more careful, and that she ought to go to a hospital, where she would be made to keep still."

"It would be more to the purpose to send Antoinette, I think," said Calista.

"It wouldn't make any difference," replied Emma. "If it was not Antoinette, it would be some one else. Tessy's great trouble is that she can never say 'no.'"

"I think you are right, little one," said Calista. "If you see Tessy, tell her I am coming up to see her after school—that is, if Miss Meeks will let me."

For it was a rule of the establishment that there should be no room-visiting between day scholars and boarders without express permission.

In the afternoon, as Miss Meeks had her hands full with the sole care of the great school-room (Miss Jessy being occupied with the care of her aunt), she sent Calista again to take charge of the little girls and their sewing, giving her permission to choose any one she pleased to help her. Calista chose Mary Settson, of course, and they had a pleasant afternoon. As she observed Mary's manner with the children, she could not but own that Miss Meeks was right, sad that Mary was not cut out for a teacher. Mary had a way with her that was not encouraging. She set a copy or gave instructions in knitting with a tone and manner which seemed to say,—

"Well, there it is, but I have not the least idea that you will do it right. I have no doubt you will blot the writing and pucker the seam, and drop half the stitches at least."

Calista, on the contrary, was always certain things would be done well, or, if they did not succeed the first time, that they would infallibly do so with a little more practice. The children felt the difference, and so did Mary herself, and it cost her a hard fight with her besetting enemy. But those who were for her were more than those who were against her, and she was able to say to Miss Meeks honestly, and without a quaver in her voice—

"Calista manages beautifully, Miss Meeks. I think she would make an excellent teacher in our Sunday-school, if we get one up."

"I dare say," replied Miss Meeks. "Well, Miss Stanfield and Miss Settson, I am much obliged to you."

"Please, Miss Meeks, may I go up and see Tessy?" asked Calista.

"You may go, but do not stay long. I think she is a little disposed to be feverish."

"Will you go, Mary?"

"I think not. I have a bit of work to finish. I will be ready to go out with you when you come down."

Calista found Tessy bolstered up on her little bed, with her French dictionary and a volume of fairy tales which belonged to Miss Jessy, and was only lent as a special favor. She looked pale and suffering, but welcomed her visitor cheerfully.

"And what is going on down stairs?" asked Tessy, presently. "I thought I heard one of the girls say something about Mary Burns being in trouble. The old story of mislaying her things, I suppose?"

"Well, yes, partly; it all grows out of that," answered Calista, determined not to be the first to tell of what she believed to be Mary Burns's undeserved disgrace. "I don't think it would have come to much if Miss McPherson had been about; but you know people make mountains out of mole-hills sometimes."

"Yes, and the mountain sometimes brings forth a ridiculous mouse."

"I suspect the mouse in this case will be ridiculous enough," said Calista. "But, Tessy, what made your ankle so much worse all at once? I thought it was almost well."

"It was a great deal better," answered Tessy, blushing. "I suppose I walked too much and too fast."

"That is to say, you half killed yourself, as usual, running to wait on Antoinette," said Calista.

"Well, yes, I suppose that was it. You see she forgot her veil and I had to go after it."

"Why did you have to? Why could not she call for it as she went along?"

"I don't know. I suppose she did not think of it."

"Well, I know," said Calista, "or at least I guess. Tell me now, honestly, did you not pay for it?"

Tessy blushed scarlet, and cast an imploring glance at Calista.

"Please don't tell, Calista; it will only get her into a scrape."

"I shall not tell, because it would get you into a scrape, you little goose. But I will tell you this, Tessy: if you ever want to be good for anything in this world—or any other, I might say—you must learn to say 'No,' and say it good and strong; in capital letters, with a string of exclamation points after it."

"I think I could always say no if it was about anything right or wrong," said Tessy, thoughtfully.

"Are you sure? Was there nothing wrong about this?"

"Why, no. Was there?"

"Yes, I think so. In the first place, you had no right to injure your ankle, especially as Dr. Elsmore told you that a little imprudence might lame you for life. In the second place, you know that Miss McPherson has forbidden Antoinette to borrow anything whatever, don't you?"

"Yes."

"And if it is wrong for her to borrow, it is clearly wrong for any one to lend to her."

"But it wasn't lending, exactly. Antoinette did not ask me to pay for the veil, though, to be sure, she must have known I could not get it without paying, because Mrs. McPherson has forbidden any one to trust the school-girls. Yes, I see, Calista, you are right, and I am a poor, weak, silly fool, and always shall be."

"Now you are going just as far the other way," said Calista. "I never said a word about your being a silly fool. All I say is that you must learn to say 'NO!' and say it good and strong."

"It seems so ill-natured," pleaded poor Tessy.

"Pray, whose good opinion do you care the most for, Antoinette's or Miss McPherson's? But there, I did not come to give you a dose of instructive moral sentiments. How does your work get on?"

"Oh, nicely; it is almost done, and Miss Jessy praises it up to the skies. Don't you want to see it? It is in that drawer, if you don't mind getting it out."

"How nice your drawers look!" said Calista.

"Yes, I am really learning to keep things straight, thanks to Miss Jessy. That is it. Spread it out."

Calista admired to Tessy's heart's content the lace-like netted curtains, with what we should now call a guipure pattern around the edge.

"They are perfectly lovely. Do you think they will sell?"

"Oh, yes; they are bespoken already by a friend of Miss McPherson's from Philadelphia—that Scotch lady who was here the first of the week."

"How glad I am! Mine is done, too, all but the border. I mean to knit a double row of rosebuds. There, I must not stay another minute, or Miss Meeks will be after me. Oh, by the by, Tessy, what time did Antoinette go away this morning?"

"Do you mean the first time or the last?"

"Why, did she go away twice?" asked Calista.

"Yes. She set out at eight o'clock, but something happened to the horse's foot, and uncle had to go to the blacksmith's; so Antoinette came back and waited till he was ready. She left the room here just as the quarter to nine bell was ringing, but she did not go away directly, I know. I heard her go into the school-room; I always know the peculiar squeak of her boots. Why?"

"Only that one of the girls thought she saw her in the school-room after the first bell rung, and Miss Meeks said it must be a mistake, because Antoinette went away at eight," said Calista, rejoicing in the power Tessy had given her of so far clearing Mary. "Good-bye, dear; I shall bring you some flowers Monday. I know where I can find some late laurel, and perhaps a moccasin-flower or two."

"Oh, thank you! I do love laurel, and I have not been able to get out to gather any this year."

Calista went straight to Miss Meeks's room, but she had gone out. Miss Jessy was sitting with Miss McPherson, who had just fallen asleep, and must not be disturbed on any account.

"I don't see but I must let the thing rest till Monday," said Calista to Mary, after she had told her Tessy's story.

"You might call and see Mary Burns herself," suggested Mary Settson. "But perhaps it would be as well to leave the whole matter till Monday, as you say. Mary needs a lesson."

"She may need a lesson, but I don't care to be the one to give it to her," answered Calista, with some warmth; "and I don't think I should thank any one for giving such a lesson to me. Would you?"

"Perhaps not," answered Mary; "and yet it might very good to me, for all that."

"Well, I don't feel any special mission for doing people good by keeping them in uncomfortable suspense when there is no need for it," returned Calista. "I would rather do as I would be done by. Come, let us stop and see Mary."

They were disappointed again. Mary had gone to her aunt's directly after school, and would probably stay all night, as her aunt was more than usually unwell.

"I can't go all the way up to Mrs. Rolfe's, that is certain," said Calista; "and I don't like to leave a message either. Well, let it go. Perhaps you will see her or Miss Meeks to-morrow. If you do, please tell them what Tessy says. Come, I must do Miss Druett's errands."

The errands were accomplished, and then Calista did one for herself. With a part of her dollar she bought a pound of sperm-candles—an article much cheaper and better than the parafine-candles which have taken their place.

"What on earth did you do that for?" asked Mary, as they turned into the street.

Calista laughed, and then became suddenly grave as she said—"I suppose you cannot realize what it is never to be allowed a light when you go to bed, except perhaps a mite of tallow-candle in winter."

"You don't mean to say you never have a light in your own room!"

"Neither light nor fire, except as I told you, in the dead of winter."

"But Miss Druett—"

"Miss Druett helps me all she can; but Aunt Priscilla keeps the keys. Now and then Chloe makes candles, and then she contrives to save one out for me. Good-bye, Mary. Do say a kind word to Mary Burns, if you get a chance. I am just as sure of her innocence as I am of yours or my own."

Calista had just reached the place where the river road turned off, when the rattle of wheels made her look round, and she saw Cassius driving up in his neat, serviceable little Jersey wagon. He stopped as he saw Calista.

"Evening, Missy," said he, taking off his hat as usual; "I heard you was on the road, and so I drove fast to catch up with you. Won't Missy have a ride?"

Calista gladly accepted the offer, and Cassius drove on leisurely, entertaining his companion with various little bits of news.