Chapter VII: Part 7

"Get your Bible and read the same chapter the minister read."

Calista obeyed, and Miss Druett listened with evident pleasure and interest.

"To think that any man with a heart could turn that into ridicule, whether he believed it or not!" said she when the chapter was finished. "Now tell me what hymns they sang. Do you know any of them?"

"Yes, ma'am. I know the whole of—"

"'Alas! and did my Saviour bleed,—'

"because we sing it sometimes in church."

"Sing it."

Calista sang the tender, simple old hymn, worth more than whole piles of sentimental stuff which go under the name of hymns in some quarters in these days. Miss Druett listened, and more than one tear stole out from under her closed eyelids.

Miss Priscilla listened as she nodded over her volume of Rousseau, in the parlors below, and made up her mind that she was not going to have that sort of thing going on in the house to please Druey nor any one else.

"Thank you, child. Your voice is like your father's and your grandmother's. There, get me some fresh water, and leave me alone. I dare say I shall have a good night."

CHAPTER FOURTEENTH.

OLD JAEL.

CALISTA rose early as usual, with the feeling that she was entering on a new life. She had lived heretofore for herself—now she must begin to live for him who had live and died, and lived again, for her. She read over again her mother's letter, and saw hosts of new meanings in it. Especially was she struck with these words:

"You must expect to meet with many trials within and without. It may be that you will no sooner resolve to be wholly a Christian than you will find yourself assaulted with more ad sorer temptations than you have ever experienced. This will be partly because you will see things to be wrong which you never thought to be so before—partly, but not wholly. Satan makes his fiercest assaults upon those who are just escaping from his grasp. Be instant in prayer, study your Bible daily, and I would advise you also to study the 'Pilgrim's Progress.' You will find it a treasury of help and instruction."

Some persons might have been discouraged by such a warning—Calista was not so.

"Sure I must fight if I would win," she said to herself. "I always did like that hymn."

And she began to sing it, and then instantly checked herself as she considered that might wake her neighbors.

"I believe I will go out and get the flowers I promised Tessy," said she. "When I am out in the woods, I can sing as much as I please."

She put on her oldest frock and shoes—not that there was so very much to choose between oldest and newest—and, crossing the burying-place, was soon in the shady place where she knew the laurel lingered longest. It was a little hollow on the edge of the woods, and was kept green and damp by three or four springs which united their waters to form a rill—a somewhat uncommon sight in those parts. The place was no favorite with the country people. On one side of the dell was a curious grave-shaped mound, from beneath which rose one of the little springs I have mentioned, which was reddened by oxide of iron. It was believed that a murdered man and his murderer had there been buried in one grave, and that the water, in its color, still bore witness to the deed—and that a kind of venomous snake was found there which lived nowhere else.

Calista had no superstitious fears, and she had never seen any of the snakes, so she was not at all alarmed, but went on gathering her flowers, and then, catching sight of a great prize—a fine cluster of yellow moccasin-flowers—she descended to the centre of the hollow, and, stepping lightly and carefully—for the centre of the hollow was dangerously soft and boggy—she secured her prize. As she did so, she was startled by an odd, hollow-sounding laugh, and rose hastily, to find herself face to face with a very tall woman, dressed in indescribable rags, whom she at once guessed to be Old Jael, the fortune-teller.

"Well done!" said the woman, with another mocking laugh. "'Tis a bold young lady who comes alone to the Murderer's Hollow to gather flowers."

"Why, you come here yourself, it seems," said Calista, whose spirit always rose against any attempt to frighten her; "why should I need any more boldness than you?"

"Ah, but I go to many places where the young lady dare not go," answered the old woman; "and in the dead of night, too."

"I dare say," returned Calista; "but you see I come in broad day, and for a good purpose, so I carry the blessing of God with me, and have nothing to fear."

"Nothing!" repeated the old woman. "Not even the snakes!"

"I have often been here and have never seen any snakes," said Calista.

"Well, I like a bold spirit," said the old woman. "Don't pretty Missy want her fortune told? Old Jael can tell her any fine things past and future."

"I know the past for myself, and as for the future, it is in God's hands," answered Calista; "he knows it, and that is far better than knowing it myself."

"Mighty fine words!" said the old woman; "but maybe I can make the proud young lady change her tune, when I tell her where she was—say last Wednesday evening—peeping and looking for the red gold all alone in the secret chamber!"

"I can do as much as that," said Calista, struck by a sudden thought; "I can tell who was climbing up on an old wall, peeping through holes and crannies like a cat."

The old Woman, who had evidently calculated greatly on the effect of her words, drew back as if some one had struck her, and turned more ashy pale than she was before.

"No, Mother Jael, I want none of your skill," said Calista, as she turned to go. "As you have offered to tell my fortune, I will tell you something in return: 'he that believeth on the Son of God hath eternal life, and he that believeth not shall not see life, but the wrath of God abideth on him.' I advise you to go to the meeting Wednesday night, and learn what will do you good. Good-morning."

The woman nodded not ungraciously, and stood looking till Calista was out of sight.

"You are a bold one, anyhow, and I like your spunk; but—Yes, we must have her out of the way, or we shall do nothing."

Muttering thus to herself, she walked away in the opposite direction with more activity than could have been expected.

Calista put her flowers in water, changed her draggled dress and shoes, and then went to see Miss Druett, whom she found, to her surprise, up and ready for breakfast.

"Are you able to go down?" asked Calista. "I was coming to ask if I had better not stay at home and take care of you."

"Nonsense, child! I am not sick; it is only a cold. Where have you been so early?"

"I have been in the Red Hollow after flowers, and I have met the presiding genius of the place."

And Calista recounted her adventure.

"Were you not frightened?" asked Miss Druett.

"Not a bit! I believe I scared her a good deal more than she did me."

"Still, I don't like your meeting her."

"But, dear Miss Druett, I can't stay in the house all the time for fear of Old Jael. Do you think, like Chloe, that she is a witch?"

"I think she is an unscrupulous, wicked woman, and that is bad enough," replied Miss Druett. "I don't like to have you lose one of your few pleasures, but I must say I don't fancy your meeting her. How bright you look!"

"I feel bright; I feel as if I were in a new world. Oh, Miss Druett, if you would only find him too! Why won't you try?"

"There, don't talk about it, child," replied Miss Druett, hastily; "pray that he may find me, and perhaps he will. Come, it is time to go down."

Calista walked somewhat more slowly than usual this morning, and reached the school-room just as the first bell rung. She went directly to her desk and looked into it, half hoping to see the missing needle-case, which she disliked losing, both for its own sake and because she knew the trouble the loss would occasion at home. It was not there, however, and her desk was exactly as she left it.

"It is very strange," thought Calista; "anyway, I am sure Mary did not take it."

Mary Burns and Antoinette Diaments were the last to enter—the latter in her riding-dress, which she had had no time to change. She had hoped to reach school in time to restore the case to its place, but in this she was disappointed; and as she looked at its beauty, she could hardly make up her mind to return it at all.

"Calista is so giddy, Miss McPherson will think she lost it herself; and so will Miss Meeks, if I can only get held of her first."

Mary Burns looked tired and worn with grief and watching, as, indeed, she was; but her face, in all its sorrowful paleness, had a steadfast, settled expression. She knew in whom she had put her trust, and she did not believe he would desert her in the hour of need, however he might suffer her to be tried. For this poor, plain, stammering tailor's daughter had a faith which nothing could shake. She would have faced all the sophistry of all the infidels in the world with the simple unanswerable argument of St. John:

"WE have SEEN him."

It was the custom on Monday morning for each person in the school-room, beginning with Miss McPherson herself, to recite a verse from Holy Scripture. The verses this morning were unusually significant to those who were in the secrets of the past few days. Miss McPherson's was from the thirty-second Psalm and fifth verse:

"'I said, I will confess my transgressions unto the Lord; and thou
forgavest the iniquity of my sin.'"

Miss Jessy's (with a beseeching glance at poor Mary) was:

"'If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our
sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.'" (1 John 1:9.)

Miss Meeks (sharply, and with a glance in the same direction):

"'Be sure your sin will find you out.'" (Numbers 32:23.)

It was Mary Burns's turn next, and she spoke up clearly, and with a bright light in her usually pale blue eyes.

"He shall bring forth thy righteousness as the light, and thy judgment
as the noonday." (Ps. 37:6.)

"How hardened she must be to choose that verse!" thought Miss Meeks.

But Miss McPherson and Miss Jessy exchanged a glance which said, "She is innocent, whoever is guilty."

Antoinette was unfortunate. She had opened hastily to the same Psalm, and, keeping her Bible in her lap (for she had quite forgotten to learn a verse), she read the first her eye fell upon:

"The wicked borroweth, and payeth not again: but the righteous is
merciful, and giveth." (Ps. 37:21.)

Calista's eyes brightened and her color deepened beautifully as she repeated:

"We have found him, of whom Moses in the law, and the prophets, did
write, Jesus of Nazareth." (John 1:45.)

There was a short silence after Miss McPherson's prayer, is which she asked that the innocent might be justified and the guilty led to confession and amendment. Then she made a little speech. She said most of those before her had heard of the loss of the needle-case from Miss Stanfield's desk, and the suspicion which had fallen on one of their number. If the matter had not become public already, she should not have made it so, but she hoped all would suspend their judgment.

Then she asked, "Can any one throw any light on this matter?"

Then, as no one else said anything, Calista spoke modestly:

"Miss McPherson, there is one point at least in which Mary Burns can be cleared. She said that she saw Antoinette come out of the school-room at a quarter to nine, but Miss Meeks thought she must be wrong, because Antoinette went away before eight."

She paused and looked at Antoinette, who gave her a vengeful glance in return.

"Well, what then?" asked Miss McPherson, after waiting a moment for Antoinette to speak.

"Tessy told me that her cousin came back because some accident happened to the horse," answered Calista. "Antoinette staid in Tessy's room till just before the quarter bell rung, and then went to the school-room, or so Tessy thought. So Mary might have seen her, as she said."

"Is this true?" asked Miss McPherson of Antoinette.

"Yes, ma'am," answered Antoinette, temper and the wish for revenge getting the better of her prudence. "I did not mean to say anything, but, since Miss Stanfield seems determined to throw the blame upon me, I must tell the whole story. I was in the school-room a moment, my skirt came untied, and I stepped behind the study door to fasten it. As I stood there, I saw Mary Burns come into the room and look into Miss Stanfield's desk. She turned the things over till she found something, and dropped it into her inside pocket. Then she took a book, shut the desk, and went hastily out."

"You did not see what she took?" said Miss McPherson.

"No, ma'am. It was something pretty heavy, which pulled her pocket down, and jingled a little."

"What do you say to this, Mary Burns?" asked Miss McPherson, turning to her.

"It is not true, Miss McPherson. I did not turn over one thing. I took up the 'Lady of the Lake' and read a little, and then I laid it down, took the volume of Goldsmith, and carried it away. I have no more to say."

"I am sure I don't know what to think," said Miss McPherson, much perplexed.

"I should say it was all very plain," said Miss Meeks, not perplexed at all, as, indeed, people seldom are who have made up their minds beforehand. "Here is positive evidence on one side, and simple denial on the other."

"Good!" thought Antoinette. "You might have held your tongue, Miss Stanfield."

But another witness was to the fore on whom she had not calculated. Elizabeth Howell had come a little late and sat down quietly by the door. She now rose up, tall, fair, and prim, as delicate as an August lily, in her light-gray bombazine and clean muslin kerchief and apron.

"I should like to speak to thee in private, Friend McPherson."

"What can she have to say?" thought Antoinette, but without much misgiving. "She does not know anything about the matter. I took care of that."

After a few minutes' conversation, Miss McPherson opened the door of her private room and called—

"Miss Meeks, will you come in? Miss Burns, Miss Stanfield, Miss Antoinette Diaments, Miss Settson, please come also. The young ladies will recite their French grammar to Miss Jessy."

The party tolerably filled the little room. Elizabeth looked a little flushed, and Miss McPherson both grieved and angry.

"You will please listen, Miss Meeks and young ladies, to what Elizabeth Howell has to say."

"First, if Friend McPherson pleases, I should like, Calista, to hear thee describe the needle-case."

Calista did so, taxing her memory to be exact in every particular.

"Precisely so!" said Elizabeth. "I saw Antoinette Diaments at her cousin Richard Whitecar's, in Graywich, and she had and was using just such a case as Calista describes."

"How could you see it, I should like to know, when I put it in my pocket before you came into the room?" asked Antoinette, unguardedly.

"Then you admit that you had it!" said Miss McPherson.

Antoinette saw she had betrayed herself, and was sullenly silent.

"Please answer her question, Elizabeth."

"I saw the whole through the window, and reflected in the large mirror opposite," answered Elizabeth. "I came in by the back way, as I often do." (The two families being relations as well as neighbors.) "I stood two or three minutes watching some kittens at play, and then looked into the room. I could not see Antoinette—only her reflection in the glass, and this case on the table, with the scissors, by her side. Antoinette was using the thimble. I was rather struck, and it did occur to me to wonder whether this was the needle-case that had made all the trouble. Then Richard Whitecar came along and spoke to me, and I saw Antoinette hastily gather up the things and put them in her pocket. Then I felt quite sure. I meant to speak to Antoinette about the matter, but had no private opportunity. It seemed to me this morning that the attempt to throw blame on Mary Burns was a clear call to tell what I knew."

There was a moment's silence, and then Miss McPherson said, in a sterner tone than had ever been heard from her before—

"Antoinette, where is the needle-case?"

Antoinette was obstinately silent.

"Miss Meeks, you will please search Miss Diaments's room thoroughly, and especially her travelling-basket and work-bag. Antoinette, stay here—" (For Antoinette was moving toward the door). "Sit down on that chair, and do not stir from it till I give you permission. I will have this matter sifted to the bottom."

There was a short but very awkward pause till Miss Meeks returned without the needle-case, and looking a good deal excited.

"I cannot find it," said she.

"Of course you can't, when it is not there!" said Antoinette, in a tone of triumph.

"Look in her desk," was the next order.

"Look as much as you please!" said Antoinette insolently.

But her manner changed as Miss Meeks said pointedly, "There are some things in Miss Diaments's room which need investigation."

"I will attend to that matter," said the principal. "Look in her pockets."

Antoinette turned pale.

"I won't have my pockets searched!" she stammered. "It is a pity if the daughter of one of the richest men in the state is to be insulted for the sake of beggarly tailor's girl!"

Antoinette had kept fast hold of her work-bag, but in her agitation she dropped it. It fell on the floor with a heavy, ringing sound.

Miss Meeks picked it up and opened it. There was the case.

"Antoinette, I beg for your own sake you will confess the whole matter," said Miss McPherson, earnestly. "Tell the whole truth, my poor child."

"I shall not tell anything!" answered Antoinette. "If you choose to make a fuss about it you can. I guess you will lose more than I shall. I don't think you will make much by quarrelling with the richest man in the state for the sake of tippling old tailor Burns's daughter."

Those who knew Miss McPherson actually trembled for the effect of these words. That lady, however, answered with a calmness more alarming than any storm—

"Miss Diaments, you are no longer a member of this school. You will remain in this room till I can send for your uncle. Mary Burns, my dear, you are entirely cleared from the shadow of blame. Is she not, Miss Meeks?"

"So far as this matter is concerned, certainly," said Miss Meeks; "but I must remind her that but for certain past equivocations, to call them by a mild name, I should not have suspected her."

"I know I have not always told the truth exactly, Miss Meeks," answered Mary, humbly. "I have been easily frightened and confused, and sometimes I have seemed to tell lies when I did not mean to. But I hope I shall be enabled to do better, and not think so much of what men will think of me."

Miss Meeks was melted. She kissed Mary, and told her she had no doubt she meant to be a very good girl.

"You will now all return to your places," said Miss McPherson. "Miss Meeks will clear Miss Burns, and I hope we shall none of us be the worse for the lesson we have received."

Miss McPherson spent some time in trying to persuade Antoinette to a confession, but Antoinette was obstinate. The fact was, she did not believe Miss McPherson would dare to expel her, and took all her persuasive gentleness for a method of getting gracefully out of the scrape.

"Very well, I shall say no more," said Miss McPherson. And rising she led Antoinette to a smaller room which opened from her own, and which was used in extreme cases as a kind of chamber of penitence. "You will remain in this room, seeing no one, till I can see your uncle, and make arrangements for you to return with him."

"I must put up my things," said Antoinette, for the first time showing some alarm.

"I shall myself look over and put up your things with the assistance of Mrs. McGregor."

Antoinette now gave way entirely, and with tears and sobs and the most abject entreaties begged to be allowed to go to her room, if only for a few minutes, to put up her own things.

"No," answered Miss McPherson, her suspicions confirmed by Antoinette's conduct. "I must attend to that matter myself. The servant will bring your dinner, but you will not leave this room."

So saying Miss McPherson left the room, shutting and locking the door. She was sorry for the girl, but hers was not the false compassion which will expose the innocent to contamination on the mere chance of reforming the guilty. She found more than enough in her search of Antoinette's room to confirm her resolution. It was astonishing to see how many little articles, some of considerable value, which had been given up for lost by their owners, were found carefully hidden in boxes and under beds. It seemed evident that Antoinette must have carried on the business of petty thieving almost ever since she had been in the school.

Antoinette departed in the afternoon, regretted by no one, unless by Tessy, who had been the greatest sufferer by her meanness. I may as well say that neither her father nor mother believed one word against their daughter, her mother declaring that Antoinette never told a lie in her life. Two or three large sums paid on account of shoplifting performances, and a final disgraceful elopement, partly opened her father's eyes, but her mother persisted in declaring that it was all the fault of the influences under which poor Antoinette was thrown at that abominable Cohansey school.

This is no fancy sketch, as many a teacher can testify. It is no wonder, seeing of what it is the root and spring, that God abhors covetousness.

CHAPTER FIFTEENTH.

EVIL INFLUENCES.

"WELL, I am sorry for Antoinette, after all," said Calista, as the girls gathered in the play-ground.

"So am not I," returned Mary Settson. "She brought it all on herself, and deserves a far worse punishment."

"I don't deny that, but still I am sorry for her. And, Mary, what would have become of all of us if somebody had not been sorry for us while we were yet sinners?"

"But she was so mean to try to throw all on poor Mary."

"That is true. I don't extenuate her fault in the least, but still I am sorry for her."

"Well, I ain't so sure, after all, about this business," said Charity Latch, who was a great worshipper of wealth. "It seems a great deal more likely that a poor beggar like Mary Burns should steal than that Antoinette should."

"I should like to know what makes Mary Burns a beggar," said two or three girls at once, and Emma added, "Did she ever beg anything of you?"

"If she did, she didn't get it," said Belle. "We all know Mary is poor, but there is not a girl in the school less of a beggar than she. I think she even goes too far the other way. She just hates to receive a favor. As to Antoinette, there can be no doubt. She not only took the needle-case, but a good many other things besides, my button-hole scissors and cornelian necklace, that I thought I lost in the street, among others. One would think she need not have done that, when she had such lovely cameos of her own."

"I am glad Mary is cleared, anyhow," observed Calista. "Dear little soul, how pretty she looked when she stood up and said her verse! And I am glad I have my needle-case back, but I am sorry for Antoinette, and I think—" Calista hesitated a little and blushed as she added—"I think we ought to pray for her."

"What, is Saul among the prophets?" said Belle. "Are you going to be another Mary Settson? We sinners are likely to be deserted entirely."

Mary put on her "martyr face," as Belle called it, and turned away. Calista only said, gently and seriously—

"Don't, Belle. I know you don't mean any harm, but don't make fun of religion or things connected with it. Think if your words should come true!"

"Well, I won't," said Belle, more seriously; "I know you are right, even as a matter of good taste. But tell us, Calista, do you really mean to be a Christian, like Mary and Clarissa Whitman?"

"I don't know that I shall be like anybody," replied Calista, "but I do really mean to be a Christian if I can."

"Well, for my part, I'd wait and see if I was going to persevere, if I were you, before I spoke out so plainly," said Charity. "But I don't call any girl in this school a consistent Christian, for my part. There's Clary Whitman—just look at her playing battledore and shuttlecock with Emma Ross."

"Well, where is the harm? I don't know anything in the Bible against playing battledore and shuttlecock, do you? I am sure Clary Whitman is a good girl, if there ever was one," said Belle, warmly; for she was one of those happy spirits that delight in the goodness of other people. "Come, Calista, will you have a game, or do you think it is wicked?"

"Not a bit," said Calista; "but I can't play now, Belle. I must find Mary; I have something to tell her."

Calista found Mary Settson sitting pensively in the school-room, and sat down by her.

"What is the matter?" she asked. "Surely you don't mind Belle's words. You know she means no harm."

"I don't know how you can say that, when she laughs at religion as she does."

"Oh, she was not laughing at religion exactly, she was laughing at us. Besides, when I told her I did not think it was right, she stopped directly. But I want to tell you ever so many things, Mary—so many, I don't know where to begin. But, first of all, Mary, I have found him, as my verse said. I have found Jesus of Nazareth."

The little snake of jealousy and ill-humor which had been hissing in Mary's heart for a few minutes was silent and dived into his den. She kissed Calista.

"Tell me how it was," said she.

"It began with mother's Bible, and some letters I found in her desk—for you must know that, thanks to Miss Druett, I have all mother's things. I made up my mind that I must and would be a Christian, and then I found a letter—such a letter!—from Aunt Priscilla to mother.

"That upset me again, for I knew I must forgive, or my own sins would never be forgiven; and I felt sure I never could. But Sunday evening Mr. Alger preached in the old red meeting-house, and I went to hear him. His text was,—

"'Behold the Lamb of God!'

"Oh, Mary, I can't tell it all, but he made me see him in the garden and on the cross, and all for me. All the bitterness seemed to go out of my heart, and I felt I could forgive anything—even the cruelty to my poor, gentle mother. I said,—

"'Lord, if thou wilt—'

"And he did. I did not do it at all."

"I am sure I am very thankful," said Mary; "I did not suppose Mr. Alger was a very eloquent preacher."

"I don't know whether he was eloquent or not," said Calista; "I did not think of the preacher at all—it was what he said. He brought me just the help I wanted. And we are to have another meeting Wednesday evening, and perhaps a Sunday-school."

"I rather wonder your aunt should let you go," said Mary.

"Oh, I did not ask her. Miss Druett let me. I am to be Miss Druett's girl now. But, all the same, I mean to qualify myself for a teacher, as you advised me. I think one can do as much good in that way as any other; don't you?"

"Yes, indeed; but I hope you won't ever have to work for a living, Calista."

"Oh, I shall not mind, if only I am as well and strong as I am now. By the way, when is your father coming home?"

"Oh, not for a long time, and that is something I had to tell you," replied Mary. "Father has written from Princeton for Alice and me to join him there, and we are going a long journey with him up to Vermont or somewhere. This is the last day I shall have in school."

"Oh, how sorry I am! I was counting on having you sit with me."

"I will next term. And, Calista, if you like, you can have my place in the drawing-class. There are three weeks to vacation, and you might do quite a good deal in that time."

"Oh, thank you! I shall like it ever so much! I have all mother's pencils and paints. But I am so sorry you are going away. I shall miss you more than ever now."

"You will have a better friend than I," said Mary. "I shall feel a great deal easier about you now that I know you have learned to love him," she added, feeling that her sympathy with her friend had not been as hearty as it ought to have been. In fact, the little snake had put out his head again and whispered that it was very strange Calista had been so affected by the preaching of such a dull old man as Mr. Alger, while she (Mary) had talked and urged in vain. Surely Calista ought to have listened to her. Probably it was only some passing excitement—some mere emotion, and not a real conversion. But Mary had come to know the voice of the serpent, and she, so to speak, set her heel on his head with a force that sent him crushed and wounded to his den.

The next day Mary went away, and Belle Adair came to occupy Antoinette's vacant place. She was not precisely the companion Calista would have chosen, but they got on well together. Belle recognized the force of principle which made Calista absolutely refuse to whisper or to take any notice of any little notes written in school hours. In her turn she did Calista good by her orderly habits and punctuality in doing the hour's work in its own hour.

They soon became great friends, and every one noticed that Belle had entirely left off her habit of jesting on serious subjects, and that she even came down sharply on Charity for a riddle founded on Scripture, telling her that was not the way to use the Bible. If she had lived in these days, when "Bible Puzzles" are published in religious newspapers, perhaps she would not have been so particular.

At the Old Stanfield Manor things were a good deal altered. Miss Priscilla scrimped, and saved, and scolded, but did not interfere as usual with Calista, and it seemed, sometimes, as if she were even trying to conciliate her niece.

Calista was sure her aunt had more than one interview with Zeke and Jael. At first Miss Priscilla would steal out to the barn or the edge of the wood, but at last the old woman would come boldly to the house and ask for Miss Stanfield. Then the two would be closeted together for an hour, and Jael would go away laden with provisions. These interviews usually took place on Sunday morning or evening, when Miss Druett and Calista were at church. For Miss Druett had taken to going to the Sunday evening meetings, and had actually given something to help on the repairs of the old meeting-house.

"There goes Jael now!" said Calista, as they were walking home on Wednesday evening, and came in sight of the house just in time to see Jael leaving it with a large bundle in her arms.

"What is that old woman after?" asked Calista. "Miss Druett, what does it mean, do you suppose?"

Miss Druett sighed. "I am afraid it means mischief, child. I wish Mr. Settson would come home, though I hardly know what he could do if he were here. Nobody could say that your aunt is insane. My only hope is that she will become disgusted with the rapacity of these people, as she was before. However, if Mr. Settson were here, he might find some means of driving them away, though I fancy they are like some animals which are said never to commit depredations in their own neighborhoods."

"Did you notice Tom Edgar to-night?" asked Calista.

"I noticed that he sung very finely, and seemed much affected. He seems very regular in his attendance."

"I heard him tell Mr. Alger that he hoped he had found the Lord at last. And what do you think Mr. Heminway said?"

"Something very encouraging, I dare say."

"He said, 'Well, I hope he has; but he has been a dreadful wild, hard case, and for my part I don't believe in sudden conversions.'

"Then old Brother Davis said, 'Brother Heminway, it's a good thing you wasn't in Jerusalem on the day of Pentecost; you'd never have believed in those three thousand being taken into the church.'

"And then Mr. Heminway frowned, and said he didn't believe in using Scripture in that way."

"In what way?"

"In the way that went against him, I suppose," answered Calista, shrewdly. "I have noticed people seldom do. But I wanted to ask you about the Sunday-school, Miss Druett. Mr. Alger wishes me to take a class of little colored girls."

"Well, I have no objections, if it does not tire you too much. You will learn more than you will teach for a time, but that won't hurt you or your scholars either."

"Mr. Alger asked me if you would teach a class."

"I would if I were able. I used to teach a Sunday-class years ago, in Philadelphia, and liked it very much."

"And don't you feel able?"

"No, child. Oh, I am not sick; you need not open your eyes so wide, and look so alarmed! But it tires me to talk much lately, and I shall have to be a little more careful of my health than I have been. I am beginning to find out that I have bones and nerves to ache and keep me awake nights, as well as other people. But as to yourself, I think the teaching will be very good for you. You will never find out how much you don't know till you try to tell what you do know."

"I have found that out already, helping Miss Meeks. But I do wish you would have a doctor, Miss Druett."

"Nonsense, child! I am not sick; what should I want a doctor for?"

The next day Calista had been out in the pasture hunting mushrooms, and coming back across the little burying-ground as the nearest way, she stopped to pull some tall weeds from her grandfather's grave. As she did so, she saw that the long grass had been disturbed and a little earth scattered about.

"Oh ho, Mr. Ground-squirrel, are you here!" said she. "I think you might find a better place."

As she moved away the long grass with her foot, she caught sight of something glittering. She bent down and drew it out. It was a long purse, such as people used in those days, and are beginning to use again, and well filled with coin and bills. She knew it in a moment—her aunt Priscilla's purse. How in the world did it come there?

She did not stop to think, but hurried home and went straight to the sitting-room, mushrooms and all. Miss Priscilla was nodding over her book, Miss Druett sewing, as usual.

"Aunt Priscilla, have you lost anything?" said she.

Miss Priscilla started, put her hand in her pocket mechanically, and turned pale as ashes.

"My purse!" said she, in a kind of shrill whisper. "Where is my purse?"

"When did you have it last?" asked Miss Druett.

"Last night, at the back kitchen door. Oh, what shall I do? Who has taken it?"

"Here it is," said Calista, producing it. "Now, where do you guess I found it?"

"Out by the door," said Miss Druett.

"Not a bit. You are not even warm."

"Then you must tell us."

"That I will, for I am sure you will never guess." And Calista told where she had discovered the purse.

Miss Priscilla looked more scared than ever.

"You—you don't suppose he came and got it, do you, Druey?"

"Your father, do you mean? No, indeed. I think some one took it and hid it for purposes of their own—probably to make a parade of telling where it was and restoring it."

"Exactly," said Calista; "I never thought of that."

"It was very odd that you should find it."

"I would not if I had not stopped to pull the weeds from grandfather's grave. Aunt Priscilla, why don't you have that place put in order? I should not dare go near it, only that ivy never poisons me. It is a shame to have it so neglected."

"Well, well, perhaps I will some time," said Miss Priscilla, after she had counted her money and found it was all there. "You are a lucky girl, Calista. You are always finding things. Who knows but you would find the pirates' gold, if you were to look for it?"

"I never shall find it, because I never shall look for it," said Calista, boldly. "I believe, as Cassius says, that if there is any such treasure, it would be bloody gold and bring ill fortune to any one that touched it."

"Why do you let your thoughts run so much on such matters, Priscilla?" said Miss Druett. "Suppose you found a thousand pounds of gold, what good would it do you? You would never spend it or give it away, and any minute you might be called to leave it."

Miss Priscilla looked as if she thought "Druey" had suddenly gone mad.

"What do you mean?" said she.

"I mean what I say," said Miss Druett, "and I am going to free my mind for once. You know that you must die, like all the rest of us. It is the only event to which we can look forward with any certainty. You cannot take money into the grave with you. Shrouds have no pockets, and a coffin is made only just large enough to hold the corpse it is meant for. Perhaps this very night you will hear the summons—then whose shall those things be that you have prepared? Come, Priscy, we have been wandering in the wilderness of this world a great many years; let us set our faces heavenward, asking the way thither, and go heme to God together."

Calista had often noticed the curious musical chord in Miss Druett's voice, but she had never heard its tones so rich and harmonious as now. She sprung forward in her usual impulsive way, threw her arms round Miss Druett's neck, and kissed her.

"Oh, I am so glad!" she exclaimed. "Oh, do, Aunt Priscilla!"

"Do what?" asked Miss Priscilla, sullenly. "I will tell you what I won't do. I won't have my house turned into a Methodist meeting-house. If you must believe in such nonsense, keep it to yourself. I haven't made any objection to your running off to meeting and all that, but I won't have any such stuff here, I tell you that."

Just then Chloe opened the door with a handful of letters.

"Here's the mail, and here's one for you, Miss Calista. You are in luck to-day."

"In more ways than one it seems," said Calista. "Oh how sorry I am!" she exclaimed, as she read.

"What now?" asked Miss Druett.

"Mr. Settson and the girls are not coming home for several weeks," replied Calista. "Mary says,—

"'Papa has heard of something very important, which will take him to Boston, so he will be away for some weeks longer. He says you must keep my place in the drawing-class till I come.'"

"Drawing, indeed!" said Miss Priscilla. "Spinning would be more to the purpose. You shall stay at home and learn to spin."

"Remember the child belongs to me, Priscilla; that was part of the bargain."

"Well, well, have her; I don't care. I must go to town this afternoon, Druey, and I want you to go with me."

"Very well," said Miss Druett. "I have an errand of my own. Calista, stay within bounds, and don't go running over the woods. We shall have you bitten by one of the gray snakes, or killed by a wild pig or something."

"I don't in the least believe in the gray snakes," said Calista. "I have never seen one yet, as often as I have been in the Red Hollow. But I shall not go out of the house, for I have a bit of work to finish for the fair."

"Oh, it is to-morrow, is it? Whom do you mean to stay with?—For I suppose you must stop all night with some one."

"Emma Ross asked me to stay with her. Clary Whitman and Belle Adair are going to be there, so we shall have a fine time. Elizabeth Howell won't come, because she says she has not a clear evidence that it is right. The girls laugh at her, but I don't see anything to laugh at. It seems to me if you are not sure that a thing is right, it makes that thing wrong for you."

"She is quite correct. Keep that rule in mind, and you will save yourself a deal of trouble."

When her aunt and Miss Druett were gone, Calista established herself in the front room with the child's apron she was ornamenting in crewels. Thanks to her mother's store of working materials, she was now able to do something independently.

The front parlor was kept in decent order, only by the exertions of Miss Druett, and hither Calista resorted with her work, pulling down the inside venetian blinds, so that she could see without being seen. She had not sat long before she saw old Jael come to the kitchen door and speak to Chloe. By leaning a little out of the window she could hear the whole conversation.

"Where's your mistress?"

"What's that to you?"

"Come, old woman, keep a civil tongue, will you? Is Miss Stanfield at home?"

"She's gone to town, if you must know."

"Has she found her purse?"

"She hasn't lost it. I saw it in her hands just as she went away."

"But, I tell you, she did lose it," said the old woman, in a voice which betrayed some agitation. "She lost it last night, I know."

"Oh, you do, do you?" thought Calista. "I thought so."

"Well, if I was a fortune-teller, I'd tell straighter than that," said Chloe, in a tone of great contempt. "Don't I know Miss Priscy? I tell you if she had lost her purse last night, not one in this house would have a wink of sleep till it was found. Besides, I saw it in her hands not an hour ago—the very long green purse she always carries; so you needn't talk to me."

"Well, well, I dare say you are right, only I thought I heard something about it. Get me a drink of cider, Chloe, there's a good soul. You'll be old yourself some day."

"I ain't far from it now," mid Chloe, relenting a little, as it seemed by her tone. "Then sit down in the shade, and I'll give you some cider, and your pail full of skim milk if you want it."

Calista heard the kitchen door shut and bolted, while Chloe departed on her errand.

But Jael did not sit down in the shade. She hurried across the road with wonderful swiftness, and disappeared for a moment behind General Stanfield's monument. When she appeared again, her face was a curious mixture of anger, confusion, and fear. She got back just in time to meet Chloe as she unbarred the door.

"What took you across the road in such a hurry?" asked Chloe. "I saw you from the buttery window."

"I thought I saw a lame quail," said the old woman.

"Smart you must be, to be taken in by a lame quail! There, there's a fine pail of milk and some cold potatoes for you. Why don't you and your husband settle down like decent folks, and have good times?"

"Oh, we have our good times now and then as well as you," chuckled the old woman. "Thank you all the same. Good-bye."

"She ain't a witch, that's certain," muttered Chloe to herself, as she watched Jael out of sight. "Maybe she is something as bad or worse; anyhow, a pail of milk won't hurt her."

Calista laughed behind the blinds to think how she had circumvented the old woman. But she did not know all the plans in that wicked old head, by a great deal.

CHAPTER SIXTEENTH.

THE FAIR.

THE fair was a great success, though a good deal of the pleasure was marred to Calista by the absence of several of her friends. Miss McPherson had been called to New York to see Miss Jessy off for Scotland, whither she had gone to attend to a small inheritance which had fallen to her. Miss Meeks was with her sister, who was sinking in a rapid decline. Mary Settson was going about with her father, now and then writing a long letter to Calista—now and then, but not very often, for postage was a consideration in those days, when every single letter cost eighteen cents and a double one a great deal more.

The law was a very whimsical one. You might use one sheet the size of a barn door, if you could get one; but if you put in a second bit of paper, though no larger than a visiting card, you must pay double postage. Under such circumstances, a letter was a grave consideration.

In Miss Jessy's absence, Clary Whitman took charge of the school table, assisted by Calista and Belle Adair, who had come back to Cohansey for the purpose. Everything went off beautifully. Calista had hardly ever been out in an evening before, and she thoroughly enjoyed it. For once in her life she had the pleasure of appearing in a handsome new frock—a sprigged India muslin, which she had found among her mother's things.

For the satisfaction of my young lady readers, I will just mention that it was made with a short waist, of the style then called Grecian, very large gigot sleeves with stiffeners, a lace cape with ruffles, crossed and fastened behind, and a broad blue silk belt, fastened with a gilt buckle.

Every one noticed how very handsome she looked, and what ladylike, modest manners she had, and every one wondered how she came to be there at all. Almost all the articles on the table were sold and brought good prices. Old Mr. Fabian himself bought Mary Burns's rug to put under his office table, and his wife even bought Charity Latch's work-bag, saying to herself that it would do to hold clothes-pins, and it was a pity the poor thing should be mortified when she had done her best.

Clarissa Whitman, Belle Adair, and Calista spent the night with Emma Ross. Bell and Calista, slept together, and as they were going to bed, Calista said, in the most natural way in the world:

"Oh, Emma, will you lend me a Testament?"

"I've got one for you," said Belle. "It is in my trunk. I thought a pocket Testament would be convenient if you were teaching a Sunday-class, so I brought you one."

"Oh, thank you," said Calista, gratefully. "I have wanted one ever so much. How very pretty!"

"Do you suppose Miss Stanfield will let you keep it?" asked Emma. "I heard that she would not allow one in the house, and when she and Miss Druett found an old one somewhere, they trampled it all to pieces and then burned it up."

"Nonsense!" said Calista, laughing. "My poor aunt is not quite so bad as that. Miss Druett and I each have one, and we read together every day. But I suppose people tell all sorts of things about our family."

"Indeed they do. Such stories—" Emma began, but Belle interrupted her—

"Don't tell her, Emma. What is the use of repeating such things? I am of my stepmother's opinion about that. Some one came to her with a story of what Mrs. So-and-so had said. Mamma checked her at once, in that tremendously dignified way she has when she chooses.

"'Please don't tell me if it is anything unpleasant,' said she. 'If it is anything agreeable, I shall be glad to hear it.'"

"Well, I dare say you are right," said Emma, smiling, but blushing a little; "so I will tell Calista that Mr. Alger said she was one of the greatest helps he had in his work at the mills. He told pa so."

"What a sweet temper Emma has!" said Belle. "She is a little too fond of gossip though."

"She hears a good deal of it, I presume," said Calista. "Perhaps no one is quite as careful as they should be, unless it is Elizabeth Howell."

"Or yourself."

"Well, I am not under any very great temptations. Miss Druett does not talk about people at all, and Aunt Priscilla calls them all fools."

"I should not think your religion and your aunt would agree very well," Belle ventured to say.

"Oh, well—she snaps sometimes, but either she is not so sharp as she used to be, or I don't mind it so much. I really get on quite nicely. But, please, don't talk for a little, Belle. I want to read my chapter and say my prayers."

"I will be as mute as a fish at Quaker meeting," said Belle. "But don't keep all the good to yourself. Read your chapter aloud."

Calista did so, and Belle listened with evident interest; and when Calista knelt down, she sat quite still till she had finished.

"I'll tell you what, Calista, you are a comfortable sort of Christian to be with," said Belle, when they were both in bed and the light was out. "You don't put on a long face, and look all the time as if you were afraid something dreadful was going to be done or said, like—"

"Hush, now! I won't have you censorious," said Calista.

"Well, I won't say it, then; but you know who I mean, all the same."

"You two would be the best friends in the world if you would only come to understand one another," said Calista.

"How are you to come to an understanding with a person who always takes it for granted that you mean to say and do the very worst thing possible?" demanded Belle, with some heat.

"Oh, come; you judge too hardly. M—, that person is naturally inclined to low spirits and brooding. It is very different with me."

"Yes, I know that. But if she is a Christian, why doesn't she try to overcome such a disposition as that?"

"She does try. And anyhow, Belle, it is better to be a faulty Christian, who knows her faults and tries to conquer them, than not to be a Christian at all."

"Well, I don't know; I don't think I would try unless I could be a perfect Christian—consistent in all things."

"If your rule had been followed out, we should never have had any Christian Church at all," said Calista. "There was not one of the Apostles that we know anything about but had some fault."

"Oh, Calista!—St. John!"

"Well, he was for calling down fire on his enemies; and St. Peter certainly had his faults, and so had St. Paul. I don't think that excuse will stand for much at the last day. Come, Belle, do think it over again, and without delay. Your time may be very short, you know. Think of poor little Lawrence!"

"Well, I will; I promise you I will. Now we must go to sleep, or we shall never be ready to get up."