Part 4

When a person has been brought up in the habit of listening to the voice of conscience, the habit is not easily broken up. That voice may be silenced or disregarded for a time, but in some interval of quiet it will make itself heard, and must be silenced a great many times before it ceases to speak whenever it has a chance. Now, as Amity sat in the quiet, half-lighted car, with nobody to talk to and nothing to look at but the lamps and the two or three gentlemen nodding in their chairs, her faults showed themselves to her in all their ugliness. She had been unkind to the poor, helpless little boy who loved her so dearly, she had broken a promise which she might just as well have kept, and she had told a lie to hide her own carelessness. Yes, a lie! She I called it by its right name now. She knew she could have bought the cotton in Saratoga just as well as in Albany, if she had not forgotten it.

But Amity had not yet gotten quite to the root of the thorn. She felt ashamed and sorry for her faults, and honestly asked for forgiveness, and for help to do better. Then she began to think how she had fallen into such trouble.

"It seems strange it should have come from my wanting to help Johnny!" she said to herself.

And then, all at once, as if some one had held a mirror up to her, she saw herself as she really had been for some days. She had not been thinking nearly so much of helping Johnny as of showing off herself—of showing how good and self-sacrificing she was—so much better than Maud, who cared for nothing but her fine white frocks and colored silk stockings—than Emma, who cared for nothing but play. She had been thinking how much better it was to be good, as she was, than to be dressy like Maud or beautiful like Emma. She had taken pains to have every one know that she spent an hour after breakfast teaching the little boy to knit, and she had been greatly "set up" in her own good opinion when the ladies praised her.

Then all those foolish dreams about setting up a hospital, and making her name famous—Amity could not think of them now without disgust. It had been her self—her own dear precious self—who was to be praised and glorified. Of her GOLDEN TEXT—of the motto which her friend Mrs. Paget had given her that day in the summer-house—she had never thought at all.

Amity buried her face in her hands, leaned her head against the side of the car, and cried bitterly. She had never been so ashamed and so unhappy in all her life.

"I wish I had never seen Johnny! I wish I had never come to Saratoga at all!" was her first thought. "But then I dare say I should have been just as bad anywhere else!" was her second. And she began to remember other cases where she had done things "to be seen of men."

It was a very sad two hours that Amity passed in the parlor-car that night, but it Was one of the most profitable evenings of her whole life. They were very late in reaching Saratoga, and Amity went straight to her own room. She was very tired and sleepy, and her head ached with sight-seeing and with crying, but she did not go to bed till she had kneeled down and confessed all her sin to her heavenly Father, and asked forgiveness in his name whose blood "cleanseth us from all sin" (1 John 1:7). Then feeling somewhat comforted she lay down to sleep, after she had taken from her bag the presents she had bought for Johnny, and set them on her dressing-table.

There was a good deal of moving about on the floor overhead, and once she thought she heard some one crying.

"I hope Johnny is not sick again!" she thought. "Poor dear little man! I will make it up to him somehow." And with this thought she fell asleep.

But Amity was to find, as so many other people have found, that it is not so easy to "make up." She slept rather late, and as soon as she was dressed, she took the little music-box which she had wound up, and the cotton, and went up to Johnny's room.

"I will take the things to him directly," she thought; "then he can amuse himself with them, and as soon as I have done breakfast, I will give him his lesson."

As she came into the hall where Johnny lodged, she was surprised to see that the door was open, and that several people were standing about it, among them Mrs. Wickford, who held up her finger as Amity drew near. Maud was leaning against her mother, with her face hidden, but Amity could see that she was crying.

"What is the matter?" asked Amity, in a half whisper. "Is Johnny worse?"

"Hush, my dear!" said Mrs. Wickford, in a low tone. "The poor little boy is very near the end of his troubles. He will not suffer much more."

Amity looked into the open door. Johnny was sitting up in bed, supported by Mrs. Franklin. The doctor was on one side of the bed, and Mr. Gordon, a minister who was staying in the house, stood on the other, with a book in his hand, as if he had been reading or praying. Johnny seemed to breathe with difficulty, but his cheeks were a little red, and his eyes had dropped the kind of veil which usually covered them, and looked bright and clear, as Amity had never seen them before.

Mrs. Franklin was crying quietly, and Johnny put up his little hand and stroked her cheek, as he did when he wished to express affection. As he did so, his eyes fell on Amity, and he smiled brightly.

"Come and speak to him, Amity," said Mrs. Franklin. "He has asked for you several times."

As Amity drew near, and bent over to kiss the little boy, the music-box which she held in her hand began to play.

"What is that?" asked Johnny, in a whisper, but clearly and distinctly.

"It is a music-box I brought you from Albany," said Amity, trying to speak calmly, though she felt as if she should choke. She held out to him the pretty toy, which was playing Beethoven's last waltz. Johnny took it in his hand and held it up to his face.

"Pretty, pretty!" said he. And then, with a great effort, he added, "I was cross yesterday—I am sorry."

"Don't, Johnny," said Amity, feeling as if this was more than she could bear. "It was I who was cross, not you. But I have got your cotton, and we will have a nice time knitting when you get better."

"I shall never get better," said Johnny. "I am going to mamma, and I am glad." Then, looking at Mrs. Franklin, he added, "The watch—Amity—you said I might, you know."

Mrs. Franklin put her hand under the pillow and took out a pretty gold watch, which she gave to Johnny. Johnny laid it in Amity's hand.

"It is yours—take it, Amity!"

"It is his mother's watch," explained Mrs. Franklin. "He wants to give it to you."

"Oh, I can't—I can't!" sobbed Amity, drawing back.

Johnny looked troubled.

"Take it, my dear—don't worry him," whispered the clergyman.

"Put it on," said Johnny, and he seemed pleased when she did so.

He lay still a few minutes longer listening to the music-box. Then he suddenly raised himself and stretched out his arms.

"Mamma!" he exclaimed, joyfully, and then, sinking back with a gentle sigh, he was gone!

That day's lesson was not lost on Amity, She had learned, by bitter experience, that it is not so easy to "make up" for unkindness and neglect. "That which is crooked cannot be made straight: and that which is wanting cannot be numbered" (Eccles. 1:15) or "made up."

"I feel as if I had killed him!" she said, later in the day, as she stood by Johnny's bedside. "Perhaps if I had not made him cry, he might have been alive now!"

"You must not feel so," replied Mrs. Franklin. "We have known for a long time that the poor child had but a little time to live. The doctor says it is a great wonder that he has lasted so long. He was not well yesterday morning, and that was the reason he cried so easily."

"And Amity was good to him, wasn't she?" said Maud, who had just come in with a box of beautiful flowers.

"Yes, she gave him a great many happy hours."

"I'm sure I wish I had ever done anything for him," continued Maud. "But I didn't. I wouldn't let him take my talking doll, and I called him 'an idiot.' Mrs. Franklin, won't you please take these flowers? I bought them with my own money. I felt as if I wanted to do something. I know one thing, anyhow," said Maud, as they walked away: "I never will call any one names again. I suppose we ought not to wish Johnny back, because he is a great deal better off; but I can't help wishing I could see him long enough to tell him how sorry I am."

"You will have to tell it to the Lord, as I did," said Amity, softly.

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"And what kind of a girl has Amity turned out?" asked Mrs. Paget of Miss Julia, when they met in Europe.

Miss Julia, however, was not Miss Julia now. She was the wife of an American embassador. Mrs. Paget had been abroad for some years.

"Amity! Oh, she is just the same homely little round-about thing she was at twelve years old. She has not changed at all."

"I did not think she would ever be handsome," remarked Mrs. Paget; "but how is she in other respects. Is she bright?"

"Why, I hardly know what to say. She is a good deal of a reader, and likes steady plodding work like mathematics. She is wonderfully industrious, too—always busy about something. She keeps house now, and really, for one so young, she manages uncommonly well. She is a great deal better at accounts than ever I was, and keeps the house cheerful and pleasant. Then she makes herself useful in the church—teaches in Sunday-school, looks after poor folks, and has a great sewing-class. She is always knitting babies' socks, or a shawl for some old woman, or a comforter for some urchin in her class. That is her style of fancy work."

"She must keep herself pretty busy."

"Oh, she does; but then she likes that sort of thing. To do her justice, she does not make any parade of her deeds, like some people I could name. She never seems to think of herself in connection with them."

"She must have made a very nice woman, by your description, Julia."

"Oh yes, indeed she is. A more dutiful child than she is to father could not be. But she does not care at all for general society, and would rather stay at home and make babies' shoes than go to the best opera that ever was performed. In short, she is a good, honest, homely little body, but she will never make any figure in the world, with all her advantages. She really has no talent—none at all."

PHIL'S PANSIES.

A GOLDEN TEXT STORY.

BY

LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY

AUTHOR OF

"IRISH AMY," "OPPOSITE NEIGHBORS," "TWIN ROSES," ETC.

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"Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shalt find it after many days."— Eccles. 11:1.

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PHILADELPHIA: AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION, NO. 1122 CHESTNUT STREET. ————————— NEW YORK: 8 & 10 BIBLE HOUSE, ASTOR PLACE. CHICAGO: 73 RANDOLPH ST.

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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1880, by the

AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

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PHIL'S PANSIES.

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CHAPTER FIRST.

THE SEEDS.

MISS ISABEL had been taking great pains with her class that day. She had walked down to Sunday-school, more than a mile, in the rain to meet her scholars, and she was expecting to walk home again. She had spent much time in studying the lesson herself, and she had noted down some things which she hoped the boys would like to hear. The "Golden Text" of the lesson was this:

"Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shall find it after many days" (Eccles. 11:1).

Miss Isabel had been telling the boys of the custom to which this verse referred, and of which, as it happened, none of them had ever heard. She told them how, in some parts of the world, there was very little rain, and the lands were watered by streams from some neighboring river or reservoir; how the farmers scattered their grain on the surface, and then, as the water sank into the ground, how the seed was buried and took root and grew; and so, after many days, the farmer found his "bread" again in the shape of ripe, waving grain, ready for the harvest.

You might think the boys would have been pleased to hear such a story as this, and that they would have listened and remembered, when she told them of what the seed cast on the waters was meant to represent; namely, the word of God, and the other means of doing good which he has placed in our hands, and which we must use at the right time and in the right way, even though our doing so should seem as hopeless work as throwing seed into the water.

But Horace Maberly had his head full of a boating frolic, which he meant to tell the boys about after school, and Harry Merton was thinking whether his aunt meant to ask him home to dinner with her, and John Drayton was watching a wasp, and the others had their heads full of nothing but idleness,—all but one. Phil O'Connor listened with all his ears, and they were very large ones, and what was better with all his heart and soul; and when Miss Isabel stopped talking, he ventured to ask a question. It was the first time he had spoken a word in the class, and he was a good deal scared at the sound of his own voice, but he kept on:

"Please, Miss Isabel, suppose you haven't any seed and no place to plant any?"

The other boys stared at Phil, and Horace laughed rather rudely, but Miss Isabel turned to him with a smile. She had been feeling tired and sad, and it was a real pleasure to perceive that one of the class at least had listened.

"I don't think that ever happens, Phil," said she. "God gives every one of us some kind of seed to sow, and some kind of a place to sow it in. It may be a very small, narrow corner that we have to cultivate; but if we work faithfully at that he is sure to give us more. We can all speak kindly to some one, or give some one a little help, or take some hindrance out of their way. A very poor old man once gave a boy poorer than himself a pair of old shoes to wear, that the boy might go to church and Sunday-school. The shoes had holes in them. The old man was fond of his coffee for breakfast, but he went without a whole week that he might have the money to get the shoes mended. The boy went to Sunday-school, where he learned to read and love his Bible, and he afterward became a useful and learned Christian minister. That was a very little bit of seed—a pair of old shoes—and see what a great crop it bore."

"And suppose the boy's mother had sold the shoes for whisky, as the woman did whose girl mother fixed up last winter, what would have become of the seed then?" asked Horace, in rather a sneering tone.

"Sure, 'twould have done the old gentleman himself good, anyhow!" answered Phil, eagerly. "Wouldn't it, Miss?"

"You are right, Phil," said Miss Isabel. "The Lord says that he who gives even a cup of cold water in his name shall in no wise lose his reward, and that we are to do good and lend, hoping for nothing again, and our reward shall be great in heaven."

"A man wouldn't make much money that way, I guess," said Horace Maberly, who was taught at home that the chief good of life was money.

"I don't remember any place in the Bible where we are told that it is our duty to make a great deal of money do you?" asked Miss Isabel. "St. Paul says we are to be diligent and work with our hands, in order that we may be able to give to him that lacks, and also that we may not be burdensome to others, but we are nowhere told that it is our duty to be rich."

Horace looked a good deal vexed. In his home, money was the great thing thought about and talked about. His father had become very rich within a few years, and Horace thought himself a great person in consequence. He could not see how it was that Miss Isabel, whose own father was richer even than Mr. Maberly, should seem to care no more for him than she did for Harry Merton, or even for little Phil O'Connor.

"Well, I don't know what seed I can sow," said Phil, sighing.

"Think about it a little, and maybe you will find some," said Miss Isabel.

Just then the superintendent's bell rang, and the school was closed.

Phil did not stay to church, though he would have liked to do so. He remembered that probably granny was alone, and she might want something. His mother would be sure to be at home in the evening, and he could come down to the prayer meeting. It would be sowing a little bit of good seed, he thought, if he went and waited on granny, instead of leaving her alone all the morning.

Phil had sown another seed of which he never thought. He had cheered up his teacher's heart, and given her new faith and courage. Here was at least one, Miss Isabel said to herself, who listened to what she said, and made an effort to understand it. The others had not seemed to care. She wondered what made the difference. They were all bright boys enough, and gave her very little trouble; but, somehow, they had no interest in the lessons. She could not make them see that the words they learned and recited had any relation to themselves. A very little excuse kept them away from school, and she was rather surprised at seeing so many of them together that rainy day. I think myself that they came to hear about the boating party which was to take place the next day.

Miss Isabel had for some time cast her bread upon the shallow or muddy waters of their minds with rather a heavy heart. She almost thought she would give up the class, and let some one else take it and try what could be done. But as she walked home in the rain that day—for the coachman was sick, and there was nobody at home who could drive—she felt her heart lighter, and she made up her mind to work and pray a while longer.

Phil's father was dead, and his mother and he lived with his grandmother in "Irishtown." Irishtown was not pretty like the rest of Rockside and Brookvale, though it was built on the side of a rocky hill where there were evergreen trees, and a pretty little brook, and such beautiful views as many a rich man would give thousands of dollars for. The houses were rickety and dirty, with broken windows which were stuffed sometimes with rags or old hats. There were no gardens about them, and many of the people threw their slops and refuse out on the top of the ground to rot in the sun and poison the air, and breed showers of flies to torment the children and sick people. There were plenty of sheltered spots and hollows among the rocks where the sun shone, and the soil was fertile, and these refuse things might have been dug into the ground where they would have helped to raise vegetables and flowers; but nobody thought as far as that.

Granny O'Connor could not be called poor, like many of her neighbors. She owned the land on which her house was built, instead of being a mere squatter on some other person's ground. She owned a cow, too, and a pig, and some chickens. She was too old and infirm to work herself, but her daughter-in-law, Phil's mother, went out washing five days in the week, and was well paid. Fanny, Phil's sister, had lately gone to a good place where she was to have a dollar a week, and more after a while if she made herself useful.

Phil was the youngest of the family, and had never been set to any harder work than watching the cow as she fed in the lanes and by the roadsides, and feeding the pig. Sometimes he went to the places where his mother washed, and carried away the slops from the kitchens for the pig and cow; but his chief business was to wait on the cow and on granny, who was growing very feeble and helpless.

As Phil had expected, he found granny alone, his mother having gone to gossip with some of her neighbors after being at mass in the morning. That was the way she kept Sunday. Granny had fallen asleep in her chair; the fire was nearly out; the ashes were scattered over the stove, hearth, and on the floor, and the room looked and felt forlorn and dismal. A few months before, Phil would not have minded these things, but he was learning how other people lived. When he went into the kitchens where his mother washed, and saw how neat and pleasant they were, he wished they could have things like that at home.

"It looks enough to break one's heart," said Phil to himself. "I might as well have stayed, after all."

And then he bethought himself that here was a chance for putting in practice of the things he had heard that morning. He found a broom, and swept up the floor and the hearth; made up the fire, and put on some water. When it was hot, he washed and put away the dirty dishes, which his mother had left standing, and would have left for a week if she had not happened to want them again, wiped off the table and the hearth—both with the same cloth—and put the room in the best order he could.

He then filled the tea-kettle, and set it on the stove, and began washing and paring some potatoes. Presently he saw that the old woman was awake and watching him. Granny was far more neat and economical than her daughter-in-law, and fretted not a little over the dirt and disorder she was too feeble to help, and therefore had to endure.

"Sure you're as handy as any girl, and better than most," said she. "You've made the place look as fine as a pin. But why didn't you stay to church, dear?"

"I thought you might be alone and want me, granny."

"It's your granny's own boy you are!" said the old woman, fondly. "And did you have a good time at your school?"

"Yes, granny, and Miss Isabel gave me a nice book to read. Just look at the pictures."

"Miss Isabel? Sure, she's a good young lady entirely, and like the rale old gentry I used to work for at home. 'Tis a fine thing for you to have her for a teacher."

"I wish I could go to school week days again," said Phil, as he popped his potatoes into the pot. "I'm afraid I'll forget all that I learned."

"I'm thinking about that same myself," said granny.

"I don't see how I can, though," pursued Phil, still busy about his cooking. "What would we do about the cow?"

"Well, well, we'll see. Don't you fret. It'll all come round right. Sure, you're my own boy and all my comfort in life. It's myself and your father, that's in glory this minute, you take after, and not your mother's folks at all, at all. Them Mehans were always a shiftless set, not that I'm faulting your mother, dear. Considerin' her bringing up, she does wonderful; and she's kind to the old woman, too. But come now, sit down and read to me a bit out of the Bible. Them old ancient histories is wonderful entertaining."

As Phil saw how pleased his granny was with his care for her, he felt as if one of his seeds had come up already. He was not quite sure that her way of looking at Scripture was the right one, but he was glad to get her to hear it at all. He turned to the history of Joseph, and read several chapters before his mother came home to dinner.

CHAPTER SECOND.

SEEDS BY THE WAYSIDE.

THE next morning when Phil waked, he heard what seemed to be a lively discussion going on down in the kitchen, which was also the parlor and dining-room.

"Shure, the child's got learning enough for the likes of him already!" he heard his mother say. "Wasn't yourself saying yesterday he could read like a priest?"

"But he can't write, Mary—not to speak of. I'd like him to have a real good education, and you know, dear, it costs nothing with the free schools they have."

"Oh, well! Just as you like, granny dear," said easy-going Mary. "He's your own boy, and you can bring him up to suit yourself. It's a good boy he is, anyhow. But I must be start-in' out, or I'll be late at Mrs. Maberly's."