Part 2

"Then my Sunday bonnet is a perfect fright. It is three years old, and not the least like what any one else wears. And it is just so in everything," continued Calista, with growing heat as she recounted her wrongs. "I can never have a bit of pretty work like the other girls, or have a bit of pocket-money, or any privileges as the rest do. I think it is too bad."

"What do you expect me to do about it?" asked Miss Druett.

"If aunt were as poor as Miss Malvina used to be, and had to work for a living, I would never say a word," continued Calista. "I would work hard, too, and earn my own clothes; but when she is so rich and laying up money all the time, I do think it is a very hard case."

"How do you know your aunt is laying up money all the time?"

"Because it is always coming in and never going out," was the prompt reply. "Don't you think I have eyes and ears, Miss Druett? Don't I know that she gets the rents for her buildings in Philadelphia and Cohansey, and for the farms she lets out, and the butter and hay, and so on? What becomes of all that, if she does not lay it up?"

"You had better ask her," rejoined Miss Druett. "And if you think the servant girls are so much better off than yourself, you had better try living out, and see how you like it."

Calista's eyes flashed. "I declare I will!" said she, with sudden fire and emphasis. "I will go to Mr. Settson this very day and ask him to find me a place where I can work for my board and enough to clothe me. At least I should have enough to eat, and not be taunted and insulted every hour as I am now."

Miss Druett turned her head and looked at Calista, who met the gaze without flinching. She seemed to think matters had gone far enough.

"Come, come, don't let me hear any such nonsense as that!" said she. "If I should tell Priscilla she would turn you out of the house, and never let you into it again."

"Let her!" returned Calista. "I haven't had such very nice times there that I should regret it very much."

"Suppose your aunt had never taken you at all, do you know where you would have been? You would have gone to the poor-house."

"Well, suppose I had, what worse should I have been? I should have had enough to eat and something to wear, and what more do I have now?"

"You have your school for one thing."

"Yes, I know I do, thanks to you. You are good to me—sometimes."

Miss Druett smiled in a curious, sudden fashion, with flash of white teeth and a light in her dark gray eyes under black brows and lashes, which gave quite a new aspect to her face.

"Then if I am good to you—sometimes—have a little patience for the sake of those times," said she. "Don't you think I would do more for you if I could? As for the frocks, I know you need them, and I will see what I can bring to pass; but don't you say a word about them to your aunt. She is in one of her bad moods to-day. Here we are, I declare. Where will you stop?"

"Oh, at the school-house. I suppose I must walk home. I don't mind though; it will be cool and pleasant after five o'clock."

It wanted half an hour of school time, but Calista found Miss McPherson's school-room filled with girls all talking together, as it seemed. As she entered somebody said, laughing,—

"Catch her giving anything. You might as well ask old Miss Stanfield herself."

"Hush," said two or three voices, and Calista felt sure they had been talking of her.

"Here is Calista," said one of the girls. "How early you are! Did you walk?"

"No, I rode in with Miss Druett. What are you all talking about?"

"Oh, about this new plan for furnishing the parsonage house. Haven't you heard?"

"Not a word. How should I?"

"Of course she hasn't," said Belle Adair. "Well, you know Mr. and Mrs. Lee lost all their furniture when the old parsonage was burned."

"Yes, of course. Every one knows that."

"Well, the ladies of the congregation are going to furnish the new parsonage from top to bottom with linen and everything needful, and the young ladies—Miss Jessy McPherson and Miss Alice Settson and that set—are going to hold a fair to buy some of the bed-room furniture."

"A fair!" repeated Calista. "What kind of a fair? I don't know what you mean."

"Why, a kind of sale, like the one Miss Jessy attended in Philadelphia, for the orphans. Don't you remember that she told us about it?"

"Oh, yes! Well, what then?"

"Well, the young ladies are going to have one, and they have asked us school-girls to make things for one of the tables. Miss Jessy is to have it in charge, and two or three of us are to help her. And we are to make all sorts of pretty and useful things for sale, and find the materials ourselves. And I know what I am going to make, but I don't mean to tell anybody—not yet."

All this explanation Belle delivered with great animation and a vast amount of gesticulation, as her fashion was.

"You will have to tell, if we meet together for work," observed one of the girls. "And you know that was what we proposed—to meet with Miss Jessy, Wednesday afternoon of each week."

"To be sure, so we did. I did not think of that, but it don't matter."

"I think the meeting will be half the fun, don't you, Calista?" said little Emma Adair, Belle's cousin.

But Calista was looking for something in her desk, and did not answer.

"I think it is very nice—all of it—only I don't see how I am to do anything, because I have no money," said Theresa Diaments. "Somehow my allowance is always gone before I know it."

"Because you spend it all," returned her cousin, Antoinette, who roomed with her. "You never go out without buying something—pins, or thread, or pencils. You buy ten bunches of hairpins to my one."

"Oh, yes! I dare say," remarked Belle, sarcastically enough. "We all know how economical you are. Perhaps if you bought more pins, poor Tessy would not need to buy so many."

Antoinette colored deeply, and cast anything but an amiable glance at the last speaker.

"What will you do, Calista?" asked Belle.

"How can I tell?" returned Calista. "I don't half understand the matter yet. You are always in such a hurry, Belle. Where is Mary Settson?"

"Here she comes,—

"'Sober, steadfast and demure,'—

"As usual," said Belle. "What are you going to make for the fair, Mary?"

"I haven't said I was going to make anything," replied Mary, looking annoyed, for she was not pleased with Belle's quotation. "Come out a minute, Calista; I want to tell you something. Oh, here comes Miss McPherson to open school! Girls, what are you about? Don't you see?"

All the girls rose—some of them in a little confusion—to greet their schoolmistress. Miss McPherson was a tall Scotch lady, with silvery-white hair put up under a matronly sort of lace cap, bright eyes, and a somewhat commanding presence. She was handsomely dressed, as usual, in her rich black silk and white muslin handkerchief, with a large gold watch in her belt, to which were attached a bunch of seals and a thick gold chain of Indian workmanship. This was her invariable costume, except that in winter she wore a soft gray shawl. She was followed by her niece, Miss Jessy McPherson, a slim lady, not quite so young as she had been, but still pretty and blooming, and dressed with much more regard to the fashion than her aunt. Another teacher entered by the opposite door, and the three took their places on the platform at one end of the room. Miss Jessy read part of a chapter in the New Testament, Miss McPherson made a short prayer, and then the lessons were begun.

Miss McPherson had been educated at one of the best schools in Edinburgh, and finished at a Scotch convent in Paris. She had come to America with her father at the close of the revolution. Captain McPherson sold out his commission in the army and bought land in New Jersey, hoping to make an estate for his daughter; but his farming was not very successful, and he soon died. Miss McPherson, as soon as the first desolation of her loss was over, began to look about her to see what she was to do.

She was not long in deciding. She sold the land which she could not cultivate, bought a house in the growing town of Cohansey, and set up a ladies' school. She taught French and Italian thoroughly—though, it must be owned, with something of a Scotch accent—needle work, plain and ornamental, flower work, feather work, and numberless other works. She also taught the then popular art of reading, writing and spelling the English language correctly by the aid of Mr. Lindley Murray's "Grammar," * and some geography and history by the aid of Mr. Pinnock's "Catechisms." She also taught—and that without extra charge—very excellent manners and sound religion and morality, so that her school might be considered a good one, though metaphysics formed no part of its course, and even such an elementary and old-fashioned book as "Mrs. B.'s Conversations on Chemistry" had never entered its walls.

* I have seen an old school prospectus in which was advertised "The English grammar taught by Mr. Lindley Murray's new method, with three cases only."

Miss McPherson prospered, or, as she would have preferred to say, "was prospered," from the first. She was soon enabled to enlarge her house, take a few boarders, and send for her orphan niece, Miss Jessy, who was earning a hard living as a governess in the north of England.

At the time of which I am writing, Miss McPherson had twelve young lady boarders and twenty-five day scholars, and was believed to be a rich woman. She was greatly respected in the community, and was one of the first persons consulted in any charitable or social enterprise. She subscribed liberally to the church, where her young ladies occupied three pews all to themselves. She had been one of the first to propose the building of the new parsonage house, and had given a good sum towards it; and she was indeed a very important person in Cohansey society.

When the lessons were through, she tapped on her desk for attention.

"Now, young ladies, I want you to listen to me!" said she, in her clear, round tones. "Maria Reese, where are your hands and feet?"

Maria's hands and feet had a way of being in the wrong place, and on this occasion the hands were behind her back, and one foot was twisted round the leg of her chair. Blushing scarlet, she laid her hands in her lap, straightened up her shoulders, and drew in her chin.

"That is much better!" said Miss McPherson. She cast a vigilant eye over the room, and, seeing nothing more to criticise, proceeded with her remarks.

"No doubt you have all been discussing this plan of a fair or sale to help in furnishing the house of our respected minister."

She paused a moment, and Clarissa Whitecar, as the oldest girl, answered for the rest,—

"Yes, ma'am."

"Very well. I cannot say," continued Miss McPherson, "that the scheme is one which I should have proposed myself. I prefer more direct ways of accomplishing good works. However, I am aware that something is to be said on the other side. Such a method as the present promotes sociability, and it also affords an opportunity for those have not much money to bestow, to give their time and their work,—it makes room for self-denial, without which no good work is ever accomplished, and also for the exercise of latent neatness and ingenuity. I have considered the matter, and have also consulted with some of the respected parents and guardians of my pupils," continued Miss McPherson, after another little pause; "and I have come to the conclusion—Charity Latch, are you a lady or a pincushion?"

The young person thus addressed, a tall, overgrown-looking girl, started violently, and hastily removed from her mouth the brass pin with which she was furtively picking her teeth. Charity was one of those people who never see any deficiency in themselves, and therefore never improve.

"I said that I have come to the conclusion to allow the young ladies to devote the hours of afternoon school on Wednesday to working for this object, under certain rules and restrictions, which must be remembered, as I shall allow no departure from them.

"First. Every young lady must provide her own working implements.

"Second. Every piece of work must be commenced subject to the approval of myself or Miss Jessy, who will preside in my absence.

"Third. Every piece of work once commenced must be perfectly finished before anything else is begun. This rule is invariable.

"Fourth. Any young lady must be ready to do her work over again, cheerfully and without complaint, if Miss Jessy or myself thinks it needful.

"Fifth. There must be no borrowing from one another without special consent of your teacher for the time being.

"These are all the rules I see fit to make, though I shall not hesitate to add others if I see occasion; but I wish to add a word of advice. Remember that in such a work as this, and done, as this ought to be, for the praise and glory of God, there is no place for anything like emulation or vainglory. Let each do the best she can in whatever she undertakes, and remember that the smallest and cheapest offering given in the right spirit is as acceptable as the most elaborate and costly in the eyes of Him for whom this work is, or should be, done."

Miss McPherson said these words with great earnestness, and smiled as she saw their effect in the suddenly raised eyes and brightened face of a plain and rather poorly-dressed girl who sat near the desk.

"And now the young ladies may take a recess,—" recess she called it, in her Scotch way,—"unless they have any questions to ask."

"If you please, Miss McPherson," said Mary Settson, rising—

"Well, Mary—take time now and consider your words."

"Suppose one of us wishes to make something for the furnishing of the house instead of something for the sale, can we do so?"

"Can she do so?" corrected the schoolmistress. "Let your pronouns agree with their antecedents, my love. Yes, certainly, there can be no objection to that."

"Do you think it would be better to make fancy articles or useful things?" asked another girl.

"I should say a judicious mixture would be best, and in any case it would be well to avoid making your articles too costly. You can settle all these matters in your first meeting, which will take place on Wednesday at the usual time of afternoon school. I must add one thing: If I find these meetings are having an unfavorable effect on your lessons, or tending to produce heart-burning, envy, or unkindness, I shall stop the whole thing at once. You can now take your recess, which will be ten minutes longer than usual."

CHAPTER THIRD.

AUNT BETSY.

THE girls were soon in the spacious play-ground, but to-day neither skipping-rope nor battle-door had attractions for any but the younger children. Every tongue was busy with the new plan, which was talked over in all its bearings. Pincushions and needle work, satin stitch and cross stitch, rug work, cut work, flowers, veils, ruffles, knitting, and netting, all were discussed at once.

"I shall work a piece," said Antoinette, with decision. "I saw a lovely one at my cousin's, in Greenwich—a shepherdess, with her crook, and some sheep and lambs, with their wool all done in French knots with white chenille and gray floss. The shepherdess has on a blue silk gown with real gold spangles. Oh, it is lovely!"

"Yes, and so sweetly natural—a blue silk spangled gown to tend sheep in!" said Belle Adair. "I wonder they did not spangle the sheep too: it would have been about as sensible."

"Just as if that had anything to do with it!" rejoined Antoinette, scornfully. "Any how, I am going to do it—if Miss Jessy will let me, I mean."

"But that will take so long, and be so expensive," remarked Tessy; "and if it should not sell after all, you will lose your labor."

"No, I sha'n't, because I should have the picture anyhow, and as for money, I have all my last quarter's allowance."

"Then you can pay me the three shillings you borrowed of me the last time the peddler was here," said Tessy. "I want some money, and I haven't a bit."

"I haven't any change," returned Antoinette, "and I don't want to break a bill for such a little thing as that."

"You never do have any change, do you, Antoinette?" asked Belle Adair, innocently. Then, as Antoinette did not answer: "If I were you, Tessy, I wouldn't have any change either."

"Well, she does get all my change away," said poor Tessy, half crying, as Antoinette walked away. "She is always saying, 'Oh, Tessy, just lend me a penny,' or 'Just let me have a sixpence, will you?' But if I ask her for anything, she never has it. It is just so with other things. She uses my pins, and needles, and hairpins, so that half the time I don't have any for myself, and then Miss Meeks scolds me, and says, 'Look at Antoinette, she is never unprovided.' Good reason why she isn't."

"You must just learn to say no," said Belle Adair.

"But it seems so mean to refuse such little things."

"It is not so mean to refuse as it is to be sponging for little things," returned Belle, with some justice; "and that is what Antoinette is always doing. The other day, when she began her bead chain, she came to me to know if I had any thread. I told her I had, but did not offer to lend her any. Then she asked me for it straight out, and I told her I wanted my thread myself, and that Miss Jessy had plenty."

"But you gave me a whole nice skein that very day," observed little Emma.

"Yes, because I knew you would pay me, and I did not want you to get into disgrace for forgetting. You are not a sponge, though you are a heedless little puss, and want your ears pinched every day," and Belle suited the action to the word by administering a gentle pinch to the little rosy ear.

"If she would only ask, I wouldn't care so much," said Tessy, "but she just helps herself to anything of mine she wants."

"Well, I know what I would do if I were you," said Emma. "I wouldn't have any money."

"What do you mean, Emma?" asked Tessy.

"Why, Miss McPherson gives you your allowance every month, doesn't she?"

"Yes, of course."

"Well, I would ask her to keep it for me, and just go to her when I wanted any money to use. Then when Antoinette wants to borrow, you can tell her the truth, that you haven't any. Besides, you won't be nearly so apt to spend money if you have to ask Miss McPherson every time; and you know, Tessy, you are rather extravagant," concluded Emma, with a quaint little air of wisdom.

"But perhaps Miss McPherson won't want to be troubled," objected Tessy.

"She won't mind, if you tell her the reason why. Of course you need not mention Antoinette, but you can just say that you know you are apt to throw away your money, and you want to save it for a special purpose."

"What a wise young woman—'a Daniel come to judgment!'" said Belle, who had been reading Shakespeare.

"But really, Tessy, I think this plan an excellent one. Antoinette should not be indulged in such ways, if only for her own sake. If she were poor, it would be different, but I imagine her father is quite as rich as yours."

"Yes, indeed. Well, Emma, I believe I will try this plan of yours. But what shall I do in the mean time? I thought I would knit some curtains, but I haven't even money to buy the cotton."

"You say Antoinette owes you three shillings?"

"She owes me four and sixpence in all."

"Trust to me, Tessy. I'll get it out of her. She is a little too bad."

Meantime Calista and her friend, Mary Settson, were walking up and down under the trees at one side of the play-ground. Calista's black brows were frowning, and she looked vexed and mortified.

"I wish I had never come to school at all," said she, vehemently. "Something is always coming up to make we feel what a miserable, dependent wretch I am."

"Don't use such words, Calista," said Mary.

"They are true words, and why shouldn't I use them?"

"But don't you believe your aunt will let you do anything? I should think she would give you a little money if you ask her in the right time and way."

"Much you know about it. I tell you, Mary, I might just as well expect gold to rain down out of that cloud. The cloud will give me a wetting when I go home, and Aunt Priscilla will give me a scolding, and that is all I shall get from either of them."

"Oh, I forgot," said Mary. "Papa asked Miss Druett to let you stay all night with us, and she said you might. So we will have a good time, and I will teach you to knit the feather stitch that Miss Jessy showed me."

Calista's frown relaxed a little. "Your father is very kind, I am sure; but, Mary, I declare I am ashamed to go."

"Why?"

"My frock is so shabby for one thing, and you and Miss Alice are always so neat."

"Nonsense!"

"And besides, you are always inviting me, and I never can ask you."

"Nonsense!" said Mary again. "Just as if we did not know how things were. I am glad, because I think perhaps papa will contrive some way to help us out of this scrape."

Calista shook her head. "You don't know Aunt Priscilla as I do. Why, Mary, grandfather's monument is actually falling down for want of a little money laid out in repairs. I haven't much reason to be obliged to General Stanfield," continued Calista, rather as if thinking aloud, "but I believe the very first thing I do when I have the place will be to put that graveyard in order."

Mary looked annoyed in her turn.

"I would not think so much about that if I were you, Calista," said she. "You are not sure that the place will ever be yours. Miss Priscilla can leave it to whom she pleases, you know."

"What would you think about it if you were in my place?" demanded Calista, rather fiercely. "Come, Mary, tell me something agreeable in my affairs to think about."

"Well, here is the school and Miss McPherson."

"Miss McPherson is just as good and kind as she can be," admitted Calista, "and the school is pleasant, and I like my lessons; but even here Aunt Priscilla annoys me all the time. Something is forever coming up to remind me how dependent and helpless I am. Aunt Priscilla won't let me have a bit of fancy work, or take music lessons, or have a penny to spend on any of the girls' little frolics."

"Was that the reason you did not go to the gipsy party?"

"Of course it was. I had nothing to carry."

"But, Calista, you know—"

"Oh, yes, I know. Miss Alice would have made something for me, but I wouldn't have that. I may be a pauper, but I won't be a beggar and a sponge like—some folks," casting a glance, as she spoke, at Antoinette, who was passing.

"Well, any how, Calista, you can make the most of what lessons you have, and when you are a little older you can find a place as teacher somewhere and support yourself. And, besides," said Mary, lowering her voice a little, "you might have something else if you would. You might be looking forward to an inheritance that would never fade nor disappoint you."

Calista made an impatient movement.

"So you say, and I believe you really think so, but all that is nothing to me. It has no reality in it to my mind. Aunt Priscilla does not believe in any such thing. She believes in the French philosophers, and Voltaire and Rousseau are about the only authors she reads."

"And you have a great respect for Miss Priscilla's opinion, of course," returned Mary, with a little touch of sarcasm. "It is quite natural you should be governed by it."

Calista laughed. "It would be a reason for thinking the other way if I wanted one, which I don't. But somehow religion has no reality for me. I wouldn't have Miss McPherson hear me say so, but it is no more real to me than the Greek mythology in Magnall's questions."

"I suppose that is the way with a good many people, if they had the honesty to own it," remarked Mary, thoughtfully; "at least to judge by their actions. But now tell me, Calista, are not all your best friends Christians? I have often heard you speak of Miss Malvina; was not she a Christian?"

"Yes, indeed she was, dear old soul!"

"And is not Miss McPherson one, and Miss Jessy, and my father, and Alice?"