Part 5

"I heard the doctor say so," answered Betty. "He told mother that I had consumption, and that though, with good care, I might last on for a year or two, I should never be well, and I might be taken worse at any time."

"Why, Betty!" exclaimed Martha. "Do you believe it? Didn't it make you feel dreadfully?"

"It did, just at first," said Betty; "but I don't mind it so much now, only for mother's sake."

"I don't think the doctor ought to have said so!" said Martha. "He cannot know for certain."

"I believe he feels quite sure," replied Betty. "You know they have ways of finding out those things. He did not tell me, either. I only heard it by accident; but after all I am glad I know the truth. Come into our garden and let me give you some roses."

"I am not fit to be seen!" said Martha, glancing at her dress.

"I am sure you look very nice in that pretty calico dress and white apron. Besides there is no one to see you. Do come in!"

Martha yielded, and Betty led her from walk to walk, culling roses and other flowers with an unsparing hand. As Martha was going away, Betty detained her.

"Martha, there is one thing I wish to say to you now, because—because—something might happen that I should never see you again." She paused a moment, and went on in a firmer voice: "Martha, I know that you have never liked me, and that you think I do things to spite and mortify you; but, indeed, indeed it is not so. I have always wanted to be friends with you, for I liked you from the first, but if I have ever done or said anything to hurt your feelings, I am sorry, and I beg your pardon. I cannot afford to have any quarrels now, you know," she added, with a sad smile. "I must be in charity with all men."

"You never did, Betty—never but once," said Martha, as soon as she could speak. "I mean when you told Miss Lyman about my walking in the lane with my cousin instead of coming to school. I did wrong, I know, but it did not seem fair that you should tell of me."

"But, Martha, I did not tell of you," said Bettie, earnestly. "What made you think I did?"

"I thought you were the only one who could have seen me," replied Martha, blushing. "There is no other house which overlooks the lane but yours."

"Miss Lyman could have seen you herself from the recitation room when the leaves were off the trees," said Betty. "At any rate, Martha, it was not I who told. I never knew a word of the matter till I heard it in school. Is there anything else?"

"Nothing!" replied Martha. "You have never done me an injury, that I know of. The truth is," she added, coloring and looking down, "that I have always been envious and jealous of you, Betty, and I have tried to justify myself by making out that you were the one to blame. I have been thinking over the matter, and I see how mean and wicked I have been. It is I who ought to beg your pardon, and so I do."

"Don't say any more about it, but let us be friends, and love one another!" said Betty, kissing her. "Come and see me, won't you? You know I cannot go out a great deal now."

"Don't you mean to come to school any more?" asked Martha.

"No, I have done with school," replied Betty, sadly. "You will have the prize after all, Martha, and without any trouble, for there is no one else near you."

Martha burst into tears. "I don't care for the prize!" she sobbed. "I would rather not have it."

"Oh, but you will not feel so by-and-by," replied Betty. "But, Martha, just let me say one thing. Dear Martha, do try to be a true Christian. Try to love God with all your heart, to please Him and to work for Him. That is worth all the prizes in the world. Think how I should feel now if I were not sure that He loved me and had forgiven all my sins for His dear Son's sake!"

"Then you are not afraid to die?" said Martha.

"I cannot say that," honestly replied Betty. "When I think of dying, I do feel afraid; but I try not to dwell upon that. I think about what is beyond—about seeing my Saviour and all the saints in glory. Doctor Courtland told me that was the best way, and I find it so. But I must not stay out any longer. Do come and see me as soon as you can!"

Martha promised, and went slowly homeward, her heart very full of prayers and resolutions.

"What kept you so long?" asked Aunt Margaret.

Martha told her the story of her meeting with Betty.

"I never was so ashamed in my life!" she concluded. "There, I have been nursing that grudge against her for these two years, and then made up my mind so grandly to forgive what never happened. I feel like a fool, Aunt Margaret."

"Feeling like a fool is often the first step to wisdom, Martha."

Before another spring came round, Betty Allis was laid to sleep in the grave, in the sure and certain hope of a joyful resurrection. Her fears of death all passed away before the time of her summons came, and she died in the utmost peace.

Martha spent much time with her during her last illness, and when at last Betty was taken away, she looked back with wonder and shame to the days when she could see nothing but evil in one so gentle and kindhearted.

MARY,

OR,

"SHE MADE ME DO IT."

"SEE that woman coming down the road!" said Mary Willis to her companions. "Isn't she a funny-looking body?"

"She has just come off the cars, I suppose," said another girl. "Look at her bonnet. I should think it had been made before the flood."

"Poor thing, she looks very tired," said Helen Arnold: "and see how lame the little boy is. She seems to be a stranger in town."

"Go and make acquaintance with her, Helen," said Cora Hart, with a sneer. "She is so fashionably dressed and so elegant looking, she would be a nice companion for you."

"See, she is coming this way!" exclaimed Jane Marvin. "I do believe she means to speak to us. Let us have some fun with her, girls!"

"I will have nothing to do with such fun as yours!" said Helen Arnold. "I think it is downright mean and wicked to make sport of poor and old people. Mary Willis, you had better come home with me and be out of mischief."

"Oh, of course she will!" said Jane, scornfully. "I should like to know why Mary Willis is to do as you say. You are neither her teacher nor her mistress, if you are the teacher's niece, and the oldest girl in the class. You stay here, Mary, and show her that you won't be ordered about by her."

"Come, Mary," said Helen, again. "You had much better be going home with me."

Helen spoke rather sharply, and Mary was vexed.

"I shall go home when I please, Miss Helen Arnold! I will thank you to mind your own business and let me alone."

"Very well!" replied Helen, and she walked away, feeling both grieved and angry.

She was very fond of Mary Willis, though Mary was much younger than herself. She helped her in her lessons, dressed her dolls for her, and taught her how to make pretty things for them; for Helen was very quick and skilful in all sorts of work. She was anxious that Mary should be a good girl and a good scholar, and she did keep her out of a great deal of trouble which Mary's quick temper and readiness to be led away would have brought upon her.

For a long time Mary had loved Helen more than any one else in the world, except her own mother. But when Jane Marvin came to school, she began, as she said, to put Mary up to be jealous of Helen. She told Mary that Helen did not really care for her, and that she only wished to govern and patronize her, and so show off her own goodness. She laughed at Helen's plain cheap dress and what she called her old-fashioned strict ways, and she told Mary that Helen was a regular little Methodist, and wanted to make her so. Jenny had never been in a Methodist church in her life, and knew nothing about them, but she had heard her father call people Methodists who were religious and strict in their conduct.

It may seem strange that Mary should listen to such talk against her best friend; but Mary had a great idea of being independent and having her own way: and like many other people of the same sort, she was ready to be made a fool of by any one who would take the trouble to flatter her. This Helen never did; nay, I am afraid that in her desire to be honest, she sometimes went to the other extreme and found fault with Mary when there was no reason for doing so.

If Mary had thought a little, she would have seen one great difference between Helen and Jenny. Helen never asked her for anything, and if she happened to borrow a sheet of paper or a steel pen from Mary's store, she was always careful to return it. Mary's mother was rich and Mary had a great abundance of pretty and useful things. She would often have liked to divide with Helen, for she had a generous disposition: but except at Christmas and on her birthday, Helen would never accept presents.

Jenny was very different. She not only took all that was offered her, but she had no scruple in begging for anything in Mary's desk or play-room to which she took a fancy. Mary's paper and pens, Mary's thread and needles, Mary's lunch basket, she used as if they were her own, and she had already got possession of some of Mary's prettiest and most expensive toys. Still Mary could see no fault in her new friend, and she was very much vexed at her mother because she would hardly ever ask Jenny to tea, and would never let her go to Mr. Marvin's to stay all night.

Helen went away feeling very much hurt, and Mary stayed with Jenny and the other girls. The poor woman walked slowly toward them, and when she came opposite she crossed over the street to speak to them.

"Can any of you tell me where Mrs. Willis lives?" she asked, in a sweet, pleasant voice. Her clothes were old-fashioned and worn but she looked and spoke like a lady.

Mary was starting forward to answer her, when Cora Hart pulled her back and at the same moment Jane answered, glibly:

"Mrs. Willis? Yes, ma'am, she lives in that white house up there on the hill," pointing as she spoke to a farm-house which stood about half a mile away upon the side of a steep hill.

"Does she live as far from the village as that?" asked the stranger. "I thought her house was quite near the church."

"She did live near the church," said Jane; "but her house was burned down, and she moved away up there. It is a beautiful place, but rather far-away from the village, and the hill is pretty steep. If you go round the corner by that yellow building with the stairs outside you will be in the road."

The lady thanked her for her information and turned into the street which Jenny had pointed out as leading up to the white house.

"There she goes, trudging along with her bundles," said Jenny, bursting out laughing. "I hope she will find Mrs. Willis at home!"

"Mary was for telling her right away," said Cora. "She would have spoiled all the fun, if I had not stopped her. What do you suppose she wants with your mother, Mary?"

"I dare say she is some beggar woman," answered Mary. "We have heaps of them coming to our house all the time."

"I should think you did!" said Jane, scornfully. "I don't see how your mother can encourage them. I do despise beggars!"

"Two of a trade never agree, oh, Martha?" said Cora.

"What do you mean by that, Cora Hart?" asked Jane, angrily.

But Cora only laughed scornfully and did not answer.

"Well, for my part, I think it was a real mean trick!" said Julia Davis. "Sending the poor woman all the way up that steep hill to an empty house. I wish I had just told her the truth."

"Why didn't you, then?" asked Jane. "Nobody hindered you, Miss Tell-tale; only just let me catch you getting me into a scrape, that's all!"

Julia turned away and went into her own gate without saying a word. She felt very much ashamed of herself, for she knew she had been a coward—she had been afraid to do what she knew was right.

Mary also felt uneasy as she went home. She had been taught her duty towards her neighbor, and she knew right from wrong. All the time she was eating her nice supper, she thought of the poor woman with her little lame boy toiling up the steep road only to find an empty house.

"Helen Arnold would never have done such a thing!" she said to herself, and she wished over and over again that she had gone with Helen.

It was a pleasant, dry evening, and after tea, Mrs. Willis took her work and sat down in a garden chair on the green lawn. Mary stood by her with her doll, but she did not feel like playing or talking. Her conscience troubled her more and more, and she felt very unhappy.

"I have some good news for you, Mary," said Mrs. Willis. "You have often heard me talk of your godmother, your father's sister, who married a missionary and went away to China."

"O yes, mamma!" replied Mary. "I have always wished to see her so much. You know she sent me that beautiful box of shells and curiosities."

And then Mary sighed as she thought how Jenny had begged from her some of the prettiest things, and rarest curiosities in the box.

"Well, my love, I think you will see her very soon. I had a letter from her this afternoon, in which she says she expects to sail the next week for America and will come directly to us. She has a little boy who is lame, and she is bringing him home to see if he can be cured."

"How glad I am!" said Mary. "I have so often looked at her picture—the one you said she painted herself, when she was teaching you to draw, mamma—and wished she would come home."

Mrs. Willis smiled and sighed. "You must not expect to see Aunt Mary looking like her picture," said she. "It was painted long ago, when we were both young, and she has been through a great deal since then."

Mrs. Willis sighed, and looked down on the ground. She was thinking of all that had happened since she had seen her dear sister—how she had lost her husband and all her children but Mary. Mary stood leaning on her mother's chair without speaking, till the sound of the opening gate caused her to look up. There, coming in at the gate, was that very poor woman and her little boy, whom Jane Marvin and her companions had sent "on a fool's errand," as the saying is, to the empty farm-house on the hill.

Before she could make up her mind what to do, Mrs. Willis looked up also, and met the gaze of the stranger. With a scream of delight, she started up and flew to meet her, kissing her and calling her, her dear, precious sister, her darling sister Mary!

"Come here, Mary, and see your aunt," said her mother, turning round.

Mary came forward. She trembled so that she could hardly stand, and she was very pale, but her mother did not notice her confusion.

"Now run into the house and tell Jane to get tea ready as quickly as she can," said. Mrs. Willis. "And this is my nephew and god-son Willie. But how lame he is, poor little fellow!"

"He is not always so lame," said Mrs. Lee. "But we have had a long and hard walk and he is almost tired to death. I am afraid he will not be able to stir to-morrow."

"I did not expect you till next week, at the earliest," said Mrs. Willis. "But how do you come to arrive at this time of day? The train has been in for two hours."

"I will tell you all about it, presently," replied Mrs. Lee. "Just now I am anxious to find a resting-place for Willie, who, I fear, is suffering very much from his knee."

"It does ache!" said poor Willie. "It always hurts me to go up-hill."

"Well, you shall soon rest it, my dear boy," said Mrs. Willis. "Where are your trunks, Mary?"

"They will be here to-morrow, I suppose," replied her sister. "They were left behind by some mistake, but I have telegraphed and heard that they are safe and on the way. I must keep out of sight till they come, for between dust and the long journey I look more like a beggar than a lady."

The travellers were soon washed and brushed and sat down to a bountiful meal.

"And now tell me how you came here at this time in the evening?" said Mrs. Willis.

"The matter is easily enough explained," replied Mrs. Lee. "We sailed a week sooner than we expected and had an uncommonly short voyage. We came directly on from Boston, and arrived on the train at four o'clock."

"But where have you been since?" asked Mrs. Willis.

"I am sorry to say we have been made the victims of a most malicious trick," replied Mrs. Lee. "There were no carriages at the station, and I thought I could find your house easily enough. Meeting a party of school-girls, I asked them the way, that I might be sure, and was told by one of them that your house had been burned and that you had moved into a house which she pointed out on the hill-side. If I had known how far it was I should have gone to the hotel, where, of course, I should have been set right."

"But as it was, Willie and I toiled all the way up the steep rough road to find ourselves at an empty, deserted and half-ruined house. Poor Willie broke down entirely, and I felt very much like doing the same, for we had travelled all night and were tired out. I hardly know what we should have done but for a good-natured teamster, who stopped to water his horses at the trough by the gate. I made some inquiries of him, and he not only set me right, but insisted on bringing me back to the village. Poor Willie is quite discouraged at his first experience in a Christian land, and wants to go back to China."

"I do not wonder!" said Mrs. Willis.

"I did not believe there was a girl in the village who would do such a wicked thing. Who do you suppose it could have been, Mary?"

Mary, in her corner of the sofa, murmured something, she hardly knew what. She was wishing that she were in China, or anywhere else out of the sight of her mother and aunt. Oh, if she had only gone with Helen! If she had only been brave enough to defy Jane, and set her aunt right! But there was no use in wishing.

"She was a short and rather dark girl, with a great deal of curling black hair, and bold black eyes," said Mrs. Lee. "There were several others with her, but I did not notice them so as to be able to know them again."

"It must have been Jane Marvin, I am sure," said Mrs. Willis.

She turned to Mary as she spoke, and observed her confusion. Could it be that her daughter had been engaged in the trick? At that moment her attention was diverted by poor Willie, who had been trying in vain to eat, and who now, overcome by fatigue and pain, fainted away in his chair. Mrs. Willis saw him carried up-stairs and made as comfortable as he could be, and then returned to the parlor, where Mary was curled up in the corner of the sofa, crying as if her heart would break.

"Now, Mary, I want to know all that you can tell me about this matter!" said Mrs. Willis, seating herself by Mary. "Tell me the whole truth."

Sobbing so that she could hardly speak, Mary told her mother the story.

"It is one of the most shameful things I ever heard of!" said Mrs. Willis. "How could you join in such a piece of wickedness?"

"I did not say anything, mamma," sobbed Mary.

"No, but by your silence, you consented to what Jane said, when you might have prevented all this trouble by speaking."

"I was going to tell Aunt Mary at first, but the girls pulled me back and would not let me," said Mary, hanging her head.

"Would not let you!" repeated Mrs. Willis. "How did they hinder you?"

Mary had no answer ready, and her mother continued:

"Where was Helen Arnold? I should have expected something better of her."

"She was not there, mamma," replied Mary, eagerly. "She went away before Jane began. She wanted me to go with her, but I was vexed and would not. Oh, if I had only minded her!"

"If you had only minded your own conscience and your own sense of what was right, you would not have needed Helen to keep you out or mischief," said Mrs. Willis. "If you had had one thought of doing as you would be done by, you would not have allowed a wicked, silly girl to send your aunt and your poor lame cousin Willie on such an errand."

"I did not know she was my aunt," said Mary.

"That makes no difference, Mary. You knew she was a woman with a child, and the fact that you thought you were playing a trick upon a poor person makes your fault worse instead of better. Nor do I think you mend the matter by saying that you did not speak a word. You ought to have spoken, especially when the woman inquired for your own mother."

"I know it was wicked and mean, mamma," said Mary. "I have been sorry ever since. I wish Jane Marvin had never come here!" she added, bursting into tears again. "She is always making me do bad things and leading me into mischief!"

"That is sheer nonsense, Mary. Jane could not make you do anything you did not choose, nor lead you where you did not choose to go. If you had been so very easily led, you would have been governed by Helen, whom you have known three times as long as you have known Jane, and whom you have every reason to love and trust."

"You have done very wrong, Mary—very wrong, indeed," continued Mrs. Willis, after a moment's silence. "I cannot excuse what you have done by throwing the blame on Jane. Every one of the party who allowed the cruel imposition to go on was guilty of helping on the cheat. I shall see that Miss Lyman is informed in the morning of the way in which her pupils amuse themselves, and you must expect to take your share of the blame. Now go to bed, and when you say your prayers, ask God to forgive your mean and cruel conduct."

"Won't you forgive me, and kiss me, mamma?" sobbed Mary.

"When I see that you are sensible of your fault, Mary. At present you seem inclined to throw the blame entirely upon somebody else, and to think you are to be excused because 'somebody made you' do what you knew was wicked and cruel."

Mary went away to bed crying bitterly. She had never been so miserable in all her life. It was not the first time she had been "made" by Jane to do wrong. She had done things in Jane's company which she was both afraid and ashamed to have her mother know; but she had always excused herself by thinking they were all Jane's faults.

Now, as she thought about the matter, she saw how useless and vain were all such excuses. If she was so easily led, why had she not been governed by Helen, whom she had known more years than she had known Jane months, who was always ready to give up her own convenience for her sake, and whom she had never known to do a mean action? Why was she not as easily led to do right as to do wrong?

Mary learned more about herself that wretched night than she had ever known before. She had always known that she was a sinner—now she felt it, which is quite a different thing. She thought of all the wrong things she had done lately—the whispering, and reading story-books in prayer-time, the playing truant from school and lying to conceal it—the mysterious private talks about things of which she ought never to have thought; much less spoken—the secrets kept from her mother, to whom she used to tell everything. Mary no longer tried to excuse herself. She felt her own wickedness, and with real repentance asked her Heavenly rather to forgive her for Christ's sake. Then feeling a little comforted, she went to sleep.

She was awakened in the night by her mother sending for Doctor Arnold. Poor Willie was very ill—so ill that for several days no one thought he would live. Oh, how miserable Mary was! She could find no comfort except in running up and down-stairs and waiting upon her aunt and Willie. Dr. Arnold had been informed of the cause of Willie's illness, and the next morning he came into school and told Miss Lyman the whole story, before the minister and all the scholars. All the girls concerned in the trick were obliged to beg Aunt Mary's pardon, and were not allowed any recess for the rest of the term.