Kitabı oku: «The Letter of Credit», sayfa 15

"He?" repeated Mrs. Mowbray. "A gentleman?"

"Yes, ma'am. He was the only friend that took care of mother. He got those things for me."

"What is his name, my dear?"

"Mr. Digby. I mean, Mr. Southwode. I always used to call him Mr. Digby."

"Digby Southwode!" said Mrs. Mowbray. "But he is a young gentleman."

"O yes," said Rotha. "He is not old. He was called away, back to England suddenly, and aunt Serena hindered my knowing, and hindered him somehow from seeing me at all to say a word to me before he went. And I never can forgive her for it, – never, never!"

"Hush, my dear," said Mrs. Mowbray softly. "Your aunt may have thought she had good reasons. How came you under your aunt's care then?"

"Mr. Digby took me to her," said Rotha, her eyes filling, while they sparkled at the same time. "He said it was best for me to be there, under her care, as he had no home where he could take me. But if he had known, he never would have left me with her. I know he would not. He would have taken care of me some other way."

"What has Mr. Southwode done for you, that you should have such trust in him?"

But Rotha somehow did not want to go into this subject in detail.

"He did everything for us that a friend could do; he taught me, and he took care of mother; and mother left me in his charge."

"Where was Mrs. Busby?"

"Just where she is now. She did not know we were here."

"Why was that?"

Rotha hesitated. "Mother did not like to tell her," she said, somewhat obscurely.

"And she left you in this gentleman's care."

"Yes."

"And he put you under your aunt's care."

"Yes, for the present. But I was to tell him if anything went wrong; and I have never been able to speak a word to him since. Nor to write, because he had not given me his address."

"Mr. Southwode is an Englishman. It is probable, if his father is dead, that he will make his home in England for the future."

Rotha was silent. She thought Mr. Digby would not forget her, or fail in his promises; but she kept her views to herself.

"He did very properly in committing you to your aunt's care; and now I am very glad I have got you," Mrs. Mowbray went on cheerily. "Now we will try and get all those questions straightened out, that were troubling you. What was it? a question of duty, you said, didn't you?"

Mrs. Mowbray was arranging her heterogeneous masses of books in something like external order; she put a little volume into Rotha's hand as she said the last words. It was a very small New Testament; very small, yet in the clear English printing which made it delightfully legible. "That is the best thing to solve questions of duty with," she went on. "Keep it, my dear."

"O thank you, ma'am!" cried Rotha, a bright colour of pleasure rushing into her cheeks. "O thank you, ma'am! How beautiful! and how nice! But here is where I found my question," she added sorrowfully.

"I dare say. It is the old story – 'When the commandment came, sin revived, and I died.' What was the point this time?"

"Just that point I spoke of, about aunt Serena. I do not forgive her; and in the fifth chapter of Matthew, – here it is: 'If thou bring thy gift to the altar – '"

"I know," Mrs. Mowbray broke in, very busy seemingly with her books and not looking at Rotha. "Why cannot you forgive her?"

"Because I am so wrong, I suppose," Rotha answered humbly.

"Yes, but what has she done?"

"I told you, ma'am. She kept me from seeing Mr. Southwode before he went away. She never even told me he had been at the house, nor that he was gone. I found it out. She meant I should not see him."

"My dear," said Mrs. Mowbray, "that does not seem to me a very heinous offence."

"It was the very worst thing she could do; the cruelest, and the worst."

"She might have thought she had good reasons."

"She did not think that. She knew better. I think she wanted me all in her power."

"Never think evil of people, if it is possible to think good," Mrs. Mowbray continued. "Always find a pleasant reason for the things people do, if it is possible to find one. It is quite as likely to be true, and it leaves you a great deal more comfortable."

"You cannot always do that," said Rotha.

"And this is one of the times? Well, what are you going to do about it?

Can't you forgive your aunt, even if you think the worst?"

"It would be very easy to forgive her, if I could think differently," said Rotha.

"It occurs to me – Those words you began to quote, – they run, I think, 'If thy brother hath ought against thee.' Is that the case here?"

"Yes, ma'am, because I charged her with what she had done; and she did not excuse herself; and I thought I had a right to be angry – very angry; but when I came to those words in my reading, I remembered that though I had so much against her, she had a little against me; because I had not spoken just right. And then I knew I ought to confess it and make an apology; and I was so angry I could not."

"And do you feel so now?" Mrs. Mowbray asked after a slight pause.

"Just the same."

"Do you think you are a Christian, Rotha?"

"No, ma'am. I know – a Christian does His commandments," the girl answered low.

"Do you want to be a Christian?"

"Yes, ma'am, if I could; but how can I?"

"You cannot, while your will goes against God's will."

"Can I help my will?" said Rotha, bringing up her old question.

"There is the dinner-bell," said Mrs. Mowbray. "If I can get a little time this evening, I will try to shew you the answer to your question. I must go now, my dear. Read your New Testament."

Rotha curled herself up on her couch, and by the light of the kennal coal did read her Testament; full of delight that it was hers, and full of comfort in the hope that after all there would be a way for her out of her difficulties.

Then came her dinner. Such a nice dinner it was; and served with a delicacy and order which charmed Rotha. She eat it alone, but missing nothing; having a sense of shelter and hiding from all roughnesses of people and things, that was infinitely soothing. She eat her dinner, and hoped for Mrs. Mowbray's return. Waiting however in vain. Mrs. Mowbray came not. The room was bright; the fire burned; the cheerful shine was upon everything; Rotha was full of comfort in things external; if she only could settle and quiet this question in her heart. Yes, this question was everything. Were she but a child of God, secure and established, – yes, not that only, but pure and good, – like Mr. Digby; then, all would be right. Then she would be happy. With that question unsettled, Rotha did not feel that even Mrs. Mowbray could make her so.

Late in the evening Mrs. Mowbray came. Her arms were full of packages.

"I could not get free before," she said, as she shut the door behind her. "I had an errand – and then company kept me. Well, my dear! have you had a pleasant evening, all alone?"

"I like to be alone sometimes," Rotha replied a little evasively.

"Do you! Now I like company; unless I have something to do. Perhaps that was your case, eh?"

"Yes, ma'am, it was."

"And did you accomplish it? – what you had to do."

"No, ma'am."

"You must take me into your counsels. See here – how do you like that?"

She had drawn up a chair to the side of Rotha's couch, and opening one of the packages on her lap, transferred it to Rotha's. It was the fashion then for young people to wear woollen stuffs of bright plaid patterns; and this was a piece of chocolate and black with a thread of gold colour; soft and beautiful and rich tinted. "How do you like that?" Mrs. Mowbray repeated; and Rotha answered that she thought it very beautiful.

"Don't you think that would make you a nice school dress? and here – how would this do for company days?"

As she spoke, she laid upon the chocolate plaid another package, containing a dark brown poplin, heavy and lustrous. Poor Rotha looked up bewildered to the lady's face, which was beaming and triumphant.

"Like it?" she said gleefully. "I couldn't tell your taste, you know. I had to go by my own Don't you think that would become you?"

"Me?" said Rotha.

"Yes. You see, we cannot wait for your aunt's slow motions, and you must be clothed. Do you like it, my dear?"

"I like it very much – of course – they are most beautiful; but – will aunt Serena give you the money, Mrs. Mowbray?"

"I shall not ask her," said Mrs. Mowbray laughing. "You need not say anything about it, to her or anybody else. It is our affair. Now here is a warm skirt, my dear; I want to keep you warm while you are in my house, and you are not sufficiently armed against the cold weather. I don't want to have you catching any more colds. You see, this is for my interest. Now with that you will be as warm as a toast."

It was a beautiful petticoat of scarlet cloth; soft and thick. Rotha looked at the pile of things lying on her lap, and was absolutely dumb. Mrs. Mowbray bent forward and kissed her cheek.

"I think you will be well enough to go out by Saturday – and I will let Miss Jewett go with you to a dress-maker and have these things made up at once. Is there any particular dress-maker who is accustomed to work for you?"

"No," Rotha said first, and then immediately added – "Yes! I forgot; the one who made my summer dresses, that I had in the summer." That Mr. Southwode got for me, she had been about to say; but she checked herself. Some fine instinct made her perceive that the mention of that gentleman's name was not received with absolute favour. She thought Mrs. Mowbray did not approve of Mr. Southwode.

"And now, my dear," said that lady, as she swept away the packages of goods from Rotha's lap, "what about your question of conscience?"

"It remains a question, ma'am."

"Not settled yet? What makes the difficulty?"

"I told you, ma'am. I did not speak quite as I ought to my aunt, one or two times, and so – she has something against me; and I cannot pray."

"Cannot pray, my dear! that is dreadful. I should die if I could not pray. The Bible says, pray always."

"But it says, here, 'if thy brother hath ought against thee, leave there thy gift before the altar, and go thy way; first be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and offer thy gift.'"

"Let me see that place," said Mrs. Mowbray. She sat down beside Rotha and took the little Testament out of her hand, and considered the passage.

"Well, my dear," she said at last, – "and so you think these words forbid you to pray?"

"Do they not?" said Rotha, "until I could reconcile myself to aunt Serena? or at least try."

"What is the matter between you and your aunt?"

"I do not know. I cannot tell what makes her do so."

"Do what?"

"Hide me from the only friend I have got."

"You mean that gentleman? My dear, she may have had very good reasons for that?"

"She could not have good reasons for it," said Rotha flushing.

"My dear, old people often see things that young people do not see, and cannot judge of."

"You do not know Mr. Southwode, ma'am. Anyhow, I do not feel as if I could ever forgive her."

"That makes it difficult for you to go and ask her pardon, hey?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"What are you going to do?"

"I do not know," said Rotha sadly.

"It is too late for us to talk longer to-night. I will shew you a Bible to-morrow – stop, there is no time like the present – "

Mrs. Mowbray rose and went to a table from which she brought a little volume. "This will do better," she said. "I have a Bible in which all this, in this book, is arranged in reference columns; but this is more convenient. You can use this with your own Bible, or any Bible. I am going to give you this, my dear." And she fetched a pen as she spoke and entered Rotha's name on the title page, with the date of day and month and year. Then she went on – "Now see, Rotha; here is what will give light on your question. Here are references from every verse in the Bible to other parts and other verses which explain or illustrate it. Find your place, – what is it? – Mat. v. 24, is it? – here; now see, here are references to other passages, and from them you will find references to still others. Take this to-morrow and study it out, and pray, my dear. You cannot get along without praying."

CHAPTER XVI.
SCHOOL

Rotha received the book with an access of pleasure, which expressed itself however mainly in sparkling eyes and the red tinge of excitement in her cheeks. She did say some words of thanks, but they were not fluent, as customary with her when any great degree of delight was pressing for utterance. Then speech was poor. Mrs. Mowbray did not miss it; she could read the signs, and was satisfied. But long after she was asleep, Rotha lay on her cot with eyes wide open, staring at the remains of the fire. What had come to her? what strange, enchantment-like, fabulous, change of circumstances? and this dispenser and contriver of happiness, slumbering peacefully on the bed yonder, what was she but a very fairy of blessing, bringing order out of disorder and comfort out of the very depths of confusion. A home, and a friend, and nice dresses, and study, and books! Two books to-day! Rotha was too happy to sleep.

The next day she began school duties again; but Mrs. Mowbray would not have her join the family at meals, until, as she said, she had something comfortable to wear. Rotha was thankful for the kind thoughtfulness that spared her feelings; and in return bent herself to her appointed tasks with an energy which soon disposed of them. However, they took all her time, for Mrs. Mowbray had introduced her to another part of the school and a much more advanced class of the pupils. This of itself gave her new spirit. The following day Mrs. Mowbray, as she had promised, sent her with one of the under teachers to have her dresses cut out. They went in a carriage, and drove to Mrs. Marble's. Mrs. Marble wore a doubtful countenance.

"Well, it is time you had something warmer, if you've got nothing more made since those lawns. Where's Mr. Digby?"

"In England."

"England! Don't say! And who's taking care of you?"

"Miss Carpenter is in Mrs. Mowbray's family," said Miss Jewett stiffly.

"Mrs. Mowbray, hey? what, the great school? You are in luck, Rotha. Did Mr. Digby put you there?"

"He did not choose the school," said Rotha. "I went to the same place where my cousin went. Mrs. Marble, that's too tight."

"It'll look a great deal handsomer, Rotha. Slim waists are what all the ladies want."

"I can't be pinched," said Rotha, lifting and lowering her shoulders in the exultation of free play. "I would rather be comfortable."

"It does look better, to be snug, Miss Carpenter," said Miss Jewett, taking the mantua-maker's part.

"I don't care," said Rotha. "I must have room to breathe. Make it loose enough, Mrs. Marble, or it will just come back to you to be altered."

"You're as masterful as you just was, and as I always thought you would be," said the mantua-maker. "I suppose you think times is changed."

"They are very much changed, Mrs. Marble," said Rotha calmly. "But I always had my dresses loose."

"And everything else about you! – " muttered the dress-maker. However, she was never an ill-natured woman, and took her orders with tolerable equanimity.

"You are the first young lady I ever saw trying on dresses, who did not want them to fit nicely," Miss Jewett remarked as they were driving away.

"But I could not breathe!" said Rotha. "I like to be comfortable."

"Different people have different notions of comfort," was the comment, not admiring. But Rotha did not give the matter another thought.

The next day was Sunday. "You will not go to church, dear," Mrs. Mowbray had whispered. "I shall not ask you till you have something to keep you warm. Have you a thick outer coat?"

Rotha explained. Her aunt had been about to get her one two or three weeks ago; then they had had their falling out, and since then she had heard no more on the subject.

"We will get things in order by next Sunday. You can study at home to- day, and maybe that will be the best thing for you."

It was the most welcome order Rotha could have received. She went up to Mrs. Mowbray's room, which she still inhabited, and took Bible and New Testament and her newly acquired possession, which she found bore title, "The Treasury of Scripture Knowledge," and sat down on the couch. It was all so comfortable around her that Rotha paused to look and think and enjoy. Hid away, she felt; safe and secure from all disturbances; her aunt could not worry her, Antoinette could not even look at her; nobody could interfere with her; and the good fairy of her life would come in only to help and shelter her. The warm air; poor Rotha had been inhabiting a region of frost, it must be remembered, material as well as spiritual; the slight sweet perfume that pervaded the room and came, Rotha knew not from what; the pretty, cosy look of the place, furniture, fire, pictures and all; – Rotha sat looking and feeling in a maze of astonishment. That all this should be, geographically, so near Mrs. Busby's house! With a breath of admiring delight, at last Rotha turned to her books. Yes, if she could get that question settled —

She opened her "Treasury of Scripture Knowledge" and found the fifth chapter of Matthew; then the 24th verse. The first reference here was to Mat. xviii. 15-17.

That does not tell me anything, thought Rotha. I cannot go to aunt Serena and tell her her fault; it would be no use; and besides, that is what I have done already, only not so, I suppose. – Then followed a passage from Job and one from Proverbs, which did not, she thought, meet her case. Then in Mark ix. 50 she found the command to "have peace one with another." But what if I cannot? thought Rotha. Next, in Romans, the word was "Recompense to no man evil for evil"; and, "If it be possible, as much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all men." This at first caused some exultation, which evaporated upon further reflection. Had it not been possible? If she had been patient, forgiving, sweet; if she had spoken and looked accordingly; would there not have been peace? Her aunt at least would have had nothing against her. Her own cause of grievance would have remained; might she not have forgiven that? A resolute negative answered this gentle suggestion of conscience; like Jonah in the case of his gourd, Rotha said to herself she did well to be angry. At least that Mrs. Busby deserved it; for conscience would not allow the conclusion that she had done "well," at all. It was not as Mr. Digby would have done. He was Rotha's living commentary on the word. She went on. The next passage forbade going to law before unbelievers. Then came a word or two from the first epistle of Timothy; an injunction to "pray everywhere, lifting up holy hands, without wrath– "

Rotha got no further. That arrow struck home. She must not pray with anger in her heart. Then she must forgive, unconditionally; for it would never do to intermit all praying until somebody else should come to a right, mind. Give up her anger! It made Rotha's blood boil to think of it. How could she, with her blood boiling? And till she did– she might not think to pray and be heard.

O why is it so hard to be a Christian! why is it made so difficult!

Then Rotha's conscience whispered that the difficulty was of her own making; if she were all right, that would be all easy. She would go on, she thought, with her comparison of Bible passages; perhaps she would come to something that would help. The next passage referred to was in James.

"But if ye have bitter envying and strife in your hearts, glory not…

This wisdom descendeth not from above, but is earthly, sensual, devilish.

For where envying and strife are, there is confusion and every evil work."

"Devilish"! well, I suppose it is, Rotha confessed to herself. "Envying" – I am not envying; but "strife" – aunt Serena and I have that between us. And so "there is confusion and every evil work." I suppose there is. But how am I to help it? I cannot stop my anger. – She went on to the next reference. It was,

"Confess your faults one to another, and pray one for another, that ye may be healed."

The Bible was all against her. Tears began to well up into Rotha's eyes. She thought she would see what the words were about forgiving. Her eye had caught the Lord's prayer on the next leaf. She turned to that place in her reference book. And here, first of all, the words of the prayer itself struck her, and then the 14th and 15th verses below. It was a dead lock! If she could not forgive, she could not be forgiven; sharp and clear the sentence ran; there was no mistaking it, there could be no glossing it over. Rotha's tears silently rose and fell, hot and sorrowful. She did want to be forgiven; but to forgive, no. With tears dripping before her Bible, she would not let them fall on it, she studied a passage referred to, in the 18th of Matthew, where Peter was directed to set no bounds to his overlooking of injuries, and the parable of the unmerciful servant is brought up. Rotha studied that chapter long. The right and the truth she saw clearly; but as soon as she thought of applying them to her aunt Busby, her soul rose up in arms. She has done me the cruelest and the meanest of wrongs, said the girl to herself; cruel beyond all telling; what she deserves is to be well shaken by the shoulders. Go to her and say that I have done wrong to her and ask her to forgive me, and so help her to forget her own doings – I cannot. – Rotha made a common mistake, the sophistry of passion, which is the same thing as the devil's sophistry. Her confessing and doing right, would have been the very likeliest way to make Mrs. Busby ashamed of herself.

However, Rotha went on with her study. Two passages struck her particularly, in Ephesians and Colossians. The first – "Be ye kind one to another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ's sake hath forgiven you." The other to the same purport, in Col. iii. 13.

But he has not forgiven me, cried Rotha in her heart, while the tears poured; he will not forgive me, unless I forgive her. – "But he is ready to forgive you," the very words before her proclaimed. It was a dead lock, nevertheless; and when Mrs. Mowbray came home from church she found, to her surprise, Rotha still bending over her Bible with her tears dripping on the floor. Mrs. Mowbray took off her hat and cloak before she said a word. Then coming to Rotha's side on the couch, she put one arm round her.

"My dear," she said gently, "what is the matter?"

The tone and the touch were so sympathizing, so tender, that Rotha answered by an affectionate, clinging gesture, taking care at the same time that none of her tears fell on Mrs. Mowbray's rich silk. For a little space she made no other answer. When she spoke, it was with a passionate accent.

"Madame, if I am ever to be a Christian, I must be made all over new!"

"That is nothing uncommon," the lady replied.

"It is every one's case. So the Bible says; 'If any man be in Christ, he is a new creature.'"

"But how am I to get made over all new?" Rotha cried.

"That is the Holy Spirit's work. 'Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.'"

"Then must I ask for him?"

"Certainly."

"But if I do not forgive aunt Serena, it is no use for me to pray?"

"Nay, Rotha, if that were true we should be in a bad case indeed. If you read the fifteenth chapter of Luke, you will find that when the prodigal son was returning, his father saw him while he was yet a great way off;and ran and fell on his neck and kissed him. If you are truly setting yourself to seek God, you will find him; and if you are in earnest in wishing to do his will, he will enable you to do it. You must always ask, my dear. The Bible says, 'the Lord over all is rich unto all – ' not, that are perfect, but – 'that call upon him.'"

"But it says, 'if ye do not forgive, neither will your heavenly Father forgive you.'"

"True; but he will give you that new nature you say you must have; and then forgiving will be easy."

Rotha looked up, partly comforted. And from that time she prayed for a new nature.

A few days more saw her school dress finished and at home. It looked magnificent to Rotha; far too good for a school dress. But Mrs. Mowbray said no; she must look nice in school as well as anywhere; and that very evening she brought to Rotha a box full of neat collars and cuffs and ruffles; some of plain linen and some of lighter and prettier manufacture. The supply was most abundant; and with these things were some ribbands of various colours and little silk neck ties. Rotha received them in the same mute way of speechless gratitude and delight; and resolved one thing; that Mrs. Mowbray should have nothing to complain of in her, whether regarding school duties or anything else.

Another thing Mrs. Mowbray did for Rotha that week. Calling Antoinette Busby to her, at the close of a lesson, she said, "My dear, among the things sent round from your house for your cousin's use, there is no coat or cloak for cold weather wear. Will you tell your mother, Rotha's coat has not been brought with the rest of her things? Thank you. That is all, my dear."

Antoinette went home in a good deal of a fluster, and told her mother.

Mrs. Busby looked impenetrable.

"Now mamma, what are you going to do about it?"

"What did you say?"

"I said nothing. What could I say?"

"Did you see Rotha?"

"No; she is up stairs, getting nursed for her cold."

"Stuff!"

"Well, she had a cold, mamma. Mrs. Mowbray always finds out if the girls are shamming. She is sharp enough."

"Rotha is no more ill than I am."

"Mrs. Mowbray always sends a girl off to her room if she is out of sorts, and coddles her up with pills and tea. She don't do it unless she sees reason."

"Why didn't you ask to see Rotha? It would have looked better."

"I never thought of it," said Antoinette laughing. "Because, really, I didn't want to see her. I should rather think I didn't!"

"You had better ask to-morrow."

"Very well. And what shall I say about the coat?"

"I suppose I shall have to get her one," Mrs. Busby said grimly.

"Then she will want a hat, mamma."

"I'll send your grey plush."

"She won't wear it."

"Mrs. Mowbray will make her. She won't hear nonsense."

"Who does, mamma? Not you, I am sure."

Having to do the thing, Mrs. Busby did it well, for her own sake. She would have let Rotha stay within doors all winter; but if she must get her a cloak, it should never be said she got her a poor one. Accordingly, the next day two boxes were sent round to Mrs. Mowbray's; one containing the rejected hat, the other a warm and handsome cloak, which Mrs. Busby got cheap because it was one of the last year's goods, of a fashion a little obsolete. Antoinette asked leave to see Rotha, that same day, and was refused. Mrs. Mowbray wished her to be left quite to herself. So the next time the cousins met was in class, a day or two later. It was a class to which Mrs. Mowbray herself gave a lesson; it was a class of the more advanced scholars; and Antoinette, who had left her cousin in a lower department, among Miss Blodgett's pupils, was exceedingly astonished to see Rotha come in among the young ladies of the family and take her seat in the privileged library where these lessons were given. Yet more was Antoinette astonished at her cousin's transformation. Rotha was dressed well, in the abovementioned chocolate plaid; her linen collar and cuffs were white and pretty like other people's; the dress was well made; Rotha's abundant dark hair, now growing long, was knotted up loosely at the back of her head, her collar was tied with a little cherry coloured bow; and her whole figure was striking and charming. Antoinette, who was an acknowledged beauty, felt a pang of displeasure. In fact she was so much disturbed and annoyed that her mind was quite distracted from the business in hand; she paid little attention to the lesson and rather got into disgrace. Rotha on the contrary, entering the class and enjoying the teaching for the first time, was full of delighted interest; forgot even her new dress and herself altogether; took acute, intelligent part in the discussion that went on, (the 'subject being historical) and at one bound unconsciously placed herself at the head of the class. There was no formal taking rank, but the judgment of all present involuntarily gave her the place. And Mrs. Mowbray herself had some difficulty not to look too often towards the face that always met hers with such sympathy and life in every feature. Many there indeed were interested; yet no eyes shewed such intelligent fire, no lips were so expressive in their play, no interest was so evidently unalloyed with any thought of self- consciousness.

As the girls scattered, after the hour was over, the cousins met.

"Well!" said Antoinette, "what's come over you?"

The tone was not pleasant. Rotha asked her distantly what she meant?

"Why I left you one thing, and I find you another," said Antoinette. "How did you get here?"

"Mrs. Mowbray desired it. I came to school to study, Antoinette. Why should I not be here?"

"But how could you be here? These are the upper girls."

Rotha laughed a little. She felt very gay-hearted.

"And where did you get this?" Antoinette went on, feeling of a fold of Rotha's dress. "What beautiful cashmere! Where did you get it?"

"There came a good fairy to my room one night, and astonished me."

"A fairy!" said Antoinette.

"Yes, the days of fairies are not over. I thought they were, but I was mistaken," said Rotha joyously. "I do not think there is anything much pleasanter, than to have a good fairy come and visit you."

"What do you mean?"

"Just that. Good bye – the girls are going out to walk, and I must get ready to go along."

She tripped up the stairs, leaving Antoinette mystified and crestfallen. Under pretence of collecting her books, she lingered in one of the class rooms in the lower story, waiting to see the girls pass out, which they always did, she knew, by the lower door. They came presently in long file. The families that sent their daughters to Mrs. Mowbray's were generally of the wealthier portions of society; and it was a well dressed set that defiled before Antoinette's eyes; too well, for many of them were unbecomingly fine. Antoinette did not recognize her cousin until she was quite out upon the street and turned her face casually to speak to some one behind her. The new cloak, of dark green stun 7, was as handsome as Antoinette's own; and there was no old grey plush hat above it. No such matter; a neat little green hat, perfectly simple, but new and well made and well fitting, shaded a face full of merry sparkle, totally unlike the depressed, cloudy expression Antoinette had been used to despise at home. She told her mother with an injured air what she had seen. Mrs. Busby said nothing. It was vexatious; at the same time she reflected that the credit of all this would redound to herself Nobody but Mrs. Mowbray and Rotha herself knew whence came the dresses and bonnet, and they would not tell, naturally. On the whole the gain was as great as the loss.