 CHAPTER XVII What is that? she said to me as she leaned over my chair and watched me tugging at the strings of her shoe. What is the matter with Gracie's shoe? It is in a hard knot, I said, and I am afraid Auntie Bell will have to cut the string, I can't pick it out. Nevertheless I worked at it industriously until my patience gave way, and then I took the scissors. Only an hour or two afterward I heard her ringing little voice calling through the hall. Auntie Bell, oh Auntie Bell, come quick and bring the scissors, Gracie's hand is all in a hard knot. I went in haste, she was trying to get her little blue dress off, working with much tugging, and inside of the sleeve her chubby little hand was caught. It is in a hard knot. She explained as I came in, bring the scissors quick, and to all my explanations she could only answer with a wise little shake of her head. It is in a hard knot. This is only a specimen of her queer ideas. Once we all went to Cleveland, Ohio, to spend our vacation, her papa and mama and herself of course, and my minister and I. Sometime I will tell you about the funny times we all had there together. Enough queer things happen to us to make a big book of. But about this one day. It was very warm, the warmest day we had yet. We said so of every single day that came. We sat at the dinner table, dinner was over, and Gracie had left us and was standing in the dining-room door, while we elders sat over our dessert and visited as hard as if we had not been doing that same thing and not much else for three weeks. There was a strong lake wind, and Gracie's blue dress and white apron fluttered back and forth like little flags. She was a little bit of a mousy, she had been sick all summer, and her cheeks did not puff out like peaches any more. As we sat looking at her there came an unusually strong wind, the door against which she stood blew suddenly shut, and away went Gracie out and down the three steps to the ground. We all sprang up with little shrieks and exclamations and ran to the door. Uncle Ross was first, was there indeed before I could get my chair pushed from the table, and as we reached the door we met him coming with the fallen maiden in his arms. She was not shrieking as I suspected, neither was she speechless from injury and fright as I had half feared. I wish you could have seen her face. Her eyes were as bright as two stars, her cheeks were glowing, and her face was all in a sparkle of delight. I flew, she said, as she came toward us. Did you see me, Auntie Bell? Oh, Mama, did you see me fly? I went just as nice, just like the robins, and Uncle Ross caught me before I came down. Now did anyone ever hear such a description of a fall before? She was the most perfectly delighted little darling that you ever saw. She could talk of nothing else all day. Everyone who came in, she told the story of her wonderful journey up in the air, just like the robins, and how Uncle Ross caught her before she fell. Don't let us tell her anything about it, her Mama said. It is really a pity to undeceive her. It is such a pretty idea. Let her think so for a little while. We need not have been afraid of undeceiving her. It wasn't an easy thing to do. It soon became apparent that it was very important to try. She was never given to being afraid of things, not have so much afraid as would have been convenient, and we found that after her flight into the air she grew to thinking that she was certainly different from other little girls. Perhaps she had wings hidden away somewhere so that she could fly again. When we told her to be careful about going to the end of the high piazza for fear she might fall, she would look up at us with an air half-wistful, half-rogish, and say, Perhaps I might fly instead of falling. I did once, you know. And this she thought was an argument that was perfectly unanswerable. We must certainly explain that to her, Mama said one day, or she will be trying to climb out on the roof and fly off to the ground. So I engaged to attempt an explanation. You mustn't think, Gracie, that you really flew that day when the wind blew you out of the door. Uncle Ross was beside you so quickly and picked you up before you had time to know that you had fallen, almost before you touched the ground. That is what makes you think that you flew. But the truth is, if the ground had not been soft and grassy and you hadn't been picked up so quickly, you might have been badly hurt, and you must never try to fly because you have no wings and were not intended to travel in that way. She had been so sure of her trip that I was very sorry to spoil the pretty idea, and I expected her to feel very badly, perhaps to shed a few tears. I prepared to comfort her. She did not say a word for several minutes, and her face was so grave, so almost offended in its look, that I decided to wait and find out what was passing in her queer little mind. Auntie Belle, she said, speaking at last in a slow, grave tone. Auntie Belle, did you ever fly? Why, of course not, darling. Don't you see I have no wings either. No one can fly, no one but birds and hens and such creatures. People cannot, and that is what makes it very foolish in you to say that you can because you were not made to fly. I gained a great deal by that explanation, as you will see. Then you don't know at all how it feels to fly? Not at all. The nearest I expect to come to it is to go up in a balloon. I mean to try that way of traveling some day, and I think very likely I may take you with me. That is, if you would like to go. I should think it might be almost as good as flying. Well, she said, still speaking in that grave wise tone of hers, and treating my last sentence exactly as if I had not spoken it. If you never flew in your life, of course you can't know how it feels to fly, and you can't know as much about it as I do because I have flown away up in the sky. I think I went out of sight, but it didn't take but a little minute, for flying is done just as quick—oh, quicker than you can think!—and I came back just as Uncle Ross and all of you got to the door. But of course you think it isn't so, for you never tried it and I did. Talk of trying to explain things to her when she didn't hesitate to say that she knew more about it than I did. To all our explanations and advice she gave this unanswerable reply. But, Mama, I have tried it, you know, and how can I help knowing that I didn't fly when I did? What is to be done with the ridiculous little morsel? Her Mama asked, half in amusement and half in despair. I am really afraid she will get a serious fall. I have to watch her all the time. I know she thinks us all a set of skeptics, and she means to prove to us that we are mistaken the first chance she gets. I don't know but we will have to select the place and let her try it, just to prove to her that there are people in the world who know more than she does. This her Papa said, but Mama shivered as she answered, I am afraid of that way. We can never be sure how little a fall may be a serious one. We were not in Cleveland when we had this talk, but at Grand Paws, whither we had come to finish our vacation. He sat at the round table, reading the Tribune, and as we thought, not hearing a word we were saying. But in the twilight of the next evening, just before it was time for Gracie to go to bed, he took her on his knee, and they had a little talk together, part of which I heard. So you really think you can fly, little lady? Why, I know I did fly, Grandpa, and I can't see why I couldn't do it again. Grandpa said not a single word in answer, at which the little Mousey seemed to be a good deal astonished. She took shy looks at him from under her lashes, until presently she said, Don't you think I flew, Grandpa? No, said Grandpa, shaking his head. I don't think you did. Shall I tell you the reason? It is because I can't find anything about it in the Bible. Then his little granddaughter had an astonished face. Why, Grandpa, she said, and her voice was full of exclamation points. What can you mean? Of course it isn't in the Bible, for it happened thousands of years afterward. But I did fly. That is, you think you did, but I can't think it, because I have been looking it up in the Bible today, and I find a great deal about people like you and me walking. It tells us to walk in love, to walk honestly. It says, this is the way, walk ye in it, and walk humbly. It says, walk in the light, and ever so many other directions. Then I looked for some directions about flying. There are a good many of them, but the trouble is they are all about the angels, not a word to you and me or people like us. It tells about one good man, one whom God loved very much, and to whom he used to give great blessings. He wished one day that he had wings like a dove, but God didn't give him any. And only once did I find anything about our flying. It speaks of one time when we shall fly away, but even then I find that we have to leave our bodies behind. You know when your little friend Clara died, don't you remember that her body lay there where you could look at it, but that part of her that used to talk and laugh was gone? Clara had flown away, and I am hoping that the time will come when my Gracie will fly right up to heaven to be with Jesus. But I feel certain that when that time comes she will leave her body here, because God has nowhere said that she could fly with it. It was just at this point that Mama called her little girl to go to bed. She kissed Grandpa good night and went upstairs with a very thoughtful face. And it was not until she was almost ready for bed that she said gravely, Well, Mama, I must have been mistaken after all, because Grandpa has read the Bible through about it, and he says there is no such thing. I have got to leave my body down here with you when I go flying, and I don't want to go that way yet, so I won't ask him to let me. Of course, if he wouldn't let the very good man who wanted them so much have some wings, of course he wouldn't let me, for I do suppose I do some wrong things once in a while. So, Mama, I mean to give up trying to fly, and I must have blew out that day. Only, I didn't fall, and it felt ever so much like flying. And she gave a troubled little sigh, as though it was very hard to give up her lovely belief that she had been up in the air. It is the very first time I ever knew her to be convinced by arguments, her mother said, with great satisfaction, as we went downstairs after wingless Gracie had fallen asleep. She is the most positive child I ever saw, and you know how absurdly she can argue. But think of going to the Bible for arguments with which to convince her that she didn't fly. I shouldn't have thought of it in a lifetime. Do you suppose there is any lesson that Father cannot find a way of teaching from that same book? I asked, as we stopped on the lower stairs to finish this bit of a talk. I don't believe there is, she said, and then, oh, wouldn't you give a great deal to be able to bring the Bible into every little thing as Father can? And then we both said for the hundredth time what a blessed thing it was to have such a Father, and for Gracie to have such a grandfather. End of Chapter 17 Chapter 18 of Grand Puzzle, Darlings by Pansy This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 18 Gracie's Bible Stories We were at Gracie's home making a visit. The summer Sunday afternoon was drawing to a close. We had been to church and Sabbath school, and then the heat seemed to have overcome every one of us except Gracie. I wonder why the weather has no power over little bits of people. They seem to be just as fresh and bright as robins, without any regard to the little drops of mercury shut up in glass cases that seem to know so much about the weather. Gracie's mama was asleep in the bedroom. Grandma was asleep upstairs. Uncle Ross was in the study, yawning over the sermon that he was to preach that evening if he got awake enough. I was asleep on the lounge, and Gracie, the last I had known anything about her, was hovering from one room to another like a lonely bird in search of a mate. Why can't that child be warm and tired and want to rest, instead of being as full of plans and energy as she was when she first opened her eyes this morning? This her mama had said with a yawn before she went to sleep. I was waking up, rubbing my eyes and yawning frightfully, and trying to fancy myself a responsible being who cared anything about anything. The parlor door stood open, and the sound of voices floated into my sleepy senses. I roused a little, Gracie and her papa were having a talk. What a shame, I said, raising myself on my elbow and looking around for a listener. What a shame that we should all have gone to sleep and left the management and amusement of that child to her father, just as if he wasn't as tired and warm as any of us. But there was nobody to listen to me, and the father didn't seem to need my pity. His voice sounded fresh and bright as though he was having a real nice time. He is telling her a Bible story, I said, as I caught a sentence. There is no harm in listening to that. I want a new story for my infant class. Perhaps this will be a new one to me. So I lay back on the lounge and gave myself up to the pleasure of listening. This was what I heard. Why, daughter, do you suppose there will be any Frenchman there, like that man down at the corner of Clinton Street, who cannot speak a word of English? Oh, yes, papa, there will be some Frenchman there, of course. But what makes you think so? Why, papa, didn't you just this minute read it yourself? It said, of all nations. Ah, so it did. Well, do you think there will be many people there? Why, I know there will, ever and ever so many. It said, a great multitude. Doesn't that mean a great many people? Well, yes, I think it does. But about how many do you think, as many as there were in church this morning? Oh, papa, ever and ever so many more. More than there were in church? Almost as many as there are in this whole city, should you think? Gracie's head, which I could just see through the crack of the open door, was tipped a little on one side, a habit she had when she was very busy thinking. Pretty soon she said, Don't know, papa, but I think, yes, I am almost sure that there will be more people than ever lived in the biggest city in the world. What, more people than there are in New York? Don't you remember when you were there last winter, how you stood at the window hour after hour and watched the people go by, and there were so many of them, that you told me it seemed as if all the folks there were in this world, had gone by the window? I know, papa, but still I think, I am quite sure, that there will be more people in heaven than that. I'll tell you why. Don't you know you told me just how many people lived in the city of New York, and somebody must have counted them, or you wouldn't have known? And it says in the Bible, so many people that no man could number them. Ah, said papa again, so it does. That seems to settle the question, that there will be a great many, doesn't it? But do you really think there will be any Irish people in heaven? Why, papa, yes, you forgot it says all nations. Of course the Irish people will be there. All of them, daughter? There was a moment of silence. No, I suppose not. She said at last, speaking very slowly. I suppose some will be left out. Papa, I wonder which they will be. Do you suppose some will be left out of all the different nations? The silence this time was longer than before, than she said with very great gravity. I suppose there will. Then there is just one other thing that I want my little girl to think about. Is she going to be one of the left out ones? Papa is very anxious that she should decide that question. That was all he said, every word. He turned to his own reading after that, leaving Gracie to think, which she did for as much as ten minutes. Nobody knows how much that ten minutes of thought may have done for her. But I know what the story did for me. I had a new Bible story, and I had learned how to tell it. Not only that one, but a great many others. It is wonderful how many stories there are in the Bible when one learns to make the words into pictures. Telling you about that reminds me of another story that her Papa told her. It was about the prodigal son. Do you know that story? If you don't, you must look it up. You will find it in the fifteenth chapter of Luke, from the eleventh verse to the end of the chapter. We were at grand pause when that story was told. It was Gracie's after-dinner talk with her Papa. She sat on his knee and listened with great eagerness, asking questions when she didn't understand, and commenting on the foolish acting son with great freedom. She takes it in remarkably well, Papa said, with a gratified air. I hope she will be as fond of Bible stories when she grows older. As for Gracie, she retired to a corner just back of her father's chair and began an eager talk with Minnie. Papa turned to grandpa and gave him up to politics. In the midst of an animated discussion, they were interrupted by a curious noise coming from the corner behind them. Something between a groan and growl, accompanied with a strange shuffling noise, not unlike the sound which proceeds from a pig pen. Gracie, Gracie! Papa said in astonished reproval, Why, what in the world is the meaning of such strange noises? What can you be trying to do? Gracie very much astonished that her performance had been noticed by others than those for whom it was intended, said with a shy, sweet way she had when she was a little embarrassed. Why, Papa, I didn't think I was making a loud noise. I was only showing Minnie the way Prodigal acted when he ate with the pigs. Just imagine how we shouted! Her busy little brain had been engaged in getting up a scene in which poor Prodigal was the principal character, enacting it out for Minnie's benefit. It isn't a bad idea, grandpa said, laughing as hard as any of us but finding something besides laughter in it. She is making the story just as vivid as she can. No matter if she has to act out some of it, I ventured to say that Minnie will get a more impressive idea of the whole story from that very acting. But the queerest experience we had with the funny little mortal was the time when she applied a sermon. It had been a sermon preached to the children, and although she was considered too young to understand sermons very well, she was allowed to go and hear it, her first evening sermon. She sat like a very mouse, listening with eyes as well as ears, to judge by the way she fixed them on the speaker. By the way, I happened to know that the minister felt very much encouraged and helped by the way in which that one little girl looked at him and seemed to listen. The text, or rather the subject, was the two men who were invited to the vineyard to work. One of them, you remember, said, I will not go, but afterward he was sorry and went. The other said, I go, sir, but he didn't go after all. And the minister explained that there were boys and girls now who made a great many promises as to what they would do, but forgot them as soon as made. It was late for Gracie when we reached home, and we went directly to our rooms without any talk about the sermon. It chanced that the next morning Gracie's mama, always remarkable for enjoying a morning's nap, had an uncommonly sleepy fit. Papa called as he passed the door on the way from his dressing-room. Come, mama, you'll need all your time to get ready for breakfast. Yes, mama said in the sleepiest of half-awake tones, and the next second was sounder asleep than before. Pretty soon Papa came that way again, stopped as before, and said, Why, mama, you will be late. Mama rolled over and muttered, I'm going to get up righta. And the rest of the word was put into the dream that she was busy on. Ten minutes, and Papa came to the door, saying, Mama, mama, come, you really must wake up. The breakfast bell will ring in twenty minutes. Will it? Dralled mama from under the blanket. I must get up. I meant to. And the next sound was a snore. Just at this moment up popped a little head from off the pillow that lay on the crib at the side of the large bed, and Gracie's wondering eyes that we supposed were still shut with sleep were fixed on her mother. And presently Gracie's voice said in the gravest and most astonished tones, Well, I should say that you belonged to the eye-gossers. The tone and above all the words coming from that baby tongue at last succeeded in making mama very wide awake, and we all shouted together over this queer sermon coming from such a young preacher. It is the best kind of preaching, wrote Grandpa, when we wrote a letter telling the family out there the funny story. It has an illustration and an application, but there is a verse in the Bible that I want Gracie to learn, and when she has learned it I want her to go to her father and get him to explain what it means. Then I want her to dictate a letter to me to tell me whether the verse applies to her. Look in the second chapter of Romans, the last half of the first verse, to find what I want learned. As this chapter is already too long, you will have to find the verse for yourselves, and if any of you really want to know what her grandpa meant, or if any of you guess what he meant, and would like to know whether you guess right or not, you will have to write and ask me, P. O. Address, Box 694, Utica, New York. We sat in Mama's room, Gracie and I. Gracie was sowing, making a basket for her dolly out of crimson velvet, and trimming it with gold-covered satin. That is, the crimson velvet was a bit of bright red calico, and the gold-covered satin was some yellow thread. I was making a basket for myself, the material being not quite so nice as Gracie's, it was nothing but simple grenadine. Occasionally Gracie paused in her sowing to take long looks out of the window and say, Wouldn't it be so nice, Auntie Bell, to see Papa coming down the walk this minute? I think he will come to-morrow. I was foolish enough to imagine that she really understood when to-morrow was, and would be disappointed at his not coming, so I said, Papa will not come to-morrow, darling, the very first that we can hope to see him will be on Thursday, two days more. No, she said with great positiveness, he will come to-morrow. I felt like arguing, and so continued. No, Gracie, there will have to be two more days and two more nights, and then he will come. Two days is one, she said, with all the dignity of a judge, and as if that settled the question for all future time. How Grandpa laughed when I told it to him several weeks after, as we sat together in the twilight, and I tried to call together all the pretty and funny things that I had heard Gracie say, on purpose to feed his hungry, loving heart. It seems to me I can hear his laugh this minute. Then he said, I've heard people argue in that way precisely, people who are more than three years old, too. Why, we were talking about going to heaven, Mr. Stuart and I, and on such an important subject as that, he talked in just about that way. But I was going to tell you what Gracie said. I gave over trying to convince her that Papa would not come to-morrow, and said, Why do you want him to come so badly? Is it because you want to see him? Why, of course, she said, That is one reason. But I don't know, but I could wait one more day for that. But I do so need my new parasol. The sun is so very hot, and I have to take so many walks, and it seems to me that I shall faint away tomorrow if I don't have it. If he knew that, I suppose he would come to-night. Don't you think so? He might, I said, trying to look properly sober. But I thought you had a parasol to go down-street with. Do you mean that old green cambrick thing? She said, looking at me with utter contempt. I nodded my head. Why, Auntie Belle? She said, Why, that looks dreadful. That may be, but, after all, it keeps the sun off. I thought it was because you were afraid you would faint. Now, thought I, my little lady, I do believe you are caught. Not a bit of it. She looked thoughtful for a minute, then she said, Well, don't you think that silk is a good deal cooler than cambrick? It feels ever so much cooler, so soft and nice. This new one is to be of silk, you know, blue silk, lined with gold color, and with a beautiful red tassel right on the top. And I know that it will keep me cooler. This was such a funny argument that I didn't undertake to answer it, except with a laugh. After a little, she said, If he shouldn't come to-morrow, I most know he will. But if he shouldn't, then I think he may send it to me. How could he send it? I asked. There is no one to bring it. Why, Auntie Belle, he could send it on the cars. Put it on, you know, and let it come. Don't you know the cars come here ever so many times a day? But your parasol isn't going to have feet, is it? How can it get up and get off the cars when they stop here? She looked at me in great astonishment. Why, Auntie Belle, don't you know about the conductor? There is a conductor on every car, and Papa could just put the parasol in his hand and tell him to bring it to me. But how in the world would the conductor know who you were or where you were? He couldn't leave his cars to hunt you up. She gave me a look of almost contempt, as she said. I don't see how a big lady can know such a little bit about things. Don't you know that Papa could write my name on the parasol? He would roll it up, you know, and tie a paper all around it, and then the conductor would leave it down there at the depot, and I would go down and say, Is there a parasol here for me, done up in a roll? And then the man would hand it out. Well, what if the conductor should never leave it at the depot, but should carry it away off home with him, and you should never hear of it again? She looked indignant and spoke sharply. My Papa would never give my parasol to a naughty, wicked conductor. He would pick out a good one. I was trying to have the last word, so I said. But he might think it was a good man, and, after all, he might be bad. He might be very much tempted, you know. Suppose he should say to himself, Now I presume this little girl has ever so many nice things. Her Papa looked like a man who would be apt to get her all she wanted. And there is my little Jane away out there in our house, who can't have nice dresses and books, and who never had a parasol in her life. How delighted she would be to have this! I shouldn't wonder if that little Gracie knew how few things my little girl has. She would say, Mr. Conductor, take this parasol right along to her. I have so many things that I never shall miss it in the world. She was still for several minutes, and I could see that little Jane's sad condition had worked upon her tender little heart. At last she said in a low voice, I don't think my Papa would give it to a man with a little girl named Jane that hadn't any parasol at all and never had one in her life. I think I most sure he would pick out a man who had no little girl. But what if there isn't any such man? Oh, but I'm sure there must be. They haven't all got little girls, of course not. But don't you hope they have? Just think how dreadful it must be not to have any little girl to love and to bring things. How very, very lonesome the poor man would be. He might have a woman to live with him, a Mama, you know, and then he wouldn't be lonesome. Let us see about that. Your Papa has a Mama to live with him. But can you imagine how lonely he would feel if he should come home some evening and find you gone away, and that you were never to come back again? That was a troublesome question. She sat perfectly still and sewed away on her back, and sewed away on her back in silence. I laughed softly. It was the first time I had ever worsted her in an argument, but she really seemed to have nothing to say. I was mistaken. Half a dozen long stitches, and she returned to the charge. But, Auntie Bell, don't you know that people who have never had any little girls don't like them a bit? They think they make a noise and are in the way, and they look cross at them. I would have a man who had never had any little girls in his life, and then he wouldn't want any, and he wouldn't want the parasol at all. I do hope Papa will find him and send it to-morrow. I put down my sewing, and laughed loud and long, much to Gracie's surprise. There is one person that I have decided never to try to have an argument with. I said to Mama, who came in just then, I am sure to get the worst of it, or at least I never get the last of it, and you know that is what arguers are always after. She is sure to get up and answer to everything. However, I did try it again a great many times. It used to amuse me so much to hear her explain things. Once when we were at the water cure, we spent a long three months there, her Mama and I, and some funny things happened that I will tell you at some other time. This talk that I am going to give you, we had the evening before we left there. We had been packing all the afternoon, and were tired. I think I was a little bit cross. Gracie lay on the bed, pretending to study the railway guide. She had been flying back and forth to the room of one of her particular friends for the last half hour, and had come for the guide for them to study. Auntie Bell, she said, do you know the way we are to go on the cars tomorrow? I can show you all about it. Miss Clifton and I found it all out in the guide. See, we go to Binghamton, and then we go to Corning, and we stop there twenty minutes. I was just in the mood to be contradictory, so I said. Not a bit of it, ma'am. You and Miss Clifton will have to study your lessons over again. We don't even go through Corning. Why, she said so, Gracie answered, fixing her great blue eyes on me in surprise. Can't help that, it is a mistake. We go the other way, not anywhere near Corning. Then I said in undertone to the mama, I do wonder how she will get over that. She will never own herself to be mistaken. I wasn't left long in doubt. After a few minutes of earnest thought, she said gravely, I see how it is. I wonder that I didn't think of it before. Auntie Bell, see here. I can explain it to you. Miss Clifton is what people call farsighted, and this little road down here that we go on, she didn't see at all, because it was so near to her. I saw at once that we were more than twenty minutes away from Corning, but she didn't see it at all, and it is just because she is so farsighted. Now I want to know if you ever heard of anyone who could give a queerer reason than that for having her own way. She is a genius, said Grandpa when we told it over to him. A perfect genius for getting out of small places and making herself out to be right. It is a dangerous talent. There is a crazy man who has been around the streets this summer giving lectures. He says over a great many Bible verses. He seems to know the Bible by heart, and he repeats these verses that are about a great many different things, and says they are all about ladies wearing hoops. He says all these verses say they ought not to do so. I asked him once how he connected all those verses so that they meant the same thing, and he said he did it by drawing his pencil down one side and making a mark all around them. After all, he makes as good use of his Bible verses as a great many people do who are not crazy. His reasoning reminded me of Gracie's. Dear me, I said, I must certainly tell Gracie that the way she reasons reminds you of a crazy man. She will not be so proud of it after that. Grandpa looked searchingly at me. The reasoning of a great many people reminds me of him. He said at last. The other day I heard somebody say that if it was right for Mary Holmes to get angry and make such a talk as she had, it was right for her, and she shouldn't try to keep from talking about it any more. What do you think of that reasoning? Now as that somebody of whom he spoke was myself, you can imagine that my cheeks were a bit red, but after a minute, like Gracie, I tried hard to take my own part. Well, I said, she is a church member, and what is right for her is right for me. Is that verse in the Bible? Asked Grandpa, and I laughed a little and had no answer to make. I have often wondered what Gracie would have found to say if she had been there. I am certain that she would have made some answer. And I from my bed in the corner did the same, and we both drowsily said, Come! We were taking our half-packs. I don't suppose you have ever been to a water-cure to find out what delightful things they are. But I haven't time to tell you about them. The door opened softly, and Miss Clifford peeped her head in. May I have grace? She said, and every note of her fresh, crisp voice said to us that she was fresh from the tonic of a sponge-bath and ready for a walk. Might she have grace? Why, would anything be more delightful than to let somebody have her for the next half-hour? Wasn't she trying with all the power that her little will possessed to keep still as a mouse that we might have our rest, and hadn't she dropped the scissors three times and caught her finger in the window once and spilled a glass full of water into her neck and all in the space of the last five minutes? Yes, indeed, said Mama, with more energy than she had shown for some time. I'm sure if you will take her with you we shall be very grateful. Where are you going, to walk? Won't that be nice? Gracie, make haste and get ready, so as not to keep her waiting. If we were glad we were nothing compared with the little maiden herself. She slid from her chair with a squeal of delight and rushed herself into sack and hat with such haste that she left us exhausted but thankful when the door finally closed upon us both. To feel that she was to be safe and happy for the next half-hour or so, and not only that but that the room was to be still, was a delight. We were up and dressed when the small whirlwind rushed in from her walk flushed and dusty and disordered generally and with by no means so happy a face as we had expected. She flung herself into a chair and swung her hat disconsolently, as she said, in rapid, excited tones. I just know you won't let me eat it! I told the man so and I told Miss Clifford so, but she said perhaps you would, but I told her you never had any perhapses, and I think it is too bad when I like it so much. The man said it wouldn't hurt me a bit, but I told him it wasn't any use at all, and I know it isn't, and I like it so very much I don't know what to do. By this time we were both laughing. What a very remarkable story, Mama said at last. Where have you been and what has happened to you? I'm sure we can't imagine what it is all about. Then, with many bewildering explanations, the story was told. It was so lovely and warm that they had walked on till they came to the cheese factory, and there were some lovely flowers in the window of the cheese factory man's house, and she went just as close to the window as she could to get a smell of them, and the man at the long table was shaving cheeses, and he saw her through the window and he asked her if the flowers smelled nice, and said that he didn't think they smelled as nice as his cheese, and she told him she thought flowers smelled nicer than cheeses, but she thought that cheeses tasted better than flowers. At that he laughed and said that she was the girl for him, and he cut off a long, thin, lovely slice of cheese and gave it to her. She wanted to eat it so much that she could hardly stand up, and they all told her to, Miss Clifford and all, but she told them her mama wouldn't allow her. Then they said it wouldn't hurt her the least bit in the world, but she didn't eat a speck of it, not a single speck, and the man wrapped it up in a paper for her, and here it was, and now she certainly must eat it. She couldn't do without it another minute. We couldn't help laughing over this story. Poor Gracie had evidently had such a hard struggle to keep from eating her treasure, and was evidently so vexed because she could not enjoy it. She had just enough strength to keep her from doing what she had been forbidden, but not enough to keep her from being sadly vexed because she had been forbidden. I felt sorry for her. The little mousey was ridiculously fond of cheese. It was to her what candy is to most children, and the very fact that it made her sick to eat it seemed to make her more perversely fond of it. I can seem to see the dusty, tired little girl as she sat kicking her feet against the chair and looking the very picture of defiance. Hadn't that wise woman, Miss Clifford, said that she didn't believe it would hurt her in the least? Was it to be supposed that it could harm her after that? Altogether there were symptoms of a very stormy time. It was seldom that the little girl wore such a sullen face. Mama was very grave and very decided. I am sorry that you went to the cheese factory, she said. I don't think the walk has helped you. You may take off your sack and put on your slippers, then brush your hair and try to get rested. What shall I do with my cheese? Gracie said, and there was a deepening of the troubled look in her eyes. Mama was provokingly calm. You may throw it away, I suppose, she said gravely. At least that is all I can think of to do with it. You know that you cannot eat it. Miss Clifford said it wouldn't hurt me a bit, and the man said so too, and he makes cheese all the time, and I should think he ought to know. I can't begin to tell you how crossly she said this. Still Mama was very quiet and positive. The trouble is, she said soberly, that you are not the little man's girl, nor Miss Clifford's either. You seem to forget that you are mine, and that you are to do as I say without regard to what other people say. You may put away your things. I can't help thinking that if her Mama had ever been a little girl, she would have been just a little bit more tender to the poor mouse, whose teeth fairly ached to gnaw the cheese. I think she, in company with a great many other mothers, must have been born grown-up ladies, and so knew nothing of how small people feel. That is, I thought so just then. She wasn't apt to make one think that. She was a very loving mother. Just at this point Gracie set up a wail that might have been heard in the farthest hall. If we had but realised it, her brain had been having a heavy strain. She had safely withstood a great temptation, but Satan had gotten the better of her just then, and she needed a little help. She didn't get it from me, I am sorry to say. I meant to be helpful, I felt sorry for her, and I went to work to show it in the most bungling manner possible. I wouldn't be so silly as to cry for a little bit of cheese, I said in a very contemptuous tone. That would be enough if you were a mouse, when it makes you sick, too. I didn't know you were such a baby. Now, reasonably enough, this didn't help her at all. You may just imagine yourself tired and warm, and having an ill-used feeling, and see if you think that sort of talk would help you to get good-humoured. I am almost sure if I had known enough to say, in a gentle tone, you were a good girl not to eat the cheese after your mother had told you not to. I think she must be proud of you, that Gracie would have tried to smile at me through her tears. But as it was, she kicked her feet stormily against the chair, and cried louder and louder. There was no use in trying to talk with her, her voice drowned every attempt. Mama looked perplexed and sad and annoyed all in one. She was not used to such scenes. Meantime, the crying grew terrific, and something must be done. Gracie, said her mother, and I am sure the little girl had never heard her name spoken in such stern tones before. If you do not stop crying this instant and obey me, I shall— Just what she would have done, I don't think we will ever know, for the next thing was a knock, a peculiar, light-running knock, that stopped our voices and sent dismay into our hearts. We knew the knock. In a moment more, Miss Green opened the door and glided softly in upon us. You don't know Miss Green? Well, how shall I ever describe her? She was the life and power and heart and soul of that great water cure, a doctor of wonderful skill, a woman whom everybody respected and loved and obeyed. Why, why? She said in a brisk, fresh tone. What is the matter here? We were afraid that Gracie had fallen downstairs or that her dolly had a broken nose, something dreadful has surely happened. No sooner had her face appeared inside the door than the small lady's cries suddenly ceased, showing plainly that she could stop whenever she thought it quite necessary. There seemed no way to do, but to tell Miss Green what was the matter as she stood looking at us in a way that showed she plainly expected to be told. So Mama, with a face almost as flushed as Gracie's, gave an account of the trouble. She was very much ashamed of her little girl. No sooner was it told than the doctor went over to the small unhappy morsel who crouched behind her mother's chair. She was not very penitent. In fact, her face was still working nervously, and she looked as though she might cry again any moment. I fully expected that she would, the very moment that Miss Green asked her if she was not sorry for being such a naughty girl. Of course she would say that. It was the right and proper thing to say, the thing that people always did say. I thought if Gracie succeeded in keeping her little tongue still, instead of saying that she was not sorry a bit, not at all, I should be very thankful. This is what she said. Do you suppose you are a selfish little girl? Gracie turned her great wondering eyes around so that she could see the lady's face. She was astonished at the question. She couldn't see what it had to do with her crying, neither could I. I don't know, she said slowly, somewhat doubtfully. I don't think I am very. When you have nice things that you think a great deal of, do you like to share them with other people? Yes, ma'am, said Gracie decidedly, and this was true. She was always ready to share her treasures. In fact, she wasn't quite happy unless she had someone to enjoy them with her. Very well, then, said Miss Green. That was exactly what I had supposed about you, so you have a piece of cheese? Yes, ma'am, in a low voice and with a very red face. Do you know how many people there are in my family? No, ma'am, not quite. Well, there are just forty-one. Now, do you think you would like to have a plate and knife and cut your cheese into forty-one pieces, and when the dessert is served, pass it around so that everyone may have a piece? And there will be a piece left for you because you belong to my family and are one of the forty-one. I wish you could have seen Gracie's face. It was in a perfect glow of delight. Oh, yes, ma'am! She said, catching her breath, that would be so very splendid. Very well, I am on my way to the kitchen now. I will have a plate and knife sent up to you at once. It is half past eleven. I think you will have just about time to get the cheese ready for dinner. You must count the pieces very carefully, because you know if there shouldn't be enough to go around it wouldn't be pleasant. If you should cut a slip of paper into forty-one pieces, each about as large as your thumbnail, you would have an idea of the size of Gracie's slice of cheese. It was a very little thicker than paper. But I can give you no sort of idea what a nice time she had over it. She was as happy as a bird. She seemed to have forgotten that she ever was naughty or tearful. She had to cut the slices over several times before she could get them the proper size, and the entire hour was taken up. Then the dinner bell rang, and we went down. When the dessert bell rang, the small triumphant maiden who sat between us slipped down from her chair and went softly up and down the long dining room distributing her treasure. Everybody took a piece of cheese, even to Miss Green herself, and Gracie ate her tiny morsel with a face of perfect delight. After all, Mama said when Gracie was snug in bed, I want to ask you, Miss Green, I am very thankful that you came to the rescue this morning for the child was very tired and so was I. But I want to know, for the sake of future days, do you think I ought often to give her some amusement in the place of what I do not want her to have? Ought I not rather to require perfect obedience? I do not know, Miss Green said in slow, thoughtful voice, with the sweetness in it that we all loved. I would not presume to dictate to a good mother. I would rather send her to Jesus for teaching. But don't you think that sometimes, when we are very eager after something and are a little inclined to be naughty if we think we are not to have it, that the dear Father in Heaven pats us on the head very lovingly and says, Here, dear child, take this instead. It seemed such a queer thing to say, it surprised us so much. We talked about it a great deal after we came back to our room. I'll tell you what I think, said Mama, after thinking it over for some time. Miss Green felt that there were plenty of times to teach little girls lessons, and I believe she thought, instead of trying to teach Gracie one, she would give her mother a lesson in gentleness and patience. And I am sure I am very glad that she did. I will remember it. She wasn't three years old. Indeed she couldn't have been more than two-and-a-half when one day she came to Mama with a long face and said, Gracie's nose is very sore. Can't Mama cure it? Mama examined the nose very carefully and found that a little bit of a boil had settled itself in a snug corner almost out of sight. She tried to explain to Gracie what was the matter, but the small lady asked so many questions that it would have taken at least a doctor to answer, that at last she said in despair, oh, dear me, I really can't explain it to you, but in a little while your nose will be well again. You must try to be a good, patient little girl until then. It is a good deal easier to tell people to be patient than it is for them to follow your advice, especially when it is a little two-year-old baby and she has a boil in her nose. She didn't feel patient a bit. She poked at her nose a great deal and often made it ache harder than it would have done. I have seen older girls a great many times since then who made their troubles worse by poking at them and thinking about them. At last Gracie came to her place for comfort. Mama, I want you, she said, speaking in a grave earnest tone. I want you to kneel right down and ask God to give me a new nose. He made this one, Papa said, and of course he can make another. Don't you think maybe he has some already made? Anyhow, it won't take him long, and I do need a new one. This aches dreadfully, and I am so tired of being patient to it. I don't think I ought to be patient any more. Will you tell him about it, Mama? Darling, said Mama, trying not to laugh, I will ask him to make your nose well again and help you to be patient until it is well. That is the best thing I can ask for my little girl. She was not quite satisfied with this, but as it seemed to be the best that she could do, she submitted and ran away to her play. Three or four times during the day she asked her mother if she had asked God to cure her nose, and on being told that she had, would walk away with a rather sober face. Toward evening the nose grew soarer and soarer, and Gracie, who was tired out with a long, warm day of trotting up and down the world, was feeling very much out of sorts. I wish I could make a picture of her as she stood in the middle of that bright little room, her dolly at her feet, her little pale under her arm, dollies bonnet in her hand, and with the spare hand feeling of the sword despised nose. It was swollen badly now and looked red and angry. Don't touch it, darling, I said. You will only make it ache the harder. She made no answer, but marching across the room with an indignant face and angry voice, she said to her mother, Mama, I want you to kneel right down here where I can hear you and tell our father that I must have another nose this minute. I can't wait another second. I have stood this nose just as long as I will. Dear, dear, how many times I have thought of what Grandpa said about it when we told him. It was impossible not to laugh at it. She was such a little mousy and knew so little about what she was saying, but almost as soon as Grandpa had laughed his face grew grave. It is funny in her, he said, because she is such a little one, but what a sad thing it is to hear people all the world over praying in just that way. They have forgotten that the prayer that Jesus gave her our copy has, thy will be done in it, and they say, I will have it any way. I've heard a great many prayers myself like that. I always think of it when I see people determined to have their own way. Speaking of this reminds me of the water cure again and of the strange time that we had with Gracie one day. She was very much given to making calls on the ladies who boarded in the house. It seemed so funny, she said, to call on ever so many people without going out in the street, that she could hardly resist the temptation. The less so because little girls were rather scarce in the family, and everybody was glad to see her bright young face. So, after a while, she grew to thinking that the only important thing to do in the world was to make calls. She wanted to flip like a butterfly from room to room, only taking care to keep away from the room where she herself belonged. Mama did not like this kind of education for her little daughter, and had made a law that Gracie should only call on her friends at a certain hour of the day. This rule was very hard to follow. She constantly forgot it, and was beguiled into making several visits that were against the law, until at last Mama felt that she couldn't accept the excuse of, I forgot any longer. On this particular day, poor Gracie sat on the foot of the bed in tears, because as a punishment for her forgetfulness, she had been told that she could not go down to dinner at the long table, but must stay in her room, and have the dinner brought to her. Oh, dear, how she cried! It was a terrible punishment to her! She was very fond of being perched in her high chair between us, and carrying on a conversation with all the ladies around us. Suddenly she slid down from the bed, and ran into the close press, shutting the door after her. In a minute she whisked out again, and began to coax her mother to forgive her this once and let her go. I forgive you, of course, said Mama. You know I am always ready to forgive you when you are sorry, but I must keep you in your room, as I said, to help you to remember. You know you have forgotten what I told you several times. Now I want to help you. Before this sentence was finished, Gracie was crying again, and to our surprise she rushed back into the close press. Pretty soon she appeared again and said, Oh, Mama, do please let me go this time. I truly will remember after this. I will make myself remember. Mama looked astonished. Why, Gracie, she said, I thought my little girl knew better than to coax after I said no. It seems to me that I can hear even now the astonished little squeal that Gracie gave. She seemed so surprised as well as grieved. I think, too, that she was a little bit angry. At least she went back to the close press with such a banging of doors that the last one swung open again, and showed the queer little girl kneeling before her mother's big trunk, and in her excitement we heard her say, Oh, dear Jesus, do please make my Mama let me go down to dinner. Make her so hard that she can't help letting me. I want to go so much, and I know she won't let me unless you make her. And if you will, I'll try very hard not to forget again. Now did you ever hear such a strange way of praying as that? I thought then that I never had, but I have decided that a great many of our grown-up prayers are made after the same pattern, not perhaps so plainly spoken as Gracie's was, but after all they mean about the same thing. Give me just what I want, and then I will try to be good. That would be a queer-sounding prayer, too. But did you never hear anyone pray to God to give them something that they wanted very much, and promise him, if he would, they would try to serve him? That was just Gracie's idea, spoken a little more plainly. But then she, you must remember, was a very little girl. I am sure you will want to know what her mother did about the dinner, and I assure you it was hard to decide what to do, for she saw that Gracie was trying to prove the truth of the teaching that God hears and answers our prayers. It was plain to be seen that Gracie thought her mother would have to yield and let her go because she had asked God to help her. We talked it over. What would you do, said Mama? Dear me, said I, don't ask me. I don't know. I shouldn't know what to do with her half the time. I am glad I don't have to manage her. Well, said Mama, I wouldn't, for the sake of keeping my word, have her get-wrung ideas as to prayer. But I think she needs as much as anything the teaching that is in those words, thy will be done. I don't think her prayer is in the spirit of submission. So Gracie ate her dinner between the sobs, sitting on the foot of the bed. Once she went with us to a lady's prayer meeting, she was too young, we thought, to notice much about it, and the only reason we took her was because we had no one with whom to leave her. One of the ladies asked us to pray for her little boy. Gracie was fidgeting from one end of the sofa to the other. I hadn't the least idea that she heard a word that was said. But when we reached home she was very sober and thoughtful. She called for a pencil and a piece of paper, and sat down by her mother's side. She was just learning to make the large letters with a pencil. She worked at them much as a scholar would at a picture that she was sketching with a good deal of care. It took her a long time to make one letter. She had a large sheet of paper, and I think it was nearly an hour that she worked at it without speaking, except to get a whispered word of advice from Mama once in a while about the shape of a letter. At last her work was done. She did not show it to me. She was very grave over it, and seemed to think it's something that must be kept secret between her mother and herself. Mama, will you send it by telegraph? She asked, with a sober face as she folded it. By telegraph, said Mama, trying not to laugh. Isn't it to be sent to the post office as my letters are? Oh, no, Mama. I shouldn't feel safe about it being sent in that way. I would rather have it go on the telegraph. Mama promised that if it was left to her judgment she would see that it was sent in the very best way. And that satisfied Gracie, for she had that trust in Mama, which made her think that what she attended to was sure to be done in the best way. She gave the letter into her keeping and went to the kitchen for a drink of water. It must be to a minister, said Mama to me when we were alone. Her Papa had occasion to telegraph to a minister last week, and I think she must have concluded that letters addressed to them must go by telegraph. I am glad that she did not make me promise not to show it, for I am sure your curiosity must be aroused. So, unfolding the paper, she bent over it, gave a little exclamation of surprise, laughed a little, and then actually put her hand to her eyes to brush away a tear. And when I came and looked over her shoulder, I did not wonder. This is what was on one side, printed in very large letters. Dear God, make him good! These letters were so large they filled nearly the whole side of the sheet, and on the other side the first word was a very large O with an exclamation point carefully made near to it. She had learned only the day before to make them. It read, Oh, I mean Charlie! This was the name of the little boy for whom we had been asked to pray. So Gracie had heard enough of what we said to feel anxious for Charlie, and to want to do something for him. You will be glad to know that her mama sent the letter, not by telegraph, nor yet by mail, but in a quicker, better way than either of these. She got down on her knees and said, Our Father in Heaven, hear the prayer that my little girl has made to thee for her playmate Charlie. Make him a good boy for Jesus' sake. It was only the next week that Gracie told her mother that it was wonderful what a change there had been in Charlie since she wrote that letter. Why, said she, he is really a pretty good boy now, and he used to be naughty sometimes. I know the letter went, because Charlie began to be better right away, and he is trying real hard, for he told me so himself. When we told this story to Grandpa, he had another verse. This time it was for Gracie's mama, and you will find it in the 11th chapter of Matthew, the 25th verse. I hope you will all learn it. CHAPTER XXII SONGS AND CERMANS Gracie was very fond of music. When she was a wee baby, she would lie still as much as ten minutes at a time if somebody would sing to her. Papa used often to spend the twilight with her, after she was tucked into her crib for the night, singing cradle hymns. But Papa was a very busy man, having prayer meetings and teachers meetings, and meetings of all sorts to look after. So, often and often, it came to pass that the little maiden had to go to sleep without a song. One teacher's meeting evening, after Papa had departed, Gracie tossed in her crib and asked for a drink of water, and turned over her pillows and tried in vain to go to sleep. If somebody would only sing, she said at last, with a meek little sigh, I think I could get asleep. Mama had company, a lady who boarded in the room across the hall, and often stopped in on her way from the dining room to spend an hour. Mama pitted the restless little girl in the crib, and knew very well that her friend's tongue was not helping to bring sleep. Suppose we sing to you, she said, Mrs. Harris and I. Now Mrs. Harris and I could sing just about as much as two June bugs, but Gracie caught eagerly at the idea, so the singing began. Their voices were sweet enough, soft and gentle, but the trouble was they didn't know the tune they were trying to sing, nor any other tune, and they didn't know enough about music to know that they didn't know it. They pitched it low in the first place, and kept falling lower and lower with every word. Gracie, with her correct ear, and the taste acquired by listening evening after evening to the rich, full voice of her father, endured the song as long as she could, until patience ceased to be a virtue, and just as the singers were nodding to each other with self-satisfied air, feeling that their task was nearly done, she popped her little head above the side of the crib, and, eyeing the musicians with a solemn air, said slowly and gravely, Aren't you afraid that song will drop down your throats? It dropped into laughter at once, and I don't think Mrs. Harris and I ever tried to sing her to sleep again. My pride had a sudden fall, wrote Mama, after giving a merry picture of the scene to Grandpa, and he replied, There are two ways of looking at most things. The time may come when Gracie will look back upon that song of mothers as the sweetest music her ear ever heard. It is not so much what we did as why we tried to do it that is pleasant to remember. Speaking of pride reminds me of Gracie's verse one morning at prayer. Charity is not puffed up. She said it over the second time, looking puzzled. In the afternoon, when she sat at her mother's side, making Dolly a bask, she inquired into it. Mama, what does puffed up mean? Does it mean to puff up just as the gems do when you put them in the oven? Not quite, said Mama, laughing. Let me explain it to you, my daughter. Yesterday, when you were dressed in your new blue dress, and your broad sash, and your buttoned boots, you remember you went out to play in the yard, and Susie Miller came along and didn't you know how you tossed your head, and told her your dress was fifty cents a yard, and your boots had eleven buttons on them, and you asked her what made her wear such awful-looking old shoes? I am afraid my little daughter was all puffed up with pride then. She was vain of her clothes, and she thought herself better than Susie Miller. Gracie bent her head lower over her work, and twitched Dolly's bask this way and that, but didn't speak. Mama began again. And then, this morning, when you went to the office, you put on your kid gloves, because… Here Gracie suddenly raised her head and spoke nervously. Mama, I understand all about it now, just how it is. Would you please tell me about one of your puffed ups now? Do you know what it made me think of? Wrote Mama in her letter to us at home. There flashed into my mind the verse, And why beholdest thou the moat that is in thy brother's eye, But considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye? Gracie often preaches unconscious sermons to me. Sometimes she commented on other people's sermons. Daughter, said her papa to her one summer morning, when I was there on a visit. Tomorrow a strange minister is going to preach in our church. I am going today on the cars to his house, and he is to come here. An exchange, you know. I want you to take notes of his sermon so that you can tell me all about it. The next morning I came very near not getting to church at all, the reason being that I had to make a book, a tiny thing, two inches wide and three inches long, with four leaves. It was sewed through the middle and had a cover of yellow paper. This was to write the sermon on. Her mama says I broke the Sabbath in making it, and I think myself that it might better have been done on Saturday. I have that little book in my hand this minute, and I am going to copy it here for you, letters and capitals just as she made them. Page one, hymn 264, five chapter five James, then he made a prayer. Page two, hymn 16, text James 11 verse. Page three, text behold, we can't happy which our door. Page four, oh, oh, oh, how he yells. How much do you suppose the papa knew about that sermon? More than you would think after all. When we told grandpa about it, he said, Tell the minister of that, if he is a wise man, it will help cure him of an unpleasant habit of speaking too loud. But I don't think papa took his advice, because he knew that people are so silly in this world that they do not like to be told of their faults. At least there is only now and then one who is so wise as to be grateful. Soon after this we all went to grandpas to spend vacation. Those were fine times for Minnie and Gracie. I wish I could tell you all about their plays, but it would take a large book to do that, for they were playing all the time from morning till night, and they didn't like to stop to go to bed. One of their favorite plays was to keep house. Minnie would have a house in one corner and Gracie in the other, then they would go visiting and have tea. One evening they were in the midst of this play when I came in very quietly and took a seat at one side. Tea was just ready, spread out on a chair, little bits of shells for dishes. Minnie was the lady of the house, and she said to her guest, will you ask a blessing? Gracie looked shocked. Why, Minnie, she said in a dignified voice, that isn't the way to play. You mustn't ask me to ask a blessing. We are ladies, you know, and ladies don't pray. What an idea, said Minnie, shocked in her turn. Just as if ladies didn't pray just as well as gentlemen. I tell you they don't, Gracie said positively. Or yes, they pray, of course, when they are all alone and sometimes with their little girls, but they don't ask blessings at the table. I know better than that. And of this she was so sure that when Minnie insisted that it was the right way to play, she left her in disgust and wouldn't play at all for as much as ten minutes. Finally they agreed to leave the matter to me, and both talked at once. Auntie Bell, don't all good ladies ask a blessing when the Papa is away from home? Auntie Bell, do ladies pray before folks? Some do, I said, a little in doubt how to settle this question. The next one was more troublesome, coming from Minnie's earnest lips. It is the right way to do, isn't it, Auntie Bell? Yes, I said gravely. I thought it was. Then came the last question with Gracie's great eyes fixed on me as though she were going to look me through and through. Auntie Bell, do you ever do it? Because if you do, I never heard you, and Papa has been away lots of times when we had supper. To that there was simply nothing to be said, and Grandpa, walking up and down the room, did not help my side much by saying just then, Out of thine own mouth do I condemn thee. What do you suppose he meant? By the way, some of the little girls who may have read about Mrs. Delexity and Mrs. Felterspell in the pansy will think that these two little girls acted very much like them, and I may as well confess that the real names of those two ladies are Minnie and Gracie. The two children together were almost too much for mortals to manage. What one couldn't think of, the other could, and endless were the plans that they got up that had to be nipped in the bud by some cruel Mama or Auntie. In general they agreed very well, but there was occasionally a storm that would last for several minutes. I can seem to see Minnie now as she came from the yard one morning and curled herself in a desolate little heap in the great rocking chair. She looked for Lorne enough to have lost all her friends, and she rocked to and fro in a dismal way, saying not a word to anybody. What is the matter, I asked her at last, struck with the woe-begone expression on her wise little face. What has happened to trouble you? Oh, nothing very much, I suppose, she said with a heavy sigh. Only Auntie Bell, Gracie thinks this whole world was made on purpose for her and nobody else. It was a real trouble, but I could not keep from laughing. It was a good description of the positive little cousin with her emphatic voice and determined views of things. Minnie had been used to being a very queen among her friends. Hardly anybody disputed her right to rule, but she did it with a graceful prettiness, winning her way by kisses and caresses, where anything more positive would have barred the door. This was not by any means Gracie's way. She ruled because it was right to do so and so, or wrong to say this and that, and many a discussion they had. The difference between them is just this, Grandpa said one day when we had been talking about them. Minnie kisses her Auntie into giving her just what she wants, and Gracie will not take it as a gift unless she can make you understand that it is her right. Still, Minnie was very wise in her own eyes, too. She thought that she understood everything that she saw going on, and often took occasion to explain what other people did when they were in straits. One day her Auntie had occasion to write a hurried note, and, as was a usual thing when they were wanted, no pencil could be found in our house. They have a very provoking way, you know, of going and hiding themselves just when they are needed. What in the world shall I do? she said, glancing nervously at the clock. I wanted to have this note reach him before he left the office. Why don't you take pen and ink? I suggested. Because every bit of ink in the house is in the study and that is locked. This afternoon the Papa had some papers that he didn't want the children to meddle with, and so he turned the key before he went out. Minnie had been in her Auntie's company for only a few days, and was rather afraid of her, but the desire to give information, as well as a desire to help, overcame her timidity, and she came with soft speech to the table. Auntie, I have often seen Papa write with a feather when he hadn't a pencil. If you like, I can go to the barnyard and get you a feather. I know where there is a white one. Dear me, how we laughed, and how her little sweet lips puckered, and a surprised tear stood in her eye. She had made such an effort to give help. Still, she was perfectly certain that her words were true, and even after we had explained the mystery of writing with a feather, she looked doubtful, and was found slyly trying it with a piece of the tail of the old yellow rooster before she could feel perfectly certain that we were right and she was wrong. It reminded me of a day when we took her to ride, and having gone a new road, part of it through the woods, she began to fear that we did not know the way home. Her uncle explained to her that, although he had never been that way, he knew by the way the sun was setting, and by the way he turned his horse when he started, that the road would surely lead into the main one by which we were to go home. She couldn't see what the sun had to do with the matter, and she evidently thought it absurd to suppose that he knew anything about roads when all he did was to shine with all his might away up in the sky. So she only looked as sober as a judge, and said in a low, dismal tone every once in a while, I hope Uncle Ross is right, but I don't know. And that child never will succeed in knowing much that she doesn't see right before her, her papa said. I hope I am mistaken, but I am afraid it is going to be very hard for her to trust. Sometimes her reasoning led her into very funny places, and sometimes she succeeded in making things very embarrassing for us. They had a nice old lady at Grandmas to wash for them. The first time many ever saw her, the old lady will not soon forget what she said. I had the care of the little lady that morning, and feeling afraid that the sight for the first time of a colored person might frighten her, I tried while I was dressing her to explain about the washerwoman. When we came from the bedroom, she went at once to the kitchen to see the strange sight that she had been hearing about. There was Mrs. Legans rubbing away with all her might, her white eyes and her white teeth both seeming to smile on the astonished little girl who stood and looked at her. From the crown of her willy head, neatly arranged under a turban, to the trim boots on her feet, Mini gazed, letting her eyes wander up and down the tall form as if she couldn't take in the whole of her at once. Then they began to turn from her to some object near the stove, then back to her face again. At last she went to the stove and took up the poker. Very slowly and gravely she passed her hand down its length. The result was a black hand. By this time Mrs. Legans had stopped her tune on the washboard and was watching the little girl with laughing eyes. She put down the poker and went with shy steps to the old lady's side. She was very timid and a soft little pink flush spread over her face. But she seemed to have decided that there was an important fact to be proved and she mustn't shrink from the work. So she touched with three very soft and gentle fingers the fat black arm bared to the elbow, then looked long and steadily at them. Surprise seemed at last to get the better of her fears, for she spoke in a clear ringing voice. The poker is black and so are you, but the black rubs off the poker and it doesn't off of you. What makes the difference? Now wasn't that a lovely thing to say to a nice old colored lady? I didn't know what to say. I was almost afraid to look up for fear the old lady's face would show me that she felt very much hurt. I might have known better than that. She had too much good sense. Her face and eyes and teeth all seemed to laugh at once. She shook and bent forward, enrolled her eyes, and it was several minutes before she could speak at all. Minnie, meantime, looked at her with a grave astonished face, and the next thing she said showed the direction of her thoughts. Will you be all white in heaven? This almost made the rest of us laugh again. Not so the old lady, she was sobered at once. Bless your heart, honey, she said. That is a thing to think of, sure enough, and I don't know as I ever thought about it before. But as sure as I am a living woman, I shouldn't wonder if we would. It is worth while to try for it anyhow. Bless her innocent little heart, her old auntie will try to have a white soul. And as we went back to the sitting-room, Gracie's auntie whispered to me, if her grand-power here he would say, out of the mouths of babes and sucklings God has ordained strength. CHAPTER XXIV MINNIES CONFLICT One Sunday evening our great church was filled so full that the sexton had to bring in aisle seats and chairs were put up all around the pulpit and people even sat on the pulpit's steps. We had a missionary from some western town. I have forgotten now just where he came from, but he had been on the field and worked hard, and he knew all about the missionaries and what they had done and what they had done without. This last surprised some of us very much. We had not known that men were willing to give up so much for the sake of preaching about Jesus. A hard winter was coming, and the missionary who had been sent out to tell the story of work and suffering feared that a great deal of suffering was in store for the workers of the far west. He told some sad stories of what he had seen. I wish I had time to tell you about them. They brought tears to the eyes of a great many people, and we took up a large collection for the missionaries that evening in Grandpa's Church. Among the people who listened was Minnie. She hardly stirred during the entire evening. Her eyes looked almost as large again as usual, and a good many times she wiped away the tears. But when the collection was taken she shook her head. This surprised me very much, for I knew she had some money of her very own, as she used to say, and I knew that she had her little port-monnais in her pocket. She was always ready to give her pennies in the collection, even anxious to share with the grown-up people in the pleasure of giving. I wondered what was the matter with her. On the way home she said not a word to me about the meeting, nor indeed about anything else, though she held my hand. When we were fairly in the house and the rooms were lighted, I noticed that she had a sort of discontented look on her face. Did you enjoy the meeting? I asked her. About this time she had grown to be such a womanly little girl, at least about some things, that I used to find myself talking with her very much as if she were a grown-up woman. Therefore I asked her, did you enjoy the meeting? No, ma'am, she said gravely. You didn't, I answered, feeling very much surprised as she had listened so attentively. Why, I thought you would be just the one to enjoy it very much. The air with which she looked up in my face and made her next remark would have fitted her grandmother. Auntie Bell, do you enjoy hearing about how badly people are living, how little they have to eat and wear and all those things? Why, yes, I said, laughing a little. Her face was so grave that I couldn't help it. I like to be told about what is going on in this world, especially if I have some money to help them to get some more things with. A few pennies won't do them much good, she said in a forlorn tone. I never had pennies enough in all my life to get one half of the things they need, not one quarter. Oh, my, I guess I haven't. Why, they wouldn't begin to do it. Some way this thought seemed to give her great pleasure. Don't you know about your peace that Grandma loves so much? I said. Little drops of water, little grains of sand, make the mighty ocean and the pleasant land. Every little helps you know, and your pennies, put with ever so many other pennies, would make a great deal of money. She shook herself impatiently. I don't want to hear any more about it at all. The man told dreadful stories. I wish I hadn't heard him. If I had known it was going to be such a bad meeting, I wouldn't have gone. I was very much puzzled. The child is nervous, I said to myself. It is queer. I never thought she was about such things. The family came in one by one, and we talked the matter over. But many kept perfectly still until she suddenly surprised us all by bursting into a perfect storm of tears. What in the world is the matter? said Grandma in alarm, and Mama said anxiously. Do you feel sick, darling? It was several minutes before she could make any answer. Then her words were all choked up with tears, but they amounted to this. She thought it was too bad. Here she had been wanting a pink and white fan with feathers on the end of it and a glass to see your face in on one side, and she had been saving her money for most a year, a long time, anyway. And every single time that she got most enough some man came along in the church or the school house or the hall and told dreadful stories and made people give him money. She had just exactly enough now to buy the fan, and she had meant to go in the morning and get Auntie Bell to help her pick it out. Mrs. Burlingame had beautiful ones, and she had been saving them up for her for a long, long time. And now this old missionary man had to come along and spoil it all. It was just too bad. And at this point the sobs burst forth so that it was impossible to tell what she was trying to add to the sorrowful story. I wish I could give you an idea of how forlorn the poor child looked. She was sitting flat on the floor, one little slippered foot curled under her, and her ruffled brown head leaning on the crimson cushion of Grandpa's rocking chair. She looked so pitiful, and yet it was all so funny that we could not keep from laughing. Only Grandpa and Minnie's Papa were very sober. Papa even looked sad. It is a real struggle between the world and the cross. He said in a low tone, looking just a little reproachfully at us, laughers. It is just a baby struggle, her mama said, and we could see that she thought Papa was taking too grave a view of it. But Grandpa seemed to be of the same mind. It is a baby struggle only because she is a baby. He said very soberly, when she grows up, that same heart will have grown-up struggles about this same matter unless it is conquered now. Mama tried to look sober. What shall I do with her? She said, as the heartbroken little maiden cried on. Put her to bed, the Papa said. It is too late, and she is too nervous to decide anything tonight. Teach her that the whole matter must be left until morning. I went to sleep very soon after that, and the next thing I heard was a ringing little voice saying, But Grandpa, can't you advise me? Then Grandpa, why, yes, I can advise you. I can give you the very best of advice. You must do exactly what you think is the right thing to do. But maybe I don't know what is right, said this grave little woman. You know what you think, Grandpa said. And then there was silence for a few minutes. Pretty soon she said in a timid voice, Grandpa, Mrs. Burlingame has been saving the fan for me this ever so long. I might disappoint her if I shouldn't buy it. Would that be right? Have you promised to buy it? Why, no, not promised exactly, but then she knows I want to do it, and that I meant to just as soon as I got money enough. Very well, then if you shouldn't have money enough this time, it would have to wait until next time, wouldn't it? But Grandpa, the summer days are almost gone. I should have to wait until next year, and I'm afraid it would get out of fashion. Then you wouldn't want it, would you? Grandpa said gravely. I shouldn't think it would be well to buy a thing that was likely to go out of fashion so soon. Minnie shifted her ground. Oh, I could use it, you know, even if it wasn't just the fashion. Well, you know I told you that it wasn't a thing that anybody could decide for you. It must be done by yourself. By this time I was up, and I could see Minnie from my window following Grandpa as he hoed the corn. She stood first on one foot and then on the other, and looked as unhappy and uneasy as ever a mortal could. At last she said, Grandpa, it is going to be very warm all the rest of August, don't you think it is? I don't know, I am sure, said Grandpa, and he coughed a little as if he might be wanting to laugh, but thought he would better not. Oh, well, she said. The sky looks like it, I think. It looks real red anyhow. I feel almost certain I shall need my fan very much. As to that, said Grandpa quickly, I heard your Grandma say that a very good palm leaf fan could be bought for ten cents, and they give a great deal of wind. You might buy one of them and give the rest of your money to the missionary, I suppose, if you wanted to. I shouldn't wonder if Grandma wanted me to set the chairs to the table, Minnie said, and she ran in as fast as her little feet could take her. She had had advice enough from the corn patch. After breakfast she hung around her mother. Mama, I heard her say as I came down the stairs, do you think I ought to give my fan money to that man? I think my little girl ought to do just what she thinks is right to do, said Mama with a sober enough face. She began to see that this was really an important lesson in Minnie's education. It is very queer, said Minnie almost crying, that no one will give me any advice. Won't Jesus? Mama said softly. Have you asked him what it would be best to do? And then Minnie ran away. All that day her face was long and sad. She came to each one of us for our opinion, but the Papa had asked that we would none of us try to influence her, so we had to be quiet. I shall never forget how sorry I was for her. I can't describe to you how much her heart had been set on that fan. The fact that it would have been an absurd one for a little girl to have did not help the matter a bit. She had been given the most perfect control over her monthly allowance of pocket money. If she didn't buy anything positively wrong, it might be as foolish as it well could. No one would find any fault with her. They were very anxious to have her learn to have judgment for herself. So the fan had long been a settled thing, over which Mama had laughed, but found no fault. And to give it up for the sake of sending shoes and stockings to some people whom she had never seen was a hard thing to think of. I shall always remember what an anxious face her Papa carried during the long hours of what was to us a funny struggle. It will have to do with her whole life, he said to me with an anxious face. If she decides for self now, it will not be nearly so hard to do it next time. Why don't you help her? I said, but he shook his head. She doesn't need any help, he said. It is just a struggle with her conscience. I believe she knows what she ought to do. Do you really think that child ought to give up her fan that she has been saving and working to get for nearly a year and send her money out west? I asked him, and I was a little bit disgusted with the idea. I think that she thinks she ought to, he said very soberly. And what I want to know is who told her so? None of us have, unless it is her conscience speaking to her who or what is it? It was just as we were going to sit down to tea that Mini came with a very resolute look on her face and a box in her hand and stopped before her Papa. I have decided it, she said quietly. Papa, will you please send this to the missionary right away? I wanted to go tonight. I wish I had sent it yesterday. Maybe somebody has starved because I didn't. Oh, dear me, you don't think so, do you? You don't believe God would have let anybody starve when he must have known all the time that I would decide to send it? No, darling, Papa said gently. I think he has taken care of the one that you want to help. Papa seemed to think that his little girl had suffered enough. She opened the little paste-board box and emptied the contents into her father's lab. They rolled about in every direction, pennies and five-cent pieces and three-cent pieces. We had a great time picking it up. How much is there here? Papa asked her. One dollar and twenty-five cents, Papa, just exactly the price you know. Are you going to send it all? Said Mama, a little startled. Wouldn't it be better to divide and have half of it left for the next time that you want to give? If you please, Mama, Minnie said, looking earnestly at her mother, I want to send it all, every cent of it. I have had such a dreadful time that I think it all ought to go, and I think Jesus thinks so, too. Don't hinder the child, said Grandpa, and his voice was a little husky. She has had a better teacher than any of us, I guess. So the money was put up securely in a package. It was Minnie's fancy that the very pennies that she had saved were to go to the missionaries, so, though it took more trouble, her father was determined that she should have her own way. Gracie, who was visiting at Grandpa's at this time, had been very much interested in the whole matter, and she wrote a letter to her Papa about that and some other things. As I liked the letter very much, I will copy it for you. Dear Papa, Grandpa says you must come too. Minnie gave ten whole shillings. I liked the man, but she didn't at first. But when she got willing to give her ten shillings, then she did. I went to see the pigs yesterday. I am fat. I go to Sunday school here. I gave three pennies myself, that is all I have got. Grandma made apple turnovers, one for me and one for Minnie. They were good. Can I have a little kitten? I could bring it home in the trunk, and then it couldn't mew. Minnie gave all the money she had, too. They had to go barefooted, and they don't sometimes have much to eat. We had a big turkey for dinner. Grandma fed it with a spoon. It was good. Now Minnie will have to do without a fan. I am sorry for her. I drink fresh milk every day. I eat two apples for my dinner. It is nice milk. Can't I take my quarter of a dollar and get her a pink fan? Your loving daughter, Grace. A few days after this we had another letter to read. It came from the far west, where the precious ten shillings had been sent. This is the way it read. Dear little Minnie, I want to write you and tell you how much my heart thanks you for those ten shillings. What do you think they bought? A pair of shoes for my little girl, who has not been to Sabbath school for three months because her father could not afford to buy shoes for her, and because the road that she has to walk is so long and rough that when she tries to go without shoes she cuts her poor little feet so that they bleed. Her mother had decided that she must not go any more until the dear father in heaven had sent her a pair of shoes. Can you think how glad she was that he whispered to you and told you that she was in such need, and that your unselfish heart was willing to give up the beautiful fan for her sake? I wish you could have seen her this morning when she went joyfully on her way to Sabbath school. Think how hard it would be for you to stay away from yours for so long a time, then you will understand how happy she was. Dear Minnie, her father and mother thank you, and they pray for you that you may never need even a fan, that your life may be a sweet, unselfish, happy one, that your heart may be given very early to Jesus even if it is not already his. God bless you, dear child, your friend, James L. Walker. That letter gave us all a great deal of pleasure. I think the thing which pleased Minnie's father most was what she said when it was read to her. She was very sober for a few minutes, then she said, Papa, he is mistaken in me. He ought to be told that I am not an unselfish little girl. I wanted to keep that money awfully, and he ought to know about it. He thinks I am a good girl, and Papa, you know that I am not. Papa promised to write and tell him all that it was necessary for him to know, and we all thought that the fan story was ended. But a few days after, behold, there was another chapter added to it. There came a young lady to make us a visit. She was a great pet of mine, and really she was one of the dearest girls I ever knew. Some day I shouldn't wonder if I should tell you a pleasant story about her. At least I am going to tell the little pansy people, and perhaps you will read it there. Her name is Ella. To her I told the story of the fan, which was a very foolish thing for me to do, as I soon came to see. But I had been so interested in it myself, and I knew that Ella loved Minnie so much that it would be very nice for her to hear it, and I never once thought of the next thing that might happen. She went downtown soon after I finished my story, rather slipped away from me in a way that surprised me. But I understood it soon after, when there came a package about three inches wide and ten long, done up in brown paper and addressed to Minnie. She was in a great flutter over it, but I began to guess even before I saw the shape of the box. Sure enough there was the very fan, pink, feathered, mirrored, all complete. What a dunce I was, I said, not to think of that. I might have known that you would go and do it, and yet I never thought of such a thing for a moment. If I had, I should have positively forbidden it. I'm glad you didn't, I am sure, laughed Ella, because you would have made me a great deal of trouble, but I don't see how a person of any sense or any heart could help doing it. Upon my word I don't. Especially if they had as much money to waste as you have, I said, speaking in a half-vexed tone, for I knew that Minnie's father wouldn't quite like it, and I was afraid he would blame me for bringing all this to pass. Oh, but wasn't Minnie delighted? She danced from room to room with her treasure, she kissed it a dozen times, and we were just beginning to understand what a great sacrifice she had really made. I declare, a certain cousin said, as she watched her, I am ashamed of what I gave. I believe I will go right home and add another ten to it. Talk about sacrifice, why that child is the only one among us who knows anything about it. When her papa came it was just as I expected. Someone had called Minnie and she laid her treasure down on my lap and ran, so I showed it to her father and gave him its history. He looked as sober as if the poor little pink fan had been an enemy. I am a little sorry, he said hesitatingly. I know it was done out of pure love, but I am afraid to have her get the idea that she is to be paid for being charitable. She only did what was her duty. Now don't you go and be as solemn as an old owl, began Ella merrily, but Grandpa, much to our surprise, came to her aid. I don't know about that doctrine, he said, looking at the papa. Did you ever do your duty in your life that the Lord didn't pay you for doing it? In fact, hasn't he promised to do this very thing? Give, and it shall be given unto you. Good measure, pressed down, running over. There, there, Ella said, clapping her hands in great delight, your own book condemns you. Just then, Minnie came running in, her face all aglow with joy. She seized her fan and ran to her father's side, and her glad whisper was so loud that we all heard it. Papa, oh Papa, look! See what Jesus sent me! Didn't he send it quick? I prayed for it, you know, but I didn't think it would come so very quick. And I think the papa's heart was satisfied. End of Chapter 25