Part 2 (1/2)

”Did you,” asked Emma, coloring a little, ”then I think they must have been from a hymn by James Montgomery, of which I am very fond, and sometimes repeat unconsciously.”

”Of course,” said f.a.n.n.y, looking suddenly at Emma, ”you think Miss Sliver equal to Montgomery.”

”This is not the place for me to say whether I do or not,” replied Emma, quietly.

”I know,” said f.a.n.n.y, ”that there are some people who think that the truth is not to be spoken at all times; but I have never yet been afraid to say what I think.”

”There are things,” said Henry, ”of which we may not think rightly, and, understanding this, some are slow to speak.”

”And who is to be the judge of our thoughts,” asked f.a.n.n.y, ”whether they be right or wrong?”

All were silent now; not because they had no answer for f.a.n.n.y's question, but because they were not willing to give the _right_ answer.

At last, Mary, in a low voice, replied: ”The Bible should be our rule, both for thought and word, and conscience must judge between that and us.”

”And does the Bible teach you to flatter people with your tongue, while you are laughing at them in your sleeves?” asked f.a.n.n.y.

”No,” replied Mary; ”but it teaches us to love our neighbor as ourselves, to be courteous, and pitiful.”

”Then I keep one requirement,” said f.a.n.n.y, jumping over the log, seated upon which she had eaten her dinner; ”for I do pity people who are too mealy-mouthed to be honest--pity, or _despise_ them, I cannot tell which.”

All now had withdrawn from the table, except Emma, Mary, Joshua Cheever, and little Edwin. ”Your milk is very nice, Mary,” said Eddy, ”but it does not cure my thirst; O I do want some cold water.”

”There is none nearer than the pond,” said Joshua, ”unless you go to Graffam's; but they are so piggish, I would choke before I would ask water of them. The last time I went there, the old woman sent one of the young ones to tell me that the village folks were an unmannerly set, and she wanted them to keep their distance. I told the girl to give my love to her mother, and tell her that she was the sweetest poppy upon the plain. So you see that it wouldn't do for me to go there again; I might get my head cracked with one of Graffam's rum-jugs.”

”I am not afraid to go,” said Mary. ”I have no doubt but that the blueberry parties are a trouble to Mrs. Graffam.”

”_Mrs_. Graffam!” exclaimed Joshua, laughing. ”n.o.body else calls her anything but Moll, and her husband, Pete.”

Emma now lifted Edwin from his seat upon the rock, and taking his hand, while Mary brought the bright dipper, they started for the log-house, which looked in the distance like a black stump.

”It is loving your neighbor _better_ than yourself,”--said the little boy, looking smilingly up into Emma's face,--”I am sure it is, to come all this way with me.”

”Well, we ought to love our neighbor better than ourselves,” replied Mary, who was walking behind. ”We shall, Eddy, if we are like----”

”Like Jesus?” asked Eddy.

”Yes,” said Mary. ”He didn't love himself at all; but he loved us, even unto death.”

”How wonderful!” said Emma. ”Talk some more about him, Mary dear, if you please.”

But they were now at the poor door, which swung upon its wooden hinges: they were about to knock, when they saw a forlorn-looking woman come from a dark closet, with a sick child in her arms.

”Poor little thing!” said Mary, going toward her.[*] ”What is the matter with him, Mrs. Graffam?”

[Footnote *: See Frontispiece.]

”He is very sick,” she replied, glancing from her to the door, when Emma courtesied politely, and Edwin pulled off his hat. ”Walk in,” said Mrs. Graffam; ”my children are all out upon the plain, but you can help yourselves to seats.” Then turning to Mary she said again, ”He is very sick, and I cannot tell what is the matter with him, unless it is want of----.” Here she paused, and after a time added, ”He is losing all his flesh, poor thing!”

”Yes,” said Mary, ”he looks as my dear little sister did just before she died!”