Part 2 (2/2)

”When did she die?” asked Mrs. Graffam.

”Just as the gra.s.s was getting green,” said Mary. ”It was a fit time for her to die, Mrs. Graffam; for she was born in the spring, and it seemed exactly as though the sweet bud had to go back to the summer-land before it could bloom.”

”And if your little baby dies, Mrs. Graffam,” said Eddy, ”he will be a flower in G.o.d's garden; won't he, Mary?”

”Yes,” whispered Mary, while the poor woman's face flushed, and her lip quivered. Mary glanced at Edwin, and remembered her errand.

”Mrs. Graffam,” said she, ”I know that the blue-berry parties must be a great trouble to you, and we would not have come here for water, only Eddy is not very well.”

”You are welcome to as much water as you want,” interrupted Mrs.

Graffam, ”and so is any one who can treat us with civility. We are very poor, it is true, and that is not our greatest misfortune either; but it is hard to be despised.”

While Mary was gone for the water, Emma sat looking at the sick baby, and noticed, that though the weather was warm, its skeleton limbs looked blue and cold. She was going to advise the mother to wrap it in flannel, when the thought that perhaps the poor woman had none, prevented her speaking: for Christian courtesy never says to the poor ”Be ye warmed and clothed,” while it provides not the things which are necessary; and fortunately Emma thought it time enough to speak of what the poor child needed, when she had _supplied_ that need. Edwin was greatly refreshed by his drink of cold water, and kissing the sick child, he thanked Mrs. Graffam, and was ready to go.

”There is a good old lady living with my mother,” said Emma, ”who is used to sickness, and might know what to do for your babe, Mrs.

Graffam; shall I ask her to come with me, and see you?”

”I shall be glad to see anybody,” was the reply, ”who is like you or your little friends;” and bidding the poor woman a good-by, they went back to the plain.

Henry Boyd remembered his promise to Mrs. Lindsay, and before the sun was down the company were on their way home. The talk and clatter of the morning were now hushed. Joshua whistled, while his horse plodded lazily along, until f.a.n.n.y peevishly bade him ”hold his tongue.”

”Anybody does that,” said Joshua, ”when he whistles!” but he good-naturedly stopped.

Margaret Sliver undertook to repeat some poetry composed by Susan, upon the setting sun:--

The setting sun is going down Behind the western hills; It glitters like a golden crown,----

”What is the last line, Susan?” asked Margaret; but Susan was not flattered by the way her poetry had been handled at the dinner-table, and now she refused to supply the missing rhyme.

The setting sun is going down Behind the western hills,

pursued Margaret;

It glitters like a golden crown, ”_On top of Motley's Mills!_”

added Alice; while f.a.n.n.y, calling out to Henry Boyd, repeated the whole verse as Susan's poetry, bidding him ask Miss Lindsay if Montgomery could beat that. Susan was highly offended, saying that she considered herself insulted, and chose to walk the remainder of the way.

”O no, Miss Sliver,” said Joshua; ”never mind f.a.n.n.y Brighton--she is only one of the blunt sort, saying right to your face what other folks would say behind your back.”

This explanation from Joshua was rather more favorable than f.a.n.n.y deserved; for she had not the faithful Christian charity, which, while it unflinchingly speaks truth to those whom it concerns, is careful to speak no evil anywhere. It was well known, that though f.a.n.n.y boasted of not being afraid to tell to people's faces what she thought of them, she was not less fearless in talking of the same things in their absence; so that she differed from common backbiters only in having more--shall we call it impudence?

It is a harsh name, but let us a.n.a.lyze the principle. What spirit possesses the human heart, when it shows a disposition to make others uncomfortable? Is it frankness--we know that it is sometimes dignified with that name; though it is little akin to the true Christian faithfulness, which, always at peace with truth, never offends against true courtesy. Charity regards the little foibles incident to fallen human nature with a lenient eye, never pointing them out to the scornful gaze of another, but remembering that they are to be touched tenderly, if touched at all; _secretly_, too, apart from the scrutiny of another, and by disinterested friends.h.i.+p alone.

”The Sliver girls make fools of themselves, and of each other,” said f.a.n.n.y, when Margaret and Susan, arrived at their own house, coldly took leave of the company.

”I know it,” replied Alice. ”To think that they will a.s.sociate with us girls, pretending to be young, when everybody knows that they are not: dressing, prinking, reading novels, and making poetry; while their poor old slave of a mother is making b.u.t.ter and cheese.”

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