"Please Walter, let my cousins go with us," whispered Jessie in Walter's ear, as he took her hand.

"No, no, Jessie, I can't consent to that. They won't be a whit happier there than here, and if we do take them with us, they will only spoil our fun. I never saw two such thorns in my life. You can't go near them, but they scratch you right off."

"They are going home, the day after to-morrow, and I'm glad of it," cried Carrie, as she stepped up the bank after her brother and Jessie.

"So am I," said Walter, "and I'm thinking there will be plenty of dry eyes at Glen Morris Cottage, when they go away. What do you say to that, Jessie?"

"I'm sorry my cousins are so selfish," replied Jessie, "but Charlie is the worst. I think if Emily was here without him, she would soon be a good girl."

"Perhaps so. Yet I'm inclined to think you'll see apples growing on that old hickory yonder, before she becomes good, as you call it. But let us hurry into the pasture. Here, Jessie, mount these bars?"

As he spoke, Walter leaped over the rail-fence of a pasture, and giving his hand to Jessie, she mounted the top bar.

"Now jump!" cried Walter.

Jessie did as she was told. Carrie followed. Then Walter led them along the pasture, until they struck a bend in the brook where the water having flowed over a flat basin, was very shallow. Along the edge of this basin the water was frozen hard.

"Isn't this nice?" shouted Jessie, as she slid over the glass-like surface.

"It's perfectly beautiful," replied Carrie, gliding along in an opposite direction.

Walter made a slide for himself, just in front of the girls, and being all brim-full of good-nature, they enjoyed themselves finely. But there were two shadows that flashed on Jessie's joy now and then. The first was the image of the quilt she had left on the parlor-floor; the second was her regret that her cousins were so ugly. When the former image flitted before her, a little voice in her breast whispered,

"In the chains of the little wizard again, eh?"



Then Jessie would sigh, look very sober, and pause, saying to herself, "I really must go home and sew."

Before her purpose was fairly formed, however, Walter or Carrie would cry out, "What, getting tired already! You are not half a slider."

"Just once more, and then I'll go," Jessie would say to herself. But before that one more slide was through, she would purpose to add yet another. Thus time fled until the morning was almost gone, and the quilt, the little wizard, Uncle Morris, and even the ugly cousins, were nearly forgotten, in the excitement of this pleasant sport.

This delight was, however, brought to an end by a loud scream, followed by a shrill voice crying, "Charlie! Charlie! Charlie! You'll be drowned! Oh dear! Oh dear!"

This was followed by another scream. Walter guessed what was the matter at once. He knew that near where the cousins were sliding, the trunk of a tree formed a sort of bridge over the brook, and enabled the cow-boys to pass dry-shod in summer. When the brook was low, it was a safe enough bridge, but when it was full as it was then, it was what the boys called "a pokerish place to cross." He surmised at once, that Charlie was frightening his sister, by attempting to walk across the brook on this rough and narrow bridge. So he told the girls, and then they all ran towards the spot from whence the cry came.

A few minutes' run brought them in sight of Master Charlie standing erect on the tree, right over the middle of the brook. Emily was standing at the water's edge, screaming, and begging him to come back.

"Stop your screaming, you coward, or I'll lick you till you are dumb," shouted the wilful boy, shaking his fist at his sister, as Walter and the two girls came up, on the other side of the brook.

Emily seeing them approach, called out to Walter, and said:

"Do make him come off that dreadful log, will you?"

"I'd like to see anybody make me come off," said Charlie. As he spoke, he turned round to see who had come. In doing this his foot slipped, and losing his balance, he fell backwards into the brook.

The girls both screamed, for they were in great terror. Walter, however, laughed heartily, and said:

"Don't be frightened! The water isn't deep enough to drown the little fury. I hope it's cold enough to cool his courage, though."

As he spoke, Walter rolled up his pants, and then kicking off his boots, he waded into the brook and led Charlie ashore. The little fellow spluttered and shivered, but said nothing. The water had cooled his courage, and for the present, his ugliness had all subsided. They led him back to Glen Morris as quickly as possible, to get a change of clothes.

This mishap broke up their plan of dining and spending the afternoon with Carrie Sherwood. Thus the selfishness of the two cousins, again robbed both themselves and their friends of a promised pleasure. As for poor little Jessie, she drew down her face and looked very sad, as she put her quilt into the basket, when the bell rung for dinner. Sighing deeply she said half-aloud,

"Conquered again. It is no use. The little wizard is my master, and I won't try to resist him any more. What's the use of trying?"

"Tut, tut, tut! No use in trying, eh? Who says so?"

Jessie looked up, and her eyes met the pleasant smile of Uncle Morris, who had entered the room, in his usual quiet way, unobserved by the dispirited girl. She gave him back no answering smile, but drooping her head, stood silently before him. Seeing her sadness and knowing the cause, Uncle Morris said:

"Jessie, will you please be a school-ma'am for a moment, and let me recite my lesson to you?"

Jessie smiled a faint smile, but said nothing.

"Well, silence gives consent, I suppose. So I will recite my lesson. It is a fable and runs thus:

"Two robin redbreasts built their nests Within a hollow tree; The hen sat quietly at home, The male sang merrily; And all the little robins said, 'Wee, wee, wee, wee, wee, wee.'

One day—the sun was warm and bright, And shining in the sky— Cock Robin said, 'My little dears, 'Tis time you learn to fly;' And all the little young ones said, 'I'll try, I'll try, I'll try.'

"I know a child, and who she is I'll tell you by and by, When mamma says, 'Do this' or 'that,' She says, 'What for?' and 'Why?' She'd be a better child by far, If she would say, 'I'LL TRY.'"

When Uncle Morris paused, tears stood in Jessie's eyes, and a bright smile played round her lips. Putting her hand into his, she said:

"And I'll try, too, Uncle. I'll try till I conquer."



CHAPTER VII.

Jessie's First Great Victory.

After dinner Jessie went to her room and sat awhile, on a cricket with her head leaning on a chair. She was thinking. I cannot tell you exactly what passed in her mind, while she was in that brown study, because she never told me. You can guess, however, when I tell you that after thinking some five minutes, she rose up, and going to her table, took a pencil and wrote these words in big letters, on a sheet of note paper:

"I will not go out to play again until I have finished my quilt. This is my strong resolution, and I mean to keep it, in spite of the little wizard that tempts me so. He has beaten me a great many times, but he shan't do it again, as true as my name is Jessie Carlton."

Taking the paper from the table, Jessie held it between her finger and thumb, read it, and then left the room, saying to herself—

"There, that's a good resolution. I'll keep it in sight all the time; and if the little wizard comes near me, I'll spear him with it just as Uncle Morris says the fairies pierce the gnats with their bodkins. Let me see. How long will it take to finish my quilt? Only two more rows of squares to sew on. Well, I can sew one row this afternoon and the other to-morrow morning. Oh good! I'll ask ma to get it into the quilting-frame to-morrow afternoon, and have it finished while I work the slippers. Won't it be nice if the quilt and slippers are both ready by Christmas! Perhaps I can get the watch-pocket done too. Well, I'll try, see if I don't. I can conquer little Impulse if I try, and I will. You shall see if I don't, you dear, good Uncle Morris, you."

All this was said as Jessie walked down-stairs. She looked very pleasantly, and trod the carpet with a very firm step, as she went to her cosy little chair in front of the bright fire which glowed in the grate that November afternoon. She was slightly chilled through sitting in her chamber, but without stopping to get warm, she took up her work, and began to ply her needle in good earnest.

Half an hour passed and Jessie was still busy as a bee over her quilt. Then her uncle entered the room with his outside coat nicely buttoned up to his chin, and his hat in his hand. He was equipped for a walk.

"Jessie, will you take a walk with your poor old uncle this fine afternoon?" said he.

This was offering one of the strongest of possible temptations to Jessie. A walk with Uncle Morris was to her a very great pleasure. Impulse whispered "Let the quilt go, and accept your uncle's offer!" Jessie's arms were even put forth in the act of dropping her work, when her eye rested on her written resolution, which she had pinned on the top edge of the work-basket. "I will finish my quilt," said she down in her heart. Then putting her work back into her lap, and looking up at her uncle, who was a little puzzled by her unusual manner, she said—

"I thank you, Uncle, but I can't go this afternoon."

"Not go! What does my little puss mean?" exclaimed Uncle Morris, greatly surprised that his niece should decline his invitation.

Jessie took the paper from the basket, gave it to him, and, while a loving smile played round her lips, said—

"Please, Uncle, read this."

The old gentleman put on his spectacles, glanced at the paper, and, as he gave it back to her, smiled, and said—

"Ha, ha, I see! going to run the little wizard through the heart with the spear of Resolution! Very good. I would rather see you conquer your enemy, my dear Jessie, than to have your company, much as I love it. So good-by, and may the Great Teacher help you to keep your resolution!"

"Good-by, Uncle!"

I can't tell you how happy Jessie felt at having resisted this strong temptation. A warm current of joy flowed through her heart, and bore away all regret which thinking on the loss of a pleasant walk might have otherwise caused her to feel. Her eyes sparkled with delight. Her fingers almost flew, and the quilt gained in size very fast.

But fifteen minutes more had not passed, when Emily and Charlie bounced into the room.

"We want you to play with us," said Emily. "We are tired of playing together without company, and want you."

"I want you to play horses. I've got some twine for a pair of reins, and you two girls will make a capital span. Come, hurry up, Jessie!" said Charlie, who had got over his ducking in the brook, and was as rude and ready for mischief as ever.

"I'm very sorry," replied Jessie, "but I can't go with you. I must sew on my quilt till tea-time."

"Must, eh! Who says you must?" replied Emily with a sneer.

"I have made a resolution to punish myself for going out this morning when I ought to have stayed in," said Jessie, firmly.

"Pooh," said Charlie, "that's all nonsense. She is too proud to play with us. She is a regular Miss Stuckup, and I won't own her for my cousin any more;" and with this hard speech the boy left the parlor, walking backwards, and making mouths as he went.

"I do think you ought to play with us, Jessie," said Emily. "You know we have only one day more to spend with you, and it's very unkind of you to stay in here and leave me to amuse myself as best I can. As to your resolution, I s'pose you made it on purpose, because you didn't want to play with us."

This unkind speech made Jessie feel very badly. She doubted for a moment whether she had not erred in making her resolution before her cousins went home. She felt inclined to drop her work, and go out with her very ungracious cousins. But her second thoughts assured her that it was her first duty to conquer the habit which had caused her so much trouble. So looking with moistening eyes at her cousin, she replied—

"I'm sorry, Emily, that I cannot go out with you, but I really can't do it. You know my ma requires me to spend my mornings in sewing or reading. I went out this morning without thinking, and without asking her consent. To make up for that, I must sew this afternoon. This evening and to-morrow afternoon, I will play with you as much as you please."

"I say you are a very ugly creature, and I don't like you one bit," retorted Emily, as with pouting lips and flashing eyes she bounced from the room, slamming the door with a loud noise as she went out.

Poor Jessie felt wounded, and the big tears would flow from her eyes in spite of her efforts to restrain them. Smarting under the cruel words of her cousin, she felt an impulse to follow her, but again her eyes fell on the paper, and she resumed her work, saying to herself—

"Jessie Carlton, you must not mind the hard speeches of your cousins. Your resolution is right and good. Uncle Morris said so. Stick to it then, and by the time the quilt and a few other things are done, as Uncle Morris said, the little wizard will find Glen Morris Cottage too hot to hold him. I'll keep my resolution."

Just then, smash went some glass somewhere in the rear of the house. The crash was followed by a voice, which Jessie knew to be her cousin's, saying—

"O Charlie, Charlie! what have you done!"

"I don't care! It's only the kitchen window," was the reply.

Again did Jessie's impulse move her to put down her work and run out to see what was the matter. But her purpose came to her aid again, and she kept plying her needle and saying:

"No, I won't go out. It's only that naughty Charlie throwing stones in at the kitchen window. What a bad boy he is. I'm glad he is going home soon."

Another quarter of an hour passed without interruption, when the door opened and the bright face of Carrie Sherwood peeped in.

"Why, Carrie Sherwood!" exclaimed Jessie.

"Jessie Carlton!"

"Come in and sit down," said Jessie.

Carrie stepped in but did not sit down. "I've come," she said, "to invite you and your cousins to spend the afternoon, and to take tea at our house. Ma says that since no harm came to Charlie from his ducking, she would like to have you come as you meant to do before he fell into the brook."

"I can't go with you till nearly tea-time," replied Jessie.

"Why not?"

"Because I can't."

"But why can't you?"

"Because I've resolved to sew on this quilt until tea-time," said Jessie; and pointing to the paper she added, "see! there is my resolution."

Carrie read the paper and laughed. "Well, you are a queer girl, Jessie Carlton. You tie yourself up with a resolution nobody asks you to make, and then say you can't move."

"But I made the resolution because I thought it was right," said Jessie, solemnly.

"Oh! did you? Well, that alters the case, I suppose. But please break it for once; only this once, just to please me, you know. Come, there's a dear, good Jessie; do come over to my house this afternoon."

Oh! how Jessie did long to drop her sewing, and go with her friend. There was a mighty struggle in her heart for a few moments; but her purpose triumphed at last, and in a calm, firm voice, she replied:

"No, dear Carrie, not until nearly dark. I must finish my quilt to-morrow morning. You go and get my cousins and take them with you. I will come over just as soon as it is too dark to see to sew without a light; and that won't be a great while, you know, this short afternoon."

Carrie saw that her friend's mind was made up. So turning to leave the room she said:

"Well, I suppose you are right; but mind you come as early as you can."

"That I will," rejoined Jessie.

Carrie left the room. The next moment she pushed the door open again, and peeping in, said,

"Jessie?"

"Well, dear, what is it?"

"Ask your ma to let you stay till half-past nine, will you?"

"Yes."

"Good-by."

"Good-by till dark," replied Jessie, laughing at the idea of her friend bidding her good-by just for an hour.

Jessie now felt very strong in her purpose. She had resisted no less than four temptations to yield to her impulses in about an hour and a half. This was doing nobly, and Jessie felt more self-respect than she had ever felt before. She was certainly doing battle in real earnest with her old enemy, the little wizard, as Uncle Morris facetiously called him. And she had her reward for all her self-denial in the glad feelings which bubbled up in her heart like springs of water in some cosy mountain nook.

Nothing else came to tempt Jessie the remainder of that afternoon. She sewed until it was too dark to see in front of the fire; then she took her seat close to the window, and it was not until she could no longer see to take a stitch neatly that she began to put up her work.

"One more morning will finish it," said she, after taking a glance at her work. "Oh! how glad I shall be when I have taken the last stitch. And won't I be glad when it comes out of the quilting-frame, and is spread upon Uncle Morris's bed. It's been a long time doing—Oh! ever so long—thanks to the little wizard. But little wizard, little wizard, go away! go away! We don't want you any longer in Glen Morris Cottage."

In this cheerful mood Jessie tied on her hood and cloak, and tripped over to Carrie Sherwood's, where she spent one of the pleasantest evenings she had enjoyed since the coming of her cousins to Duncanville. For some reasons unknown to me, it pleased that selfish brother and sister to put on their best and most approved behavior. Perhaps they caught a ray or two of the joy which beamed, like sunshine, from Jessie's heart.

The next morning after breakfast, filled with the idea of finishing the quilt before dinner, Jessie found a parcel in her work-basket directed to Miss Jessie Carlton.

"What can it be?" said she, as she hastily untied the string, and unfolded the wrapping-paper.

"A pair of ladies' skates! Oh, how glad I am! I wonder who sent them. Oh! here is a piece of paper. What does it say?"

Holding the paper to the light she read as follows:

"From a fond father to his beloved daughter."

"From pa! Oh, how good of him! It's too bad he didn't stop to let me thank him. But I'll thank him to-night. I've been wishing all this fall for a pair of skates, because all the girls are going to have them. Suppose I just step out and try them a little while."

Thus did Jessie talk out her thoughts to herself. Thus did the impulse come over her to leave her morning's duty and repeat the fault of the day before. It was fortunate, perhaps, that her cousins, knowing she meant to sew, had rushed off to find a slide before she discovered her new skates. Their persuasions, joined to her own impulse, might have overcome her and brought her into bondage to the little wizard again. Without their presence, I confess, the temptation to try the skates was a very strong one. Jessie was getting ready to go out when her eye fell on the paper which was still pinned to the basket's edge. She paused, blushed, put down the skates, and said aloud:

"No, no, little wizard, I won't obey you. The quilt shall be finished, and the skates shall wait until the afternoon."

"Three cheers for my little conqueror!" shouted Uncle Morris, who, coming in at that moment, overheard this last remark.

"O uncle! I was almost conquered myself," said Jessie.

"Never mind that, for now you are quite a conqueror," rejoined her uncle, smiling and patting her head.

Need I say that the quilt was finished that morning? It was; and before Jessie sat down to dinner, she had the pleasure of seeing it put into the quilting-frame by Maria, the seamstress of the household. And thus did our sweet little Jessie win her first really decisive victory over the little wizard which had hitherto been to her like the fisherman's wife, Alice, in the fairy tale—the plague of her life.



CHAPTER VIII.

Farewell to the Cousins.

Scarcely had Jessie feasted her eyes on her quilt, snugly fixed between the bars of the quilting-frame, before the dinner-bell rang out its pleasant call. The happy girl skipped down-stairs with a light and merry step. In the hall she met her brothers.

"O Guy!" she exclaimed, "I have finished my quilt! Aren't you glad!"

"To be sure I am," said Guy, kissing her rosy cheek, "and I expect you will be so well-pleased with my old friend, Never-give-up, who helped you finish it, that you will never give him the mitten again."

"Pshaw!" cried Hugh with a sneer, "I'll bet my new knife, that she gives him the mitten before the week is out. Jessie isn't made of the right stuff for your famous Try Company, any more than I am. She hasn't got the perseverance of a kitten."

"And yet she has more of it, than Master Hugh Carlton, for he has never finished any thing but his dinner, and she has finished her quilt," said Uncle Morris, who as he was crossing the hall to the dining-room, heard Hugh's unkind remark.

"There, Hugh, you are fairly hit now," said Guy, laughing.

"They who live in glass-houses shouldn't throw stones, should they, my little puss?" said Uncle Morris, leading Jessie into the dining-room.

"Hugh is always teasing me," replied Jessie, "I wish he was more like Guy."

Dinner was waiting, and taking their seats at the table, they all sat in silence, while Uncle Morris reverently craved a blessing. He had hardly finished, before Charlie and Emily rushed into the room, leaving traces of their feet on the carpet, at every step.

"My dears, where have you been to wet your feet so?" asked Mrs. Carlton, seeing that their boots were soaked with water.

"Oh! it's been thawing, Aunt, and we got our feet wet, sliding," said Emily, as she took her seat at the table, panting and pushing the ringlets back from her face.

"You had better put on dry socks and boots, before you eat," observed Mrs. Carlton. She then touched the bell. The servant entered.

"Mary," said the lady, "take these children to their rooms, and change their socks and boots!"

"Yes mem," said Mary, looking daggers at the two cousins.

"Can't I wait till after dinner, aunt?" asked Emily.

"No, my dear. You must go at once, lest you get cold by sitting still so long with wet feet."

Emily pouted, but knowing her aunt would firmly enforce her command, she rose, and taking her brother by the wrist, said:

"Come, Charlie, let us go up-stairs!"

"I don't want to," growled Charlie, pulling away his arm, and putting it round his plate.

"Charlie!" exclaimed Mrs. Carlton.

"I want my dinner!" was his surly reply.

Mary had now drawn near the ugly little fellow. Placing her heavy hand on his shoulder, she seized him with a grip, which made him feel like a pigmy, in the grasp of a giant. Having had a taste of Mary's anger, once or twice before, and catching a glance from the kindling eye of Uncle Morris, he yielded, and was led out of the room.

"The worst child of his age I ever knew," observed the old gentleman with a sigh, as he proceeded to carve the chickens, which were smoking on the hospitable table before him.

Jessie's face had clouded a little during this scene. The thaw of which Emily had spoken, cut off her hope of trying her new skates. Leaning towards Guy, who sat next to her at the table, she whispered:

"Is the ice all gone, Guy?"

"I expect it is pretty much used up by the fog we've had all day."

"Oh dear, I'm so sorry!" said Jessie with a sigh.

Judging of her thoughts by her looks, Uncle Morris said, "Never mind, Jessie. There will be plenty of ice to skate on, in a week or two."

"Skate! How can she skate? She hasn't got any skates!" said Hugh.

"Yes, I have," replied Jessie, smiling. "Pa sent me a beautiful pair this morning."

This statement led to various remarks about skating, and winter weather in the country. Meanwhile, the cousins came back to the table. Jessie soon grew cheerful again, and the dinner passed without any other occurrence worthy of notice.

After dinner, the fog having grown into a fine, drizzling rain, the children found it impossible to go out of doors in search of amusement. It was therefore agreed to invite Miss Carrie Sherwood to tea. Guy promised to go after her. To add to the pleasure of the occasion, Jessie had her mother's permission to use a sweet little tea-set of her own, and to have tea with her cousins and Carrie by themselves in the parlor.

Carrie arrived in due time, snugly wrapped in hood and shawl. Her feet were protected by rubbers. She declared that Guy was a capital beau. Guy laughed at her compliment, and repaid it by saying that she was a nice little belle, and then he ran off to school.

The afternoon passed rapidly, because, on the whole, it was pleasantly spent. Emily, knowing it was the last day of her visit, seemed anxious to do away with the bad impression she had previously made upon the mind of her cousin and her friend. Charlie, too, was in his best mood most of the time. Once, indeed, he came very near breaking up the harmony of the party. Seeing a strap of Jessie's new skates peeping from beneath the what-not where she had hidden them, he seized it, pulled out the skates, and began to put them on.

"Please, Charlie, don't do that," said Jessie. "You can't skate on the carpet, you know; please give them to me?"

"I won't!" retorted the wilful boy.

"Please do give them to me?" implored Jessie.

"I want to skate on the carpet, first," said Charlie, still trying to buckle on the skates.

"Do ask him to give them to me?" said Jessie, addressing Emily.

"There, take your old skates!" cried the boy, throwing them violently across the room.

The fact was, he did not understand the mystery of straps and buckles in which the skates were involved. Hence his desire to try the skates was borne away upon the current of his impatience, and thereby the little party escaped a scene for the time being.

But it was only for a time. Charlie had been so used to have his own way and to oppose the wishes of others, that he seemed to find his pleasure in spoiling the delights of others. Hence, when the hour for tea arrived, and Jessie's sweet little china tea-set, with its ornaments of gold and flowers, was spread out upon a little round table, he drew near to it and taking Jessie's seat, said:

"I'm going to play lady and pour out the tea."

"Nonsense, Charlie!" said his sister. "Take the next seat and let Jessie have hers."

"I won't," muttered Charlie.

"Come, Charlie, do get out of your cousin's chair! Young gentlemen don't pour out tea for ladies, you know," said Carrie in her most coaxing tones.

"I don't care! I'm going to play lady and pour out the tea," replied the boy in his most dogged manner.

"I never did see such a boy in all my life," whispered Jessie to her friend.

"Nor I," rejoined Carrie; "my father says he's a young hornet."

"Oh dear! what shall I do?" sighed Jessie.

"Why don't you sit down?" said Charlie, as he began to handle the little teapot.

"Charlie, get up!" exclaimed his sister, as she snatched the teapot from his hand.

"Don't touch him. I'll call my uncle; he'll make him move," said Jessie, moving towards the door.

She was too late; Emily's act had roused the fiery temper of the boy. Placing his hands on each side of his chair, he leaned back, and lifting up his feet to the edge of the table, kicked it over and sent the tea-set crashing to the floor.

"Oh dear! Oh dear! He has broken my nice tea-set all to pieces!" cried Jessie, pausing, gazing on the wreck, and bursting into tears.

The crash of the falling tea-things was heard by Uncle Morris. He entered the room with a grave face. Charlie still sat on the chair, looking surly and wicked at the ruin he had wrought.

"See what Charlie has done, Uncle!" exclaimed Jessie, sobbing. "I wouldn't care if it wasn't poor Aunt Lucy's present that he has broken."

Aunt Lucy was dead. She had given this charming little tea-set to Jessie only a few weeks before her death.

"How did he do it?" asked Mr. Morris.

"He kicked the table over, Sir, because we wanted him to let Jessie sit in her place, and pour out the tea," said Carrie.

Just then Mrs. Carlton, and Mary the waiting-maid, both of whom had heard the noise, entered the parlor. Turning to the latter, Mr. Morris said:

"Mary, put that ugly boy to bed!"

Charlie, frightened at Mr. Morris's manner, yielded to this command without a word, and was led out of the room.

"I didn't know that so much ugliness could be got into so small a parcel before that boy came here. He goes home to-morrow morning, however, and we shall all witness his departure, I guess, with very dry eyes," said Mr. Morris.

"He needs somebody to weep over him, though, brother," interposed Mrs. Carlton, "for otherwise he will grow up into a very wicked and dangerous manhood."

"Very true, sister. He is a spoiled child. I must write to sister Hannah about him. If rigid training, and the rod of correction, be not soon applied to him, he will become a spoiled man."

After telling Mrs. Carlton the cause of this disaster, the girls with her aid began to repair the ruin wrought by ugly Charlie. Having replaced the table, they picked up the pieces, and were relieved to find that, with the exception of the knob of the teapot lid, and the handles of two cups, which were off, nothing was broken. Uncle Morris said he had a cement with which he could fasten on the knob and the handles. This relieved Jessie very much. She smiled, and said:

"Oh, I am so glad! I want to keep that tea-set, for dear Aunt Lucy's sake."

Of course the tea was all spilled, and the food scattered over the carpet. These, however, were soon replaced from the well-supplied closets of the kitchen and dining-room. In half an hour, the table was reset, and the three girls were seated, quietly eating their supper.

Did they enjoy their feast? A little, perhaps, but the upsetting of the table could not be forgotten. It chilled their spirits, and checked the flow of their joy. Thus, as always, did the evil conduct of one wrong-doer, act, like a cloud in the path of the sun, on the joy of others.

Carrie Sherwood left early in the evening, and Jessie went to her chamber with Emily to assist her in packing her trunk, so that she might be ready for an early start in the morning. When the last stray article was nicely packed, Emily threw herself back in the big arm-chair, and with a long-drawn sigh, exclaimed:

"Oh dear!"

"What's the matter?" inquired Jessie.

"Oh! nothing. Only I'm glad I'm going home."

"So am I," was the thought that leaped to Jessie's lips. She was, however, too polite to utter it, and too sincere to say she was sorry, so she sat still and said nothing.

Several minutes were passed in silence, a very unusual thing, I believe, where the company is composed of young ladies. But Jessie did not know what to say, and Emily was thinking, and did not wish to say any thing. At last she looked up and said:

"Jessie, I'm afraid I haven't behaved well since I came to Glen Morris."

Jessie again thought with Emily, and again her politeness and sincerity kept her silent. Emily went on.

"You have been very kind to me and Charlie. I'm sorry we haven't made ourselves more agreeable to you."

"Oh! never mind that," said Jessie. "I hope you will come and see me again, one of these days."

Emily then went on to tell Jessie about her thoughts and feelings. She had not forgotten the advice of Uncle Morris, nor had Jessie's example been without its influence over her. True, her old habits of self-will and falsehood, had acted the part of tyrants over her. Yet she had been secretly wishing to be like Jessie. These wishes, frail as they had proved themselves to be, showed that good seed from Jessie's example had been sown in her heart. Now that she was about to return home, all her better feelings were awake, and she begged forgiveness of her cousin, promising to do her best, hereafter, to be a good, truthful, affectionate girl.

All this and much more, she said to Jessie, before they slept that night. These confessions and purposes did Emily good. They also cheered Jessie, by causing her to hope that after all, she might be to her cousin, what Guy had been to Richard Duncan.

The next morning, directly after breakfast, the hack drove up to the door, and the cousins were borne away to the depot in care of Mr. Carlton. As the carriage left the lawn, Uncle Morris patted his niece on the head, and said:

"As vinegar to the teeth, and smoke to the eyes, so are self-willed guests to those who entertain them."

"O Uncle Morris!" exclaimed Jessie, with an air of mock gravity, which showed that, harsh as her uncle's remark sounded, she felt its justice. In fact, the departure of the ungracious cousins was to the inmates of Glen Morris, like the flight of the angry storm-cloud to a company of mariners, after weary weeks of squalls and tempests.



CHAPTER IX.

The Wizard in the Field Again.

"I'm glad they are gone, and yet I'm sorry. Em seemed sorry to go, and she cried when I kissed her good-by. I really think Em loves me after all; and if it wasn't for that ugly Charlie, she would be a nice girl. But that Charlie! Oh dear! I don't think there is another such boy anywhere. I don't wonder my uncle compares him to a burr, a sting-nettle, and a hedgehog. I'm sure he's been nothing but a plague to everybody, ever since he came here. I'm glad he's gone, anyhow. And yet, poor fellow, I pity him. He must be miserable himself, or he wouldn't torment everybody else so—but I must go to work, I s'pose."

Thus did Jessie talk to herself, after seeing her cousins off. She had returned to the parlor, and seated herself in her small rocking-chair. She now drew the two pieces of cloth for her uncle's slippers, from her work-basket, and after handling them awhile with a languid air, put them in her lap, sighed, and said—

"Oh dear! I do wish these slippers were done. This is a hard pattern, and it will take me ever so many days to finish it. Heigho! I 'most wish I hadn't begun them. Let me see if I have worsted enough to finish them."

Here Jessie leaned over and began to explore the tangled depths of her work-basket. It was a complete olio. Old letters, pieces of silk, velvet, linen, and woollen, scraps of paper, leaves of books, old cords and rusty tassels, spools of cotton, skeins of thread and knots,—in short, almost every thing that could by any sort of chance, or mischance, get into a young lady's work-basket, was there in rare confusion. Jessie's love of order was not very large. Her temper was often sorely tried by the trouble which her careless habit caused her when seeking a pair of scissors, or a spool of cotton. It was so to-day. She plunged her hand deep into the basket, in search of the colored worsteds required for her uncle's slippers. After feeling round awhile, she drew forth a tangled mess, which she placed on her lap.

"Oh dear!" she said, in a complaining tone; "how these worsteds are tangled!"

Nimbly her fingers wrought, however, and very soon the skeins were all laid out on her knee.

"Let me see," said she, looking at her pattern; "there are one, two, three, four—five—six colors, and I have only one, two, three, four, five. Which is missing? Ah, I see: there is no brown. Must I hunt that basket again? It's a regular jungle—no, not a jungle—a jungle is a forest, mostly covered with reeds and bushes. This is a, a—a jumble. Uncle, would call it a basket of confusion. Ha! ha!"

Vainly did Jessie explore her "basket of confusion." In vain did she upset its contents upon the floor, and replace them by handfuls. The missing skein of brown worsted could not be found. At last, with wearied neck, and aching head, she threw herself back in her chair, and said—

"It's no use, there is no brown worsted there. But what's that?"

In leaning back, Jessie's eyes were arrested by a new book which was on the mantle. Starting from her chair, she took down the book. It was a story-book that Guy had borrowed of his friend Richard Duncan. The pictures were beautiful, and Jessie, charmed by the promise of its opening pages, gave herself up to the leadings of her excited curiosity, and soon forgot all about worsted, slippers, cousins, and uncle. Little Impulse the wizard had baited his trap with a choice book, and Jessie was in his power again.

"Why, Guy! what brought you home so early?" asked Jessie, more than two hours later, when her brother's entrance broke her attention from the book.

"Early!" exclaimed Guy, looking at his watch; "do you call fifteen minutes past twelve early?"

"Fifteen minutes past twelve!" cried Jessie, in great surprise; "it can't be so late: your watch must be wrong, Guy."

"Then the village clock is wrong, for I timed my watch by it as I came past," said Guy. "I guess you have been asleep, Sis, and didn't notice how time passed."

"Asleep, indeed! do you think I go to sleep in the morning? not I. But I've been reading your book, and was just finishing it when you came in. It's real interesting," said Jessie.

"Yes, it's a nice book," replied Guy, as he left the room in response to a call from Hugh, who was in the hall.

Jessie replaced the book, and sighed as she picked up the worsteds from the floor, to think that she had done nothing to the slippers that morning. However, as there was yet over half an hour to spare before dinner, and as she could go on with her work for the present, without the brown worsted, she began plying her needle with right good will.

Presently Uncle Morris came in. He had been out all the morning. Seeing his niece so busy, he smiled, and said:

"Busy as the bee, eh, Jessie? Well, it's the working bee that makes the honey. Guess the little wizard has lost heart now he has found out that my little puss has a strong will to do right, and a strong Friend to help her."

Jessie blushed and sighed. She was in what young Duncan would call a "tight place." She knew that her uncle was mistaken; that she did not deserve his praise, that by being silent she should, of her own accord, confirm his mistake and thereby deceive him. And yet, it was hard to confess her fault, under the circumstances. "What could Jessie do?"

At first she was silent. Her uncle perceiving by her manner that something puzzled and pained her, turned to his chair, and without saying another word took up the morning's newspaper and began reading.

The longer Jessie kept up his false impression, the worse she felt. Very soon, however, the voice of the Good Spirit within her gained the victory, and throwing the slipper into the basket, she rose, saying to herself, "I will tell him all about it."

Going to her uncle's side, she threw an arm round his neck, gently drew his head towards her and kissed him. Then she smiled through a mist of tears, and said:

"Uncle, the little wizard hasn't left Glen Morris, yet."

"Hasn't he?" replied her uncle. "Why, I thought you pricked him so sorely with your quilt needle that he had run off to Greenland, or to some other distant land to escape your little ladyship's anger, or to woo Miss Perseverance to be his bride."

"I wish he had," sighed Jessie; "but I fear he never will go. I wish he didn't like Glen Morris so well."

Then the little girl told her uncle how Guy's book had lured her into the wizard's power.

"Never mind, my child," said Uncle Morris, patting her head as he spoke, "never mind. Never give up. Attack him again with your tiny spear. Resolve that you will yet conquer him, as little David did big Goliath, in the name of the Lord. A little girl can be what she wills to be, if she only wills in the name of Him who is the teacher and the friend of children."

"I'll try, Uncle," said Jessie, with the fire of resolution kindling in her eyes.

"Heaven bless you, my child!" said the old man solemnly, as he placed his hands softly upon her head. "May you always be as frank and truthful as you have now been in confessing a fault to me which you must have been very strongly tempted to conceal. May Heaven bless you!"

Didn't Jessie feel glad then! She was glad she had resisted the temptation to receive praise she did not merit; glad she had done right; glad her uncle was pleased with her. Happy Jessie! Had she by silence deceived her uncle, she would have felt guilty and ashamed. Now she was as peaceful and hopeful as love and duty could make her.

After dinner, seeing Guy take his cap as if in great haste, Jessie followed him to the door and said: "What makes you in such a hurry, every day, Guy? You have not stayed to talk to me for ever so long."

"You have had company, you know, Jessie, and haven't wanted me," replied Guy, evasively.

"But I have no company to-day," said Jessie. "Come, don't go yet, there's a dear, good Guy. Come into the parlor and tell me a story."

"Not now," replied Guy, opening the door. Then after a moment or two of silent thought, he shut the door and said, "If you will put on your cloak and hood I'll take you with me."

"Oh, good, good!" exclaimed the little girl; and after running to her mother for consent, she soon returned fitly equipped for a walk on that breezy November afternoon.

It being Wednesday and no school, Guy had the afternoon before him. He led his sister towards the village, telling her he was going to take her to see a good old lady of whom, he said, he was very fond.

"Who is she? How did you find her out? Does Uncle Morris know her?" were among the many questions which Jessie put to her brother. He did not see fit to satisfy her, however, except to say, "Her name is Mrs. MONEYPENNY."

"Mrs. Moneypenny! What a funny name?" exclaimed Jessie, laughing and repeating the name.

"Yes, it is odd; but the lady who bears it, is a noble woman."

"Is she rich?"

"No, she is very poor, very poor indeed."

"Very poor, eh? But how came you to know her?"

"That's my secret."

"A secret! Please tell me about it, Guy?"

"Can't do it, Jessie. You know girls can't keep secrets," replied Guy, laughing and looking archly at his sister.

"I can, Guy. Do tell me. I won't tell Hugh, nor Carrie Sherwood, no, nor even Uncle Morris, though I can't see why you should keep a secret from him."

Just then Guy and his sister were passing some open lots in the village street. Several rough boys were standing round a small bonfire which they had made out of the dead branches and leaves of trees, which the fall winds had scattered over the streets and open lots. As soon as they saw Guy, one of them cried in a jeering tone:

"There goes Mrs. Moneypenny's cow-boy!"

"Wonder how much he gets a week," shouted another boy.

"Perhaps he's gwine to be the old lady's heir," said the first.

"Guess he 'spects young Jack Moneypenny's gwine to die, down in the Brooklyn hospital, and he wants the old ooman to adopt him. He! he!" said a third speaker.

Loud peals of derisive laughter followed these remarks. Guy made no reply, but grasping his sister's hand more tightly, he hurried past at a rapid walk, and was soon out of hearing.

"Oh! I am so glad we are past those wicked boys," said Jessie, slightly shivering with fear. "But what did they call you a cow-boy for, Guy?"

"I suppose I must tell you my secret now," said Guy. "Those boys have partly let my cat out of the bag."

Guy then told his sister, that Mrs. Moneypenny was a poor widow, with a son named Jack. She rented a cottage and a little piece of land. A cow, a few hens, and Jack's labor, were all she had to depend upon. Jack, being a steady boy, earned enough to keep them comfortable in their simple way of living. But a great misfortune had overtaken them. Jack, while in Brooklyn, with a lot of eggs and chickens, which he had taken in to sell, had been knocked down and run over by a horse and wagon. His leg was broken, and he was carried to the hospital.

This sad news was quickly sent to Jack's mother. Poor old lady! It seemed as if her only stay was broken by this disaster. Being lame, she could not go to her son, neither could she take care of her cow at home. She was in deep distress, and wept many tears over poor Jack's sufferings, and her own hard fate.

Guy happened to hear her case talked over at the post-office, the very day the news of Jack's misfortune arrived. He heard a gentleman say, that she must be sent to the alms-house, though, being a woman of spirit, he feared she would break her heart and die, if she was. Full of pity for the old lady, Guy went to her, and offered to take care of her cow and hens, as long as Jack might be sick.

"It would have melted your heart," said Guy, as he finished his story, "had you seen the old lady cry for joy at my offer. She looked so thankful, and seemed so much relieved, that I felt as happy as an angel, to think that by doing such a little thing as milking and feeding a cow for a few weeks, I could shed so much light in the dwelling of a poor, but noble woman."

Jessie's eyes swam with tears. She pressed Guy's hand, but spoke not. He understood the meaning of that pressure. He knew that in her heart she was saying, "My brother did right, and those boys were very wicked for calling after him. I love my dear brother better than ever."

While such thoughts as these were passing in Jessie's mind, and Guy was feeling the gladness which welled up within him like living water, they reached the cottage. Mrs. Moneypenny received them with smiles of welcome. She kissed Jessie, and said:

"You look as if you had a heart as kind as your brother's. May Heaven bless you both!"



Then the old lady began to talk about her "dear Jack." After telling them he was "getting along nicely," she read a letter which he made out to write in pencil, as he lay bolstered up in his bed. Having finished it, the good mother sighed, and said:

"Dear Jack! How I do wish he could be brought home, so that I could take care of him myself! There is no nurse like a mother. The poor fellow says he wants some more shirts sent him, but I haven't another to send him, nor any thing to make him one with. Ah, my children, poverty is not a pleasant heritage; but never mind; life is short, and I and my poor Jack will have mansions, robes, and riches in the better land. May you, my children, be blessed with such treasures both here and hereafter!"

After Guy had "looked to the cow," in the hovel which answered for a barn, he and his sister took their leave of the widow.

Jessie walked quietly home, looking very grave, and scarcely speaking a word by the way. Once she turned to Guy and asked:

"How large a boy is Jack?"

"About my size," replied Guy.

Jessie had a big thought in her head—I mean a big thought for a little girl. If you wish to know what it was, you must consult the next chapter.



CHAPTER X.

Madge Clifton.

When Jessie reached home she threw her hood and cloak carelessly on to the floor. The cloak-stand was pretty well filled up, and she was in too much haste, to take the pains needed to find a place on the hooks for her garments. This was one of her faults. A new impulse had seized her, and she thought of nothing else. Bounding into her mother's room, she said:

"Mother, will you let me make two shirts for poor Jack Moneypenny?"

Mrs. Carlton looked up from her work, and after a moment's glance at the eager face of her daughter, asked:

"Who is Jack Moneypenny, my dear?"

Jessie, in her eagerness to carry her point, had forgotten to ask if her mother knew any thing of the widow, or her son, Jack. This question checked her ardor a little, and she told the story of the widow's misfortune. Just as she was finishing her tale, however, she thought of Guy's wish to keep his part in the affair a secret. So blushing deeply, she added:

"Oh dear! what will Guy say? I promised to keep it all secret, and now I have told all about it. He said girls couldn't keep a secret, and I believe he is right. What shall I do, Mother?"

"Why tell him that you have told me, to be sure. Guy has no secrets with his mother, and I am sure he does not wish his sister to have any."

"Has Guy told you about it, then?"

"Yes, he told me all his plans from the first. Guy never conceals any thing from his mother."

"What made you ask me who Jack Moneypenny was, then, Ma, if you knew before?"

"Only to teach my Jessie, that she ought to be less abrupt in her manners. You should have stated your case first, and then have asked me your question."

"So I should, Ma," said Jessie, musing a few moments, and gazing on her foot, as she traced the outline of the carpet-pattern with it. Then smiling, she looked up, and added, "but you know, Mamma, it is my way, to speak first, and think afterwards."

"Not a very wise way, either," said Mrs. Carlton; "but about those shirts, why do you wish to make them?"

Jessie told her mother about Jack's letter, and what the widow had said.

"Well," replied Mrs. Carlton; "I will give you the cloth, and cut out the shirts, if you really wish to make them."

"I do, Mother, very much wish to do it. Only think how glad the widow will be, and how comfortable the shirts will make the poor sick boy, in that horrid hospital."

"Very true, my dear, but how about your uncle's slippers, and cushion, and watch-pocket?"

A blush tinged Jessie's cheek again. The little wizard had once more hurried her into a new plan before her old ones had been worked out. Plainly she could not help poor Jack and keep her former resolution, not to be turned aside from finishing her gifts for Uncle Morris. She was fairly puzzled. It was right to make shirts for a poor boy. It was right to keep her purposes too. Yet she could not do both. But did not the boy need the shirts, more than Uncle Morris did his slippers? Would not her uncle be willing to wait? No doubt he would, but then her promise to finish the slippers before beginning any thing else, was part of a plan for conquering a bad habit. Would it be right to depart from that plan?

Such were the questions which floated like unpleasant dreams through Jessie's mind as she sat with her hands on the back of a chair-seat, knocking her heels against the floor. Her mother, though she allowed her to think awhile in silence, read her thoughts in the workings of her face. When Jessie seemed to be lost in the fog of her own thoughts, Mrs. Carlton came to her aid, and said:

"Jessie."

"Yes, Ma."

"I have been thinking that poor Jack needs those shirts directly, and that you could not make him a pair in less than two, perhaps in not less than three weeks. So I don't see how you can help him out of his present trouble."

Jessie sighed, and said, "I didn't think of that."

"Well, I have a plan to propose. I will send him two of Guy's shirts to-morrow, and you shall make two new ones for Guy, at your leisure."

"What a dear, good, nice mother you are," cried Jessie, running to Mrs. Carlton, and giving her more kisses than I am able to count.

Thus did a mother's love find a key with which to unlock Jessie's puzzle, and to enable her to help poor Jack, without breaking her purpose to finish Uncle Morris's things, and thereby drive that plague of her life, the little wizard, away from Glen Morris.

"I will work ever so hard, see if I don't, Ma," said she, as she patted her mother's cheek. "I will finish the slippers, and get the shirts done, too, before Christmas. Don't you think I can?"

"You can, I have no doubt, if you try my dear."

"Well, I'll try then. I'll join Guy's famous Try Company, and will try and try, and try again, until I fairly succeed."

Mrs. Carlton kissed her daughter affectionately; after which the now light-hearted girl bounded out of the room, singing—

"If you find your case is hard, Try, try, try again. Time will bring you your reward, Try, try, try again. All that other people do, Why with patience should not you? Only keep this rule in view, Try, try, try again."

"That's it! That's it, my little puss," said Uncle Morris, who was in the parlor which Jessie entered singing her joyous roundelay. "Corporal Try is a little fellow, but he has helped do all the great things that have ever been done. There is nothing good or great which he cannot do. He will help a little girl learn to darn her own stocking, or make a quilt for her old uncle; and he will help men build big steamships, construct railroads over the desert, or lay a telegraph wire under the waters of the ocean. Oh, a great little man is Corporal Try!"

"I know it," replied Jessie, "and I've joined his company; so if you meet little Impulse the wizard, please tell him not to come here again unless he wishes to be beaten with a big club called good resolution."

"Bravely spoken, Lady Jessie! May you never desert the Corporal's colors! Above all, may you always obtain grace from above whereby to conquer yourself, which is the grandest deed you can possibly perform."

Jessie sat down to her work-basket, and took up one of the pieces of cloth for her uncle's slippers. But as it was now late in the afternoon of a dull November day, she could not see to embroider very well. So she thought she would go out again and buy the brown worsted which was needed in working out the figure on the slippers. Going to the window first, she noticed that the sky looked cold and bleak. The wind, too, was whistling mournfully among the branches of the trees, and round the corners of the house. It was evidently going to be a cold night. Turning from the window again, she said to her brother Hugh, who was sitting very cosily in a large arm-chair before the glowing fire in the grate:

"Please, Hugh, will you run down to the village with me? I want to get some worsted at Mrs. Horton's."

"Why didn't you get it this afternoon?" asked Hugh in his usual grumpy way when asked to do any thing.

"I didn't think of it."

"Didn't think of it, eh? Well, I don't think I shall be your lackey this cold afternoon. I'd rather sit here and keep my toes warm."

"Do go, dear Hugh, please do!" said Jessie in her mellowest tones. "I shall want the worsted to-morrow morning."

"Oh, go to Greenwich! You are always wanting something. Girls want a mighty sight of waiting on. I won't go."

Jessie turned away from her ungracious brother wishing, as she had so often done, that he "was more like Guy." Had it been a little earlier in the afternoon, she would have gone alone; but as it was nearly dark she preferred company.

"Oh dear!" sighed she, "what shall I do? I wish Guy was in."

"Perhaps you would accept an old man's company," said her uncle, rising and buttoning up his coat.

"I should be very, very glad to have it, but I don't want to trouble you, Uncle," she replied.

"It's no trouble to go out with my little puss. Besides, by going, I can give this drone-like brother of yours a practical lesson in that love and politeness which he so much despises. I shall certainly be happier going with you, than he will be in the indulgence of his selfishness before the fire."

Hugh said something in a grumbling tone which neither his uncle nor sister understood.

In a few minutes the good old man, having firm hold of Jessie's hand, was breasting the cold wind as they walked smartly along the frozen road leading to the village.

"You will have a chance to try your new skates to-morrow if it is as cold as this all night," said Mr. Morris, as they crossed the bridge over the brook.

"Won't that be nice?" replied Jessie; "Carrie Sherwood has a pair too, and we will both try together. I guess I shall get some bumps though before I learn to skate well. I wish we had some one to teach us how to use them."

"What will you give me, if I consent to be your teacher?"

"Oh, Uncle Morris! You don't mean it, do you?"

"To be sure I do. When I was young they called me the best skater in town. I could go through all kinds of movements, and even cut my name on the ice with my skates. I guess I haven't quite forgotten how I used to do it. But what will you give me if I consent to teach you?"

"I will love you ever so much, and so will Carrie."

"But I thought you loved me ever so much already?"

"Well, so I do, Uncle. I love you better than I love anybody in the world, except ma and pa. But I will love you better and better."

"That's pay enough," said Mr. Morris, warmly pressing the hand of his niece. "The pure fresh love of a child's heart is worth more to an old man like me than much gold. It makes my heart grow young again—but what have we here?"

They had now reached a stone wall which fronted the estate of Esquire Duncan. An angle in the fence had made a corner, in which was seated a girl of about Jessie's age and size. She was clothed in rags; her feet were bare. She had no covering on her head save her tangled hair. Her face and arms were brown and dirty. She shivered in the piercing wind, and traces of recent tears were visible in the dirt which covered her woe-worn face.

"Poor little girl! I wonder where she lives?" exclaimed Jessie.

"Where do you live, my dear?" asked Mr. Morris, addressing the child.

"New York," replied the outcast curtly.

"How came you here?"

"Mother left me down yonder," said the girl, pointing to the four cross-roads just beyond.

"Where is your mother now?"

"Don't know."

"What did she say when she left you?"

"She told me to sit on the trough of the pump while she went to buy some bread. But she didn't come back, and I came over here out of the wind."

"How long since she left you?"

"Ever so long."

"Poor little girl! I'm afraid your mother brought you out here to cast you off, and so get rid of you," said Uncle Morris.

"Guess not! Guess she got drunk somewhere," said the girl, in a manner so cold and dogged that Mr. Morris shuddered.

Here, Jessie, whose eyes were swimming with tears, pulled her uncle's hand. Taking him a little aside, she said—

"Please, Uncle, take her home, and let me give her something to eat."

"Better take her to the alms-house, I'm thinking," replied her uncle. "She may be a wicked girl."

"Then we can teach her to be good," said Jessie.

This was a home thrust that went right to the good old man's heart. "The alms-house," he thought, "is not a very likely place to grow goodness in. It is too chilly and heartless. There will be little sympathy there with the struggles and sorrows of a child like this; Jessie shall have her way this time. She shall go with us."

After forming this purpose, he looked at his niece, and said—

"Perhaps you are right, Jessie. The poor creature shall go home with us, at least, for to-night."

"Oh, I am so glad, I'm so glad," cried Jessie, clapping her hands, then running to the shivering child, who had been watching them during this conversation with a puzzled air, she said—

"Come, little girl, you are to go home with me. Uncle says so."

"I don't want to. I'll wait here for mother," replied the girl, shrinking back into her corner, against the rough stone wall.

"My child," said Mr. Morris, "I fear your mother has left you here on purpose, and that she will never come back. If she is in the place, you shall go to her as soon as we can find her. If you stay here you will freeze. Come with us and we will give you a supper, and let you warm yourself before a rousing fire, while we search for your mother."

The idea of supper and a rousing fire took hold of the little outcast's feelings. Gathering her rags close to her chilled body she stepped forward, and said—

"I'll go with you."

"What is your name?" inquired Jessie.

"Madge!" said the child, curtly.

"Madge what?" asked Uncle Morris.

"Madge Clifton!" said the child.

"Which means, I suppose, Margaret Clifton," said the old gentleman. "A pretty name enough, and I wish its owner was in a prettier condition. But come, let us hasten out of this cold biting wind."

Poor little, shivering Madge! Waiting so long for her mother, alone and in a strange place, had made her heart heavy and sad. Her limbs were so stiff with cold she could scarcely walk, at first. But the kind looks of the good old gentleman, and the loving words of Jessie, cheered her on; and in a few minutes they entered the back door of Glen Morris Cottage.



CHAPTER XI.

Madge Clifton's Mother.

"What have you here, my brother?" asked Mrs. Carlton, as, in response to a message from Mr. Morris, she entered the kitchen, where poor Madge sat on a cricket before the range, looking, as Jessie afterwards said, "like a cat in a strange garret."

"She's a heap o' rags and dirt, mem," interposed the servant, who did not fancy the introduction of such an unsightly object into her prim-looking dominions.

"She is a poor, starving, and half-frozen girl, without any kind mother to take care of her and love her," said Jessie, who feared, from her mother's looks, that poor Madge was as unwelcome a guest to her, as she was to the kitchen-maid.

"She is a poor, little human waif, which has floated to our door on a sea of trouble and misfortune, sister," observed Mr. Morris. "If opportunity is the gate of duty, then we owe it to this little girl, and to the Great Father who sent her to our doors, to relieve her wants, and if needs be, provide for her in future."

This view of her relation to poor little Madge, somewhat softened Mrs. Carlton's feelings. She was a very kind woman—in fact, she was nearly all heart—but she was fastidiously neat. Madge's dirt and rags had repelled her at first sight; had shut out from her thoughts, for the moment, the recollection, that within that covering of filthy rags, there sat a human creature, which, had it been loved, and taught, and trained as her own child had been, might have been as loving, and as attractive as she. Her brother's remark brought this view of Madge's case before her, but did not wholly divest her of her first feelings. Jessie's instincts led her to see that her mother was not quite prepared to take the outcast girl to her affections, and trembling for the result, she followed up her uncle's plea, by saying:

"We found her cold and hungry, sitting under a stone wall, waiting for her mother, who has run away from her. If we had not brought her home, she would have frozen to death before morning. Wouldn't that have been terrible, Ma?"

"Poor thing!" exclaimed Mrs. Carlton, her sympathy being now fully aroused, "but, Brother, why did you not take her to the alms-house, where they have the means of cleansing and clothing such unhappy outcasts?"

"Perhaps it would have been more prudent, my sister, to have done so; but I took counsel of your child's heart, and not of my own prudence. This is Jessie's protege. When she pleaded in her behalf, I thought I would do for Madge, what I and you would wish another to do for Jessie, should she ever, by any sad reverse of fortune, become an outcast child."

"Halloo, what little dolly mop have you got here?" cried Hugh, who, at this juncture, bounded into the kitchen to see what was going on.

"Poor little creature! She has had a hard road to travel, thus far, I guess," said Guy, who accompanied his brother. Hugh looked at the child's appearance only. Guy, like his uncle and Jessie, viewed her as a human being in distress.

All this time, the object of these comments, stared strangely about, looking, now at the things around her, and then into the faces of the different persons in the group. At first, she seemed indifferent to their remarks. But when Hugh called her a little dollymop, her large, black eyes flashed angrily upon him. Guy's kind words and tones disarmed her, however, and a pearl-like tear rolled down her cheeks.

"Well," said Mrs. Carlton, with a sigh of resignation to circumstances, "the poor thing is here, and must be cared for." Then turning to the servant, she added, "Take the poor child into the bath-room. Give her a thorough cleansing and combing, while I look out some of Jessie's clothes for her. Take those rags she has on, and throw them on the dirt heap!"

The party in the kitchen now broke up. Uncle Morris, the boys, and Jessie, went into the parlor, where they found Mr. Carlton, who had just returned from the city. He approved of what Uncle Morris had done, but thought it best to inquire, at once, for Madge's mother at the village tavern. As there was yet an hour to spare before tea, he took Guy, and started in pursuit of the heartless mother.

Where was she? After leaving Madge at the pump, she had gone to the tavern, and purchased some gin. After drinking a large glass of the fiery liquor, she put down the glass and the money, looking so ravenously at the sparkling decanter, that the landlord feared she was going crazy. Reaching her skinny fingers out towards the bottle, she said, in a screeching voice: "Give me another glass!"

Hardly knowing what he was about, the landlord filled her glass a second time. She swallowed its contents at a single gulp, and demanded more. Alarmed at her manner the man refused. Then her anger awoke. She poured forth a volley of strange and fearful words. The passers-by came in to see what was the matter. To be rid of her tongue and to save the reputation of his house, as he said, the landlord called in his stable-boys, and they hurled her into the street.

There she drew upon herself the attention of Jem Townsend and the crew of idle boys which usually accompanied him. They gathered round the unhappy woman, as she sat on the edge of the curb-stone cursing the tavern-keeper, and began to tease her.

"Fuddled, eh?" said Jem Townsend, laughing. Then he added, "What do you do here, Lady Ginswiller? Rather a cold seat this for a lady, eh? Better walk into old Bottlenose's best parlor, hadn't ye?"

Upon this the poor maudlin creature cursed louder than ever. The wicked urchins laughed and hooted in turn, until she rose in a fit of passion and pursued them.

The boys ran down the village street, pausing now and then to quicken her rage by some biting words. And thus they led her at last to the vicinity of a low grocery. Drawn by the scent of rum, like the vulture to its quarry, she staggered into the grocery, laid down her last sixpence on the bar, and muttered, "Give me a drink of rum."

It was given her. She drank the wretched stuff, and reeling to the door-step, fell down insensibly drunk. What a spectacle of pity! And yet that poor, pitiable creature had once been a fair and lovely girl, as full of life and hope as she was of health and beauty. But now, alas, how fallen! What had done it? The wine cup, used in circles of fashion, began the work of ruin. Rum and gin were doing their best to finish it.

Finding they could not rouse her, the boys ran off to Mr. Tipstaff, the constable, and told him about her. That worthy repaired to the spot. Aided by one or two others he dragged her to a magistrate's office; and he sent her to jail as a common vagrant.

These facts were all told to Mr. Carlton and Guy by the landlord of the hotel, who painted the poor woman in very dark colors. After calling on the magistrate and requesting that the prisoner might be detained the next day until it was ascertained certainly that she was Madge's mother, he and Guy returned home with sad hearts. They talked the matter over as they walked. Among other questions, Guy asked:

"Do many women become drunkards, Pa?"

"Yes, a great many; though drunken women are not so common as drunken men, by far."

"It always makes me feel bad to see a tipsy man; but when I once saw a tipsy woman in New York, it made me shudder. How do women learn to drink, Pa? They don't go to the tavern like men, do they?"

"Not at first, Guy. Usually they begin at home, or at parties, or when stopping at the great hotels, where wine is drunk at the dinner-table. In many families, also, wine is used at the table, and fathers and mothers teach their daughters to drink it as a daily beverage. But generally, I believe, ladies begin their habit of drinking wine at parties, taking it, at first, not from choice, but because they don't like to be thought singular."

"But I don't see how drinking a little wine at a party can teach a lady to be a drunkard, Pa," remarked Guy.

"It does not do so, my son, in every case. But too often a lady will acquire an appetite for wine, which gradually grows stronger and stronger until she cannot control it. This appetite is not awakened in all who drink, but it may be. Hence, it is better for all, boys, girls, men, and women, not to touch the drink that is in the drunkard's bowl."

"So I think, Pa," said Guy, "and therefore, I mean to be a tee-totaler as long as I live."

"That's right, my son. It is always best to keep as far from a dangerous place as possible."

When Mr. Carlton and Guy reached home, tea was ready, and they went at once to the cheerful table. Jessie could scarcely wait while the blessing was asked, so impatient was she to know if Madge's mother had been found. As soon, therefore, as Uncle Morris ceased speaking, she broke forth and said:

"O Pa! you don't know how nice Madge will look when she is washed and dressed. Please tell me if you have seen her mother?"

"No, I have not seen her," replied her father, smiling.

Jessie's face brightened. She had been fearing that Madge would have to go away if her mother was found. Looking archly at her father, she said—

"I'm so glad. Now poor Madge can stay here!"

"Why, Jessie, you surprise me," said Mrs. Carlton. "Is it any thing to be glad about, that a little girl has lost her mother?"

With a blush mantling her cheek: the little girl exclaimed—

"Her mother is a wicked woman, Ma, and don't make her happy, nor teach her to be good. If Madge has lost her, and you let her live with us and be a mother to her, she will be a good deal better off, and much happier than she could be with her own mother."

"Spoken like a philosopher!" exclaimed Uncle Morris. "The loss of a drunken mother is not, indeed, a thing to mourn over, especially if that loss brings with it the gain of a home in which Love is the perpetual President—but I suspect from your pa's looks that Madge's mother is not wholly lost, yet."

"Why! didn't pa say he couldn't find her?" said Jessie, looking with a puzzled air at her father.

"Not exactly, my dear," replied Mr. Carlton. "I said I had not seen her, which is true; but I have heard of her, as I suppose; for a strange woman did go to the tavern about the time Madge was left, and is now in jail as a drunken vagrant."

"Oh, how shocking!" exclaimed Jessie.

Mr. Carlton now told all he had heard about the supposed Mrs. Clifton, and it was agreed that Uncle Morris should see her in the morning and learn if she was, indeed, the poor child's mother.

After tea, Jessie hurried to the kitchen to look after her protege. She found her so changed by her washing and new dress, that notwithstanding her high expectations, she could hardly believe her to be the same Madge she had seen sitting there an hour before. But Madge it was, as bright and good-looking a girl as could be found anywhere, in or out of Duncanville.

"Have you had enough to eat, Madge?" inquired Jessie, scarcely knowing how to act the part of an agreeable hostess.

"Indade, miss, but she has eaten more like a hungry pig than a gal," said Mary, before Madge had time to reply.

Jessie could not keep from laughing at Mary's not very complimentary comparison. Hence, she turned her head so as not to hurt the little girl's feelings. As soon as she could make her face straight and sober again, she sat down beside Madge, and taking her hand, said—

"Would you like to see my doll?"

But Madge had other and higher thoughts than of dolls or playthings. She was in a sort of wonder-world. She could not satisfy herself with regard to the meaning of the change brought about in her during the last hour or two. That pleasant kitchen, the neat dress she wore, the bath by which she had been cleansed from the filth of poverty, the pleasant faces she had seen, and the kind voices she had heard, all seemed to her like a gay dream, and she was expecting, ay, and fearing too, that the next minute she should awake and find herself sitting and shivering in the cold wind, under the stone wall, waiting for her ungentle mother. But when Jessie touched her hand and spoke so kindly to her, every thing seemed real, and her heart sent up gushes of gratitude to the little friend who, like some good fairy, had conjured away her rags, and pain, and cold, and hunger. After gazing silently into Jessie's eyes a few moments, as if she was trying to look into her soul, she said—

"Little girl, will you let me love you?"

"To be sure I will, and I will love you too," replied Jessie, in tones that seemed like angel's music to the little outcast, whose ears had long been unfamiliar with loving words.

Then Jessie threw an arm round Madge and pressing her to her bosom, gave her a kiss. Oh, how warmly did the outcast girl return it! She clung to Jessie as the wild vine does to the supporting branch, and embraced her with an ardor which told more eloquently than words could utter it, how grateful she was for the love which Jessie had offered her.

When Madge withdrew her arms from Jessie, she sat back in her chair and gazed at her long and silently. After a time the tears filled her eyes, and in broken accents she asked—

"Does any one know where my mother is?"

Jessie told her she was probably in the village, and that she would, most likely, see her in the morning. Madge begged hard to be taken to her that night, but was finally persuaded to wait until the morrow.

"That child has a great deal of heart," said Uncle Morris, after hearing Jessie's account of her interview with Madge. "We must do what we can to rescue her from the influence of her drunken mother."



CHAPTER XII.

Little Impulse beaten again.

After breakfast the next morning, Jessie sat down to her work with a resolute will. Her impulse, was to spend the hours playing with Madge. But her purpose to act by rule was strong, and it conquered. Guy went out for the brown worsted, which her meeting with Madge, kept her from buying the previous evening. So giving her protege a seat on a cricket by her side, she worked merrily, and with nimble fingers, on her uncle's slippers. The tongues of the two girls, you may be sure, were as nimble as Jessie's fingers.

While they were thus happily employed, Uncle Morris was out, looking after the young outcast's mother.

Jessie had not been seated more than an hour before her brother Hugh, with his friend, Walter Sherwood and his sister Carrie, came in, each armed with a pair of skates, and well wrapped up, as was fitting they should be, on a cold day in November. Carrie bounded into the room like a fawn, and kissing her friend, exclaimed:

"O Jessie! this is a capital morning for skating! Walter has found a nice safe place, and we have come to take you with us."

This was a strong temptation. Perhaps a stronger could not have been offered, to incline her to break her purpose, and drop her work. There had been no day since her skates had been given her, in which there had been ice enough to try them. It was a new amusement, too, and her heart was set upon it. Hence, an impulse came over her, to pitch the slipper into the basket, seize her skates, and hurry away to the desired spot. In fact, she half rose from the chair, and words of consent were rising to her lips, when she thought of the little wizard, and reseating herself, replied:

"I would like to go ever so much, Carrie, but I must stay in until dinner-time, and work on uncle's slippers."

"Bother the slippers! Who cares about them! Uncle don't need them, and why should you be fussing over them," said Hugh.

"It's very pleasant to work for your good old uncle, I dare say, Miss Jessie, but you can do that in the afternoon. We very much wish you to join our party this morning," observed Walter.

"I know I could," replied Jessie; "but mother wishes me to sew or study every morning until dinner-time, and I have resolved to do it. I have broken my purpose a great many times, but I must keep it now, much as I want to go out skating. Can't you put off your party until the afternoon?"

"Not a bit of it!" said Hugh. "Come Walt, come Carrie, let us be off."

"I think I will stay with Jessie this morning," replied Carrie; "and I invite you, young gentlemen, to beau us to the skating-ground, this afternoon!"

"If you won't go now, you may beau yourselves for all we," retorted Hugh in his usual ungracious way, when treating with his sister.

"Don't say so, Hugh," responded Walter. "It's hardly polite. 'Spose you and I go without the girls this morning, and with them this afternoon? Eh?"

"As you please!" growled Hugh, swinging his skates; "only let us be off quick."

The boys now left, promising to go with the girls at half-past two in the afternoon. Carrie laid aside her hood and cloak, which Jessie took, and laid in a heap upon the table.

"My dear!" observed Mrs. Carlton, who looked into the room just at that moment; "is that the place for Carrie's things?"

A blush tinged Jessie's cheek. As I have said before, a want of regard for order, was a fault which grew out of her impulsive nature. She did most things in a hurry, and usually with some other object before her mind at the same time. While her uncle had been trying to cure her of the habit of yielding to her impulses, her mother had also been endeavoring to stimulate her to cultivate a love of order. No wonder, then, that she blushed as she went to hang her friend's hood and cloak on the stand in the hall.

All this time, poor Madge had sat almost unnoticed. So taken up were they all with their skating party, that they had overlooked the quiet maiden, sitting so demurely on her cricket. But now the boys were gone, and the two friends took their seats, Jessie's thoughts came back to the young outcast, and turning to Carrie, she said:

"Carrie, let me introduce you to Madge Clifton."

"How do you do, miss?" said Carrie, bowing.

Poor Madge did not know much about introductions, and was unused to company. So she only blushed, hung down her head, and replied:

"Pretty well, thank ye."

Jessie now took Carrie aside, and in whispers told her poor Madge's story, after which they resumed their seats. Carrie's warm heart soon melted away the poor outcast's fears; and while the two young ladies were merrily prattling away, Madge listened with wonder if not with delight. In fact, her life since last evening seemed more like a dream than a reality to her. She was still in fairy-land.

Presently the postman came to the house bringing a letter addressed to "Miss Jessie Carlton." The servant took it to Jessie on a small salver.

"Is it for me?" cried Jessie, taking it up and examining the address.

"Whom can it be from?" asked Carrie, leaning over to her friend's side to see the handwriting.

"Oh, I know!" exclaimed Jessie. "It's from cousin Emily."

The letter was opened, and Jessie read aloud as follows:

MORRISTOWN, N. J., November 18, 18—.

MY DEAR JESSIE:

I got home nicely from your house. Ma was very glad to see us, and so was pa. Charlie said he was glad to get home. I was some glad and some sorry. It was pleasant to see pa and ma again, but I missed you, oh! ever so much! When I went up to my room that night, I sat down and cried. I thought over all the naughty things I had said and done to you while I was at Glen Morris, until it seemed to me I was the most wicked girl in the world. I thought of you and of dear Uncle Morris and his good advice, until my heart seemed broken. Then I kneeled down and asked God to make me a good girl like you. I begin to believe he will, for I have been trying hard to be good ever since. Mother says I am a very good girl already; but she don't know what passes in my thoughts, nor how hard I have to strive to keep down my ugly, wicked temper. Charlie is not quite so wicked as he was, either, and I am trying to make him a good boy. I wish you would come to Morristown and make me a good long visit. With much love to yourself, and your good Ma, Pa, and Uncle Morris, I am

Your affectionate cousin, EMILY MORRIS. TO MISS JESSIE CARLTON.

"What a beautiful letter!" said Carrie. Jessie was silent. She was thinking. She was secretly rejoicing, too. Such a joy was in her young heart as had never welled up in it before. She had done Emily good. As Guy had led Richard Duncan into right paths, so she had led Emily. Happy, happy Jessie!

Just then she heard Uncle Morris's night-key lifting the latch of the hall door. Away she bounded from her seat, almost overturning poor Madge in her hurry. Rushing to her uncle as he was closing the door, she seized his arm with one hand while she held up Emily's letter in the other, and in a loud, earnest whisper, said:

"O Uncle! Cousin Emily is trying to be good. She says so in her letter."

Uncle Morris stooped to imprint a kiss on the upturned lips of the eager child. Then patting her head gently, he said:

"It is not every sower of good seed that finds his harvest sheaf so quickly as you have done. Perhaps the Great Husbandman has given my Jessie hers to encourage her to sow, and sow, and sow again—but Jessie, I have found your Madge's mother."

"Have you, truly?" asked Jessie, feeling her interest suddenly revived in her protege.

"Yes. Come with me to your mother's room and I will tell you all about it."

This "mother's room" was up-stairs, and up they went. Finding Mrs. Carlton there with her seamstress, they sat down, and Uncle Morris told his story. Said he:

"I have seen Mrs. Clifton. She is sober this morning, and is quite a well-bred, intelligent woman. She has been respectable; was well married to a reputable man. But foolishly forsaking their quiet country home, they went to the city in the hope of acquiring property. There her husband, failing to get work, took to drinking and died. Mrs. Clifton buried him, and, dreading to go back to her old home because of poverty, tried to support herself by needle-work. In an evil hour she took to drinking; first as a stimulant to labor, and then as a cordial to soothe her griefs. Of course she soon sank very low, and made poor Madge go out to beg. At last, stung with remorse, she resolved to quit the city, and, seeking work in the country, become a sober woman again. Filled with this purpose she travelled as far as Duncanville with her child, when her appetite for drink came upon her. Leaving Madge at the Four Corners she sought the tavern. The rest you know. We found the child, and she spent the night in the lock-up."

"Poor thing!" exclaimed Mrs. Carlton.

"Poor little Madge!" cried Jessie, who very naturally felt more for the unfortunate child, than for the unhappy, but guilty mother.

"Yes," said Mr. Morris, "but pity alone won't do them much good. The question is, what shall be done with them?"

"True," rejoined Mrs. Carlton, "but are you sure the woman's story is true?"

"It agrees with the account Madge gave of herself, so far as the affair of last evening is concerned. Being true in one thing, I hope it is in all. She has, however, given me references to her old friends in the country, and professes to be very anxious to live a reformed life. I will write to her friends, but, meanwhile, what shall we do with her?"

"Let her come here, and stay with Madge?" suggested Jessie.

Mrs. Carlton looked at her brother, and read in his eyes an approval of her daughter's suggestion.

"Be it so," said she, "if you think best. I can keep her busy with her needle, until we hear from her friends, and something offers. Perhaps a few days spent in our quiet home, will confirm her in her feeble purposes to reenter the way of sobriety."

"Spoken just like yourself!" said Mr. Morris, with an expression which showed how greatly he loved and admired his sister. "I will go after the poor creature directly."

"Oh, I'm so glad Madge's mother is coming here to live!" cried Jessie, clapping her hands, and running down-stairs to tell the good news to her protege.

The outcast child looked a gratitude she did not know how to express, after hearing what Jessie had to say. She fixed her large, black eyes, swimming in tears, upon her friendly hostess, and silently watched her every motion.

"I think it's very kind of your mother, to take a stranger into her house so," whispered Carrie.

"So it is," replied Jessie, who was now busy with her embroidery on the slipper. "So it is, but my Uncle Morris says that it is godlike to be kind, and that if we are kind and loving to poor people, the great God will honor us, and care for us."

Carrie looked at the sweet face of Jessie with admiration for some time, without saying a word. At last, to break the silence, she said:

"Won't we have a good time, skating this afternoon?"

"I hope so," said Jessie; "and we will take Madge with us, shall we?"

"Can you skate, Madge?" asked Carrie.

Madge shook her head. The child was nervous and uneasy about the coming of her mother. She was afraid she might come to the house tipsy, and so offend the friends who loved her so well.

"Can you slide on the ice?" asked Jessie.

"Yes, ma'am," replied Madge, evidently getting to be more and more absent-minded.

"She is thinking about her mother," whispered Carrie.

"Yes, don't let us trouble her," replied Jessie.

Quickly sped the bright needle, with its beautiful worsteds, along the slipper, and quickly grew into shape the flowers which were to form the pattern. A happy heart and a resolute will, make her fingers both nimble and skilful.

By and by, Uncle Morris's night-key was heard opening the door-latch again. Jessie started, listened a moment, then dropped her work, and taking Madge's hand, said:

"Your mother is come!"

"Where is she?" asked the child, looking anxiously toward the door.

"Come with me, I'll show you," said Jessie, taking her by the hand.

They went into the hall. Uncle Morris was there, and so was Mrs. Clifton. She was a short, slender, well-formed woman, with large, dark bloodshot eyes. Her face was pale, her cheeks hollow, and her hair uncombed. She was poorly dressed, and yet there was something about her, which told of better things. As soon as she saw Madge, she ran to her, folded her nervously to her bosom, and exclaimed:

"Oh! my child! pity your poor, wretched mother!"

Madge, finding her mother to be sober, grew cheerful. Her mother, after being taken to the bath-room, and furnished with some changes of raiment, was installed in the room with the seamstress, and then, as waters close up, and flow on smoothly again, after a little disturbance, so did affairs at Glen Morris move on once more, in their wonted quiet course.



CHAPTER XIII.

The Skating-Party.

"Now you can go skating with me, can't you?" inquired Carrie Sherwood, as she pushed her little round face in at the door after dinner.

"Yes, now I can go," replied Jessie. "I did ever so much on my slipper this morning, and shall get it done by the last of the week."

"If you stick to it, but I know you won't," said Hugh, interrupting his sister.

Jessie felt a little anger stir in her heart on hearing this fling at a habit she was trying so so hard to overcome. But saying to herself, "never mind, I deserve it," she merely gave Hugh a glance of reproof, and was silent.

"I say, that's ungenerous, Mister Hugh," observed Guy, taking up his sister's case. "You know Jessie is learning to stick to her purposes, and that is more than anybody can say of you."

"Don't be too hard upon a fellow just for a joke," replied Hugh, wincing under his brother's hit.

"Well, don't you throw stones at Jessie; at least, not so long as you live in a glass house yourself," said Guy. Then turning to the girls, he added: "Come girls, get ready, and I'll go with you to help Jessie try her new skates."

"Oh, thank you, you dear good Guy!" replied Jessie, running to her brother and giving him a sweet sisterly kiss.

"I think I'll go, too, if you'll let me," said Hugh.

"You may if you'll promise not to poke fun at us if we fall down," replied Jessie.

"If you do poke fun, master Hugh," said Carrie, shaking her head at him, "we will never consent to let you join our party again!"

"That will be terrible!" exclaimed Hugh, with mock gravity. "Why I'd rather be drummed out of our Archery club than be turned off by the ladies."

"Well, you may go this time, if you will carry my skates," said Jessie.

"Of course I will; and is there any thing else, in the small way, that your most humble servant can do for you?" asked Hugh, bowing almost to the ground.

A laugh greeted this act of mock humility, and then all parties prepared to face the keen breeze in search of recreation on the ice.

"Where is Madge? is she ready?" shouted Jessie, as she stood at the foot of the stairs, warmly muffled for her walk.

"Yes, Miss, here she is," replied Madge's mother, as she came to the top of the stairs, leading her daughter by the hand.

Madge was dressed in an old plaid cloak, which had become too small for Jessie, and in a scarlet hood which had been laid aside for the same reason.

"A regular little red riding-hood, isn't she?" whispered Hugh, to his brother, after taking a survey of the prim, little black-eyed miss before him. Then looking sour and angry, he added, "But why does Jessie take the beggar's brat out with her?"

"Hugh! Hugh! Don't talk in that way," replied Guy, putting his hand playfully over his brother's mouth.

"Get out!" cried Hugh, pushing his brother's hand away and walking off in high dudgeon, in search of Walter, who, for some reason, had not come with his sister. His foolish pride had kindled anger in his breast.

Madge, with the usual quickness of girls of her age, had caught enough of Hugh's words, and of the meaning of his act, to perceive that he was disposed to treat her with scorn. A cloud flitted across her brow, and her eyes flashed. It was clear that the proud, thoughtless boy had wounded her feelings.

"Hugh! Hugh! Don't carry off my skates!" shouted Jessie, as her brother turned into the main road, from the lawn.

Whirling the skates over the fence, he kept on without a word. The skates, fortunately, fell on a heap of dry leaves and were picked up uninjured by Guy, who, with the three girls, soon found the way to some hollows, in the pasture, near the brook. These hollows, filled with shallow pools of water, now solidly frozen, were excellent places for young misses to slide and skate in.

Madge was not cheerful this afternoon. Hugh had wounded her pride, and stirred her sleeping passions. It was very ungenerous conduct, in a lad of his age, to treat an unfortunate child with scorn. Madge ought not to have allowed her temper to be ruffled. But, alas, poor child! she had not been taught to keep her evil temper under control. So she brooded over Hugh's conduct. The more she thought of it, the more chafed and angry she felt.

Guy helped Carrie and his sister put on their skates. Jessie had never had a skate upon her foot before. Carrie had learned to use them a little the previous winter. Hence, she glided off something like a swan, while Jessie hobbled and slipped, and tumbled for a long time in vain attempts to keep upright on the ice.

Carrie was so taken up watching the laughable attempts of her friend, that she took no notice of poor Madge. Guy and Jessie were so busy, the former teaching, and the latter learning, that they too forgot her. Poor child! this neglect stung the wound which Hugh's act had caused, and so, with many a frown and pout, she quietly stole from the hollow to a deeper one in which, by seating herself on a low stump, she could remain unseen.

"They is all proud," mused Madge, half aloud. "I heard that You, or Hugh, whatever they call him, say 'beggar's brat.' I know he meant me, and I know he went off cause I was with 'em. And there's them gals; they don't care for me a bit. Drat 'em! I wish mother would go away from here."

This was very foolish talk for Madge. Had she looked on the kind side of her new-found friends, and thought of their gifts to her, and of the pleasant home they had given her and her mother for the time-being, and of their gentle words, she would have seen so much to be grateful for, that there would have been no room in her heart for unhappy feelings. But Madge forgot all these things. She saw nothing but Hugh's scorn and Jessie's neglect. With these she tortured herself. It was just as foolish as if she had taken some sharp thorns and scratched her arms and cheeks with them.

While Madge was thus making herself miserable, Jessie was making rare progress with her skating. After a few awkward falls and a few bumps and bruises, she learned "the how," as Guy called it; and then, though still awkward, oh! how joyously she sped across the little pond chasing after Guy and Carrie, and shouting until the welkin rang again.

"Capital fun, isn't it?" said she, gliding ashore, and sitting down on a stone almost out of breath.

"I call it nice sport for girls," replied Carrie, pausing on the edge of the bank; "but you aren't tired yet, are you?"

"Yes, a little. Besides, too much of a good thing, as my uncle says, destroys your relish for it. I guess I've skated enough for once," said Jessie, stooping and unbuckling the straps of her skates.

"Pooh! Jessie's not half a skater!" rejoined Carrie; "but what has become of your friend Madge?"

"Sure enough! Where is she? I had forgotten all about her."

But Madge had wandered still farther off, and was nursing her bad feelings in a small grove which skirted the pasture. She was not visible from where the girls and Guy were.

"O Guy! Madge is gone. Won't you please come and help me find her?" said Jessie, putting on a very long and sorrowful face.

"I'll call her. She's not far off, I'll bet," replied Guy.

Then placing his hands to his lips as a sort of speaking trumpet, he shouted—

"Madge! Ma-adge! Ma-a-adge!"

"Adge! Adge! Adge!" said an echo from the distant grove.

"Where can she be!" cried Jessie, now relieved of her skates and standing on a hillock, peering eagerly all over the pasture.

"I guess she is only gone home. Never mind her," said Carrie. "She ain't worth worrying about."

"Yes, she is," replied Jessie. "She is a poor unhappy girl, and I want to make her good and happy. Uncle Morris says everybody that God made is worth caring about, and I do care for Madge. Oh dear, I wish I knew where to find her."

"See there?" cried Guy, pointing to a group of boys near the distant grove. "I think I see Madge among those fellows. I'll lose my guess if that isn't Idle Jem and his crew. There's a girl among them for certain, but how could Madge stroll all up there and none of us see or think of her?"

"Let us go and see," said Jessie.

Quickly as their nimble fingers could loose the straps, Carrie and Guy removed their skates. In a minute or two more, the three were hurrying across the pasture toward the boys and girl, whom they saw.

Madge was, indeed, one of that group. Idle Jem and his crew, while wandering across the pasture in search of the hickory-nuts which were hidden under the dead leaves, had found her in the grove. They began to jibe at her at once. The girl long used to the rough news and beggar boys of the city, and out of temper, withal, jibed back at them with interest. They goaded her with harsh words; and when Guy and the girls came within hearing, she was using language such as the pure-minded Jessie had never heard before.

"Hush, Madge!" said Guy, putting his hand on Madge's shoulder. "Don't swear! It's wicked to talk so. You go home with Jessie and Carrie, I'll take care of these boys."

That last phrase was an unlucky one for Guy. The wicked boys took it up as a defiance.

"Take care of us, eh? That's the talk is it? How will you do it, old fellow?" said Jem, sneering and chucking Guy's chin.

"Keep your hands off me, if you please," said Guy; "I want nothing of you only to let that poor girl alone."

"It's none of your business what we say to that gal," said Noll Crawford.

"Yes, it is my business to see that you let her entirely alone," replied Guy firmly. "So stand off, and let us take her quietly a way."

"Shan't do nothin' of the kind," said Peter Mink, running toward Madge, whose eyes flashed fire.

Guy grasped him by the collar and hurled him back from Madge, amidst the tears and cries of Carrie and Jessie who were both very much frightened.

"Oh! oh! a fight is it you want? Come I'll fight with ye!" said Idle Jem, slipping up to Guy, and raising his fists as if for a battle.

"I never fight!" replied Guy. "Besides, we have nothing to fight about. I only wish you to let my little friend, Madge, alone."

"She!" retorted Jem, "that swearing cat your friend, Master Guy Carlton. Pooh! You don't have swearing gals among your friends, I know. That gal is some beggar's brat, and we only want to have some fun with her."

Jem's tone was much lowered toward the latter part of his speech. His hands, too, fell as if by instinct to his pockets. Peter Mink and Noll Crawford drew back, the latter saying as he did so—

"Come, Jem, let's leave the spunky little gentleman and his friend, Madge, to themselves. I'd rather pick up hickory nuts than listen to his gab."

"Discretion always is the better part of valor, as Uncle Morris says," thought Guy, as he walked away with his sisters, patting the head of old Rover.

It was the coming up of old Rover which had cooled off Idle Jem and his crew. The dog had been strolling about the pasture while Jessie was skating. Having missed his young master and mistress on returning to the pond, the faithful fellow had followed them. He came up just at the right moment. His rows of big white teeth, and his low growl, taught the idlers the discretion which Guy praised and which led them to cease their angry jibes. With Guy alone they might have contended. But Rover was an enemy they had not courage to face.

To the wounded pride and the ill temper of Madge, shame was now added. The kind and gentle Jessie had heard her swear, had seen her face flushed with passion, had had a glimpse into the dark corner of her evil nature. Poor Madge! She sullenly refused to speak or to permit either of the party to take her hand; but lagging behind the rest, she silently followed them home.

Jessie bade her friend, Carrie, good-by in front of Mr. Sherwood's cottage. As they kissed each other, Carrie put her mouth to Jessie's ear and whispered—

"Jessie, shall I tell you what I think about Madge?"

"Yes."

"I wouldn't trouble my head about her any more, if I were you. She is a terribly wicked creature!"

Jessie sighed, but said nothing. On reaching home finding no one at liberty to talk with her, she went to her chamber and getting her writing materials and her portfolio, went down into the parlor and wrote the following answer to her cousin Emily's letter: