But, of course, if the confession be not sincere, in a very short time, when the novelty and excitement have worn away, the interest in sacred things will wear away also, and very soon something will be said or done that will be a dreadful disgrace to the confession thus carelessly or wickedly made.

Still another mistake is often made by young people, and this is one calculated to do great mischief, as it is often made by those who are sincerely desirous of serving God. For weeks preceding the open step they have devoted a great deal of time to meetings, prayer, and Bible-reading, and their interest in these things has almost put secular ones out of their heads. But when that long-anticipated day is over, they feel somehow that the end is reached, instead of looking on this end as only the first step in a newer and better life. Other duties and interests resume their relative importance. There are not so many meetings to go to, Bible-reading becomes more hurried, prayers are less fervent, and all at once the young communicant falls into some open sin and is filled with grief and remorse.

Oh, if every boy and girl, every man and woman, who has been brought into outward and inward communion with Christ, would only realize that he or she is to go onward, never ceasing to pray and strive against evil; ever pressing on for more and more of the Holy Spirit; striving each day to be more and more like Christ,—then would be realized what is meant by the words of the wise king: "The path of the just is as the shining light that shineth more and more unto the perfect day."

"Don't you think it would be nice to have a Harvest Home Festival for the Sunday-school on Thanksgiving?" said Etta Mountjoy to her brother and sister one autumn afternoon.

"I never saw one," said Eunice, whose duties as housekeeper had kept her rather closely confined at home for some years.

"Oh, I have. When I was at Altona last fall, the church was decorated with grain and grasses and fruits, and even vegetables. It was just lovely!"

"I should think it might be," said James; "and I don't see why we should not have one if Mr. Morven has no objection. But it will be a good deal of work to carry it through successfully, and I hate that sort of thing when it's a failure."

"I don't mind work," said Etta. "I want something to do—something for the church, I mean; and the girls do, too—something to take the place of our readings and talks. Sometimes I wish it were not all over, but there were something still to look forward to."

"Do you mean that you are sorry that you are really admitted to the communion of the Church, and have openly placed yourself on the Lord's side?"

"No! Of course not," said the girl, blushing. "But things are getting flat. I want something new; you know I always did."

"Yes," said her brother; "we all know, Etta. But, seriously, I trust my little sister will never be tired of the blessed service and fellowship into which she has been so recently admitted. You know what is written about those who put their hands to the plow and look back."

"Oh, I don't mean to look back; I don't want to. I'd rather belong to the church and work for Christ than anything else in the world. What I want is work. Don't you see?"

"Well, dear, if you think you can manage the work I'll find the money, though I don't suppose it will cost a great deal."

So it came to pass that those bright autumn Saturday afternoons were spent by Etta and her girls in the woods, where, with the aid of such boys as could get away from their work, a store of scarlet, golden, and variegated autumn leaves was laid in, with late ferns and hardy brackens, curious bits of moss, seed-vessels, and dried grass being added to the store. These were all taken to Mrs. Robertson's, whose large garret was offered for their reception and preservation, and after tea the girls ironed and varnished the leaves which could not be detached from the boughs, and pressed the smaller ones between the leaves of newspapers, which were collected for the purpose from neighbors, the younger Sunday scholars who were not in the mill being thus employed.

Then, on Wednesday evening, at Miss Eunice's "tea-party," which of necessity was held indoors, now that darkness came early and the nights were chill, the girls of the two classes covered pasteboard stars, crosses, crowns, and monograms with leaves and mosses neatly stitched on—bound rich yellow wheat stalks into sheaves, and made plumes and tassels of dried grasses and seeds.

Merry chatter helped the work forward. Miss Eunice did not wish her girls to look upon religion and the church's service as a thing of gloom. She knew that God has "given us all things richly to enjoy," and that the way to hallow pleasure and prevent its being hurtful is "in all our ways to acknowledge him."

Moreover, these social, familiar talks, when every one was off her guard, afforded capital opportunities of studying character with a view to affording to the young pilgrims such aid and advice as might be useful to them in their heavenward journey.

Of all the young work-women, Tessa showed the most taste and ingenuity in the grouping of leaves and arranging of ferns, and her beautiful combinations constantly called forth the admiration of both companions and teachers. The little Italian received their commendations very meekly, but did not thereby escape exciting the jealousy of Bertie Sanderson, who, on putting together some very fiery leaves without any attempt at toning down, received from Miss Eunice a few gentle suggestions concerning shadow, high lights, etc. "It's too mean," she whispered to her nearest neighbor, as she took her seat, "that beggar from the poor-house gets more notice than all the rest of us put together."

Her companion stared, for she was one of those girls who had almost made up her mind to become a Christian, but had remained undecided till too late, because she had an idea that a person could not dare to join the church till she was as holy as an angel.

"There's Katie Robertson, too," continued Bertie; "she'll be sure to be praised, if her work's hideous. That's what it is to be a favorite."

"Why, Bertie," said the other, "you're real spiteful. I think Katie's just the nicest girl. Anyway, I couldn't talk as you do if I had joined the church."

"But you ought to have joined the church because it was your duty," said Bertie, who could very clearly see the mote in her sister's eye, in spite of the beam in her own. "You will be a Christian soon, won't you? It's so nice."

"Not I. If religion don't make people better than you are, I don't want anything to do with it; I'd rather stay as I am," was the sincere, if not very polite, answer. And then Bertie's conscience awoke, and she began to see what harm she was doing. She was very uneasy all the rest of the evening, and still more so when, at its close, Miss Eunice asked her to stop a few moments, as she had something to say to her.

Miss Eunice had overheard the conversation we have recorded, and had noted the cross, spiteful expression of the girl's face, and had grieved much as she saw her Saviour thus "wounded in the house of his friends." She spoke seriously to Bertie so soon as they were alone, and found the latter already repentant and quite willing to acknowledge her fault.

"But what am I to do, Miss Eunice? I am jealous, and I do feel hateful sometimes. I don't want to feel so, but I can't help it. If I didn't speak, I should feel it all the same."

"But, my dear, you have promised, in the most solemn way, to renounce 'the devil and all his works.' Pride, malice, envy, jealousy are emphatically works of the devil."

"I know, Miss Eunice; and I thought it would be all taken away. The minister in the city told us that Jesus is 'the Lamb of God, who taketh away the sins of the world.' I thought if I came to him he would take mine away."

"So he has, so he will. Try to understand me. When he hung upon the cross he bore the penalty due to the sins of the whole world, and of course to yours. In that sense he has already taken them away. But in another sense, that of your daily life, your character, he will take the evil of that away just as fast as you will let him."

"Let him? How do you mean? I am sure I want to be good."

"Yes, in a lump, altogether, you want to be good, very good; but without any trouble or self-denial. You didn't want to keep from saying those spiteful things about Tessa and Katie a little while ago, or he would have helped you do it. You didn't want the jealous, envious feelings taken out of your heart just then, or he would have taken them."

"How, Miss Eunice?"

"Whatsoever you ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive," said she.

"But do you mean I ought to have kneeled down to pray then, just that moment, before all the girls?"

"It is not necessary always to kneel down when we pray; though it is best to do so when we can. There are often times when our work would suffer, or when we are so surrounded by others that it would be impossible. But a few earnest words spoken in the silence of our own hearts will always bring our strong, loving Saviour to our help; and we may, every time, no matter what our temptations are, be 'more than conquerors through him who hath loved us.'"

"Every time? Oh, Miss Eunice!"

"Yes, every time. You know we constantly ask the Lord 'to keep us each day without sin.' How can we utter such a prayer in faith if we don't believe that it can be granted?"

"Yes; but temptations are so sudden, and take you just where you're the weakest."

"I know. And therefore we should be fully armed beforehand. Bertie, did you read your Bible and pray this morning?"

"No!" said the girl, flushing. "I always mean to; but it's so dark in the mornings now, and mill-time comes so soon. It's just as much as I can do to get there in time, any way."

"Yet you find time for your breakfast?"

"I couldn't live without eating."

"Nor can you live spiritually without feeding daily upon Christ, through the study of his Word and prayer. I would sooner go without my breakfast than without my early communion with him. Bertie, there are 'no gains without pains.' If you are really desirous, as I believe you are, to overcome your own evil habits and tendencies, and grow to be like Christ, you must begin every day with prayer for his help; you must watch yourself and your surroundings, and in the moment of temptation you must turn instantly to him who says that he is 'a very present help in trouble,' and who has promised to 'supply all our need according to his riches in glory.'"

Poor Bertie! A hard fight was before her. Fourteen years of unresisted pride, jealousy, and ill-will had formed habits that were hard to break—fourteen years of caring for no one's pleasure but her own. In brief, fourteen years of worshiping herself had helped to form a character which would need a good deal of chiseling before it should grow into an image of Christ. But he had undertaken the work. Miss Eunice had shown her how to avail herself of his offered help, and as she took her teacher's advice, we may be sure that in the end she gained the victory.



CHAPTER XX.

A WARNING.

So the short, bright autumn days and the long, chill evenings passed quickly and pleasantly away. All were busy and happy, and were beginning to find that in spite of conflicts and self-denials "wisdom's ways are pleasantness and all her paths are peace." The preparations for the Thanksgiving festival progressed rapidly, but before the time came to put the plans in execution a very terrible thing happened in Squantown. Faces turned white, voices were hushed, work was suspended at the mill, in the stores, and even upon farms. One home, where a loving mother bowed in deepest agony, was shrouded in gloom, while others were filled with the sympathy of mourning.

The Mountjoys first heard the news at Sunday-school, where Etta found her class so full of the horror that they could attend to nothing else. The stories of the girls were confused, and differed as to details, but their teacher elicited from them the facts, which were as follows:—

Harry Pemberton, one of the best hands in the mill, one of the pleasantest young fellows in Squantown, so the grown-up girls thought, the very idol of the widowed mother who had only him, had gone out with some companions on a Saturday night "spree" to a high cliff in the neighborhood. They carried with them a barrel of beer and some bottles of whiskey, of which, however, the others drank but little. A foolish bet was made between him and one of the elder men, as to which could drink the most "lager," and the others, soon tiring of the contest, left the two with the bet still undecided. The sequel was involved in mystery, for the other man, who was a stranger in the place, had disappeared, and when the bright autumn sun shone out on Sunday morning, it showed to the early passers-by the dead body of poor Harry, bruised, broken, and disfigured, at the foot of the cliff. Whether the beer they had taken made him and his companion quarrelsome and he was pushed over in a fight, or whether Harry, stupefied, fell asleep on the edge and rolled over in his unconsciousness, was never known. The boon companion never came back to testify, and the coroner's jury brought in a verdict of "accidentally killed."[2]

On Wednesday the mills were closed, that all might have an opportunity of attending the funeral services, which were intensely solemn and impressive. Harry had at one time been a member of Mr. James's Bible-class, and during the recent religious interest his former teacher and employer had more than once urged upon him to break away from the evil companions and bad influences by which he had allowed himself to be surrounded, and take his stand on the Lord's side, finding in the church and its associations help to become a noble and good man. At one time he had seemed to be almost persuaded, and his friend had great hopes of him, but his companions and their influence had proved to be too strong. He had gone back to his evil ways, trusting, perhaps, to "a more convenient season," which, alas! never came to him.

The clergyman detailed these facts to his hearers, among whom were, of course, all the young men of the place; and while delicately avoiding hazarding any suggestions as to the present or future condition of their unfortunate companion, pressed upon all present the importance of calling upon the Lord "while he may be found," and the awful risk of delay.

"No one could have supposed," said Mr. Morven, "when poor Harry trifled with the most important of all questions, his soul's salvation, and put off his final decision till some 'more convenient season,' that that season would never come to him."

Of all the young men of Squantown he had seemed the least likely to be suddenly called into eternity. Yet he had been, in a condition, too, in which any one would least like to be found when called suddenly to stand before God and answer for the deeds done in the body. Who would be called next? Was that one all ready? Therefore, he once more urged upon his hearers, "Prepare to meet thy God." Nor did the earnest pastor fail to draw attention to the lessons concerning the use of intoxicating liquors, in any form or degree, which the occasion so plainly afforded. It was not as an habitual drunkard that Harry Pemberton met his fate, nor was it from the use of what is usually denominated "strong drink." Lager beer, considered and spoken of by many as "a temperance beverage," was responsible for the mischief, and the thoughtless joke of careless young men had hurried one of them, known to all present as a boy of great promise, uncalled into the immediate presence of God. Perhaps a better object-lesson for total abstinence could not have been found, since it is the occasional drinkers, who are not as yet bound by the chains of almost irresistible habit, to whom alone such an appeal can be made with any prospect of success. Poor Harry had been precisely one of these, and probably no young man in Squantown had considered himself farther from meeting death as the result of intemperance.

This sad and sudden death made a great impression upon James Mountjoy. Always a perfectly temperate man, as became an earnest, devoted young Christian, he had never been known as a temperance man, that is, an advocate of total abstinence principles, and an active worker in the cause. But he now was deeply impressed with his responsibility and duty in this respect; and accustomed to turning good impressions at once to their legitimate results,—good actions,—he, with his father's full consent, called a meeting of all the men connected with the mill, that night, and presented to them a total-abstinence pledge, which he was the first man to sign.

"I have always," said he, "been opposed to such pledges. I thought a Christian communicant might be trusted to use all these things in moderation, and that it was, somehow, an undervaluing of his church privileges, to say nothing of his manhood, to bind himself by anything else. I will confess, also, to having occasionally enjoyed a glass of wine or champagne. But I have completely changed my mind. Who knows what might happen to me, in some unguarded moment, if I should continue to tamper with that which is in its very nature a deceiver? But, even supposing I were to escape all evil consequences, some one weaker or less favored than I am might be influenced by my example to take that which would injure him in body or soul. St. Paul said he would 'eat no more meat and drink no more wine while the world standeth,' if it should cause his brother to offend, so I have resolved that not another drop of anything that can intoxicate shall ever pass my lips, and if it will be any help for any of you to make or keep to a similar resolution, I will be the first to 'sign away my liberty,' as pledge-signing is foolishly called." And he wrote James Mountjoy in clear letters at the head of the paper.

A great cheer greeted the action, and many men and boys pressed forward to follow their young employer's example. Elderly men they were, some of them, who had tried again and again to break off a habit which they felt to be injuring them and defrauding their families, and who found a great moral support in being thus associated with others, one of whom stood in such relation to themselves. Others were young men who greatly admired and emulated Mr. James, and who had heretofore justified themselves in acquiring a taste for whiskey on the ground that the young gentleman was known occasionally to indulge in ale and champagne. And still others were boys, who liked to do what their elders did, by way of appearing manly, and whose adherence, given to the right side of the question, before they had had an opportunity of acquiring a taste for intoxicants, was a great gain on the side of righteousness.

Eric and Alfred were among these latter, and though neither had as yet spent an evening away from home, nor, to her knowledge, knew the taste of liquor, their mother, when she was told of it, gave hearty thanks that another safeguard against evil had been thrown around her boys.

Some of the men declined to sign the pledge, one saying in a surly manner that he was not going to be coerced into doing a thing of this kind. Mr. Mountjoy paid for his work, not his principles, and he should eat and drink just what he liked. To him James replied, pleasantly, that he did not wish to coerce any one. Those who were conscientiously opposed to signing a pledge would, of course, not be expected to do so, but he had no doubt he should have the unanimous support of all present in whatever efforts might be made to put down the growing evils of intemperance.

James Mountjoy never did anything by halves. He at once threw himself earnestly into the temperance reform; supplied himself with books and papers, and became thoroughly conversant with all phases of the question, wondering, as he did so, how as a Christian man he could so long have overlooked his duty in this matter. Resolved to do so no longer, he at once commenced a series of temperance meetings, inviting speakers and lecturers to come to Squantown and make the people intelligent total abstainers. He did not select so much men who were noted for their fervid oratory, nor yet reformed drunkards who often divert their audiences with amusing accounts of their past performances while under the influence of strong drink, but plain, common-sense business men, who put before their hearers in simple terms the evils that the manufacture, sale, and consumption of alcohol work to the purses, bodies, and souls of any community.

He also added to the library at the factory reading-room a number of valuable works on the nature and effects of alcohol; and before the winter was over had the pleasure of seeing a very marked change in the condition of the factory people as the result of his efforts.

——- [Footnote 2: An actual occurrence.]



CHAPTER XXI.

THE DO GOOD SOCIETY.

Meanwhile the girls at Miss Eunice's tea-party had been busily discussing the funeral and its sad cause.

"What an awful thing intemperance is!" said one of the elder girls. "Even women sometimes drink to excess; and how many others suffer from its effects in their husbands and fathers. I wish we girls could do something to put it down."

"You can," said Etta. "If every girl in the land were to set her foot down against having anything to do with young men who drink, there would soon be a change. I am resolved," she said, in her old impetuous way, "never to associate with any young man, no matter how good or elegant he may be, who even tastes wine occasionally."

"That is a rash resolve, Etta," said her sister, "and one that I fear you will find it hard to carry out. Yet, what you say is right, in the main. Girls do not enough realize the great responsibility of their influence over young men."

"No," said Agnes Burchard, with a sigh. And several remembered how much she had been seen with poor Harry and what jokes had been made about their intimacy. "I always knew that Harry Pemberton drank occasionally; but I thought it manly, and like—like Mr. James."

No one answered this rather unfortunate remark; but presently Katie Robertson said:—

"Don't you think, Miss Etta, people ought to begin with the boys—before they have learned to drink, I mean."

"A good suggestion, Katie, since an ounce of prevention is said to be better than a pound of cure. How would you set about doing it?"

But Katie, having thus drawn all eyes upon herself, blushed, and did not feel like speaking. So Miss Eunice came to her rescue:—

"We might organize some kind of a society, of which the boys and younger girls could be members. It would be some trouble to keep it up, but it would be directly in the line of that service to which you pledged yourselves, girls, that bright first Sunday in September."

"Delightful!" said Etta, to whom every new thing always seemed so. "A boys' and girls' temperance society, with a pledge that they shall never in their lives taste anything that can intoxicate. Then they will grow up temperance boys and girls from the start."

"There are two objections to pledging children—that is, very young ones," said Eunice. "The first is, from the unwillingness often felt by their parents; and the other, that many of them do not fully understand what they are about, and as they grow older often break their pledge, on the ground that they are not bound by a promise made when they were too young to understand it."

"Well, some of them keep it, and that's so much gained."

"Yes; for them. But to break solemnly made vows is always an injury to one's character. Besides, if we make a total-abstinence pledge the condition of joining our society, we shall not get the Irish boys, who most need our work. Their parents will not let them come. Why not word our pledge in such a way as to secure everybody's influence on the side of temperance, without making it a personal thing? It will be sure to react upon the individual."

"I think there are some things that boys do besides drinking that are just as bad—smoking and swearing, for instance," said one of the girls.

"And I think it's just as bad for girls to be hateful and unkind," said Bertie, to the surprise of some who knew her, but did not know what a brave fight she was making to overcome her long-indulged faults.

"Let's make it a pledge to be kind and thoughtful," said one of the girls.

"Not to be vain," said another.

"And let's all belong," said a third. "So the boys won't think we're just preaching to them."

So the result of all the talk was that a meeting for all the children in the place was held the first bright Saturday afternoon, Etta presiding, assisted by such of her girls as had finished their day's work at the mill. It happened to be a bright afternoon, warm for the season, and no one felt any inconvenience in staying out of doors, where they sat in groups around the lawn, while their young hostess explained the purpose for which she had called them together.

"We know you all want to be good men and women," she said; "brave, noble, and helpful. Our idea is not primarily to amuse you or make you happy, but to help you to learn to be helpful and useful to others. We want to form among ourselves a society, whose object is to do all the good that its members possibly can—not trying to have a good time, but to make somebody else happier and better every day. Who wants to join us?"

Instantly every hand in the little group went up.

"Yes, I thought so," said the young lady. "But now I wonder who are willing to take a good deal of trouble about it, and really put themselves out of the way to make other people happy. Those who are willing and mean to persevere not getting tired and giving up the whole thing after a little while, may have the privilege of joining our society by signing their names to our pledge."

She then read the following pledge slowly, pausing to explain every word which might seem hard to be understood by the younger children:—

"We, the undersigned, pledge ourselves to be truthful, unselfish, cheerful, and helpful; to use our influence always for the right, and never to fear to show our colors. We will always use our influence against intemperance, the use of profane language or tobacco, disrespect to the old, ill treatment of the young or unfortunate, and cruelty to animals."[3]

Nearly all present were eager to sign it; those who could write their names doing so, and the others looking on with great satisfaction while theirs were written by some one else. Thus a society was formed which, for want of a better name, was called the "Do Good Society."

Etta was unanimously elected president; four girls of her class were the officers. Meetings were to be held the first Saturday in every month in the Sunday-school room, on which occasions those present were to report attempts at carrying out the principles of the society as well as all successes in doing so.

To this society and its welfare Etta Mountjoy devoted herself, throwing into its concerns the whole activity of her versatile nature; making its meetings so interesting, and imparting to it so much bright life and activity, that it soon became the most popular institution in Squantown.

The society's first meeting was held one week after its organization. It was raining softly, and the grass was damp and the air chilly; so the children, nearly a hundred of whom were present, were glad to come into the shelter of the pretty Sunday-school room, and while swelling with the importance of being "a society," wait to see what "Miss Etta" would do when she came. The girls were getting a little restless, and the boys had begun to drum rather impatiently upon the floor, when the young lady appeared, carrying in her hand a curious-looking box with a slit in the top and a basket mysteriously covered down, which she deposited on the desk, not as yet answering the questions which were spoken by the many pairs of bright eyes before her.

The first thing the president did was to tell the children that they might sing "Hold the Fort," which they did with such extraordinary force and enthusiasm that they exhausted the excitement which was seething within them, and sat quite still while the basket was unpacked and Etta took from it a bottle of whitish-looking fluid, a clear glass goblet, and a pure white egg. Then she gave them a little temperance talk, reminding them of the sad death of poor Harry, which was known to them all, and telling them that even when people did not drink enough liquor to make them either stupid or quarrelsome, any quantity of it taken into the stomach injures it very much.

To make them understand this she broke the egg-shell and dropped the white of the egg into the goblet, holding it up and showing them how soft and clear it was. Then, uncorking the bottle, she told them it contained alcohol, the substance that is found in all intoxicating drinks, even the weaker ones, such as wine and beer.

"Now, watch," she said; and as she poured two or three drops of the liquid into the glass the interested eyes saw the egg grow white and hard, and at last become tough and leathery. "This," she said, "is just what happens when people drink anything that contains alcohol. The brain is a substance like the white of an egg. The alcohol acts upon it in the same way it has acted upon the white of this egg—it cooks it! The brain of a drunkard becomes cooked—tough and leathery. The man cannot think as clearly as other men. His mind becomes degraded." The children all expressed their astonishment, and after they had talked a little while, their teacher said:—

"I am sure you don't want people to injure their brains in this way, and so you will be ready to keep that part of your pledge which says we will 'use our influence against intemperance,' of course."

"Yes, yes!" was shouted out by dozens of voices, and many hands went up. One boy said:—

"How about tobacco?"

"Oh, we'll talk about that next time. Now I want you to sing again, and then we will investigate the contents of this box," proceeding to unlock it as she spoke.

When the second hymn was over Miss Etta drew out several folded papers, and handing; them to the secretary, who had come in since the beginning, asked her to read them aloud.

"Remember, children, that neither you nor I know who wrote them. They have no signatures. Perhaps some of the children wrote them themselves, perhaps they got their parents to do so. All we want to know is that they are accounts of how some of our members have tried to be unselfish and helpful to other people during the week that has past. I hope every meeting we shall have a number of such papers to read. You can any of you write them, and slip them into this box, and our secretary will read them to us. But be sure that you don't put any names to them and that what you write is true."

PAPER I.

Last Friday I was going home from school when I saw two big boys hit against an old woman, who was carrying along a heavy basket. I don't know whether they did it on purpose, but they both began to laugh as the basket upset, and the apples which were in it rolled all over the road. I was just going to laugh too, the old woman looked so funny and helpless, but I thought of our society, and I stooped down and picked up all the apples and helped carry home the basket. The other boys laughed at me and called me a baby. I wanted to swear at them dreadfully, but I remembered what our pledge said about "profane swearing," and I just held my tongue.

PAPER II.

Mother wanted me to take care of the baby while she got supper the other afternoon, but I wanted to go in the woods with Allie and get nuts. I'd promised her ever so long, and this was the last chance, it's so near winter. I was just going to say "No" to mother, and tell her babies were a nuisance, when I noticed how tired she looked, and thought how she was always doing things for all of us. Then I remembered our pledge, and I took the baby and tried to be "cheerful and helpful" in amusing her, setting the table between whiles. And in the evening, mother said she did not know how she could have got along without me, she had such a headache all the afternoon, but now she felt quite rested.

PAPER III.

Five of us girls are going to form a bee. We haven't much time, but we can take one evening each week, and we're going to make skating-bags for our brothers and some of the other boys, so that they can keep their skates clean and bright. We mean to hurry, so as to get them ready by the first frosty weather.

There were several other papers, but these specimens are enough to show the kind of work the Do Good Society was engaged in, and the nature of the reports brought in from time to time. They were sometimes very funny, and Miss Etta felt a little inclined to laugh as they were read, but little by little they were educating the children to be unselfish and helpful, and that, next to being godly, is the best thing in the world.

——- [Footnote 3: Condensed from the pledge of the Lookout Legion.]



CHAPTER XXII.

THANKSGIVING DAY.

The long-anticipated Harvest Home Festival arrived at last. All Wednesday evening, and far into the night, the boys were busy, under Etta's directions, in putting up the carefully prepared colored leaf emblems, and arranging the grasses, fruits, and vegetables. Over every pointed window was a garland of variously colored grasses, mixed with bearded golden grain, and between each, one of the leaf emblems was lightly tacked to the wall. From each gas-burner depended a rustic basket, made of twisted sticks dipped in a cheap solution of gilt powder, and filled with purple and white grapes, mixed with scarlet and golden apples. Bouquets of ferns and grasses graced pulpit and baptismal font. Against either end of the communion-table leaned a wonderfully constructed cornucopia, from whose capacious mouth seemed to be pouring out green squashes, yellow pumpkins, red and white beets, brown potatoes, cabbages, cauliflowers, parsnips, and golden ears of corn, packed in with cereals and nuts. On the table itself was a mighty pile of all the fruits attainable so late in the season, and the decorations were completed by a cross nearly six feet in height, composed entirely of white everlasting flowers, placed in the window just above.

It was great fun to arrange all these pretty things, and the fun might have degenerated into irreverence, but for the presence of Mr. Morven, who occasionally said a few words concerning the sacredness of the place, and managed to give the whole affair the appearance of a happy service of the Lord and his church, so that each boy and girl went away with a share of the gladness of those who work for God.

The Thanksgiving congregation was an unusually large one. The mills were closed, of course, and many of the work-people who, perhaps, would have hesitated at the idea of spending their rare holiday time in a church, thought better of it when they remembered that doing so would certainly please their employer. Not a very worthy motive, certainly. But there are many motives which draw people to the house of God, not all of which will bear close inspection. None the less, however, are they thus brought under hallowed influences, and it may be that germinating seed will be thus sown in their hearts, which the wayside birds will not quite carry away.

The Methodists, who usually held Sunday services at the school-house, three miles off, held none on Thanksgiving day, and were glad of a good opportunity to see and attend the pretty new stone church on the hill. Many of the neighboring families in the country round had city visitors come to "spend Thanksgiving." And more than all, the fame of the harvest decorations had spread far and wide, so that curiosity helped to fill the church to overflowing. Mr. Morven was glad of the opportunity to show how religion claims a place even in our festivities and helps to brighten all our joys. He was especially desirous that the children and young people should never look upon Christ's service as a thing of gloom. He dwelt upon Thanksgiving day as an essentially national festival, reminding his audience how it had originated when the Pilgrim fathers met at the close of the first year of their hard life among New England rocks to thank the God, in whose name and by whose power they had laid the foundations of the new commonwealth on this side of the sea. Then he told how the observance had gradually spread from State to State; at first being appointed by the State Governor, on such day as seemed to him fittest. Till at last, the wise and lamented President Lincoln sent out a Thanksgiving proclamation, and appointed a uniform day for the whole, great, reunited people.

"For what we are to give thanks, in addition to our great public blessings," continued the preacher, "each one of us must look into his individual life and surroundings to discover. These beautiful decorations remind us of our indebtedness as a people for an abundant harvest, not only of the grains and cereals which support our lives, but also of the delicacies which make that life one of rich enjoyment. But, my friends, this is Cain's sacrifice. Let us beware lest, as in his case, it take the place of Abel's, and we learn to care more for the things of our perishing life than for those eternal glories to which the great sacrifice of which Abel's was typical is our only title. For myself, as pastor of this church, I find special occasion for thanksgiving in the large number who have, during the past year, publicly given themselves to Christ, nearly all of whom, as I have every reason to hope, have set out in earnest upon their heavenward pilgrimage. These souls are a seal to my ministry among you, and for them I gladly to-day render unto the Lord thanksgiving. An added cause of thanksgiving to me personally is the able and earnest corps of assistants who are here holding up my hands. Surrounded by mill-owners whose first object is not so much money-making as the elevation of the men, women, and children in their employ; with Eunices and Louises, who labor with me for the upbuilding of Christ's kingdom in young human hearts, and with a society of little folks whose purpose is to follow their Great Master by going about to do good, I feel myself well sustained in my responsible position; and, as I look forward to the cares and duties of another year, I 'thank God and take courage.' And no doubt, as you look down into your own hearts and back on the events of the past year, you also see much cause for thanksgiving. Some of you remember how, when you tossed on beds of fever, God's presence rebuked the death-angel and you came back to a new and, as we trust, a better life. Many of you know how, while the pestilence raged around you, both you and your loved ones were safe from his fiery breath. Others of you can recall how, when the swift punishment that sometimes visits those who do not like to retain God in their knowledge and seek their own pleasure rather than his service came among us, it was not your boy, your brother, your dear one who met with a fearful and sudden death. Even such of you as have been called to suffer during the year that is gone by, to resist temptation, to conquer sin, to mourn over loved ones, or to meet poverty and distress, know that, having received help of the Lord, you continue unto this day. His strength has assured the hard-won victory, his presence has lightened the gloom, his hand wiped away the tear, his bounty fed the hungry. In all things he has more than kept his promises, and I call upon you this day to

"'Render unto the Lord thanksgiving.'"

The afternoon was devoted to the Harvest Home Festival, and a very pretty and successful service it was.

Long before three o'clock the main body of the church was filled with parents, friends, and anxious spectators, many of whom had never been inside of a church before. The front seats had been reserved for the Sunday-school, whose members marched in singing as a processional:—

"Come, ye thankful people, come, Raise the song of Harvest Home,"

at the close of which the whole congregation rose and sang:—

"Praise God, from whom all blessings flow."

A brief opening service followed, the infant class chanting the Lord's prayer, the verses of Psalm lxv being read alternately by boys and girls, after which Psalm cxxi—

"I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills"—

was sung by the whole school.

The infant class then came forward, and standing in a group before the desk recited each a text, which the superintendent called:—

"Autumn Leaves from the Tree of Life."

The verses were selected with great taste and care, and the little ones did their part well. The following are some of those selected:—

Exodus xxvi, 16. Leviticus xxii, 10. Psalms l, 19; cxlv, 14; cxxxvi, 1, 25. Isaiah lv, 10. 1 Corinthians x, 26. Hebrews xiii, 2. Revelations xix, 5.

The very little folks here closed their part of the performance with a "Harvest Song," in which they had been well drilled.

Then the older classes arose and recited selected portions of Scripture in unison, class by class.

Eunice Mountjoy's class gave "The harvest feast." Deut. xvi, 13-15.

Etta Mountjoy's class: "The harvest fruits are the gift of God." Psalms cxv, 10-15.

James Mountjoy's boys: "Trust in the giver of the harvest." Luke xii, 22-28.

Another boys' class: "The harvest of the world." Rev. xiv, 13-17.

Still another: "The harvest of the tares." Matthew xiii, 37-43.

And then the whole school sang:—

"What shall the harvest be?"

Then the recitations commenced again.

First class: "Men compared to fruit-trees." Matt, vii, 16-20.

Second class: "Different kinds of fruit." Gal. vi, 1-10.

Third class: "The curse of unfruitfulness." Matt, xxi, 18-20.

Fourth class: "Danger of setting the heart upon earthly fruits." Luke xii, 15-21.

Fifth class: "Necessity of labor in harvesting." Prov. x, 3-5.

Sixth class: "Now, the harvest time." John iv, 35-38.

Whole school in unison: Psalm cl, entire.

The festival was closed by the singing of the hymn:—

"Praise to God, immortal praise, For the love that crowns our days,"

as the children marched back to the schoolroom.[4]

The whole performance was considered a great success. The superintendent and his young assistants received many congratulations, and the parents carried their little ones home well satisfied with their share in the exercises.

——- [Footnote 4: The above programme was actually carried out in a country school of the writer's acquaintance, and is given in full for the benefit of others who may be inclined to try a similar festival. It may bevaried and prolonged by the introduction of poetical passages concerning autumn, etc.]



CHAPTER XXIII.

SERVICE.

The first meeting of the "Do Good Society" had proved so successful that another was appointed for next week, at the request of the little members. Mr. Morven came in and opened the meeting with a prayer this time, after which he retired while the children were singing their first hymn. Then the president read and explained the pledge again, and asked all who had not done so already to sign it, after which she again produced the box with a slit in the cover, into which she asked every one to drop the papers on which they had written whatever they would like to have read to the society.

There was a little tittering, a little rustling, some blushing, and considerable hesitation, after which a good many of the girls and some of the boys came up in a confused mass, and dropped some folded papers into the box.

"Now," said Miss Etta, when all was quiet again, "I call upon the secretary to read what is on these papers without the names,—for that is the Bible way of not letting our right hand know what the left does,—and if any of our little members, who don't know how to write, have anything to report to the society, they may get some of the bigger ones to write it down for them. Here are some slips of paper and pencils I have provided on purpose."

Then there was another pause and some more rustling, whispering, and laughing, and some more curiously written and folded papers were dropped into the box.

These are what the secretary read:—

I.

I was coming home from school one day when I saw old Mr. Kelly trying to push his wheelbarrow of potatoes up the hill. He looked so weak that I thought I would help him, so I called Jim Byers, and we took hold of the wheelbarrow and wheeled it all the way to his door, where we emptied the potatoes into a barrel and put them away in the cellar. It was great fun!

"No doubt, it was," said Miss Etta.

II.

Kittie always calls me names when she gets mad, and I always used to think of the worst I knew to call her in return; but I thought I wouldn't since I belong to the Do Good Society. So the next time she got mad, and began to call names, I said: "Don't, Kittie, dear, let's love each other. Here's a beautiful piece of lace to make a fichu for your doll!" She hasn't called me names since.

"Of course not; who could?" was the comment.

III.

I met four boys with cigarettes in their mouths one day. They all took off their hats to me, but I looked the other way, as if I did not see them. "Hallo," said one of them, "—is getting stuck up." "No, I ain't stuck up; but I've promised not to encourage the use of tobacco." The boys all laughed at me, but they threw away the cigarettes, for all that.

"Who wouldn't be laughed at to accomplish such results?"

IV.

My sister will tag onto me, wherever I go. She wanted to go nutting with me and some other fellows. I was just going to tell her we didn't want babies, when I remembered the pledge, so I took her along. She picked up as many nuts as any of us. And she didn't cry a bit, even when she fell down and scratched her hand dreadfully. I sha'n't call her cry-baby any more.

V.

I work on a farm. The man I work for gives us beer sometimes. Last Saturday night he offered me some. I wouldn't take it. "Why?" said he. "Because I have promised to use my influence against the use of liquor. I can't drink it."

VI.

Four of us boys have given up swearing. It's hard work, though, sometimes—we're so used to it.

"Yes, it's hard work to give up any bad habit," said Etta. "But God will help us if we ask him, and the sooner we begin, the easier it will be."

VII.

I wanted to buy, oh, such a lovely book! But I spent the money for crackers, and took them down to the poor little Ryans, whose mother is dead. I enjoyed seeing them eat them a great deal more than I should have enjoyed the book.

VIII.

I wanted to stay in bed awfully one morning. I do hate to get up! But I thought about poor old Mrs. Payne, and how cold she would find it to get up and make her fire in the dark, so I jumped right out of bed, ran down to her cottage, made the fire, and set the tea-kettle over, and got back in time for breakfast, after all.

IX.

I finished my work in the mill real early on Wednesday, because I wanted to be first at Miss Eunice's. But Jennie Ray is so slow that she never gets through hers till the last minute, so I turned to and helped her, and we both got away at half-past five. I didn't get to Miss Eunice's as early as usual, but Jennie did, a great deal earlier; so I didn't care.

The following were from the little children:—

"I helped mother wash the dishes."

"I set the table."

"I took care of the baby."

"I picked up apples."

"I made the fire," etc. etc.

* * * * *

"These are all very little things," said the president, as she detected a smile upon the faces of some of the older girls and boys "But if they are done really for the sake of 'doing good,' and pleasing God, they are just as great to him as the 'cup of cold water,' which he says 'shall not lose its reward.'"

"Here are some questions which were asked me last week after the meeting," said Etta, as she finished reading the papers. "I wonder if the girls to whom I gave them have found answers."

1. "Why is it wrong to drink beer?"

Several hands were raised and several answers given; such as:—

"Because it makes people drunk."

"Because it killed Harry."

Eric Robertson produced the following slip, which he had cut from a paper, and read it aloud:—

"Beer is regarded by many in this country as a healthy beverage. Let me give you a few of the ingredients frequently used in its manufacture. The adulterations most commonly used to give bitterness are gentian, wormwood, and quassia; to impart pungency, ginger, orange-peel, and caraway. If these were all, there would be small need of warning the young against the use of beer on account of its injurious ingredients, but when there are added, to preserve the frothy head, alum and blue vitriol; to intoxicate, cocculus indicus, nux vomica, and tobacco; and to promote thirst, salt,—then indeed does it become necessary to instruct and warn the innocent against the use of this poisonous beverage."

2. "Are cigarettes good for boys?"

No one answered, and Etta said:—

"Boys think it manly to smoke, but it isn't. It's very dirty and very unhealthy. I heard of a little boy only twelve years old, who died very suddenly, and when the doctors examined him after his death they found the coats of his stomach all eaten up with tobacco, and yet he had only smoked cigarettes. Cigarettes are made of a little tobacco, a great deal of cabbage-leaves, old leather, and dirty paper, with snuff and ginger and strychnine, a deadly poison, to flavor them. The oil of tobacco itself is rank poison. Two or three drops of it put on the tongue of a dog or a cat will kill it in a few minutes. Besides, the smell of tobacco lingering in a boy's clothes or breath is very foul and disgusting. And worse than all, the effect of smoking is to create a thirst which pure, cool water does not satisfy, and those who begin by smoking or chewing tobacco are very likely to end by drinking beer and whiskey, and finally becoming drunkards."

Then questions to be answered at the next meeting were called for, and the following were given:—

1. Is it wrong to wear pretty clothes?

2. Why shouldn't people be selfish?

3. Is it swearing to say "good gracious!" and "mercy on us!"?

Miss Etta did not answer these, but wrote them down in her note-book, saying she would look up the subjects by the next meeting, and she wanted the members of the "Do Good Society" all to do the same, and then they could compare their answers.

The last part of the programme to-day was the reading of a story by the president. She half-read and half-told about a young man named Harry Wadsworth, who, although he was only a clerk in a railroad company, managed, by giving all his spare time and thought, to do so many kind things for other people, that when he died they all set about to honor his memory by each doing kind things for others, and others again followed their example, till thousands of people were all busy in hundreds of different places, doing just as much as they could to help other people and to discountenance everything evil, and to throw their influence on the side of everything good.

Harry Wadsworth had four mottoes, which they all adopted. They were:—

"Look out and not in. "Look forward and not back. "Look up and not down. "Lend a hand."

Miss Etta also told them that all sorts of clubs and societies, chiefly composed of children, had grown out of this story, and that they were called by different names; such as, "Wadsworth Clubs," "Lend a Hand Societies," "Look Out Guards," and "Look Up Legions."

One of these Wadsworth clubs, a class of great, rough, overgrown boys in a New York mission school, had supported a sick companion for a whole winter out of the savings of their own scanty earnings. Another, a group of rich Boston girls, kept three or four families of poor children constantly dressed in the clothes which they made themselves. A third had originated the idea of sea-side homes for sick city children.

"Our Do Good Society is to be like one of these," she said; "only we must have for our motive something higher than just kindness to other people. We must do good for Jesus' sake; because he does good to us and because we want to please him by doing good to his other children. And, boys and girls, we sha'n't be doing it the right way at all, if we are the least bit proud of what we do and take any glory to ourselves about it. We can not even think any good thing without the aid of the Holy Spirit; certainly we can not perform any righteous action. So we must always remember to ask for his presence, his direction, and his strength, and in this, as in all our other ways, acknowledge him."

The Do Good Society set in motion a good many other things; for the younger members, who had more time at their disposal, began to conceive a passion for performing helpful acts, and they ferreted out cases of distress which were often far beyond their power to relieve, but which thus got into the right hands.

For instance, when the children reported the case of the poverty-stricken Ryans, Miss Eunice set her "tea-party" to work to make a set of clothes for the unexpected twin-baby, for whom there was no provision, and sent a strong poor woman, whom her father paid, to take care of the helpless little ones till some better and more permanent arrangement could be made. When the boys found Harry Pemberton's mother without "oven wood," which the strong arms of her unfortunate boy used to prepare, they set about to gather and cut up enough to last her all winter; and in doing so made the further discovery that she had neither tea, sugar, nor flour in the house. This they reported at the next meeting of the society, and the result was that abundance of provisions of all kinds found their way into the poor old widow's dwelling, and she was well cared for the short remainder of her sad life. Even Bertie Sanderson caught the infectious enthusiasm, and devoted the money sent by her city aunt to get her a velvet hat and feathers, just like her cousins, to procuring a warm woolen dress and hood for a little girl in the neighborhood, who could not go to school without it. She wore her old felt all winter with content that would have been impossible a year ago.

Many opportunities of doing good offered themselves as the winter came on and sped away. There was what is called a crisis in the paper trade. A great deal more had been manufactured than could possibly be used, and no new orders were coming in. All that Mr. Mountjoy could do was to go on making paper in the hopes of selling it in better times. But as no money was coming in, it was hard to find enough with which to pay so many work-people. Many mill-owners closed their factories at once, thus throwing hundreds of workmen who had families dependent upon them out of employment. Mr. Mountjoy was advised to do this, but he could not bear to be the cause of so much suffering, and his son would not hear of it.

As the only other thing that was possible, he called them all together one day at the close of the day's work, and explained the situation to them, asking them if they would rather accept a much lower rate of wages, or have the mill close altogether and go elsewhere in search of work.

There were some blank looks as men and women thought how hard it had been to live at even the present rate of wages, but when the young man showed them that even his proposal was only possible at a great sacrifice to himself and the family, there was not a murmur. Everybody accepted what must be, and though as the winter went on there was much poverty and privation, there was no bad feeling, no signs of that terrible desolation, so dreaded at such times—a strike.

The Mountjoys dismissed all their servants but one, the three daughters cheerfully doing each a share of the housework, and assisting in the preparation of broths, gruels, and other things needed for the sick and poor, who greatly missed the higher wages which their natural protectors had been earning. Neither girl bought a new article of wearing apparel, and Etta decidedly declined to make her usual winter visit to the city, saving thus a considerable sum of money and much still more valuable time for the blessed service to which she had devoted herself.

And so the storm was weathered, and when work recommenced in the spring with even better prospects and at the old rates of remuneration, every one was glad; but no one had really suffered, thanks to the "Do Good Society" and the consecrated hearts that were faithfully endeavoring to acknowledge God "in all their ways."



CHAPTER XXIV.

EDUCATIONAL.

With so many interests to fill her leisure hours, as well as such a pleasant and restful home, our little Katie continued to bear the confinement and hard work of the mill better than her friends had expected she would. Though she grew rapidly taller, she did not become either pale or thin. She continued to like her work, and became more and more of a favorite, both with her companions and her employers. The affair of the fifty-dollar bill had been thoroughly explained, and for a time Katie was looked upon quite as a martyr heroine. She was a little in danger of being spoiled by the attention she received, and but for the remembrance of how nearly she had yielded to the temptation to do wrong, her Christian character might have been seriously injured.

Poor Bertie, however, had a hard time of it when she first went back to the mill. Of course, it had been impossible to right her companion without implicating herself, and it was hard for her to meet the significant looks and tones of some of the other girls, who did not believe in the new saintship and did very much despise the old malice and deceit.

Although forgiven for the guilt of her sin, the poor girl had to find that she could not avoid all its punishment. No one can; and though God may forgive us freely for the sake of his dear Son, and give us a new heart or a new purpose of action, we shall still have to suffer many of the consequences of the wrong we have done, and it can never be quite as though we had never sinned, which fact it would be well to remember before we are led into evil.

Many a time the poor girl, quite unaccustomed to control herself, would almost break out into some furious response to an unkind word or implied taunt, and remember just in time that she was pledged to the Lord's service and must not disgrace his cause. A swift, silent prayer for help then would always bring the promised aid of the Holy Spirit, and so by degrees Bertie learned to conquer herself and to lead others to see that her repentance was sincere and her faith genuine. Katie's friendship was a great blessing to her at this time. Katie had entirely forgiven her treacherous friend's part in the affair which had caused her so much sorrow. She remembered only her dangerous illness, and that they were both now fellow-Christians and members of the same church. She was anxious to do all in her power to help Bertie in her struggle against the sins of her heart and the bad habits of her life, and, as is apt to be the case when we forgive and try to help any one, she soon came to love her very much. And this friendship and support served, more than anything else, to reinstate Bertie in the good graces of the other girls.

It was stated some time since that Mrs. Robertson had other plans with reference to her family of girls and boys, which she intended to put in operation when the long winter evenings came. This was the formation of a class for regular study, of at least one or two of the branches which her own children had attended to at school. But these plans were afterward merged in those of the young manufacturer.

The mill-girls, although they had generally had fair common-school advantages before they commenced work, were, of course, from that time totally deprived of them. They knew how to read, write, and "do examples" in the simpler rules of arithmetic. Perhaps this would be quite education enough for those girls who are to pass their lives in factories of the older world. But it is not so in America, where everybody reads and everybody thinks, where no one is stationary, no position permanent—where the operative of to-day is the employer of to-morrow—where many a girl steps from a position of toil and honorable self-support into that of mistress of a mansion, and is called to dispense a hospitality which in other lands would be called princely. In our as yet unsettled mode of existence, education is the one thing needful, because education is the only thing of which the "chances and changes" of life can not strip us—the only thing which will adapt itself gracefully to any position, from the cottage and tenement-room to the presidential chair.

Eunice and James Mountjoy had often talked over the loss of educational advantages to which boys and girls entering the mill at so early an age were of necessity subjected, and this winter they took their youngest sister into confidence. The result was the commencement of a "night school," held, however, from four o'clock till seven. The mill was now only working three-quarters time, so these three hours remained to be filled up, and no one objected to putting off supper an hour for this purpose.

The school-house did double duty—the day scholars departing just as the more advanced classes assembled, and the trustees gladly gave the use of the building for so beneficent a purpose. But it was not to be expected that the poor young overworked teacher could do double duty too. She was, in fact, only a girl, not much in advance of the "night scholars," either in age or acquirements, and well calculated to profit with them by superior advantages. Another hired teacher was not to be thought of, for the school committee were not entrusted with spare funds, and the Mountjoys, who might have furnished a teacher's board and salary upon ordinary occasions, were this winter taxed to the utmost strain their finances would bear.

In this dilemma Etta made the startling proposition of becoming teacher herself.

"You!" said Eunice, in astonishment. For to her, her sister always seemed the little child whom her dead mother had confided to her care. "You're not old enough. I thought of offering myself, but really my hands are full, I can't do another thing."

"I should think not," said James. "You do everything for us all. You need four hands for what you do already. But why should not Etta? You don't need her help in the afternoons, and surely she ought to be competent."

"I am afraid"—

"I know," broke in the girl. "You are afraid I will get tired of it, and drop it as I have done so many things. You've a right to think so. But you know I have a new motive and a new strength now. Eunice, what is the use of my superior education, if I can't do something with it for the Lord? It seems to me that this is one of the 'ways' in which I can 'acknowledge him.' Won't you let me try it?"

"If papa will consent," said her sister. And that settled it, as they all knew; for Mr. Mountjoy always consented that Etta should do exactly as she pleased. He only stipulated that her brother should always be on hand to bring her home, as during the winter months the school would not be over till after dark.

Etta proved—as all knew she would prove—a very efficient and interesting teacher. It was quite amusing to her brother, when he sometimes came for her half an hour before school was over, to see the quiet dignity with which she kept the great rough boys in order. But the work soon became too much for her alone. The "night school" grew into such a popular institution that it had more pupils than one person could properly attend to in the short space of three hours. So Mr. James arranged his time at some personal sacrifice to himself, and managed to take some of the classes. While, to the great astonishment of all, Rhoda, the middle sister, came out of her shell sufficiently to volunteer to give drawing lessons to such of the boys and girls as should show any decided talent or inclination. There is something contagious in beneficence. Those surrounded by its atmosphere are sure, sooner or later, to take the infection. Of course this school was better for the children than any plan of Mrs. Robertson's devising could have been, and her whole family were among its most enthusiastic and energetic members. Gretchen learned to write English, and Tessa to read and care for better things than sentimental fiction. And Eric, while far outstripping her in his studies, seemed to find great pleasure in assisting in hers, helping her over difficulties, and carrying her books to and from the school. But by far the brightest of the scholars were Katie and Alfred Robertson. They both learned so easily, and exhibited so much enthusiasm in the pursuit of knowledge, that once Eunice Mountjoy said to Mrs. Robertson:—

"It seems almost a pity that your children should be obliged to perform mill-work. My brother says that Alfred shows quite an uncommon taste for natural science, especially chemistry. And I think our little Katie would, after a few years' study, make a capital teacher, and you know she would make a great deal more money in that way than she ever can in the mill, with much less expenditure of time and strength."

"Yes," said Mrs. Robertson, with a sigh. "I never thought that my husband's children would have to work for a living."

"Working for a living is not degrading, Mrs. Robertson. The doctor himself did that."

"Of course. But he did it as a gentleman—not in a mill."

"My father and brother, too, earn their livings in a mill, and neither they nor we feel at all degraded by it," said Eunice, quietly. "Only, if your boy has talents which will fit him for a profession beneficial to the human race, like that of his father's, it seems almost a pity that they should not be cultivated. Depend upon it, self-support is always honorable, for man or woman, and we should consider our work high or low, not because it is considered 'genteel' or not, but because it does or does not do the most good. I wish that something could turn up to help both Alfred and Katie to better educations, for I believe they might thus do a great deal more good."

And Mrs. Robertson wished so too. But she was wise enough not to say anything to her children about it.

Better things were in store for the children, however, than their mother's heart had dared to hope for; and for once she felt thoroughly ashamed of her murmurings and want of faith. One evening toward spring, when the merry group came from school more noisily than usual, and, as usual, greatly in want of their delayed supper, they were all slightly astonished to see a light in the window of the seldom-used sitting-room. They noticed, as they went in, a strange hat in the hall.

"What can your mother be doing in the best room?" said Tessa, as she and Katie reached their own room.

Tessa was always inquisitive, and the sight of a strange man's hat had greatly excited her curiosity.

"I am sure I don't"—but at that moment the girls were interrupted by Alfred, who rushed in without knocking, and shouted, though quite out of breath with excitement:—

"Katie! Katie! Mother wants you! Come quick! Who do you suppose is here? It's Uncle Alfred—all the way from California! Isn't it splendid?"

"I didn't know we had an uncle in California, did you?" said Katie.

But there was no opportunity for her brother to answer, as by this time they had reached the parlor door, which stood open now, and both children were warmly embraced by a gentleman whom at first neither of them could see.

"What an old man I must be," said the gentleman, as he released them, "to have three such grown-up people for nephews and nieces! And it seems only the other day since Eric and I, and you too, Linda, were no bigger. Yet they were all born after I went away. Such a little time!"

"But many sad things have happened since then, Alfred. It seems to me a very long time since your brother Eric went away never to come back, and left me to battle with the world with no one to help me feed and educate his children."

There was a slight tone of reproach in the widow's tone as she said this, but the returned brother did not seem to notice it, as he said reverently:—

"No one but God. You would have told me in the old days when I didn't believe it or care for it that you could not have a better or more efficient friend; and now that I do believe it, I am sure that you have found it true."

"Yes, I have," said the mother, looking with thankful pride upon her well-grown boys, and bright and healthy, if diminutive, little girl. "God has been very good to us, and I have every reason to think well of his protecting care."

"And the children," said their uncle, "have they too learned to trust in their Saviour and do his will?"

"Eric and Katie have. Alfred is, I am afraid, a little too much like his uncle of old times."

"I am sorry to hear that. He loses so much of the joy of youth and the strength of growing up into true manliness. I hope he will never have cause to be as sorry as his uncle is that he did not give his Saviour 'the kindness of his youth.' But we will have plenty of time to talk about all these things by-and-by. Just now I am as anxious for my supper as these young folks must be. I remember of old, Linda, what a good supper you can give a hungry traveler, and I don't suppose I need an invitation."

"Why, no!" said his hostess, with a little flush of embarrassment. "Only you must prepare yourself for a somewhat large tea-party, and not of a very aristocratic kind. For, you know, I keep a sort of factory boarding-house."

"One who has camped with California miners is not likely to be very fastidious," said Mr. Robertson. "But I suspect if your boarders are companions of this niece of mine, they will be good enough company for me."



CHAPTER XXV.

OUT INTO THE WORLD.

"So you wouldn't like to be my little girl and go to school and be educated for a lady," said Mr. Alfred Robertson to his niece, a few days after he had made his unexpected appearance among his relatives.

"I'd like to go to school and study, of course," said Katie. "Uncle, don't think me very rude or ungrateful, but I wish you would send Alfred."

"Why, rather than yourself?"

"Because Alfred is a boy, and he wants to be a doctor like father. He never told mother, because he thought it would make her feel badly. He knew she hadn't any money to send him to school or college, so he just worked on at the mill, though I know he hates it."

"But, little girl, it would cost a great deal of money to send a boy through college and support him while he was studying a profession. Have you thought of that?"

"I don't know, sir. I don't know much about money. You are not rich enough to do it then? I'm so sorry," and there was a tone of great disappointment in the young voice.

"I am rich enough perhaps, but"—

"Oh, sir! Alfred would be sure to pay it back as soon as he became a doctor. I could begin to pay you now. I make six dollars a week in the mill as it is, and I could make more if mother would let me work over hours. Alfred wouldn't like to take charity, and I wouldn't like to have him."

Her uncle laughed. "So it is because she is an independent little piece that she does not want to go to school and learn to be a lady," said he.

"I'd like very much to learn to be a teacher," said she. "Miss Eunice thinks that teachers can do a great deal of good, and I could make money to help mother with, just as well or better than I can in the mill."

"Well, you shall go to school on your own terms. You shall have the education anyway, and do what you like afterward. And since you are so very independent, I will lend you the money and you may pay it all back to me when you begin to make your fortune by school-teaching. Is it a bargain?"

The little girl blushed with delight, threw her arms around her kind uncle, giving him a kiss by way of thanks, and rushed off to tell her wonderful news to her mother. But she found it was not quite such news as she expected it to be. Mr. Robertson and his sister-in-law had talked it all over after the little folks were in bed, and he had definitely offered to give the two children the education which their mother had so greatly desired. He had amassed considerable property during his seventeen years' sojourn in California, and having no children of his own, was anxious to make up to those of his brother for his long neglect.

"I never thought anything about my duty toward them," he said, "until God brought me to myself, and showed me what a sinner I was, and then brought me to himself, and showed me what a Saviour he is. Then I began to remember all my neglected duties, and I determined to come home and atone for the past as soon as I could."

The proposal of sending Eric, also, to school had been made to him. But he gratefully declined. He was almost a man now, and was used to his work and liked it. He stood well with his employers, and hoped before many years to rise to the position of superintendent of one of the departments. His one great ambition was to become such a manufacturer as Mr. James. And in the meanwhile he would be at home to watch over his mother and contribute to her support. His uncle admired his pluck and independence, and did not press his offers farther upon him. Alfred was delighted. It was as Katie had said: he had endured the bindery because he must, and he was a boy of too good principles to worry over the inevitable, or to make people unhappy because of his likes or dislikes. But, all the same, he had disliked his work, and longed to do something more in accordance with his tastes. Only to Eric and Katie had he confided his indefinite longings, and his mother had never guessed how much he had desired a change. Now he was full of plans for the future; looking forward especially to the days when he should restore his father's sign to its old position, fit up the house and office as it used to be, and support his mother in ease and comfort once more.

But that was a long way off. A great deal of hard studying had to be done first, and Alfred was far behind other boys of his age—in book knowledge, at least. Perhaps he had, during his three years' experience in the factory, learned a good deal which would eventually prove very useful in a profession which dealt with practical details of practical things. About one thing he was quite decided. Delicate little Katie should never again work for her living. When she left school she should be a lady, like Miss Eunice and Miss Etta at the great house, and idle all day long if she chose to do so.

"But I don't choose," laughed Katie. "Do you think an independent young lady, who has made her own living for more than a year, will ever consent to be dependent upon any one, even if he is her brother? Besides, who wants to be idle? I am sure Miss Eunice isn't idle; nor Miss Etta, now. They are both as busy as they can be all the time; and Mr. James, too. Think how much good he does, and all of them!"

"Oh, if you mean that kind of work! Miss Eunice and Miss Etta don't get paid for what they do. They don't work for a living."

"I think they do," said Mr. Robertson, who had listened quietly to the talk of the children. "I think that every noble, honorable man and woman works, and is glad to work, for a living. The old saying that 'the world owes us a living' is a very fallacious one. The world doesn't owe us anything, and God does not either. Indeed, he has said: 'If any man will not work, neither shall he eat.'"

"Everybody does not work—for money, I mean," said Alfred. "Some people are gentlemen and ladies."

"If you call idlers gentlemen and ladies, we do not agree as to terms; but if you mean, as I suppose you do, that some people, especially a large proportion of women and girls, do not formally receive a definite amount of money for a definite amount of work, that is true. Don't you think, though, that mothers and sisters and wives, who keep house, take care of little children, do all the family sewing, care for the sick, and attend to the many details of a woman's life, work?—yes, do a great deal of work for a very small amount of living? Think of your mother for a moment."

"Yes, sir; I see."

"And," continued his uncle, "when ladies devote themselves faithfully to good works, Sunday-school work, work among the poor, teaching, etc., they are as really working for their living as if they were in a factory."

"It doesn't seem so."

"No, it doesn't seem so, because we have wrong ideas about the nobility of labor. If we really believed what the Bible says,—that the servant of all is the chiefest of all,—we should value work and workmen just in proportion to the use which the work they do is to the community and the world. In that sense, Alfred, a doctor's work or a minister's work might stand a little higher than a manufacturer's, a teacher's position be more desirable than that of a factory-girl, because in all of these professions there is more opportunity to do good to the bodies and souls of men; and yet I doubt if any are in a position to do more good than your Mr. James Mountjoy and his family. And as to being gentlemen or ladies, it is just as much your duty and just as possible to be those in the rag-room as in a palace, should your lot be cast there."

"It is not considered so genteel," said Tessa, who had not quite forgotten the teachings of her novels.

"By whom? Foolish butterflies? or men and women of sense? Gentility meant, originally, gentleness: that gentleness which better opportunities of education were supposed to give. But so much culture as that is now within the reach of every one, and there is no reason why it should not exist in the mill and the counting-room, the kitchen and the store, as well as in the parlor and the library."

"But after all," said Mrs. Robertson, "there seems something low and sordid in working for money."

"That is because we should not work for money—as the motive of work, I mean. If every one in the world were a Christian, and did the work which came to him to do, upon Bible principles, endeavoring to fulfil the precept: 'Whether ye eat or drink or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God,' and accepted his living, small or great, from his hands, just as a little child accepts his from his father's hands, we should hear nothing about the degradation of service. Every one would constantly say: 'Lord, what wilt thou have me to do?' And we should take our daily bread, as well as all the pleasant things of our lives, thankfully from him who has given us all things to enjoy."

Mr. Robertson was rather answering his sister and talking a little above the level of his auditors, but some of them understood and remembered his words. To Katie, henceforth work had an added dignity. It was raised even above the high level upon which she had thus far placed it,—that of helping her mother,—and became something that she might do for Jesus who had done, and was still doing, so much for her. She was quite impatient to enter upon those studies which were to fit her for future usefulness, and many a time during her school life, when the novelty had worn away and her energies might have flagged, she was stirred up to new zeal and perseverance by the recollection of this conversation.

To the other girls also this talk about work and compensation was beneficial. Perhaps they might have felt a little jealous at Katie's apparent elevation above themselves,—even Christian girls have wrong feelings sometimes,—but if factory-work could really be done to the glory of God as much as teaching could, there was nothing degrading in their work, nothing aristocratic in Katie's. God had given her one kind of work to do, and them another—that was all. They could please him as well as she; and he would give to all alike a great deal more than they deserved.

And now began a busy time in the doctor's old house. Brother and sister must be fitted out for school with such wardrobes as they had never possessed in their lives before. Uncle Alfred's ready purse provided these, but he was careful not to destroy the independent spirit of his young relatives, and let them consider this as the first instalment of his loan.

Katie left the factory at the close of the week, receiving with her usual weekly wages an extra five-dollar bill, as a testimonial from Mr. James for her uniform faithfulness and the good example she had always set in the mill.

"We are sorry to lose you, Katie," he said, "but I am glad that you are to be advanced to better work and a wider sphere of usefulness. Wherever you go, the prayers of Squantown Sunday-school will go with you, and I am sure that you will always find, as you have done already, the truth of the words:—

"'Commit thy way unto the Lord, and he shall bring it to pass.'"

Nor did the pleasant incidents stop here. On the Wednesday following, Miss Eunice again invited all the girls of her sister's class to unite with those of her own. There was no lesson that night, and very little work done. All the brothers and friends, who usually acted as escorts, were invited to come to tea, and all the members of the "Do Good Society." There was room for all, and all had "a splendid time." Games were played, and songs sung, and everybody was made to understand that this was a farewell party in honor of Katie Robertson.

At nine o'clock Mr. Morven came in, and, with a few pleasant and earnest words, presented the little girl with a beautifully bound Bible, to the purchase of which every one present had contributed a little.

"I trust," said he, "that our little Katie will make this book 'the man of her counsel, and the guide of her youth,' in the new life upon which she is entering, and that, as the Saviour to whom she has consecrated herself will surely keep his promise 'never to leave or forsake her,' she will be faithful 'in all her ways to acknowledge him,' and grow in grace as she does in knowledge."

Then, calling his little congregation to join with him, the good pastor prayed that the dear Lord would guide and guard this lamb of his through "all the chances and changes of this mortal life, and finally bring her to his heavenly kingdom."

And so, with loving kisses, and gifts, and solemn words of prayer, they sent Katie Robertson out into the world to meet its responsibilities.

The next morning, in the early dawn, she and her brother set out with their uncle for the schools in which they were to be fitted for their life-work. And as these schools were a long way off, and the journey thither rather expensive, it was many months before Squantown saw them again.



CHAPTER XXVI.

CONCLUSION.

And now we must draw our story to a close. The reader has become acquainted with its characters, and knows about the agencies for good which are at work in the manufacturing town of Squantown, as well as the influences brought to bear upon the Christian development of our boys and girls. The machinery is all adjusted, the power is applied, the wheels are in motion—nothing can hinder continued and beneficent work, except the possible weariness in well-doing of any of the parts, and the failure to look to God in faith for his promised strength, thus cutting off the connection with the source of all good things. So long as manufacturers and operatives, teachers and scholars, pastors and people continue in all their ways to acknowledge God, this will not be the case; and the manufacturing village will realize the scriptural idea: "Happy is that people that is in such a case: yea, happy is that people whose God is the Lord."

We may expect to look ahead and see the boys and girls with whom we are acquainted, growing up into good, useful, and happy men and women. Bertie Sanderson will, little by little, overcome her natural and acquired faults of character. Envy and malice have already received their death blow, vanity and idleness will follow in their train. The higher interests of Christian love and church-work will dwarf the importance of dress and display, and Bertie will grow into a useful girl, faithful to, and contented with, her position—a help to her mother at home, a good example to Nina and the younger children.

We may expect to see Gretchen growing into a strong, sturdy German woman, sending home from time to time the savings of her earnings, which will help to make her far-off brothers and sisters very comfortable, the deep, though quiet, force of her affections expanding themselves to embrace many others on this side of the sea. We may be sure that her constant nature, upheld by divine grace, will never lose its hold of the Saviour who came to take care of her in answer to her Sunday-school teacher's call that Sunday evening when she seemed to be so near to the other world.

We may hope to see the other members of Miss Etta's class, Miss Eunice's tea-party, and the "Do Good Society," all growing wiser and better as they grow older, and becoming more and more Christ-like as they follow in his steps. And we may be sure that Etta Mountjoy, cured of her erratic moods and wayward temper, first by being anchored to the rock of ages, and then by the safeguards and helps which the church of Christ throws around its members, will be still foremost in leading the little phalanx, her energy and enthusiasm insuring success in every good thing undertaken. She will find time for home duties as well as those of a more public kind, will be a right hand to Eunice as she continues on the even tenor of her way, and the sunshine of home to her father and brother James, until some good man discovers the sunshine and bears it away with him to be the illumination of another circle and the centre of another home.

We may see "Mr. James" still the considerate Christian mill-owner, conducting business on the strictest principles of integrity, and treating his employees as though of the same flesh and blood as himself, for whose bodies and souls he is in some measure responsible. And when at length Eunice drops the housekeeping into the hands of "Mrs. James," we may be sure that she, as well as her husband, will continue to "honor God with their substance" and "in all their ways acknowledge him."

If we turn our prophetic gaze upon the Robertson family, we shall find that the mother thereof is gradually exchanging her grumbling and forebodings of evil for hope and thankfulness at the success and good prospects of her children, who are profiting largely by the opportunities afforded them by their uncle's kindness.

While greatly missing her from her home, the mother does not feel Katie's absence as she would have done but for the girl boarders, who, while affording her both society and support, give her such ample occupation that she has little time to realize her loneliness or to indulge in fretfulness. Indeed, Tessa has already forestalled her future position, and become to the widow as a beloved daughter. The sweetness and softness of the Southern girl fit her to take culture and refinement very easily. She quickly assimilates with her surroundings, and models herself upon those she loves and admires—who are, in this instance, Katie Robertson and Etta Mountjoy. From the first, bold, bright Eric has felt the charm of her black eyes, and loved to listen to her soft, foreign accent, and it would not be surprising if, when he reaches the height of his ambition, and becomes either superintendent of the bindery or first foreman of the mill, he should ask Italian Tessa to share both his name and his success. But that is a great way off.

Katie is our first friend. With her character and fortune we have the most to do. It would be nice, did the limits of our volume allow, to follow her into her new school-life, to see how her energy, industry, independence, and cheerfulness go with her, rebuking homesickness, and causing her to make the most of every moment, and the best of every advantage. We should see that her path at school is not all strewn with roses, any more than was that at the mill; that different circumstances bring different temptations and develop different traits of character. We might perhaps find that silly school-girls at first decline to admit on terms of perfect equality one who had "worked for her living," and was, in their not very elegant parlance, "nothing but a mill-girl." Perhaps we might have to chronicle some lonely and sad hours in consequence, and some rebellious feelings hard to be kept down.

But Katie's life is in the keeping of One wise enough to arrange all its discipline, "as it may be most expedient for her," loving enough to sympathize with and comfort her in all times of sorrow and perplexity, and able with every temptation to make also a way of escape.

So, guarded and guided, Katie Robertson will be able to live down all that foolish and proud girls may say about her, and in the end become a favorite, not only with the wise, discriminating teachers, but also with warm-hearted, if wrong-headed, companions. We believe that throughout life, as in its beginning, she will continue to "seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness," and that, as she daily endeavors "in all her ways to acknowledge him," he will "give her the desires of her heart."

————————————————————————————————————

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