## The Project Gutenberg eBook of Rhoda's education

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Title: Rhoda's education

or, Too much of a good thing.

Author: Lucy Ellen Guernsey

Release date: February 26, 2025 [eBook #75471]

Language: English

Original publication: Philadelphia: American Sunday-School Union, 1873

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/75471

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RHODA'S EDUCATION ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

Rhoda's Education.—Frontispiece.
"And she has written over the flyleaves
so that you can't take it back."

[The Boonville Series]

# RHODA'S EDUCATION;

OR,

TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING.

BY

LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY

AUTHOR OF

"IRISH AMY," "COMFORT ALLISON," "THE TATTLER,"
"NELLY; OR THE BEST INHERITANCE," "TWIN ROSES," "ETHEL'S TRIAL,"
"THE FAIRCHILDS," "THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL EXHIBITION," "THE RED PLANT,"
"PERCY'S HOLIDAYS," "ON THE MOUNTAIN; OR, LOST AND FOUND,"
"CLARIBEL; OR, OUT OF PRISON," "JENNY AND THE INSECTS," ETC.

——————————

PHILADELPHIA:

AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION

NO. 1122 CHESTNUT STREET.
——————————
NEW YORK: NO. 8 AND 10 BIBLE HOUSE, ASTOR PLACE.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by the
AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

————————————————— ————————————————
WESCOTT & THOMSON HENRY B. ASHMEAD
Stereotypers and Electrotypers, Philada. Printer, Philada.

CONTENTS.
——————

CHAP.

I. LITTLE BROTHER

II. AUNT HANNAH

III. THE CLOUD GROWS

IV. THE CHANGE

V. A NEW LIFE

VI. MISS BROWN

VII. AFFAIRS AT BOONVILLE

VIII. A NEW HOME

IX. MRS. FERRAND'S

X. SYSTEM

XI. THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP

XII. AN OLD ENEMY

XIII. A NEW FRIEND

XIV. MISS DAVIS'S LETTER

XV. WHAT A BIT OF SOAP DID

XVI. MISS THURSTON

XVII. DOCTOR DOUGLASS

XVIII. SCHOOL

XIX. THE END

PREFACE.
——————

IF this book does not make its own moral plain, it is a failure.
I merely wish to preclude a certain kind of criticism by saying that all the most improbable incidents contained in the tale are literally true. I could point out more than one Professor Sampson, and any manager of an orphan school or any similar institution can relate stories of conduct as heartless as that of Mr. and Mrs. Bowers. I hope the book may be read with profit both by young people and their parents.
LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY.

RHODA'S EDUCATION.
——————

### CHAPTER I.

LITTLE BROTHER.

RHODA BOWERS stood at the east window of her own room, busily engaged in "binding off" the neck of a little baby's shirt—one of a set which had occupied all the spare minutes which she could contrive to spend in her own room for the past few weeks. They were not many, for she had to assist her mother in the housework, and yet she had contrived to knit four little shirts of the softest wool and prettiest design for the new little brother who had lately come to the household. Rhoda had taken great pains with them, and she meant, if her mother could spare her, to go down this very afternoon to Aunt Hannah's and learn of her how to crochet the scalloped edge round the tops.

"How pretty they are!" she said as she bound off the last stitch and held the little garment up before her. "I am so glad Aunt Hannah knew how to make them. I only hope mother will like them. Heigho! I wonder if my own mother used to make any such pretty things for me when I was a baby? How I do wish I could remember the least thing about her! But I don't. It seems to me that the very first thing I recollect is Mrs. Munson feeding me with little bits of cold turkey in the nursery at 'The Home.' I wonder if the old place looks at all as it used to? Some time I think I will ask mother to let me go back there for a little visit. I should like to see them all again. But I dare say it is changed since my time. I think everything and everybody changes in this world." And Rhoda's face clouded a little as she stood looking out of the window, but it cleared up again, and she gave herself a kind of shake, as if to get rid of some incumbrance.

"There, now, Rhoda Bowers! Didn't I tell you never to let such a thought come into your head again as long as you lived? What do you mean by it? Don't you know that it is high time you were off if you mean to see Aunt Hannah this afternoon? And don't you think you would be more like a rational being if you went about your business? Answer me that, now!"

Having given herself this little lecture, Rhoda put her work into her pocket, got her hat, and went down stairs to her mother's room. There was a little fire, though it was a fine, mild day in the fall, and Mrs. Bowers sat by the stove nursing her baby. She was a pretty woman of thirty or thereabouts, and would have been pleasing but for a certain peevishness and, as it were, narrowness of expression which did not promise well.

"Dear little fellow!" said Rhoda, stooping down and kissing the baby. "How he does grow, doesn't he? I am so glad he is a boy. I always did want a little brother. But sister will be almost an old woman before you are grown-up, little man."

"A great many things may happen before he is grown-up," said Mrs. Bowers, on whom Rhoda's remark seemed to grate a little. "I wish you would not be always saying such things and looking forward so, Rhoda."

"Why not?" asked Rhoda. "I think it is so nice to look forward."

"It is a good thing to look backward sometimes," said Mrs. Bowers. "Where are you going now?"

"You know you said this morning that I might go down and spend the afternoon with Aunt Hannah," said Rhoda. "She is going away so soon I may not have another chance."

"Oh, very well. I do not see what you find so very attractive in Aunt Hannah, but I suppose almost any place is better than home."

Rhoda's face clouded again, and she looked as if some sharp answer might be lurking behind her compressed lips. If so, it was not allowed to escape, for she said, gently, though with some apparent effort,—

"I have set the table, and laid the fire all ready to light, and filled the tea-kettle, but I will come back in time to get the tea if you like, or I won't go at all if you want me, mother dear. Don't you feel so well this afternoon?"

Mrs. Bowers looked a little ashamed.

"Yes, child, only I am tired and worried about something. You mustn't mind if I am cross. You are a good girl, Rhoda, and always have been—I will say that, whatever happens. There! Run along and have a good long visit with Aunt Hannah, and stay till dark if you like. As you say, you may never have another chance—not in a good long time, at least; and the old lady has always been a kind friend to you. I only wish, for your sake, she were a little better off."

"Why?" asked Rhoda.

"Oh, because—because she might leave you something one of these days," answered Mrs. Bowers, arranging the baby's dress as she spoke.

"I suppose she is pretty poor?"

"Well, no; she has her place and about three hundred a year."

"How did she come to be left so, when her brother, Uncle Weightman, is so well off?" asked Rhoda.

"I don't know the rights of it," answered Mrs. Bowers. "There were two wills, I know, and by the last one the children were to share alike, but it wasn't signed or witnessed right, or something, and so they went by the first will, which gave everything to Jacob—only this little place and Aunt Hannah's property. But, Rhoda, you must remember not to call him Uncle Weightman to his face. You know he doesn't like it."

"No fear," said Rhoda, laughing; "I don't like him well enough for that. He is so domineering and interfering, I do wonder how father puts up with his ways so patiently."

"Well, he is getting an old man now, and your father is his heir by rights; so he naturally wants to please him. He can make us all rich if he chooses."

"Yes, but he won't choose, you'll see. He will go on saving all his life, and then think to make up by leaving his money to the Bible society or some such thing, and think himself very generous because he gives away his money when he can't keep it any longer. I never can see any goodness in such bequests."

"I don't know about that. But anyhow you must be careful, for your father would be very angry if you should do anything to offend Uncle Jacob."

"I'll be careful, never fear," said Rhoda. "But don't you really want me this afternoon, mother dear?"

"No, no, child. Run along and have a good time while you can."

Rhoda kissed her mother and the baby; and putting on her hat, she walked thoughtfully down the garden, jumped lightly over the rail fence, and took the path across the meadow which led "'cross-lots" to Aunt Hannah's little brown house on the edge of the mill-pond.

Rhoda Bowers was an orphan, but she had never felt the want of a mother's care, as many children do. Till she was seven years old she had lived at the old ladies' "Home" in Milby—an excellent institution founded some thirty years ago by two wealthy old ladies "for the maintenance of twenty widows or single women of good repute who should have passed the age of sixty years, and also, should the funds prove sufficient, of no more than eight poor little girls." The property belonging to "The Home" had greatly increased in value; and as all the funds were properly employed, both the old ladies and the little girls were made very comfortable indeed.

This institution had been Rhoda's home ever since she could remember, till one day Mr. and Mrs. Bowers of Boonville, attracted by her bright gray eyes and pretty curling black hair, had adopted her for their own. Rhoda had been rather homesick at first, but she soon became reconciled to the change, and had found her life as happy as that of most children.

Mr. Bowers lived on a farm about half a mile from the little village of Boonville, and had besides an interest in one of the mills on the Outlet, as the little river was called. He could not be called rich, but neither was he poor. The farm was a good one, and the mill, taking one year with another, was fairly productive. Mr. Bowers owned a nice pair of horses, and his wife dressed well and might have kept a servant-girl if she had chosen. In short, as Aunt Hannah Weightman said, James and Martha were about as well off as anybody in the world, if they could only think so.

But that was just the thing. They could not think so as long as Uncle Jacob Weightman counted his money by hundreds of thousands—as long as Mrs. Bowers's brother-in-law, Mr. Evans, owned one of the finest places in Hobarttown, and Mrs. Bowers's sister had three new dresses to her one, and could go to the springs and the seashore, and even to Europe, every summer of her life if she chose.

Mrs. Bowers fancied that her sister Anne "felt above her," which was not true, and that Anne cared for nothing but the things of this world, which was not true, either; and when Mrs. Evans, who had lost all her own children but one little delicate boy, proposed that Rhoda should spend the winter with her and go to school, Mrs. Bowers refused her consent with some acrimony, saying to her husband afterward that she thought Anne had enough without trying to get Rhoda away from her.

"She just wants Rhoda to wait on that boy of hers," said Mr. Bowers.

"Oh no, I don't think that," answered his wife; "Anne is no hand to save in that way. But she has always liked Rhoda, and she wanted her when we first took the child; but Rhoda isn't going, and that is all about it. She is doing well enough about school here, and I don't want her set up to feel above me."

Rhoda had been a good deal disappointed by this decision:—not that she was at all dissatisfied with her present condition, but she liked Aunt Anne and Uncle Evans, and she wanted to see a little more of the world than was to be found at Boonville; and besides that, she was very desirous of getting a thoroughly good education. She had nearly exhausted the capabilities of the district school, and Mrs. Maynard, the minister's wife, who had kindly undertaken to carry her on farther in her studies, had gone away. Yes, Rhoda would have liked to go to Hobarttown. But the offer had never been renewed, and now Mr. and Mrs. Evans were going to Europe, to be absent three or four years.

It was a disappointment certainly, but there was no help for it, and there was no use in making herself miserable over it, either—so Rhoda argued with herself, very sensibly; so she put away the thought of what she might have done at Hobarttown, and set herself to accomplish as much as she possibly could at home.

There was another cloud which had lately appeared in Rhoda's sky. She had said to herself that this cloud was all in her imagination, or at least was no more than a passing mist. But this afternoon, as she walked across the fields toward Aunt Hannah's, it assumed a more definite shape and consistency than it had ever done before, and she said to herself that she would ask Aunt Hannah about it.

### CHAPTER II.

AUNT HANNAH.

AUNT HANNAH WEIGHTMAN lived in a little red house near the edge of the mill-pond, as it was called, though it was little more than a widening of the Outlet, caused by the dam which supplied Mr. Francis's mills. The situation was a very pretty one. On one side of the house lay Aunt Hannah's garden, green with well-conditioned vegetables and gay with flowers, not only of the commoner but also of the rarer kinds, for she was one of those people for whom everything grows. On the other side lay three or four acres of pasture-land, enough, with some help, to keep Aunt Hannah's white cow, most wonderful of milkers both for quantity and quality, and where grew in their season the finest mushrooms in the country.

The "door-yard" of the little dwelling was crowded with lilacs and other blossoming shrubs; the plain board fence and rough stone walls were covered with Virginia creepers, clematis, and morning-glories, and the turf was so neat and green as to give rise to a report among the school-boys that Aunt Hannah dressed it every morning with a hairbrush and a fine-tooth comb. The house was dark red, with rather dusky and faded green blinds. There were three rooms besides the kitchen below and two above; and as Aunt Hannah had inherited the household goods both of mother and grandmother, there was no lack of solid, respectable, old-fashioned furniture.

"How pretty it looks!" said Rhoda to herself as she came across the pasture and stopped a moment to bestow a pat on old Snowball. "It ought to be put in a picture. One could tell who lived there by the outside of the house. It looks just like Aunt Hannah herself. What lots of button mushrooms! I shall have a fine time with them when my work is done."

As Rhoda drew near the side window, she heard within what boded no good to her pleasant afternoon—namely, the sharp, thin, and growling voice of Mr. Jacob Weightman, Aunt Hannah's brother, of whom she stood in great fear. Now I am aware that very few voices could succeed in being sharp and growling at the same time, but Uncle Jacob's accomplished this feat.

"Oh dear!" thought Rhoda. "There goes my nice visit. He will just stay and scold all the afternoon, I dare say. I wish I hadn't put on my new dress. He will be sure to say something about it. I mean to go round to the back door and wait; perhaps he will go away some time or other."

Rhoda sat down on the step at the back kitchen door, and occupied herself alternately in watching the lights and shadows on the stream and in playing with the white Persian kitten Fuzzyball, which romped about the yard, while her equally white and long-haired mother sat couched by Rhoda's side in all the calm dignity befitting a lady who had come all the way from Bombay.

As Rhoda sat on the step she could not help hearing through the window parts of Uncle Jacob's exhortation.

"It is all nonsense, Hannah," she heard him say, "perfect nonsense, for you to take up so much house-room. The house is arranged just right for two families, and it is too bad to be so extravagant. You could live in the east half, if you must keep house, and rent the other part for a dollar a week. It is quite large enough—quite."

"I don't think so," answered Aunt Hannah, quietly. "I like my house to myself and I never yet saw the roof large enough to cover two families."

"Then there is that cow," continued Art Weightman, disregarding the interruption, "Where is the sense of your keeping a cow?"

"To give milk," answered Aunt Hannah.

"To give milk, indeed!" said Uncle Jacob, in a tone as if Miss Hannah had said the cow was good to read aloud or to calculate the longitude. "As if you wanted a cow to give milk! Why, you can't use more than a quart a day at the outside, and what becomes of the rest, I want to know? I don't hear of your selling any."

Aunt Hannah did not seem to feel obliged to gratify her brother's curiosity, for she remained silent.

"Umph!" said Rhoda to herself. "Perhaps if he should ask Widow Makay and poor old Aunty Sarah, they might tell him something about the milk; though I don't exactly see what business it is of his."

But Uncle Jacob was continuing his lecture:

"The fact is, Hannah, you are no manager at all; you don't know how to save. The right way would be for you to break up housekeeping and board somewhere, for two or three dollars a week, fat and kill that old cow, and rent your house and land. Then it would bring you in a good, handsome sum, whereas now you don't get your living out of it; and you might lay up money every year. Why, you might die a rich woman if you would only be guided by me and take care of things."

"Possibly, Jacob, but I prefer living a rich woman," said Aunt Hannah. "I have enough as it is to make me very comfortable, and to help others a little, and I don't exactly see what good it would do me to die rich, unless I could take my money along with me, which does not seem very practicable. I like to have my own house over my head and my own land around me; and as I have nobody dependent upon me, I don't see that I have any particular motive for saving more money than will serve to take care of me if I should be long sick, and bury me when I am dead; and that I have done already. So you see I feel quite easy on that score."

"You might think of somebody besides yourself," said Uncle Jacob. "There is that boy of John Bowers's."

"Oh, he is likely to be well enough off," said Aunt Hannah. "If I were to save, it would not be for the boy, but for the girl."

"The girl is no relation to you, or them either," growled Mr. Weightman. "She has never done work enough to pay for her board, and she never will. It has all been a piece of nonsense from the taking of her in the first place to the present time. They ought to have taught her to work, and kept her at it, instead of sending her to school and dressing her up as fine as a lady. Why, Mr. Shepherd's bound-girl does more than half the work, and she is only twelve years old. Mrs. Shepherd says she can do quite a large washing now."

Boiling over with indignation, Rhoda jumped up and came into the kitchen, knocking down a pail as she did so and making a tremendous clatter. As she was picking it up, Aunt Hannah opened the inner door:

"Are you there, child. I thought I heard somebody come in a while ago. Have you been sitting here all the time?"

"Yes," said Rhoda. "Aunt Hannah, I didn't mean to listen, but I could not help hearing."

"Never mind, dear; there is no harm done."

"Listeners never hear any good of themselves," said Uncle Jacob, with an ill-natured sneer.

"That depends on whom they listen to, Uncle Jacob," answered Rhoda, in her vexation committing two offences—one in answering at all, and the other in saying "Uncle." "One might listen to Aunt Hannah all day, and never hear ill either of himself or anybody else."

"There! Never mind," interposed Aunt Hannah. "Don't you want to take the basket and see if you can find any mushrooms? They ought to be plenty after the rains last night. There! Never mind, dear," she whispered again, patting Rhoda's hot cheek with her soft withered hand. "Run away a little. It will be all right when you come back, and we will have a nice time together."

From her earliest childhood Rhoda had learned to obey, and she never thought of disputing with Aunt Hannah. She took the basket and went out to the pasture, followed by an exasperating laugh from Uncle Jacob which certainly did not tend to make her cheeks any cooler.

"Impudent little piece!" said he.

"She is not impudent, Jacob," answered Aunt Hannah, with more than common decision, "but she is sensitive and high-spirited, and you provoked her. Rhoda is very far above listening, or tattling, either."

"Of course she is a paragon," said Uncle Jacob, rising and taking his hat; "charity children always are, I believe, according to the Sunday-school books. Well, sister Hannah, I must bid you good-day, since you have so much more agreeable company on hand. If you make up your mind to rent your place, I can find you a good tenant. I advise you to think over what I have said."

"On the contrary, I shall forget it just as soon as I can," thought Aunt Hannah, but she did not say so; being one of those fortunate people who can keep their thoughts to themselves.

She stood looking after her brother for a moment, and then went into her bedroom and shut the door. When she came out, the cloud of vexation had passed from her fair, aged face, though she still looked somewhat sad. She put on a broad hat, and taking a basket, went out to join Rhoda in her search for mushrooms.

In the course of an hour both baskets were filled to the brim, and Rhoda's straw hat besides, and the gatherers returned to the house and sat down in the kitchen, Aunt Hannah tying on a large calico apron over her dress.

"Now I will show you how to do the edge to your shirts, and then you shall finish them while I prepare my mushrooms," said she. "These little buttons will make beautiful pickles, and the large ones will do for catsup. They are the finest we have had this year."

"Isn't it odd," said Rhoda, "that mushrooms growing in the pastures of Lake County should be helping to educate a little girl in China?"

"No more so than that silk grown in China should help to clothe a little girl living in Lake County," answered Aunt Hannah.

"Well, perhaps not. How much money have you made by your mushrooms first and last?"

"I don't know, my dear; I have it all down in a book, but I don't recollect the amount. It varies with different years. Last year was a bad season for the mushrooms, and this is a good one; but I have never failed to make my thirty dollars but once."

"What did you do then?" asked Rhoda.

"I made it up in another way."

"If you had put all that in the bank, now, you would have saved quite a sum by this time," said Rhoda, with a mischievous smile. "Why don't you?"

"I think it is safer where it is," answered Aunt Hannah, dryly. "It would never do for me to begin to save in that way; I should grow too much in earnest about it."

"You, Aunt Hannah?"

"Yes, dear. I am naturally very much in earnest and inclined to persevere in what I undertake; and besides, it is in me to be fond of money for its own sake. I should never dare to make it an object."

"But all rich people are not stingy or mean or grasping, Aunt Hannah. I am sure Uncle Evans is not."

"No, indeed. He is just the man to be rich, for he gives out to all around him. It is not the being rich that hurts people, child remember that; it is the trusting in uncertain riches that makes the entrance hard to the kingdom. It is not money, but the love of money, that is the root of all evil. The world does us no harm so long as we keep it at arm's length. It only hurts us when we let it get inside our hearts, and the poor, and especially folks in moderate circumstances, may do so, perhaps, quite as much as the rich. I know plenty of women in this little village who spend far more time and thought, and, according to their means, more money, on their dress than your aunt Evans does on hers."

Rhoda was silent, thinking that this was the case with her own mother, and wondering whether she were one of the people in moderate circumstances who were in Aunt Hannah's mind. But she quickly dismissed the idea, and began on one of the two subjects which she had, as it were, brought from home to talk over with Aunt Hannah:

"Aunt Hannah, there are two things that trouble me."

"Only two?" asked Aunt Hannah.

"Why, no—only two that I know of," answered Rhoda, considering; "only two of any importance, I believe."

"And one of them, perhaps, is not so very important," said Aunt Hannah. "Are you thinking about what you heard my brother saying this afternoon? You mustn't let that worry you."

"Oh, I don't," said Rhoda; "only I am sorry I offended him. I know he doesn't like to have me call him 'Uncle,' and I am sorry I answered him back. However, I dare say he will never think of it again; I am too insignificant to trouble him."

Aunt Hannah sighed. She was pretty sure her brother would think of it again, and she knew that nothing which crossed his wishes or designs was too insignificant to vex him.

"Since I have guessed wrong, I won't try to guess again. I will let you tell me your two troubles."

"Well, then," said Rhoda, "one of my troubles is about my education. I do so very much want an education, and I don't see how I am ever to get one without going away from Boonville, and I don't see how I go."

"What is 'an education,' Rhoda?" asked Aunt Hannah. "What do you mean by it?"

"Why, an education is—why, going to school and studying—going through a course of study," answered Rhoda, not very clearly. "I know what I mean, but I can't put it into words."

"You don't know whether you know what you mean or not unless you can put your meaning into words," said Aunt Hannah. "Suppose you bring the book on the table and let us see what this same word education really does mean. You will find it in the lower part of the bookcase."

Rhoda brought the volume on "Mental Discipline" from the east room, and running over the pages, found what she sought and read aloud:

"Education, the act of educating; the act of developing and cultivating the various physical, intellectual, and moral faculties; formation of the manners and improvement of the mind; instruction, tuition, culture, breeding."

"There you have it," said Aunt Hannah; "I suppose that is what you want. Now, the question is whether it is necessary to go away from Boonville to obtain it. What do you think?"

"Well, as to my physical faculties, they are pretty well developed already," said Rhoda, smiling. "I fancy I can walk and ride and so on, as well as any girl of my age in the county, and I am not very bad at doing housework; only mother says I forget what I am about."

"Well, how about the others?"

"I think my moral qualities have a good chance enough, considering what a nice home I have and who has always been my Sunday-school teacher," said Rhoda, with a loving glance at Aunt Hannah—"a better chance than they have improved, I am afraid. I wish you were not going away, Aunt Hannah."

"It will be only for a few weeks, my dear. Well, now for the intellectual part."

"Exactly: and there you must admit, Aunt Hannah, that I have very little chance. There isn't one bit of use in my going to school to Miss Smith any more. I only go round and round like a blind horse in a brickyard; only I don't help to make any bricks, that I see. I thought I had it all arranged so nicely, and then Mr. Maynard must go and get a call somewhere else."

"Yes, I was sorry for that. Mrs. Maynard was a very nice woman."

"And really, Aunt Hannah, I don't see how that part of my education is to come about. I should like to learn French and German and Latin, and especially music. I don't think I care so much about drawing and rhetoric and moral philosophy, and all the other things that girls learn in school."

"And I should like to have you. But, Rhoda, you need not be an uneducated person, even if you have none of these things, and you can have some of them as well out of school as in—not as easily, perhaps, but as well."

"How, Aunt Hannah?"

"By studying what you can find to study, and thinking about what you learn."

"There is one of my great troubles," said Rhoda, candidly; "I never can think on purpose—regularly, I mean. I try to do it, and the first I know my thoughts are at the ends of the earth."

"Then you had better begin your education right there, my dear," said Aunt Hannah; "for nothing more important than the art of thinking can be learned at school or anywhere else. Come, now, let me set you a task. I think you mentioned history as one of the things you wanted to learn?"

"It is one, whether I mentioned it or not."

"Very good. Now, I shall be gone about three weeks. You may take home my Rollin, and read about ten pages a day; and when I come home, I will see how much you can tell me about it. You had better take the whole set. You may want to refer from one volume to another.

"And, Rhoda, try to educate yourself in another point. Try to learn to mind what you are about, and to do your best at whatever you undertake, whether it is reading or housework, or anything else, and learn all that comes in your way, if it be no more than a mere piece of fancy-work or a new recipe for cake. You will always find some corner where such things fit in. If you want any other books while I am gone, you can come down and get them. Aunt Sarah will stay here and keep house."

"I wondered what was to become of Molly and Fuzzyball," said Rhoda. "But, Aunt Hannah, though all this is very nice, and I shall like it ever so much, it doesn't help me altogether."

"I know it, child, I understand you exactly, because I have been in the same place. At your age I was as ambitious as you are, and I would have moved heaven and earth, as the saying is, to get just such an education as you want, but it was not for me, and I had to be content without it."

"I am sure nobody would think of your wanting an education, Aunt Hannah," said Rhoda; "I think you know more things than anybody I ever saw. I mean you have more general information, as Uncle Evans says. He was talking about some young man in the college one day, and he said the boy had been to school so constantly that he has never acquired any general information."

Aunt Hannah smiled:

"Well, my dear; I never thought the fact of my having no regular school education was any reason for my not learning all I could, and it need not be so in your case. Make the best of all the opportunities that come in your way, and you will never be lacking, though you may not learn all the things you would wish to know. Above all, don't neglect the things you can do, because you are waiting to do something better. Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with your might; and, my dear, try not to fret or worry about the future, but leave it in the hands of your heavenly Father.

"'Trust in the Lord, and do good.'
"'Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in him; and he shall bring it to pass.'

"Now, what is your second trouble? You said there were two."

"Well, I am not so sure about the second trouble," said Rhoda. "Sometimes I think it is only an imagination. I am afraid I am growing jealous and suspicious, Aunt Hannah."

"That would be a real trouble, certainly," said Aunt Hannah; "but why do you think so?"

"Because, Aunt Hannah, I can't help thinking that father and mother are different to me since the baby has come—that they don't treat me as they used to. There! The thing is out."

Aunt Hannah put down her pan of mushrooms and went into the next room for a moment. When she came back, she asked, quietly,—

"Why, my dear, what makes you think so? Because you have more work to do?"

"No, indeed, Aunt Hannah: that is not it at all," answered Rhoda, rather warmly. "Of course I expect to have more to do, and I only wish mother would let me do a great deal more for her and the dear baby. But I don't know—she is different somehow. She doesn't seem to like to leave me with her as she used to; and, Aunt Hannah, I am sure she does not like to have me call baby my brother. She does not say anything, but I don't think she likes it."

"Are you sure that is not a fancy?"

"I thought it was at first, Aunt Hannah, and I scolded myself for it, but I am quite sure it is so. And—" Rhoda's voice failed, and she winked very hard with both eyes as she bent over her work. "I have tried very hard to put away the thought, Aunt Hannah," she continued, after a little pause, and in a low voice; "I have striven and prayed against it, and I am sure I am not jealous of the baby: dear little fellow! It has troubled me a great deal, so at last I thought I would mention it to you."

"I am glad you have done so, Rhoda, and I will tell you what I think about it as well as I can," said Aunt Hannah. "It often happens in a family that when a new baby comes, the old one has to be turned off and put aside in a good many ways. I think this is the case with you at present. You have been baby a long time, now you are in a manner dethroned, and you must try to abdicate gracefully and be content with the place of elder daughter and sister—a much more responsible and useful position, and in the long run perhaps quite as agreeable."

"I am sure I don't mind, if that is all," said Rhoda.

"We will try to think that is all," said Aunt Hannah, cheerfully. "There are women who can never be just to other people's children when they have little ones of their own, but I do not believe your mother is one of that kind."

"I am sure she isn't," said Rhoda, with emphasis. "There! I believe these are all finished, Aunt Hannah."

"And very pretty they are. Well, my dear, as you are to learn all sorts of things, you know, you may make the fire and put on the kettle; and then, if you will get out the baking things, I will teach you how to make those cream biscuit you like so much, and you may stop on your way home and carry a plateful to Mrs. Makay. Sam likes good things to eat, and they are about the only pleasures he has sense enough to enjoy, poor fellow!"

### CHAPTER III.

THE CLOUD GROWS.

THE biscuits were excellent, and Rhoda greatly enjoyed making and baking them, and afterward milking old Snowball and straining the milk.

"What beautiful rich milk she does give!" said she. "Aunt Hannah, what will you do when she dies? She is growing an old cow, you know."

"I don't borrow trouble about it, child."

"Nor about anything else, do you, Aunt Hannah?"

"Well, no, my dear, not often. I generally find I have enough as I go along. There is no need to look ahead for it."

"I never can see any use in it, anyway," remarked Rhoda. "Either the things one is worrying about don't come to pass, or they are so different from what one expects that all the contriving beforehand is thrown away. I said so to mother, and she told me it was very easy for any one to talk so who did not know what trouble was. But I am sure you know what it is."

"Yes, child, I have had my share: quite as much as I wanted, without borrowing any; and so, I dare say, will you, if you live long enough. Now, my dear, it is time for you to be going. And, Rhoda, I want you to promise me one thing: I am an old woman, and there is no telling what may happen before we meet again. I want you to promise me that, whatever happens, you will never give up your faith in God, and your trust in his goodness. Never think, however he may suffer you to be afflicted, that he can be anything but a tender Father to you. I think you love him, Rhoda, my child?"

Rhoda answered in a low voice, but without hesitation:

"Yes, Aunt Hannah, I am sure I do."

"Then, my dear, will you always remember these verses?

"'He that spared not his own Son, but delivered him up for us all, how shall he not with him freely give us all things?'
"'Be careful for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God.'
"'Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world.'

"I have bought you a new Bible for a parting present," continued Aunt Hannah, "and I have written these verses in the beginning. Remember, whatever happens, that your Lord and Saviour has promised to be with you, that you are not to be anxious, but to let your requests, great and small, be made known unto him, and that your Father's love can never fail to give you that which is best, seeing that he spared not his own Son for you."

"I won't forget, Aunt Hannah. Oh what a beautiful book!—The nicest I ever saw. Just see! It has maps and an index, and all."

"Yes, you will find it very convenient. Now, go along, child, and God bless you!"

Rhoda left her plate of good things at Mrs. Makay's, and then walked rapidly homeward, for it was growing late.

As she entered the parlour she nearly stumbled over somebody who was sitting in the rocking-chair, for the room was quite dark.

"Take care, and mind what you are about, Rhoda!" said her mother. "You do come in, in such a headlong way."

"It is so dark coming in from out of doors," apologized Rhoda. "May I get a light, mother? I have something to show you."

"Yes, do. I have been waiting for you to come."

Rhoda lighted the lamp and came in, bringing it in one hand and her little shirts and her new Bible in the other. As she did so, she saw that the person over whom she had nearly fallen was Mr. Weightman. He laughed in his usual amiable fashion as he saw her look of discomfiture and annoyance.

"You are out rather late, I think, miss," said he. "In my time little girls stayed at home and helped do the work, instead of running about town after dark. But come, let us see this wonderful something."

Rhoda wished herself or Mr. Weightman anywhere else, but there was no help for it now, and she produced the shirts she had made for the baby.

"How very nice and pretty they are!" said Mrs. Bowers. "And how neatly you have made them! See, father, what a pretty present Rhoda has made for the baby! Who taught you, dear?"

"Aunt Hannah," replied Rhoda, her heart beating with pleasure; "but I did every stitch of them myself, and bought the wool with my own money."

"Humph! Your money!" said Mr. Weightman. "Pray, how came you by this money of yours?"

Rhoda was silent till Mrs. Bowers said, rather sharply,—

"Don't you hear, Rhoda? Why don't you answer Mr. Weightman's question?"

Then she said, briefly,—

"It is money my father gave me to spend for a new sash, Mr. Weightman."

"So that was the reason you bought the cheap sash?" said her mother. "I wondered at your changing your mind. I must say it was very nice in you, my dear. But what pretty book have you there?"

"A new Bible Aunt Hannah gave me—just what I wanted. Isn't it pretty?"

"Let me see it," said Mr. Weightman, and Rhoda put it into his hand, feeling as if his touch would profane her treasure.

He turned the book over and over, and then looked at the flyleaf where the price was marked.

"Five dollars and a half!" said he, in a tone of amazement mingled with sorrow.

"Well, if ever! Five dollars and a half! And she might have got one for nothing if she must give it away. Well, I didn't think even Hannah would do such a thing as that. She ought to be put under 'gardeens.'"

Rhoda was boiling over, but she kept silence, and only held out her hand for her precious book, which Uncle Jacob seemed no ways inclined to give up.

"I am sure it was very kind in Aunt Hannah," said Mrs. Bowers, in a deprecating tone.

"Kind? Yes! Wonderful kind! I should like to know what business she has to be so kind, as you call it?"

"She has a right to do what she likes with her own, I suppose," said Mrs. Bowers, with some spirit.

"And she has written all over the flyleaves, so that you can't take it back or exchange it for anything useful," continued Uncle Jacob: "'To my dearest niece and pupil.' Do you hear that, Maria? Rhoda is her dearest niece. Well, I must say I think charity begins at home. I think she might consider her own family a little. But I suppose you are too well off to care what your relations do with their money."

"Will you please give me my book, Mr. Weightman?" said Rhoda, in a voice which expressed more than her words, and holding out her hand for the book.

"Oh ho! So I am Mr. Weightman now, am I?" said he, still retaining the volume, and evidently enjoying Rhoda's irritation. "I was Uncle Jacob this afternoon, I remember."

"It was a mere slip of the tongue, Mr. Weightman," said Rhoda, trying hard to control her temper. "I am sure I should never call you 'Uncle' if I knew what I was saying. Will you please give me my book?"

Mr. Weightman threw it on the table:

"Take it, then, and learn manners from it, if you can. Niece Maria, I wish you joy of your adopted daughter. It is easy to see that she will get on in the world."

"You may go to your own room, Rhoda," said Mr. Bowers; "and another time don't stay away all the afternoon and leave your work for your mother as you did to-night."

Rhoda could not trust herself to speak. She took up her book and retreated, smarting under a sense of injustice such as she had never felt before. It was hard enough to be insulted in that way, but that her father should take part against her, and her mother should not say a word for her—it was almost too much to bear. She retreated to the kitchen, and busied herself in putting away the milk and preparing things for the night till Mr. Weightman went away and Mr. Bowers came into the kitchen.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, harshly. "Didn't you hear me tell you to go to bed?"

"I thought I would put things away," Rhoda began, but Mr. Bowers stopped her. "Oh yes! You thought you would do anything rather than what you were told. You have got to turn over a new leaf, Rhoda, and learn to mind, and not spend all your time running about and reading story-books. And I don't want to hear any excuses or fine speeches. Go to bed, and another time do as I tell you."

Mr. Bowers was a man of moods and tenses; and whatever the mood of the moment might be, he rarely failed to make those about him sensible of the same. Knowing this to be the case, Rhoda thought less of his words than she would otherwise have done. Girl-like, she had a good cry when she got up stairs by herself, but, girl-like, she cried away most of her trouble, and was prepared to take the best view that was possible.

"Father was worried about something," she said to herself. "I dare say Uncle Jacob—I mean Mr. Weightman—had been at him. It will be all right to-morrow. I didn't leave all the work for mother, and she knows I didn't; and anyhow, I am glad she liked the shirts."

But Rhoda did not find it all right on the morrow, nor for a good many succeeding days. She could not tell what was the matter, though she taxed herself in every way to see whether she were to blame, and told herself again and again that she was growing jealous and fanciful; but all was of no use. There was certainly a great change.

Mrs. Bowers alternated between fondness and fretfulness. One day she told Rhoda that she slighted her work, and that she ought to do more about the house; the next perhaps she found fault with her for neglecting her book, telling her that there was no saying how long she might have a chance for study. At times she seemed unwilling to have Rhoda out of her sight, and again she appeared to seek excuses for getting rid her.

Mr. Bowers was almost uniformly cold and repellent in his manners toward her, though he too now and then melted into tenderness, especially once, when Mr. Weightman had been away for several days.

"Father," said Rhoda, taking courage to speak out what was in her mind, "have I done wrong or offended you in any way?"

"No, child, no," answered Mr. Bowers, hastily; "why should you think so?"

"Because you are so different from what you used to be," answered Rhoda. "You don't seem the same person sometimes—not a bit like my father," she added, putting her arms round his neck and sitting down on his knee as she used to do when a child.

Mr. Bowers started as if stung.

"You mustn't let such notions come into your head," he said, kissing her with something of his old affection. "I have been worried about business and other things—no matter what. Nothing that need trouble you."

"I can't help being worried when I see you so different, papa," said Rhoda. "I think you ought to tell me about business now," she added, with a pretty little assumption of dignity. "I am not the baby any longer: I am the elder daughter."

Mr. Bowers's moustache twitched a little, and his voice was somewhat husky as he answered,—

"You are a dear good girl, and always have been, Rhoda. I am sure you have been the same as our own ever since you came to us."

"I never remember that I am not your own unless somebody puts me in mind of it," said Rhoda. "I never think of belonging to anybody else."

"Not even to Aunt Annie?" asked Mr. Bowers. "Didn't you want to go and be Aunt Annie's girl?"

"No, indeed!" answered Rhoda, with emphasis. "I never thought of such a thing. I would have liked well enough to go to Hobarttown to school, because I always have wanted to get a regular education, but that was all. I never dreamed of such a thing as living there. I don't believe you think you have very much of a daughter, papa dear, if you suppose she could want to run away from you as easily as that. I don't believe you would like to have me think you wanted to get rid of me."

Mr. Bowers's mouth twitched again.

"I was only joking, child. There! Run over to the post-office and see whether the mail has come in."

For three or four days all was fair weather with Rhoda once more. Her father was kindness itself, and seemed to seek out ways of giving her pleasure.

"I can't do it," Rhoda heard him say one day in answer to some observations of his wife's. "It would break my heart to part with the girl, and I don't believe it would be right."

"But if it is our duty toward the child?" said his wife.

"I don't believe it is," answered Mr. Bowers, hastily; "I don't believe the child will ever be one bit the better for it."

Rhoda knew she ought not to listen, and turned away, her heart beating between hope and disappointment. Could it be that they were thinking of sending her away to school?

As the time went on, a good many things seemed to confirm this view of the case. Her father had bought a new sewing-machine and a piece of nice muslin, and her mother had set Rhoda to making a new set of underclothing for herself. Her old dresses were all remodelled and several new ones bought, and, in short, her wardrobe was put in perfect order.

Mr. Weightman had returned, and was often at the house, but Rhoda kept out of his way and seldom saw him. When they did meet, he was uncommonly gracious to her; and once, encountering her in a store at the Springs, he actually bestowed upon her a dollar to spend as she pleased, advising her, at the same time, to buy something useful, and not to waste it all upon ribbons and laces.

Rhoda could not help wondering how many ribbons and laces Uncle Jacob supposed that one dollar would buy; but she liked to be friends with everybody, so she thanked him for his present and laid it out upon a box of initial-paper.

### CHAPTER IV.

THE CHANGE.

"MOTHER," said Rhoda one evening at the supper-table, "if we should ever go to the city, I should like to go and see the old ladies' 'Home.'"

Mr. and Mrs. Bowers exchanged glances, and Mrs. Bowers said,—

"How would you like to make a little visit there?"

"I should like it ever so much, though I suppose hardly any one is left in the house that I know, except Miss Carpenter. I wonder what has become of all the children I used to play with? I hope they are all as well off as I am. But, mother—"

"Well?" said Mrs. Bowers as Rhoda paused. "But what?"

"I thought—I hoped, rather—that I was getting ready to go away to school."

"Perhaps you may go to school too," said Mrs. Bowers, again glancing at her husband.

"Perhaps some arrangement may be made for you to board at 'The Home' and go to school in the city."

"Really!" said Rhoda, with sparkling eyes.

"Mind, I said 'Perhaps,'" answered her mother. "If you go to school, you must live somewhere, you know. You can't board at home and go to school in Milby very well."

"No, of course not. But what school shall I attend?—Mrs. Anderson's?"

"We will see about that when you get there. We don't know much about the Milby schools, and shall have to consult somebody. There! Don't be all upset now, but run down to the mill and ask if Mr. Antis is going to Hobarttown to-morrow. I want to send by him if he is."

"Well, Maria, I must say you have a good deal of assurance," said Mr. Bowers when Rhoda had left the room. "I don't see how you could tell such a string of stories with such a straight face."

"I didn't tell any lies," said Mrs. Bowers. "She may go to school, for aught I know, and she may as well think she is going, and let other people think so. It will make less of a talk."

"Well, I wish I could feel sure we were doing right," returned Mr. Bowers.

"I declare, I think you are too bad, Mr. Bowers," said his wife. "You must admit that our first duty is to our own child, and you know what Uncle Jacob said. When we took Rhoda, we did not suppose we should have any of our own; and now that we have, of course the case is entirely altered. I am sure Rhoda has no cause of complaint; and besides, I don't believe she will care very much. You see how pleased she is at the mere thought of going away."

"Yes, of going away to school."

"It would be just the same if she were going away anywhere else. She would rather be at Aunt Hannah's all day long than at home."

"What do you suppose Aunt Hannah will say?"

"I don't know; I am glad she is not here. You know she is going to stay away four weeks longer. Anyhow, you can't help yourself now. You know what Uncle Jacob made a condition, and he never goes back from his word."

"No, there is no help for it now," agreed Mr. Bowers, sighing; "but do get the child ready and have it over as soon as you can."

The next week saw Rhoda and her father on the way to Milby. Rhoda parted from her mother and the baby with many tears, and Mrs. Bowers herself was a good deal affected.

"He will be a great boy before I see him again," said Rhoda as she gave him back into his mother's arms; "but I suppose I shall come back at Christmas, shall I not?"

"That will be just as the teacher thinks best," said Mrs. Bowers. "There! Hurry, child! You will make your father miss the train."

Mr. Weightman met Mr. Bowers and Rhoda on the platform of the station at the Springs, whither they went to catch the train to Milby. "Oh ho! What fine young lady is this?" he asked, glancing at Rhoda's travelling-suit, her neat bag, and strapped-up waterproof. "Where are you going, miss?"

"To Milby, Uncle Jacob—I mean Mr. Weightman," said Rhoda, correcting herself—"to Milby, to school; only I am going to make a visit at 'The Home' first, and perhaps to board there if they will take me."

The old man laughed.

"Of course they will take you," said he, "no doubt of that at all. And so you are going to school, eh? That's a very good idea of your mother's. I hope you will learn all you can. And, pray, is this fine new Saratoga trunk yours too?"

"Yes, sir; papa sent to Hobarttown for it by Mr. Antis."

"And it is full of new clothes, eh? Well, take good care of them. School-girls spoil their clothes very fast sometimes."

"You had better go into the waiting-room and sit down, Rhoda," said Mr. Bowers, who had appeared unaccountably uneasy during this conference. "It is beginning to rain a little."

Rhoda took a seat in the waiting-room, expecting her father would stay with her, instead of which, to her disappointment, he went outside, and walked up and down the platform in earnest conversation with Uncle Jacob.

"Just like him to go and spoil the last time I shall have!" thought Rhoda. "I do hope he won't go to town with us."

The two passed the window, and she heard her father say,—

"It was the least we could do to make everything as easy as possible."

"Nonsense!" was Mr. Weightman's answer. "All useless expense—money thrown away. Let her begin as she is to go on, and learn to depend on herself."

"I sha'n't depend on you, you old bear," thought Rhoda. "I dare say he is trying to persuade papa not to let me go to school, after all. I do wish papa would let him alone and not get mixed up in business with him. I know he doesn't do him any good. He just puts him up to think that nothing is of any consequence but making money and getting rich."

"Here comes the train, Rhoda," said her father, putting his head in at the door. "Come, hurry!"

"Uncle Jacob is not going, is he?" asked Rhoda, in a tone which was louder than prudent.

Mr. Weightman heard her, and answered for himself:

"Oh no, 'Uncle Jacob' isn't going. You won't be plagued with 'Uncle Jacob' again for a good long time, if ever. So you can afford to part friends."

Rhoda coloured, and then took a sudden resolution.

"Good-bye, Mr. Weightman," said she, holding out her hand to him. "I am sorry if I have ever been rude to you, and I hope you will forgive me. I am sure I had much rather be friends with you than not, for I never did you any injury, and I don't believe you ever meant to do me any."

There was no time for Mr. Weightman to answer, if he had been so disposed, for the train came up in a moment, and Rhoda and her father were hurried on board. The cars were delayed a few minutes, and to Rhoda's great, surprise, as she looked out of the window, Mr. Weightman came round and spoke to her.

"Here, child—here is some pocket-money for you," said he, putting a five-dollar bill into her hand. "Take good care of it. Money soon goes when once you change a bill."

Rhoda could not have been more surprised if one of the telegraph-poles had spoken to her. The train started on, and she showed the money to her father, saying,—

"Who ever would have thought of Mr. Weightman's making me such a present?"

"He can be liberal enough when he is in the humour," said Mr. Bowers. "Put the money away; and when you get to 'The Home,' give it to Miss Carpenter to take care of for you. There is another bill to keep it company."

"Just think!" exclaimed Rhoda. "I have really ten dollars of my own. I mean to buy some wool and make baby a nice blanket."

"You will have enough to do without making blankets for baby," said Mr. Bowers. "There! Don't talk to me. I want to read my paper."

Mr. Bowers and Rhoda reached Milby in good time, and took a carriage for "The Home."

"The street looks just as it used to," said Rhoda. "There is the very shop where Mrs. Green used to send me to buy her snuff. And this is 'The Home,' I am sure; but how much larger they have made it!"

"Yes, they built a new wing last fall. Come, child, don't stand staring in the street."

The front hall and reception room looked just as Rhoda remembered them. There was the little table with the register book, the little old, rattling, yellow-keyed piano, and the coloured chalk landscape with the heron standing on one leg in the foreground, just as he did when Rhoda used to wish he would down his other foot and walk away. There was the same pervading smell of roast beef; and when Miss Carpenter came in to welcome them, Rhoda would have said she had on the very same soft gray merino gown and lace handkerchief in which she had last seen her.

The good lady welcomed Rhoda with all possible kindness, but looked rather surprised at the sight of her large trunk and travelling-bag. Rhoda wondered if she had not expected them, but her wonder was cut short by Mr. Bowers rising and asking to see Miss Carpenter in another room for a few minutes.

Rhoda was left alone in the little reception room, where she waited till she was tired. Her father and the matron went into the room opposite, and presently Miss Carpenter came out, and returned with an elderly lady whose face Rhoda seemed faintly to remember. There was another long interval of waiting, which Rhoda endeavoured to shorten by looking out of the window, and by reading the daily paper which lay on the table.

Miss Carpenter had closed the reception room door passing, but after a long hour she heard first the door opposite and then the hall door open and shut; and glancing out, she saw her father leaving the house, apparently in a great hurry. She started forward to speak to him, but before she could reach the door, he had hailed a passing omnibus, and jumping in, was out of sight directly.

"How very strange!" thought Rhoda. But her meditations were cut short by the opening of the parlour door and the voice of the lady whom Miss Carpenter had called saying emphatically,—

"A more utterly heartless proceeding I must say I never heard of. I am only glad he has turned the girl over to us instead of doing worse by her."

Then, as she saw Rhoda standing near, she came forward and took her hand, saying, kindly,—

"And so you have come back to us, little Rhoda, after all these years? I suppose you don't remember me?"

"I remember your face, ma'am, but not your name," answered Rhoda, very much perplexed.

"Well, that is no wonder," said the lady. "Miss Carpenter, you might as well give her a room by herself for the present, as there are several empty. Don't distress yourself, child. You shall have a home here till we know what to do with you, and you may be sure we shall not turn you out."

"I don't quite understand," faltered Rhoda, feeling as if she were in a puzzling dream. "Where has my father gone?"

"She is all in the dark," said Miss Carpenter. "They have not told her anything the matter."

"Is it possible?" said Mrs. Mulford, with more indignation than before. "My dear, what did Mr. Bowers tell you he was going to do with you?"

"He told me I was going to make a little visit here, and perhaps board here and go to school," answered Rhoda. "He said he would settle that when we got here."

"And nothing was said about your adopted parents giving you up—nothing about their returning you on our hands?"

"Giving me up!" repeated Rhoda. "What do you mean?"

"My poor, dear child, it is even so," said Miss Carpenter, tenderly. "They have given you up. Your father says he has a family of his own now, and in justice to them, he cannot keep you any longer. This is your home for the present, and I grieve to tell you that you have no other."

If the solid earth had yawned to swallow Rhoda, she could hardly have been more astounded. And yet in the very first moment, she felt it was all true. A hundred hints, a hundred circumstances, were all explained to her at once. Yes, they had abandoned her. After eight years of care—eight years in which she had almost forgotten that she had ever belonged to any one else—they had left her to the mercy of a public charity.

Her head turned round, and she put out her hand blindly for help. She felt herself supported by somebody, and then the world fled from her and she sank down in a dead faint.

### CHAPTER V.

A NEW LIFE.

FOR many days Rhoda was very ill with a kind of nervous fever, and for many more she lay in her pleasant little room, weak and languid, and so thoroughly depressed that her friends began to fear for her mind. She had every care and kindness, for every one in the house knew her story and felt interested in her, and even Aunty Parsons, who generally resented whatever was done for anybody else as so much taken from herself, expressed the opinion that that girl wasn't half taken care of, and ought to have some real good whisky with cherry bark in it, that being a cordial to which the old lady was much addicted.

A few days after Mr. Bowers left Rhoda at "The Home," he sent her by express a box containing all the books and other possessions she had left behind her at Boonville, together with an envelope containing ten dollars, but not a word of a letter.

Rhoda never asked for news from her former home—never alluded to her adopted parents in any way. She lay quite still, with her eyes closed or gazing out of the window opposite her bed, giving very little trouble and never speaking except when spoken to. All the lady managers had been to see her; and if there were anything in the old sign, Mr. Bowers's left ear must have rung like a chime of bells at the opinions expressed of his conduct.

Rhoda had been at "The Home" about three weeks when she had one day a new visitor. Mrs. Worthington was one of the most active managers of "The Home," but she had been out of town for some time, and this was her first visit to the institution since her return. Of course she heard the whole story over in every room she visited.

"The doctor says she ain't no disease now," remarked Mrs. Josleyn, "but yet she don't seem to get no strength."

"No, and she won't so long as she is coddled up so," said Aunty Parsons, who had grown tired of sympathizing with Rhoda. "She ought to have some real good whisky with cherry bark in it, and be made to get up and exercise, and go out in the fresh air. What's the sense of her lying there when she hain't no disease?"

"It's just the trouble on her mind, you see," said Mrs. Josleyn, who was as sweet as her neighbour was sour. "She's had such trials, poor dear!"

"Her trials ain't nothing to mine," grumbled Mrs. Parsons; "nobody never went and signed away all her property. But if I was ever so much overcome by my troubles, you wouldn't catch Miss Carpenter making no chicken broth for me."

Mrs. Worthington smiled, but made no reply, well knowing from experience that there was no use in it. Mrs. Parsons was one of those people whom one finds it hard to think of as being happy in heaven, since there will be nothing in that locality for them to find fault with.

"In what room is this poor child?" Mrs. Worthington asked.

"She's in twenty-eight—the very room I always wanted; but of course they never would put me in there."

"Because they keep it for sick folks," Mrs. Josleyn.

"Well, and ain't I sick? Have I ever had a well day since I came into this house? But anything is good enough for me."

Mrs. Lambert, the nurse, an experienced and kind-hearted person, confirmed Mrs. Josleyn's opinion:

"Dr. H. says she hain't any disease, and I do really think she would be better for making a little effort, but I don't like to urge her, poor thing! If we could only find something to interest her!"

"Yes, that would be best. I think I will go in and see her."

Rhoda lay on the bed, as she had done for the last three weeks, and turned her eyes listlessly to the door as Mrs. Worthington entered, but they brightened a little as they rested on the visitor's face.

"Ah, little Rhoda!" said Mrs. Worthington, coming to the side of the bed and kissing her. "I think you remember me, don't you?"

"Yes, ma'am," answered Rhoda; "I remember you very well. When we had the measles in the house, just a little while before I went away, you took me over to your house, and let me stay two or three days. I remember how we played under the big tree in the back yard—Cathy and Rosy and I—and how the boys let out their rabbits. I suppose Cathy and Rosy are grown-up young ladies now."

And then, catching Mrs. Lambert's warning glance, she faltered, and said, "Oh, I am so sorry!"

"Never mind, dear; you have not hurt me at all. I like to hear you talk about them," said Mrs. Worthington. "Yes, they are all gone—Cathy and Rosy and the boys. We have a lonely house now, Rhoda. Poor Miss Smith is not troubled by the noise in our back yard any more."

"I remember how she came out and scolded us when we were playing 'king's land,'" said Rhoda; "and then, when Cathy cried, she went in and brought out a great plate of little almond cakes for us. Is she alive yet?"

"Oh yes; she is just the same as ever. She gave me a great deal of efficient help in John's last illness."

"Your house must seem very lonely," said Mrs. Lambert.

"Yes, it does indeed," said Mrs. Worthington, sadly. "It sometimes seems as if I could not go on living there, especially as Mr. Worthington has to be away so much. But I must keep a home for him, you know," said the bright little woman, brushing away the drops from her eyelids. "When it gets so that I can't bear it any longer, I just put on my bonnet and run away up to the hospital or over here and stay all the morning, and I always go home feeling cheerful again."

"Well, I will leave you with Rhoda a while," said Mrs. Lambert. "I have my hands full, now that Miss Brown is so helpless, though the old lady makes me very little work, considering—not half so much as some who are better able to wait on themselves. The other night I had just laid down, after being on my feet till nearly one o'clock, when, just as I was dropping off to sleep, Miss Martin screamed out to me from the top of the house that she was dying and wanted a cup of tea directly. You might have heard her down to the college, I am sure."

Rhoda laughed—a faint little ghost of a laugh:

"And was she?"

"Bless you, no, child—not near so much like dying as you were. I remembered how she had eaten stewed peaches at the supper-table, and I wasn't at all scared. So I just mixed some essence of ginger and took it up to her, and she was asleep again in half an hour."

"Was I really in any danger of dying?" asked Rhoda. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Where would have been the use when you were not able to think clearly, and when you were so weak that the mere telling might have made all the difference? But I really must go. Mrs. Worthington, you mean to stay and take dinner with us, don't you?"

"Oh yes; I have come for all day," said Mrs. Worthington, producing her tatting from her pocket. "I will sit here and take care of Rhoda a while."

After Mrs. Lambert had left the room, Rhoda lay for some time silently watching the motions of Mrs. Worthington's fingers. Then she sighed deeply.

"What are you thinking of, dear?" asked Mrs. Worthington.

"I was thinking about your little girls, and about myself," answered Rhoda, sighing again. "I was wondering why I didn't die when I was so sick."

"Shall I tell you what I think was the reason, Rhoda?"

"If you please."

"I think it was because your work in this world is not finished," said Mrs. Worthington.

Rhoda raised herself on her pillow and looked interested.

"I don't exactly know what you mean," said she. "Tell me, please."

"I think, my dear, that our heavenly Father has placed us here and given to each his or her allotted task, and that he keeps us here till we have finished it. Or to change the figure, this life is a kind of school-room in which we have each our lessons to learn. Some are hard, some are easy, but we must stay in the school-room till we have learned them as well as we are able. Then he lets us go home. My dear girls finished theirs very early. Mine, you see, takes longer, and yours are not done yet, though you have, as I may say, seen the door opened. You have your education to complete, and so you must stay."

Rhoda sighed again. The word "education" had sad associations for her.

"I thought I was going away to school when I came here," said she. "Mother—I mean Mrs. Bowers—told me so, and I never guessed at anything else. If they had only told me, I don't think I should have minded so much. I wonder if Aunt Hannah thought of it?" she continued, musingly. "I wonder if she thought it probable, and that what made her choose those texts to write in my Bible?"

"What texts?" asked Mrs. Worthington.

"Aunt Hannah gave me a Bible when she went away to the West, and she wrote some texts in it. She made me promise never to forget them. The Bible is there on the table, I believe."

Mrs. Worthington took up the book and read the passages which Miss Weightman had written on the blank leaves.

"These are precious words," said she. "I hope they have comforted you?"

"I am afraid they haven't," answered Rhoda, frankly. "Somehow, I haven't been able to think of anything comforting, only of how I have been treated."

"Ah, my poor child, that is an unprofitable subject of thought. Tell me, have you found grace to forgive Mr. and Mrs. Bowers?"

"No, I haven't—I can't!" said Rhoda, in great agitation. "It is not in human nature to forgive such an injury."

"Our Father requires us to do a great many things which are not in human nature," said Mrs. Worthington.

"I think that is very hard," said Rhoda.

"That depends," returned her friend. "If I give a boy, say, a Latin lesson which is quite beyond his power, and leave him to do it alone, without help, you would say that was very hard?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"But if I give him the same lesson, and say to him, I know very well that you cannot do this alone, but here are lexicons and grammars and commentaries and a translation, and, moreover, I will myself sit down with you and help you over the hard places, would not that alter the case?"

"It certainly would," answered Rhoda. "The boy would have no cause to complain."

"Well, just so our Lord deals with us. He gives us tasks far beyond sour natural powers, but he affords us every help—his word, his example, and his life; and he himself is ready to be with us and help us by his presence and his strength.

"'I am with you alway, even to the end of the world,—'

"I see is one of Aunt Hannah's verses.

"'I can do all things through Christ, which strengtheneth me,—'

"said the apostle, and he might well say so. You can no more make yourself forgiving than you can make yourself well and strong, but you can put yourself into the hands of One who can make you so if you really, honestly desire it."

"I'm afraid that has been the thing," Rhoda. "I haven't felt as if I wanted to forgive. It seems to me—"

"It seems to you a terrible wrong, and so it is," said Mrs. Worthington, as Rhoda paused. "I can hardly think of a greater. They promised to take care of you as their own, and they had no more right to turn you off than if you had been born to them. The first thing you have to do is to ask for the will to forgive; the rest will come in time. You might be worse off than you are here."

"Yes, indeed. Everybody is so kind to me."

"Well, there is one thing to be thankful for, at all events. You may be sure we shall not turn you off. I won't talk to you any more now, but I shall come to see you again. Try to get well as soon as you can."

So saying, Mrs. Worthington kissed Rhoda and went away, leaving the Bible lying open on the bed.

Rhoda took it up and turned the leaves over, reading here and there a passage which she found marked by Aunt Hannah's pencil. Then she lay still a long while with closed eyes and clasped hands, and at last she fell asleep.

She was waked by Mrs. Lambert's coming in with her dinner.

"Is it dinner-time? What a nice sleep I have had!" said Rhoda, rubbing her eyes.

"Good!" said Mrs. Lambert, depositing her tray on the table and bringing a basin of fresh water to the bedside. "If you begin to fall asleep in the day-time, you will sleep at night. Don't you want to wash your face? How do you feel?"

"Better," answered Rhoda, bathing her eyes. "I believe I could sit up and eat my dinner."

"Mrs. Worthington has done you good, I guess," said the nurse, arranging the rocking-chair and helping Rhoda to rise. "She is a real comfort in a sick-room or where any one is in trouble."

"She must have seen a great deal of trouble herself," remarked Rhoda, "losing all her children so. I remember Cathy and Rosy so well—such nice pretty little girls with such red, round cheeks."

"Yes, they all seemed healthy, but they pined and died one after the other. John lived to be a young man in college, and it did seem as if he would be spared, but he fell into a decline and died like the rest."

"And yet she seems so cheerful!" said Rhoda. "I don't see how she can."

"I expect she has to be," remarked Mrs. Lambert. "People that have had such great troubles can't afford to nurse and pet them all the time; they would go crazy if they did. Besides, Mrs. Worthington is always looking out for chances to help and comfort other people, and so she gets helped and comforted herself.

"'He that watereth shall be watered also himself,—'

"you know the good book says. Do you think you are going to be able to sit up?"

"Oh yes I feel a great deal stronger," said Rhoda.

Nevertheless, when Mrs. Lambert came up for the tray, she found her patient quite ready to lie down again.

"I thought I was going to be ever so smart, but I got tired very soon," said Rhoda. "I wonder how I came to lose my strength so?"

"You have been very sick, child; and besides, you had a dreadful shock. It was enough to kill you, I am sure. Can I do any more for you?"

"No, thank you; only, please, will you ask Mrs. Worthington to come in a minute before she goes, if it isn't too much trouble?"

"Oh, she won't think it a trouble. She is sitting with Miss Brown."

"Did you say Miss Brown was sick? I suppose it is the same Miss Brown I remember—the one who always had a little dog?"

"Yes, the very same. She has had a bad fall and broken her leg above the ankle, and Doctor H— says she won't walk again in a good while, if ever. She is an old lady, you see. She is confined to her bed, of course; and as she can't read much lying down, it is pretty dull for her."

"I want to tell you one thing, Mrs. Worthington," said Rhoda when that lady entered: "I don't want you to think that Mr. and Mrs. Bowers ever abused me. They were always as good to me as they could be till the baby was born, and even after that, though they never were quite the same."

"I understand," said Mrs. Worthington.

"I suppose they have never been heard from," said Rhoda, wistfully. "Do they know I have been sick, I wonder?"

"Yes; Mrs. Mulford wrote, but she never had any answer, except that Mr. Bowers sent a box of things for you, and also some money. I am afraid there is nothing to hope for in that quarter, my child."

"I am sure there is not," said Rhoda. "I don't think I should go back, even if they wanted me. I do want to forgive them, and I think I shall, but I can't feel as if I wanted to see them again. But I don't wish people to think them worse than they are."

### CHAPTER VI.

MISS BROWN.

"HOW is Miss Brown?" asked Rhoda, one morning, as Mrs. Lambert brought her breakfast. She had been dressed two or three days, and had even gone down to tea the night before, but it was not thought advisable for her to attempt too much at once.

"Well, she is better, so far as the pain goes, but she has pretty dull times, poor old soul! If it was some of the folks, they would fret their heads off; and mine too, but she isn't one of that sort. She never complains."

"I was thinking I might go in and sit with her, if you think she would like to see me," said Rhoda. "I could wait on her and get what she wants, and perhaps read to her."

"Oh, my dear, if you could! It would be a great comfort and save me ever so much trouble. There are so many sick now; and so much to see to, that I have to be here and there and everywhere at once."

"I feel as if I ought to begin doing something," said Rhoda; "I have been waited on long enough. I never knew how much I was in the habit of doing for myself till I was so weak I couldn't walk across the room. Do you know, Mrs. Lambert, I never was confined to my bed a day in all my life before this time? I feel as if I had learned a great deal—as if I had learned how to feel for other people as I never did before."

"Then you have been sick to purpose," said the nurse. "A great many people are sick all their lives and never learn as much as that. But come, eat your breakfast, and then we will go and see Miss Brown."

Miss Brown lay in bed in her pretty neat room with her little black dog beside her, looking so little changed that it seemed to Rhoda as if she had seen the old lady for the last time yesterday, instead of nearly nine years before.

"Rhoda has come to sit with you a while," said Mrs. Lambert. "You remember her, don't you?"

"Oh yes," said Miss Brown, evidently very much pleased. "You have grown into a woman, my dear, but you keep your child's face wonderfully. I should have known you anywhere."

"And I am sure I should have known you," said Rhoda. "You have not changed a bit, nor the room, either. I believe I could tell now exactly which books have pictures in them. I should almost think that dog was old Beauty, though I suppose that can hardly be."

"Oh no; Beauty died several years ago. This is one of her puppies, and she is growing an old dog too. That is the worst of dogs. They will grow old and die."

"I suppose if they lived thirty years, it would be all the harder to part with them," observed Rhoda. "Anyhow, I would rather people should die than they should do some other things."

"Yes, 'a dead sorrow is better than a living one,' the old proverb says. I have always that feeling about the deaths of people that I love, especially young people. They are so safe. They never can change for the worse. But come, sit down and make yourself comfortable, child. What can I find to entertain you?"

"I came to entertain you, and not to be entertained," said Rhoda, smiling. "Shall I read to you? I like to read aloud."

"Yes, do, if you please. There is a new magazine on the table with some interesting articles in it. Mrs. Campion sent it in yesterday."

"Mrs. Campion!" repeated Rhoda. "Don't I remember her? Didn't she have a little girl named Rose?"

"Yes, an adopted child."

"What has become of her?"

"Oh, she is a fine young lady, and is going to be married, they tell me. Mrs. Campion has several others, but Rosy has always been the pet, I think."

Rhoda sighed deeply, but said nothing. She read for a long time, till Miss Brown said,—

"There! That will do. I am sure you must be tired. Besides, I want to ask you about some people I used to know in Boonville—the Weightmans. Hannah Weightman was one of my intimate friends when we both went to the Phelps academy fifty years ago. Is she alive, do you know?"

"Aunt Hannah Weightman? Yes, indeed—at least she was a few weeks ago," said Rhoda.

"Why do you call her aunt?" asked Miss Brown.

"She was Mrs. Bowers's aunt, you know," said Rhoda; "I was always taught to call her so. She was my Sunday-school teacher all the time I lived in Boonville. Oh, what would I give to see her?" said Rhoda, her eyes filling with sudden tears. "Oh, I wonder what she said when she came back and found me gone?"

"Then she did not know of it—of this change, I mean?"

"No, ma'am, she was away. I don't believe it would have happened if she had been at home. And yet I don't know. She never had half as much influence as Uncle Jacob, though she is so good and knows so much. Uncle Jacob don't know about anything but money, and don't care for anything else, but everybody gives way to him because he is rich. No, not everybody, either, but some people do. I heard Jeduthun Cooke say to him,—

"'Mr. Weightman, I'd rather be Sammy Makay than you any day.'

"You see, Sammy is a kind of natural, but just as good as he can be.

"'I'd rather be Sammy than you,' said Jeduthun, 'whether you take it now or a hundred years from now.'

"Oh how angry Uncle Jacob was! He tried to make Mr. Francis discharge Jeduthun, but Mr. Francis would almost as soon burn down the mills."

"And what did Uncle Jacob say to your coming away?" asked Miss Brown, with an appearance of interest.

"I believe it was all his fault," said she. "He never could bear me when I first went there, and I remember his saying he wouldn't let that poorhouse girl call him 'Uncle.' I didn't think so much of it at the time; but now that I think matters over, I can see that it was his doing. He never could bear to have Aunt Hannah give me anything, and I know he made Mr. and Mrs. Bowers think he wouldn't leave them or the baby any money unless they sent me away. Mother—Mrs. Bowers, I mean—used to be always talking about the money he had, and how he could make baby rich. I told her one day that he wouldn't do it—that he would go on saving all his life, and then leave his property to some charity at last by way of making amends."

"It is likely enough," said Miss Brown, sighing. "Is his wife living?"

"Oh no; she died long ago."

"What kind of woman was she?"

"I asked Aunt Hannah once, and she said,—

"'Harriet was one of the salt of the earth, if she had only been in the right place.'

"Afterward mother told me that Aunt Harriet was an open-handed, liberal woman, but that she and her husband were not happy together. Did you know Mr. Weightman?"

"Yes, I knew him when we were all young together," answered Miss Brown, sighing again, "though he is several years older than I am. My dear, have you written to your aunt since you have been here?"

"No, ma'am," answered Rhoda, rather proudly; "I waited for her to write to me."

"And has she not done so?"

"No, ma'am, not a word."

"Perhaps—it is just possible she does not know where you are," said Miss Brown. "Miss Carpenter told me that when you left home you thought you were coming to school. Isn't it just possible that the same idea may have been carried there?"

"And that Aunt Hannah thinks I am at school all the time?" said Rhoda, starting and dropping her book. "I dare say she does. And yet it would be so mean, I don't like to think they would do so."

"Nevertheless, I would write to her," said Miss Brown, thinking at the same time that the people who would play such a trick on an orphan child would be none too good to save appearances for themselves in the same way. "She may be wondering why you do not write to her."

"Yes, it must seem very strange if she thinks I am at school, and—Why, of course she does," exclaimed Rhoda. "How silly I am! I wrote to her that they were thinking of sending me to school in Milby, but it was not settled yet. But would you tell her all about it?"

"I would. Truth is always best in the end, and she will be sure to hear it somehow. Besides, you owe it to her. But don't write to-day. You are tired and excited, and must not undertake too much at once. Lean back in the chair or lie down on the couch and rest a while."

"May I bring my writing things in here, Miss Brown?" asked Rhoda the next day, coming into Miss Brown's room with her desk in her hands.

"Yes, do, my child. Are you going to write to your aunt?"

"Yes, ma'am. I have been considering about it, and I asked Miss Carpenter, and she said I should write by all means."

"You can take that little table by the window," said Miss Brown. "I like to have you sit where I can see you. What a pretty little desk you have!"

"It was given me last Christmas," said Rhoda, sadly. "I little thought then where I should be when Christmas came round again."

"We can none of us tell that, my child."

"I asked mother whether I should come home at Christmas, and she said it would be just as the teachers thought best," said Rhoda, after she had finished her letter, taking out her work and sitting down in the arm-chair by the bed. "I don't think I ever was happier in my life than I was that very morning. I was so pleased with the thought of going to school, for I had set my heart on having a good education. But that is all over now," she added, sighing. "I must put it all out of my head."

"Why?" asked Miss Brown.

"Because I never shall have any chance," answered Rhoda. "I suppose I shall have to go to work and earn my own living."

"That need not prevent your getting an education," said Miss Brown. "If I were you, I would set my heart on it more than ever, and improve every chance I had. You need not be uneducated because you don't go to school. Mrs. Thomas Conroy, who used to have the charge of Miss Dickey's orphan asylum, was one of the most cultivated women I ever knew, and she never went to school after she was twelve."

"But what chances shall I be likely to have?" asked Rhoda, doubtfully.

"Plenty of them," answered Miss Brown, smiling. "You are likely to have your home here for some time—at least as long as there are so many sick and helpless. Why shouldn't you learn some lessons and recite them to me as I lie here doing nothing?"

"That would be delightful," said Rhoda, with a little of her old animation; "only I am afraid it would give you too much trouble."

"On the contrary, it would be a great amusement to me," said Miss Brown. "Oh no; don't give up the idea of an education, but make up your mind to improve every opportunity you have, be it ever so small, and you will be sure to succeed."

"One can do a good deal in that way," said Rhoda. "I learned all the music I know by practising on Fanny Badger's piano when I was up there."

"Then you can play a little?"

"Yes, ma'am—several pieces; and I have played in Sunday-school sometimes, but I suppose I shall lose it all. I wonder," exclaimed Rhoda—"I wonder whether I might practise sometimes on the little piano down stairs? I don't believe I should hurt it; do you?"

"I should say there was very little danger," answered Miss Brown, dryly. "You can ask Miss Carpenter about it. There is a lady in the house—Miss Wilkins—who plays the piano. I dare say she might help you along with your music. Meantime, let us talk a little about these same lessons. Tell me what you have studied."

The lessons were arranged without any trouble. Miss Brown produced a good collection of solid, old-fashioned books, remains of her father's library, and she was herself a well-educated woman, who had read much and thought more. Rhoda was to learn a geometry lesson every day, and to continue her readings in Rollin, which she had brought away with her, and Miss Brown, who had a reverence for the wisdom of our ancestors, set her to writing out the exercises in Lindley Murray's English grammar.

Miss Carpenter was at first a good deal startled by the proposition that Rhoda should use the piano and take lessons of Miss Wilkins, and would give no answer till she had consulted Mrs. Mulford.

Mrs. Mulford was rather surprised and amused, but could see no objection.

"We have everything else at 'The Home,' and I don't know why we shouldn't have a few music-lessons," said she. "It will amuse poor Miss Wilkins, and can do the child no harm that I can see."

"It may make some talk," said Miss Carpenter. "I know remarks have been made because some of the old ladies go in and out of the front door. They say it shows such a spirit of pride in people who are living on charity."

"They may as well say that as anything else," said Mrs. Mulford. "If they didn't come in at the front door, we should hear of the oppression exercised in making them go round the back way."

So it was all settled. Miss Wilkins got out her old instruction-books, and revived her own knowledge in teaching Rhoda. She was a gentle, cultivated woman, the daughter of an English clergyman, who, after a life of governessing in different places, had drifted into this safe haven to spend the rest of her days. She was sometimes rather shocked, and even a little alarmed, at the boldness of Rhoda's opinions and the freedom with which she expressed them, but she soon learned to love her pupil, who loved her heartily in return, and respected her as well, for Rhoda was one of the happy people who are capable of respect; and the two did each other a great deal of good.

Rhoda posted her letter to Aunt Hannah and after waiting a week or two she wrote again, but she never received any answer. Why she did not we shall learn in the next chapter.

### CHAPTER VII.

AFFAIRS AT BOONVILLE.

WHEN Aunt Hannah came home, which she did about three weeks after Rhoda's departure, her first question Was about Rhoda.

"She wrote me she was going to school in Milby," she said to Jeduthun Cooke, whom she had met at the station, and who had offered to take her home in his buggy.

"Oh, she did?" said Jeduthun, in something like a tone of relief. "Well, I'm glad to hear you say so. It's all right, then."

"All right? What do you mean, Jeduthun? Of course it's all right. What should be wrong?"

"Oh, nothing," said Jeduthun. "I thought all the time it was nothing but talk; but some of the folks over at the Springs, and even at Boonville, say that it is all stuff about her going to school—that John Bowers just took her to 'The Home' where he got her first and left her there."

"I dare say he did," answered Miss Weightman. "Rhoda told me in her letter that there was talk of her boarding at 'The Home' till she could find some other place."

"Oh, well, I dare say it's all right. I hope so, I'm sure, for Rhoda is as nice a girl as ever lived, and I'd hate to think John Bowers would do such a mean thing. Here comes Uncle Jacob now."

"So you've caught a ride, I see," said Uncle Jacob. "I calculated to meet you, but I had business that kept me a spell, and this old horse hain't got any go in him. I don't see what ails him."

"I do," said Jeduthun, who stood no ways in awe of the rich man, and knew his own value too well to be afraid of consequences; "I can see it right through his ribs. Put some oats into him, Mr. Weightman; that's the best medicine for his disease."

"You might as well go on since you have got started," said Mr. Weightman, not noticing Jeduthun's remark on his steed. "I've got business over at the Springs, and may not be home till dark."

"I guess you won't, according to appearances," chuckled Jeduthun. "I sha'n't charge her anything for the ride, you may be sure," alluding to a current story that Mr. Weightman had once asked a poor woman to ride to the Springs with him and then charged her two shillings.

"I suppose one way the story got out about Rhoda was this," remarked Jeduthun, after they had gone on a little way in silence: "Mr. Badger, at the post-office, remarked that nobody got letters from Rhoda. You see she promised to write to Fanny Badger and Flora Fairchild and two or three of the girls, and they kept coming after letters, and didn't get any.

"'It's very strange, pa,' says Fanny one day.

"'It ain't any more strange than that she don't write to her own folks,' says Mr. Badger, 'and they hain't had one letter from her since she went away: I know Rhoda's writing,' says he, 'and I know there hasn't been one.'

"Then at that minute, Mr. Bowers came in, and Flora Fairchild, she asks him when he had heard from Rhoda.

"And he colours up, and says, 'Well, not very lately. I expect she don't have much time to write letters.'

"And he turned and was going away without his mail, till Mr. Badger called him back, he seemed so kind of confused. And the next day Aunty Fairchild was over to the Springs, and she heard it from some one that knew her that Rhoda was living at 'The Home.' But if she is boarding there to go to school, it's all right, of course."

"Of course," echoed Aunt Hannah, but she did not feel perfectly easy. She said to herself half a dozen times during the five miles' ride that it was all nonsense—that John and Maria never would do such a thing in the world, and it was a shame even to think it of them; but she felt all the same that it would be a great comfort to hear from themselves that Rhoda was well and happy at school.

Her adopted grand-niece had crept very near the old woman's warm heart during these last years. She had done more to form Rhoda's mind than any one else, and she understood the girl far better than her adopted parents.

"It would kill the child or drive her to something desperate," she said to herself; "but it can't be. I am an old fool, and am just worrying myself for nothing."

Nevertheless, when she at last reached home, her first inquiry of Aunt Sarah for the Bowers family and Rhoda.

"Oh, Rhoda; well, I don't know," answered the old woman. "They tell all kinds of stories, but I dare say there isn't no truth in 'em. Some say she has gone to school—some say Bowers has took her back to 'The Home,' or done worse. I don't know nothing about it. I've asked Mis' Bowers two or three times, but she always seems dreadful shy of saying anything about Rhoda. The girl herself thought she was going to school, I know, for she came down here and told me so the night before she went away.

"'What school are you going to?' says I.

"'I don't know,' says she. 'Pa says he can't tell till he gets there,' says she.

"Well, I thought that was queer too, not to know where she was going to school, but I never thought no more about it till I heard these stories."

"I can't think there is anything in the stories," said Aunt Hannah. "It is just village talk. Have any letters come for me?'

"Yes, a lot. Here they are in this drawer. I've been to the office every day."

Aunt Hannah looked them over.

There was one from the grocer who bought her catsup and pickles every year, one or two from missionary friends and others, but no letter from Rhoda.

"There must be something wrong," she said to herself; "and yet perhaps she is waiting to hear that I have got home."

"The Bowerses are all gone away and their house is shut up," said Aunt Sarah, "but I heard Kissy Cooke say they was coming home Saturday. Hasn't the kitten growed?"

The days went on, and still no letter came from Rhoda, but on Saturday, Keziah Cooke stopped in and brought one.

"John Bowers has got home," said she; "I've just been up and opened the house for them, and I stayed to get tea, for the baby ain't very well, and Mrs. Bowers seemed kind of beat out. I was coming by the office, and Mr. Badger handed me that letter for you. It's from Rhoda, ain't it?"

"Yes," said Miss Weightman.

She opened the letter as she spoke and reading a few lines, she dropped the paper and clasped her hands with such a look of pain and distress that Keziah sprang to catch her, thinking she was going to faint.

"There! Sit down and let me get you a glass of water," said she. "What is it? Is she dead?"

"No, no!" said Miss Weightman as soon as she could speak. "I could almost wish she were. Keziah, they have turned the poor girl off—sent her back to 'The Home.' She thought to the last minute she was going to school. She has been very sick, she tells me, and is only now getting about again."

"Well," said Keziah, with emphasis, "I know one thing: I wouldn't be in their place for something. If they don't bring a curse on themselves and their child, I don't know anything. And she all the same as their own for so many years. Poor dear! No wonder she was sick. I hope the folks were kind to her."

"She says they were," said Aunt Hannah, recurring to the letter. "She says she was very low—that they thought she would die, and wrote to Mrs. Bowers, but had no answer. She has found a friend in one of the old ladies. Dear me! To think of Anne Brown being in a 'Home.' She was very well off in a house of her own the last I knew of her.

"'She has been very kind to me, as has everybody else,' Rhoda writes. 'She thinks I had better tell you all about it. Oh, aunty, do come and see me if you can.'"

"You will go, won't you?" said Keziah.

"Indeed I shall, and bring the child home with me," said Aunt Hannah. "While I have a roof over my head, that child shall never be dependent on a public charity. I will go to-morrow."

"Jeduthun is going over to Shortsville, and can take you to the train as well as not, if you don't mind an early start," said Keziah, full of kindly sympathy, and at the same time not insensible to the pleasure of having authentic news of Rhoda to tell Mrs. Antis and her other friends. "Well, I never could have believed that of Mrs. Bowers. I wonder whether Rhoda did anything to displease them? I always thought she was one of the steadiest, piousest, best young girls in the whole town. I know, when she joined church last winter, Mr. Maynard said he never seen a young girl of her age that seemed to have a more realizing sense of religion than she had. Well, when her father and mother forsake her, the Lord 'll take her up. He don't never get tired of his adopted ones; that's one comfort, ain't it?"

"It is indeed," said Aunt Hannah. "I am sure Rhoda is one of his little ones. Just now I must say I feel worse for John and Maria than for the child. She will have a home with me as long as I live, and it will go hard but I will contrive to educate her, so that she can provide for herself when I am gone."

"Where are you going now?" asked Keziah as the old lady went into her bedroom and came out with her bonnet on.

"I am going up to see Maria," answered Aunt Hannah. "I must know the whole story before I sleep. Remember, we have only heard one side as yet."

"I'm afraid there ain't but one side to hear," said Keziah. "I know I wondered to see how confused and kind of angry Mrs. Bowers seemed every time anybody asked her about Rhoda. Poor thing! No wonder she didn't write to any of the girls. I'll walk with you, Miss Hannah, if you don't mind."

For as Keziah said when speaking of it next day, "I mistrusted the old lady might want help. I didn't like her looks. She was just as gray as ashes for a while and when her colour came again, it was all on one side of her face. She was getting an old woman, you see, and her heart was dreadful set on Rhoda."

"Why, Aunt Hannah! Who expected to see you here so soon?" said Mrs. Bowers as her aunt entered.

"Maria," said Miss Weightman, without any reply to the greeting, "what have you done with Rhoda?"

"Rhoda? Oh, she is at school," answered Mrs. Bowers, trying very unsuccessfully to speak as if nothing were the matter. "You know she always wanted to go to school."

"Don't lie to me, child!" said Aunt Hannah, so sternly that Maria started and turned pale. "I know that she is not at school. I have just had a letter from her. What has she done that she is turned off in this way?"

"I never said she had done anything," answered Mrs. Bowers, beginning to cry. "I think it is too bad if I am to be called a liar in my own house. I am sure I never said one word against Rhoda; but when we had one of our own, it was different. And Uncle Jacob was always at us about her, and he said we needn't expect anything from him unless we would be guided by him; and an adopted child isn't the same as one's own."

"It is, if possible, a more sacred charge," said Aunt Hannah. "Oh, Jacob, could not you be satisfied with destroying your own soul without bringing on yourself and these the curse of the orphan?"

"I am sure it was all his fault," whimpered Mrs. Bowers; "and we had a right to do it. And the ladies at 'The Home' treated John shamefully. And I think Rhoda ought to be ashamed to abuse us so."

"She has not abused you, nor will she do so, Maria; but the punishment will surely come, I fear. The wealth for which you and your husband have sold yourselves will eat as a canker if ever it is yours. You are bound—sold under sin, and the wages of sin is death. You have cast off the child you solemnly promised to cherish as your own. Do you think your boy will be the better for it? Do you think, if you were taken away, you would like to have him turned over to public charity? You and your husband have committed a grievous sin; and unless you repent, your sin will rise against you in the judgment day. What will you say when you are asked for the child which you were permitted to take into your charge?"

"Aunt Hannah, I'll thank you to let my wife alone," said Mr. Bowers, who had hitherto sat silent. "I don't think it is any of your business. We took Rhoda and we have given her up again, and she is no worse off than she was before."

"And I am sure we gave her five new dresses and ever so many underclothes, and John sent her all her things that she left here when she went away," sobbed Mrs. Bowers. "I think it is a shame that I should be talked to so."

"I shall say no more to you, Maria, nor to you, John," said Aunt Hannah, recovering her calmness. "Rhoda is henceforth my charge. I shall go to the city to-morrow and bring her home with me. Though I am not rich and never shall be, my precious child shall not be left to strangers while I have a loaf or a dollar to divide."

"And then everybody will know the whole story, and there will be no end of a fuss and a scandal," said Mrs. Bowers.

"There will be that at any rate," answered Aunt Hannah. "Do you think you can do such a thing and not have everybody know it? I heard the story before I had been off the cars ten minutes, but I would not believe it till I had the child's own letter."

"What do you think Uncle Jacob will say to you?" asked Mr. Bowers.

"I neither know nor care. I am not accountable to Jacob, nor in any way dependent on him. I want nothing that he has to give. Ah, John, John, you have made the greatest mistake of your life."

"Well, I don't know but I have, Aunt Hannah," said Mr. Bowers. "Sometimes I have thought so. It was more Maria's doing than mine, any way. Only that I didn't know what she might say, I believe I should have given up at the last minute and brought Rhoda home with me."

"Oh yes, 'It was all Maria!' It is always 'The woman whom thou gavest to be with me,'" said Aunt Hannah. "That excuse was one of the first fruits of the fall, and it will be one of the last."

"Well, you know, Aunt Hannah, I really couldn't have the girl here unless Maria was willing," said Mr. Bowers, with some show of reason. "Rhoda was a good girl, and I was very fond of her; but, after all, our own had the first claim. But I do wish you would reconsider this matter before you bring the girl back to make a talk and a fuss. She is well enough off where she is, and she is sure to make friends."

"She has made one Friend who I am afraid is not yours, John—even the Friend that sticketh closer than a brother, and who has said,—

"'Leave thy fatherless children, I will preserve them alive.'

"Oh, why didn't you tell me what you meant to do? Then the poor child might have been spared some part of this distress which has almost cost her life."

"Well, Uncle Jacob thought it would only make a fuss; and besides—Come, Aunt Hannah, do take a second thought before you send for Rhoda. Second thoughts are always best, you know."

"I know people say so, but I don't believe it," said Aunt Hannah. "I believe, when any person habitually tries to be governed by a sense of duty, the first thought is almost always the right thought. But there is no use in talking to me on this matter. I can't consider you at all. I shall go to town to-morrow morning, and if possible bring Rhoda home with me. You have done what you saw fit, and you must take the consequences. They are nothing to me. I can only pray that you may be brought to a better mind, and that the sins of the parents may not be visited on the children."

When Aunt Hannah went home, she found that Keziah had lighted her fire and got her tea all ready.

"I thought you'd be kind of tired and done over, and wouldn't feel like getting supper," said Kissy, who was aching with curiosity to learn the result of the interview, though she had too much delicacy to ask any questions. "I guess I'll go along now, for 'Duthun will want his supper; but if you don't mind, I'll just run round again before bedtime—say about nine o'clock—and see how you are. You might be took faint again."

"Do," said Miss Hannah; "and, Kissy, bring Jeduthun with you. I want to see him."

When she was left alone, even before she drank her tea, Aunt Hannah went to her desk and took out a paper. She sat down and wrote about half a page, apparently referring to the other as she did so. Then she tore up the first and burned the pieces; and leaving the other on the desk, she sat down to her tea.

As Keziah and her husband were finishing their supper, which was rather later than usual, there was a knock at the door, which was opened before Jeduthun could reach it by Mr. Bowers.

"For mercy's sake, Kissy, come to my aunt!" he exclaimed. "And, Jeduthun, you run for the doctor. I'm afraid Aunt Hannah is dead."

"Is any one there?" asked Kissy as they hurried toward the house.

"Only Uncle Jacob. We went over together, and found her sitting by her desk leaning back in her chair. She was at our house not two hours ago."

"I know," said Kissy. "She wasn't well, though. It shook her dreadfully when she got that letter. I thought she would faint away then. It's gone to her heart, I expect."

Aunt Hannah was indeed gone to her long home. She had died sitting in her chair, apparently without pain. Uncle Jacob at once took possession of the house and gave all the orders about the funeral on a liberal scale.

"She sha'n't say that I didn't do what was right by her," he muttered to himself. "The will wasn't signed, so it wasn't worth anything in law, and I don't believe she was in her right mind. I'll send all her clothes to that girl, and that's more than she had any right to in law; but I will do it. Yes, she shall have the clothes."

"After all, I don't know that I am sorry," said Mrs. Bowers to her husband. "Aunt Hannah was an old woman, any way, and it would have been very awkward to have Rhoda back here. I wonder how she has left her property?"

"There wasn't any will, so it all goes to Uncle Jacob," said Mr. Bowers. "I expected to hear she had left it to Rhoda. It is odd that there should have been no will. She was always so particular about business. Uncle Jacob says he shall send Rhoda all her clothes. I am glad of that."

"I don't see why he should. Rhoda has enough of her own. But they won't amount to much, Aunt Hannah always dressed so plainly."

"She was always giving away. Uncle Jacob says she has sent over four hundred dollars to foreign missions, besides all she has done at home. Well, I hope it will all turn out for the best, that's all."

There was a great wonderment in the little village when it came to be known that Aunt Hannah had died without a will. Two or three people had known of her making one some years before, and did not scruple to hint that Uncle Jacob had destroyed it to get possession of the place, but nobody could prove anything.

Of course Keziah told everybody about Rhoda, and how her aunt had meant to take her home.

Mr. and Mrs. Bowers found themselves in anything but an enviable position, and at last Mr. Bowers sold out his interest in the mills and went to Hobarttown to live, so that Rhoda's last tie to Boonville was cut off.

### CHAPTER VIII.

A NEW HOME.

THE news of Aunt Hannah's death was a dreadful shock to Rhoda. She had looked to her return with a vague but strong hope that somehow the old lady would set matters right. She had felt so sure of seeing her, especially since she had made up her mind to write, and her heart had throbbed faster every time the door-bell rung. Now it was all over. Aunt Hannah was gone, and she felt herself indeed alone in the world.

"After all, if it was to be so, I am glad she died instead of changing like the others," said she to Miss Brown. "If mother had died when baby was born, I should not have been half so sorry about her as I am now."

"Ah, my dear, there are few people who might not say that of some one," said Miss Brown, sighing. "But, Rhoda, would there have been nothing to regret then?"

"Not on her side," answered Rhoda. "I soon found out that mother was not the wisest woman that ever lived, but she was always kind to me. I don't believe any child ever was happier or better taken care of than I was for those eight years."

"Then you have at least that much for which to thank Mrs. Bowers," remarked Miss Brown, "since she gave you eight years of happiness."

"Yes, I suppose so," said Rhoda, thoughtfully; "and yet, somehow, this last business seems to have blotted out all the rest. I could find it in my heart to wish they had let me alone."

"I understand you," said her friend; "but, Rhoda, you must try to forgive as you would be forgiven."

"Indeed, I do, Miss Brown," said Rhoda, earnestly. "You don't know how much I pray for a forgiving spirit, and sometimes I think I have it, but then again the tide comes up and sweeps it all away."

"That is the way with everybody, child. We have to fight our battles over and over again."

"It is very strange that Aunt Hannah left no will," said Rhoda, recurring again to Mr. Weightman's letter. "He says that as his sister left no will, the property returns to the rightful owner—himself, I suppose he means: that he sends me her clothes and some other things, though I have no right, in law, to anything. I don't understand it, for I am sure that Aunt Hannah had made a will at one time. You don't suppose Mr. Weightman can have destroyed it, do you?"

"I think not. He would hardly have ventured on such a crime. Aunt Hannah may have destroyed it herself, thinking that she would make another. You know she died very suddenly."

"I don't know. Mr. Weightman would do almost anything for the sake of money, I think," said Rhoda. "It was all he cared about. It was that which spoiled mother more than anything else. She got to think, as Uncle Jacob did, that money was everything, and she was jealous of everybody better off than herself. She used to vex me talking about Aunt Annie—aunt is her sister. She said Annie was so worldly and extravagant, though I don't think she was, and she said she should think Annie would feel ashamed to wear so diamonds and keep so many servants when her own sister had none.

"I don't think that she loved money so much for its own sake as because she thought it made people respected and looked up to. She said nobody cared for poor folks—they never were respected; and she used to fancy that people felt above her. I know Mrs. Swan came to see her from the Springs, and she never would return the call, because she said Mrs. Swan came in a handsome silk dress and a sable cloak, and she had nothing to wear but a merino."

"It is a poor kind of spirit, but one meets it everywhere," said Miss Brown. "Mrs. Merchant won't sit next Mrs. Smithers on Sunday because Mrs. Smithers wears her black silk dress to tea."

Rhoda had several letters from the girls in Boonville, and one from Mrs. Antis offering to give her a home till she could do better. Rhoda thanked her friend, but declined the invitation.

"I couldn't do it," she said to Miss Carpenter, to whom she showed the letter. "Mrs. Antis is very kind, but I think it would break my heart to go back there now."

Miss Carpenter sympathized with the feeling, and was secretly glad that Rhoda did not want to go away.

"I should hardly know how to do without her, and that is the truth," said she to Mrs. Mulford, one day when the two were talking over matters in the house.

"She makes herself useful, then?"

"Oh yes, indeed, she does. Not that she accomplishes so very much work, but she is always at hand, and always ready to help when she is wanted. Even when I have to call her away from her book or her music to do an errand or to sit with somebody, she is just as pleasant about it as can be.

"And she is one of the kind who save steps instead of making them. When she waits on the old ladies at table, which she offered to do of her own accord, she is always on the watch to see whose cup is out or who wants anything; and if Mrs. Gardener or Mrs. Pratt wants to rise—you know neither of them can get up alone—Rhoda's arm is always there ready. Now, Jenny means to do right, for aught I know, as much as Rhoda, but you have always got to tell her. She don't anticipate one as Rhoda does."

"I am glad to hear such a good account of the child," said Mrs. Mulford. "I was a little afraid she might be 'stuck up,' as they say; and I have not felt quite sure about the effects of these lessons. Miss Brown tells me that she is an excellent scholar. I wish we could keep her here and give her a good education, but I don't see any way to do it. We have stretched a point in keeping her as long as we have. I am afraid she must go to a place pretty soon."

"I am sure I hope it will be a good one, then," said Miss Carpenter. "That is the worst of our little girls. As soon as we have made them worth something, we have to let them go."

"Is that Rhoda playing?" asked Mrs. Mulford as the sound of a piano reached her ears.

"Yes; she practises every day. I think she would make a good player if she had a chance, but the piano is a poor old thing, and some of the old ladies complain of the noise; so Rhoda doesn't play as much as she would like to."

"Well, I must see what can be done, but I fear it won't answer to keep her here much longer. People say now that the funds are misapplied and the old ladies half starved. I should think any one might see that they are not badly used by the way they live on after they come to us. Mrs. Pratt was nearly eighty when she came to 'The Home,' and she has been here ten years."

"It's her good temper keeps her alive," said Miss Carpenter.

"And what do you think keeps Aunty Parsons alive? Not her good temper, I am sure."

"She has got in the habit of living just as she has of smoking, and she doesn't know how to leave it off," said Mrs. Lambert, who, though the most faithful and untiring of nurses, was by no means so placid as Miss Carpenter. "I believe she will wear me out before she dies herself. Well, we shall dislike to have Rhoda go away but perhaps, if she has to earn her living, the earlier she sets about it, the better. She is a girl sure to make friends wherever she goes—that is one thing."

The box containing Aunt Hannah's clothes arrived in due time, and Rhoda shed many tears over its contents, particularly over her aunt's Bible, which she was delighted to find among the things. On turning it over, she found a two-dollar and a twenty-five-cent bill concealed among the leaves, and showed them to Miss Brown.

"That money will just do to get you a new pair of shoes with," said Mrs. Parsons, who happened to be in the room at the time. "Some folks has all the luck. Nobody never sends me no money."

"No," said Rhoda; "I know Aunt Hannah put them in there for the missionary collection; this paper with them says so. That is the way she used to do. I mean to get Miss Carpenter to change the money and keep it to carry to church."

"That's a good notion, Rhody," said Miss Dean, another old lady, who had always taken a great interest in Rhoda. "It is strange, now, how Providence orders things," she continued, reflectively. "Last week I was worrying because I hadn't a speck of money to send to the children's hospital fund—and I always did feel such an interest in that object—and when I was at the worst, my grandnephew came in to see me and gave me five dollars for a present—he's a dreadful openhearted boy, Daniel is; just like my father—so there I had a dollar to send to the hospital directly."

"Everything comes right for you, don't it, aunty?" asked Rhoda, smiling.

"Well, yes, child, pretty much."

"I'm sure I shouldn't think it came very right when you had to be turned out of your room," said Mrs. Parsons, who, like most grumblers, resented Miss Dean's contentment as an affront to herself.

"Well, yes, it did. I was sorry to lose my closet, but then I had a wardrobe and a register to myself; and then it's a great saving of my strength not to have to go up and down stairs; and when grandmother was put into my room, I did feel favoured, indeed."

"How is grandmother?"

"Well, her eyes trouble her some, but she is pretty smart for a woman a hundred and one years old. But I must go, for I promised to make a cap for Miss Carpenter to-day."

"And I must go too," said Rhoda, starting. "Miss Wilkins will wonder what has become of me."

Rhoda's lessons were not to be uninterrupted much longer. As Mrs. Mulford remarked, the managers had stretched a point in keeping her so long, since she was quite well again and her services were really not needed in the house. The funds of the institution were strictly tied up to two special objects—the maintenance of the old women and of the eight little girls, who were to be put out to places at the age of fifteen. Miss Carpenter often regretted this law, saying that it obliged them to part with the girls just at the wrong time.

"Just when they begin to be most useful to us, and when they need the most care," said she. "Fifteen is about the last age when a girl should be thrown on her own resources. She is usually a good deal better able to take care of herself at ten."

However, the law was a law, and could not be altered. Rhoda was past sixteen, a stout, healthy, capable girl, and some people had already begun to talk about favouritism, etc., in the amiable strain in which many persons who do nothing whatever for their fellow-creatures are apt to criticise those who are trying to do a little. It was decided that Rhoda must go, and it fell to the lot of Mrs. Mulford to tell her of the decision.

Poor Rhoda felt as if she were being once more torn up by the roots. She had taken her first transplanting hardly enough, but she had, as it were, become settled in the new soil, and had struck out rootlets and tendrils. She had said to herself more than once that it must come to this some day—that of course she must expect to work for her living; but as the days and weeks went on, and nothing was said about a change, the idea had fallen into the background of her mind. She felt herself once more at home; and when Mrs. Mulford mentioned the matter, which she did very kindly, Rhoda burst into tears and cried bitterly.

Mrs. Mulford was rather annoyed. She had done her best to find a place for Rhoda, and she disliked anything like a scene. Moreover, she did not quite understand Rhoda's feelings, so she delivered her a little lecture on false pride.

"You ought to be thankful for all that has been done for you already," said she, in conclusion. "Come, now, dry up your tears, and look at it like a sensible girl."

"I am sure I am thankful," said Rhoda, trying to compose herself. "I know how kind everybody has been, and it was very good in you to find me a nice place; but—but it came over me so suddenly. It seems somehow to make me feel the change more than anything. And I did so want to get an education," said the poor girl, with a fresh burst of tears as the sense of her disappointment overcame her; "I have set my heart on it all my life. I wouldn't care how hard I worked for it."

"Yes, yes, I understand," said Mrs. Mulford. "I will try to find you a place where you can work for your board and go to school by and by; but really I think you can't do better than to accept this one at present. It is not so distant but that you can come home pretty often—for you must always consider this house your home, my dear; and the wages are good—two dollars a week. You can be laying up money, you see, and by and by you may be able to accomplish your object. You have a pretty good stock of clothes, have you not?"

"Oh yes, ma'am, all I shall want this long time."

"And some money beforehand, I think Miss Carpenter said?"

"Yes, ma'am—twenty dollars. But I thought perhaps I ought to pay that for my board here."

"Oh dear, no!" said Mrs. Mulford, secretly very much pleased with the suggestion. "You have done quite enough to pay for your board since you have been here. I think you had better put your money in the savings bank, as you don't want to use it. Then it will be safe and drawing interest, and one is not so much tempted to spend money when one has to go to the bank for it, as I know by experience," she added, smiling. "I will go to the bank with you and get you a book, and you can deposit what part of your wages you don't want to use; and by and by you will find yourself with quite a little capital—enough to go to school on for some time."

"And perhaps I may have time to study where I am going," said Rhoda, brightening up a little at these suggestions.

"I dare say you may, if you are quick; though you must remember that your time is your employer's, and not slight your work. Mrs. Ferrand is a reasonable woman in the main, and won't expect too much of you. My Jane has half the time to herself—at least three days in the week; though I am afraid she spends very little time in studying. She likes to run in the street better than anything. Miss Carpenter tells me that you don't care very much about going out."

"I haven't anywhere to go," said Rhoda, sighing a little. "When will Mrs. Ferrand want me?"

"As soon as you can be ready. She usually keeps two girls, but has nobody at present."

Rhoda was not sorry to hear this, for one of the things she had dreaded was the being obliged to associate with uncongenial people, and she secretly resolved that she would do all in her power to make another girl unnecessary. The prospect of being able to save money for her great object was another comfort. Nevertheless, it was not very strange that after Mrs. Mulford had gone, Rhoda should shut herself up in her room and have a good cry.

But Rhoda, young as she was, had learned the way to the only spring of comfort and peace. She recurred to Aunt Hannah's verses written in the beginning of her precious Bible, and by degrees she was able to say honestly and from her heart,—

"'Not my will, but thine, be done.'"

There was a great outcry in the house when it was known that Rhoda was going away. Her quiet helpfulness and cheerfulness had greatly endeared her to the old ladies, and Miss Brown had come to depend very much upon her.

Granny Parsons declared that "it wasn't no more than she expected. She always knew that Rhoda's pride would have a fall, with her music-lessons and her history-books, thinking herself a young lady, when she wasn't nothing but a charity child." Then turning round with a rapidity quite her own, she declared that it was "a shame and a sin to make the poor girl live out, just as if the ladies couldn't afford to support her when they was perfectly rolling in money. It was all of a piece—just some of Mrs. Lambert's doing, because she, Mrs. Lambert, knew that granny liked her best of any gal in the house. Just like her taking away my bottle of whisky with cherry bark into it—the only thing that is any comfort to me."

"Because the doctor said it wasn't good for you," said Mrs. Josleyn. "He said 'twas that made your eyes sore."

"Just as if he knew anything! I knew his father when he wasn't nothing but a hired man, living out with old Mr. Mellener. A likely story he knows what's good for folks!"

"Well, Rhody, so we are going to lose you, I hear?" said Miss Dean. "I'm real sorry, but I suppose it is all ordered for the best. You are a good girl, and I'm sure the Lord will take care of you. Now, let me give you one bit of advice, because I'm older than you, and I've seen a great deal of the world in one place and another. I dare say you will find some things not quite pleasant—one does everywhere; but you just make up your mind to take the bitter with the sweet, and don't throw away your dinner because you happen to find a cinder in it. You might not get another in a hurry; or if you did, it might have something worse than a cinder. Of course it ain't the kind of place you've been used to; but if you respect yourself and mind your business and don't put yourself forward, but just do your very best in your own part of the house, there's no fear but your folks will think enough of you. And don't you give up the notion of getting an education. I feel to believe that it will be brought about somehow for you."

"Oh, I don't mean to," said Rhoda, cheerfully. "I mean to learn all I can about everything, work included."

"That's right," said Miss Dean. "My mother used to say that there wasn't any use in neglecting your knitting to-day because you expected to have some spinning to-morrow. Some folks are always doing that very thing—neglecting the work just under their hand because they expect to accomplish something grand byme-by, and they never accomplish anything.

"Well, the Lord bless you, Rhody, and I'm sure he will. You've had some pretty hard trials when you was young, and maybe you'll have all the better times when you are old. Anyhow, as long as you hold on to him, he won't never leave you. I'm just as sure of that as I am that I'm alive."

### CHAPTER IX.

MRS. FERRAND'S.

AND Rhoda believed it too. She was not, happily for herself, of a nervous temperament, and was disposed to look on the bright side of everything. By the time Monday morning came round, she was able to bid her friends good-bye with tolerable cheerfulness, and to go to her new home with good courage.

Mrs. Ferrand received her kindly. She was rather a pretty little woman, and attractive, in spite of a certain expression of anxiety and a precise, formal manner.

"We have a small family just now," said she; "only Mr. Ferrand and myself and one daughter, who goes to school. I have always kept two girls, but my cook went away last week, and the other girl was not contented without her. I shall get another cook as soon as I can find one to suit me, and in the mean time, we must manage as well as we can."

"Everything seems very convenient," remarked Rhoda, looking round at the kitchen, with its sink and range and abundance of tables and cupboards.

Mrs. Ferrand looked pleased:

"Well, yes. Everything is very convenient and nice, but somehow the girls don't seem to appreciate it. And really there is not much encouragement to make things right when they won't take any pains to keep them so. Only a week before Eliza went away, I bought a nice new clothes-wringer. She used it once, and the next thing I knew it was lying on the ground, out at the back door. But you look as if you might be careful. If you will go up these stairs, you will find your room at the head of them. I hope you will keep it in nice order, for Mr. Ferrand is very particular."

"I like to have things in order myself," remarked Rhoda, wondering at the same time what Mr. Ferrand would have to do with her room.

She found it a convenient though rather small apartment, having a pleasant window and comfortable furniture.

"This will do very well for one, but it would be pretty close quarters for two," she thought. "I wish I could do all the work myself. I wonder if I could?"

Rhoda found her life for the first week or two sufficiently comfortable. Mr. Ferrand was away, and Isabella, the daughter, was at school from half-past eight to four. The rest of the time she either studied or practised on the piano. She was a pretty, amiable girl, but Rhoda thought she seemed very languid and indifferent. Mrs. Ferrand was kind, and helped about the work herself. She was excessively nice and particular, but not unreasonable; and she soon discovered that Rhoda was bent on doing her best, and treated her accordingly.

Rhoda was well and strong, and she liked to have things neat and comfortable for her own sake. Mrs. Bowers had not neglected Rhoda's education in this respect, as do too many mothers. She had drilled her charge thoroughly in household work, and taught her to use her time and strength to the best advantage. Rhoda knew how to calculate her motions, to save herself steps, and to make her work tell. She felt that she was giving Mrs. Ferrand satisfaction, and that in itself was a great help to her.

She had arranged her room as nicely as possible, with various little ornaments and books which she had bought, or which had been sent from her former home, and it was really a very pretty little retreat. She had usually finished the most of her work by three o'clock, and after that, the time was her own till six, for Mrs. Ferrand never asked her to do any sewing.

Rhoda used to try to spend at least two hours a day over her books; and though she did not make very great progress, she at least kept what she had already gained. She deeply regretted the loss of her music, but there was no help for that. Her fingers used fairly to tingle sometimes when she was alone in the room with the piano, but she never ventured to touch it, and refrained from saying a word, even when Isabella tortured her ears as she did by making the very same blunders in the same places day after day.

"Don't forget your practising, Isa," said her mother, one evening, as she was going out. "Mr. Harvey tells me you ought to practice at least one hour more every day."

"Then I wish Mr. Harvey would mind his business," said Isa, sullenly, as the door closed behind her mother. "I want to learn my Bible-class lessons and to read, and I haven't one minute's time because of Mr. Harvey and that tiresome old piano. I wish they were in the Red Sea together."

"Don't wish that. Wish I had them," said Rhoda, who was clearing the tea-table. "I only wish I had your chance, Miss Isa."

"I'm sure I wish you had if you want it," answered Isa "perhaps you might make something of it. I know you can sing, for I have heard you, and I dare say you could learn to play, but I never shall. Fathers has spent a great deal on my music already, and I don't play decently."

"Oh, you mustn't be discouraged," said Rhoda. "You have come to the hard place, I suppose. Aunt Betsy says there must always be a hard place in everything. Oh, don't cry, please don't," said Rhoda, dismayed, as Isa's head went down on the piano amid a burst of hysterical sobs. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

"You didn't," sobbed Isa. "But I am so tired and so discouraged, I can't help crying. It is just school, school, lesson, lesson, all the time from year's end to year's end. I detest it all, and I wish I was a Dutch girl working in Uncle John's nursery: so there!"

"And I only wish I had your chance to go to school and study," said Rhoda. "I would rather do it than anything else in the world. I wouldn't care how hard I worked."

"Wouldn't you?" retorted Isa. "Just look here, Rhoda: do you know any algebra?"

"A little. I have been as far as simple equations. I like it too, but I think it is pretty tough, I must say; especially when I have no teacher."

"Well, just look at my lessons for to-morrow. Three pages of examples in equations—all new, you see—one hundred and fifty lines of Virgil, besides my exercises and six propositions in geometry, all to be learned to-morrow, besides my music and walking to and from school with all my books, more than a mile each way. What do you think of that?"

Rhoda's Education.
"Just look at my lessons for to-morrow * * * besides my music," said Isa.

"I think it is a shame," said Rhoda, warmly. "I have been studying geometry, and I found one proposition as much as I could very well do in a day. Why don't you tell your mother about it?"

"Much use that would be. Besides, it isn't her doing; it's pa. He thinks I can't be overworked because I have only three studies and music. And the worst is, I don't see any end to it," said Isa, who seemed to find comfort in talking. "I shall finish at the academy in a year if I can only keep on, and then papa says he shall send me to a French or German school for two or three years."

"I should think you would like that," said Rhoda. "I read a book about the Moravian school at Konigsfeld, and I thought it seemed lovely."

"Yes, I know what you mean. I had the book too, and I asked papa to send me there. Then he read it—the book, I mean; but he said they did nothing but play, as far as he could see. He didn't think it would answer at all. And I don't have one minute's time to myself from one month's end to another. I do like my Bible lessons—there seems some use in them—and I like to read, but I can't. Pa don't approve of light reading. He says the only true use of reading is to gain information and improve the mind."

"I have noticed that you don't seem to have any story-books," remarked Rhoda.

"No, hardly any; and papa won't even take a magazine for fear I should get some fun out of it. Oh, you'll see when he comes home. It isn't like the same house when he is here."

"Where has he gone?" asked Rhoda.

"To some educational convention or other. Well, I must go at these things, I suppose. Can't you come and sit with me when your work is done? I like to have you even when I can't talk."

"I am afraid your mother would not like it," said Rhoda.

"She won't care; and besides, she won't know: she won't be home till nine. And there's another thing: I like to go to the Wednesday evening service ever so much; but if I say anything, papa always asks, 'What about your lessons, Isabella?' in that provoking way of his. Well, there! You needn't look shocked. I know I ought not to talk so, but it is a comfort to speak one's mind for once."

"I will bring over my algebra next time I go home," said Rhoda. "I should like to go over what I studied. I was always pretty quick at figures, and perhaps I could help you."

"Why, you seem to have a real good education," said Isa, surprised. "I shouldn't think you would be living out. How did it happen?"

"It is a long story and not a very pleasant one," said Rhoda, flushing a little. "I'll tell you some time, but not to-night. I must wash my dishes; and excuse me, Miss Isa, but I think you ought to be practising."

"Well, don't I know it?" asked Isa, irritably. And striking a chord, or discord, which tortured Rhoda's ears, she went on with her music.

"Poor girl!" thought Rhoda as she retired to the kitchen. "I don't think I should like lessons myself if they were crammed down my throat in that way. Oh dear! What work she does make! She can't have the least bit of an ear. I wonder what her father is like? He must be queer, I think."

Rhoda was destined to be fully convinced of Mr. Ferrand's queerness before she had done with him. One morning Mrs. Ferrand came into the kitchen, her cheeks a little paler and more than the usual shade of anxiety in her manner.

"Mr. Ferrand is coming home to-night, Rhoda," said she. "We must have everything about the place in order. He is very particular. Be sure to have the range blackened up and all the ashes taken care of. Don't the tins want cleaning?"

"I cleaned them all yesterday and washed all the shelves," said Rhoda, wondering whether the master of the house was expected to interest himself in basins and cups.

Mrs. Ferrand still lingered, picking up odd bits of paper and making herself anxious over the state of the windows and the fittings of the range. Rhoda saw that she was nervous and apprehensive, and exerted herself to have everything in faultless order.

Mr. Ferrand's expected arrival seemed to discompose the whole household. Isa, the moment she came home from school, sat down to her scales and exercises, which in her agitation she played worse than ever.

"Just hear that child!" said Mrs. Ferrand, who was in the kitchen superintending the frosting of some cake. "What work she does make of it! I don't know what her father will say."

"She is so tired," said Rhoda, whose sensitive ears were being bored with Isa's discords. "I should think she ought to rest and amuse herself when she comes from school, instead of sitting down to practise her music-lessons directly."

Mrs. Ferrand looked rather surprised:

"Do you think so? Mr. Ferrand always says change of occupation is sufficient recreation."

"Well, I don't know. If I have been washing all day, I don't think I should find much recreation in going to ironing," said Rhoda. "And I don't think Miss Isa is very fond of her music. She likes her tatting better."

"Mr. Ferrand has a system for all those things," said the lady, with the same little sigh. "He means that Isa shall have a perfect education. He has had a good deal of experience too. His oldest son, Isa's half-brother, was ready to enter college at twelve years old; only he unluckily took a fever and died. It was just after I was married. I was very fond of the poor little fellow, and he clung to me in his illness and would not have his father near him. He thought he was the indicative mood, and was trying to kill him."

"Poor little thing!" thought Rhoda. "And with that warning before him, he goes on just so with Isa."

"My sister Harriet, Miss Hardy, has a young ladies' school," continued Mrs. Ferrand, who seemed to find comfort in talking. "She has wished to have Isa with her for a year, but Mr. Ferrand will not consent, because he does not approve of her system. He thinks she gives the girls too much liberty and playtime. I must say, though, that Harriet has good success with her girls. There was Helen Kane; she never could get on at the academy and was always being sick, but she has been three years with Harriet, and her health has improved every year. But Mr. Ferrand asked her several questions when she was here one day, and she could not answer any of them."

"What were the questions?" asked Rhoda.

"I don't remember them all, only she did not know the latitude and longitude of San Francisco, nor the year of her reign in which Queen Elizabeth died; only she said she thought it was the last. Her father laughed, I remember, but Mr. Ferrand said he could see nothing to laugh at in such ignorance."

Rhoda laughed too when she was alone, but she could not help feeling uneasy. Mr. Ferrand was a coming event which seemed to cast a very cool shadow before, and she wondered whether she would suit him.

Mr. Ferrand arrived at six, and Rhoda took a good look at him as she carried in the tea. He was a rather small man with iron-gray hair, greenish-gray eyes, and lips that looked, Rhoda thought, as if he were always saying "cabbage."

Isa was looking more scared and awkward, and her mother more uneasy, than usual.

Rhoda felt herself scrutinized in her turn; and feeling a perverse inclination to laugh in the great man's face, she set down her teapot and hastily retreated.

"Who is that young person?" asked Mr. Ferrand as the door closed behind Rhoda.

"She came from 'The Home' to me," answered his wife. "Mrs. Mulford recommended her, and she is really an excellent girl. With a little showing, she can cook a nice dinner."

"I do not approve of showing, as you call it," said Mr. Ferrand. "A good housekeeper does not show; she gives directions, and has them obeyed. Is this young person an orphan—one of the beneficiaries of the institution?"

Mrs. Ferrand related Rhoda's history as she had heard it from Mrs. Mulford.

Mr. Ferrand listened and shook his head.

"I don't like that," said he. "The girl must have misbehaved in some way, or she would not have been so summarily turned off."

"Do you think it is always people's own fault if they are ill-treated, pa?" asked Isa.

"If you will put that question into a grammatical and intelligible form, Isabella, I may perhaps answer it," was the reply.

Isa relapsed into sulky silence, and did not speak again during the meal.

Her father made perpetual comments on her manner of eating, drinking, and sitting, and the quantity of bread and milk she consumed—she was not to be allowed tea or butter—and checked her as she was taking a piece of sponge cake.

"No more, my daughter. You have already eaten heartily, and it is far better to rise from the table with appetite. I have been hearing some admirable lectures on dietetics for young people," he continued, addressing his wife and passing his cup for the third time. "I think it would be a good plan to let Isabella have oatmeal porridge for breakfast and supper."

"Pa, I can't bear it," said poor Isa, just ready to cry at the idea.

"You will learn to bear it, Isabella," was the calm reply. "I shall procure a supply to-morrow."

### CHAPTER X.

SYSTEM.

THE oatmeal was procured and duly prepared for breakfast. Now, to people who like oatmeal, and with whom it agrees, it is an agreeable and wholesome diet; but it does not agree with every one, and to those who dislike it, it is usually downright odious. So it was to Isa.

"I can't bear it," she said to Rhoda, passionately. "It gives me the heartburn, and the very smell is disgusting. I can hardly bear to see you eat it."

"I wish I could eat your share and mine too," said Rhoda. "I like it very well if I can have plenty of milk."

"I'm sure I wish you could. Do give me a piece of bread, Rhoda. I am ready to faint away."

Rhoda cut the bread, while Isa put it into her pocket.

At that moment Mr. Ferrand came into the kitchen.

"What are you doing here, Isabella?" he asked, in evident though calm displeasure. "May I ask what brings you into the kitchen at this time?"

"I came for some hot water," said poor Isa, seizing on the first pretext which presented itself.

"I'll get you a pail, Miss Isa," said Rhoda, rising, but Mr. Ferrand checked her.

"Miss Ferrand has her own vessels for hot and cold water," said he, "or should have them. If your room is not properly furnished, Isabella, you should speak to your mother or me, and have the deficiency rectified. It is time you were preparing for school."

"That's just what I want the water for," said Isa, breaking out in rebellion, as she did now and then. "Do let me get some hot water, pa. What is the use of making such a fuss for every little thing?" And snatching a cup from the shelf, she dipped out some hot water and ran up the back stairs to her own room.

Mr. Ferrand looked after her with a glance which boded her no good, and then began a minute investigation of the state of the kitchen. Cupboards, dishes, towels, were all passed in review and commented on, and glad was Rhoda when the survey was finished.

"You seem to have things in tolerable order, though there is not that degree of system which—But what is this?" he exclaimed, if anything so calm could be called an exclamation, and laying hold of Rhoda's slate and algebra, which lay in the kitchen window. "Does Miss Ferrand leave her books in the kitchen?"

"Those are mine," answered Rhoda, briefly.

"Yours! And may I inquire how you came by them and what use you make of them?"

"My father bought them, and I use them to study," said Rhoda, rather crisply, for her patience began to wax threadbare.

"Indeed! I should suppose that you might find studies more suitable to your position than algebra," said Mr. Ferrand. "I should say your time might be more profitably employed."

"Why should not I study algebra as well as Miss Isa—Miss Ferrand, I mean?" asked Rhoda, who began to be more amused than angry. "I never touch it till my work is done, and what harm does it do?"

"Miss Ferrand's position and yours are very different," answered Mr. Ferrand, austerely. "She is, or will soon be, a young lady, and your position is that of a servant—a very different matter. It is proper that you should read, and I will see that you are furnished with suitable books, but—but you must see that there is a great difference between you and Miss Ferrand."

Rhoda thought there was this difference—that she loved study and Miss Ferrand hated it; but she had become conscious that she was growing angry. She therefore prudently held her peace and busied herself with her dishes, and Mr. Ferrand, after again promising to supply her with suitable books, left the kitchen, to Rhoda's great relief. Presently, as she was putting away the dishes, she heard him in conversation with his wife:

"The young person in the kitchen seems to have some strange notions, Mrs. Ferrand. What books do you think I found hidden—that is, not exactly hidden: I wish to do her no injustice; but lying—in the kitchen? Nothing less than an algebra and geometry."

"Was that all?" said Mrs. Ferrand, in tone of relief. "I was afraid you might have found some bad books, there is so much trash afloat. Yes, I know Rhoda studies a great deal, though I must say she never neglects her work for her books. Mrs. Mulford told me that the child was very desirous to acquire an education, and I thought you would be interested in her on that account."

"I am interested in all young persons who try to improve, Mrs. Ferrand, but they must be content to improve in their proper sphere. I don't know—I cannot even guess—what my grandmother would have said at finding one of her maids studying mathematics," said Mr. Ferrand, whose grandmother had been a baronet's daughter, and who therefore professed a great love of everything English.

"Rhoda is a very good girl, and gives me more real help than almost any servant I ever had," said Mrs. Ferrand. "She seems to make a conscience of doing everything in the best way, and she is always so pleasant."

"I would rather hear you say that she is always respectful," said Mr. Ferrand. "However, if you like the girl, we must try to get on with her; only I trust you will not let yourself down by holding familiar conversations with her. It is your place to give directions, and hers to follow them. I am convinced that most of the multitudinous evils of our democratic society arise from people's getting out of their proper spheres. Especially I trust you will see that Isabella does not hold any intercourse with her. I am mistaken if they were not talking quite familiarly this morning when I entered the kitchen. Another thing I wish to mention while I think of it: I met Mr. Harvey on the cars, and he tells me that Isabella makes very little improvement in her music. I wish you would see that she gets up in time to practise an hour before breakfast."

"Really, Mr. Ferrand, I think that will not answer," said his wife, roused in behalf of her child even to the point of contradicting her husband. "Isa's eyes are weak now. She complains of headache, and of being tired all the time. I think she should be doing less rather than more while the warm weather lasts."

Mr. Ferrand smiled superior.

"I thought you knew by this time that my views for Isa's education 'must' be carried out," said he.

"Even if it kills her, as it did Charlie, I suppose," said Mrs. Ferrand.

"My son Charles died of a fever, and not from any over-application," answered Mr. Ferrand, coldly. "I have nothing to regret where he is concerned. I expect that Isabella will rise at half-past five and practise from six till seven hereafter."

"Then you must call her yourself, for I won't," returned his wife. "The child has as much to do now as she can bear."

Mr. Ferrand was amazed. Surely some evil spirit had entered his home during his absence. Never had he met with so much contradiction during one day in his own house. He had resolved already that Isabella should expiate her rebellion by some hours of solitary confinement and low diet, but he could not very well shut up his wife. He began to be scared, and thought he would try a little conciliation.

"Very well. Since you are so decidedly opposed to it, I shall say no more. I wish nothing but our daughter's good, as you must know, and the dearest desire of my heart is to see her well-educated, but I do not wish her to be oppressed. One thing, however, I must insist upon—that she shall hold no unnecessary communication with the servants in the kitchen on any subject whatever."

And having thus saved his dignity, Mr. Ferrand turned for consolation to his writing-table and his treatise on education—a work which had occupied him for several years.

It was Mr. Ferrand's great misfortune that he was very rich and had no profession. If he had been obliged to work for a living, his love of order, accuracy, and system would have found legitimate outlets, and might have made him an excellent master-mechanic or merchant. As it was, the qualities which would have been a very moderate dose if distributed among a hundred workmen were all bestowed on his own family. No details were too small for his supervision, no neglect or omission too trifling to annoy him.

He would talk for a week about an old towel which had been found out of place, and made as much fuss about the mending of a latch as would be necessary for the repairing of a steam-engine. As I have said, he liked everything English, and was very apt to sneer at and contemn "our free and happy country," as he was fond of saying in a contemptuous tone. He believed in people keeping their places and being contented in them, and he had a special horror of servants in particular "getting out of their proper sphere."

But Mr. Ferrand's great hobby was education. On that theme he delighted to dwell for hours, and to his great work on that subject, he gave so much of his time as was not devoted to superintending family affairs and acquiring useful information—that is, to storing his mind with uninteresting facts and dates, arranged in scientific order. Accurate enumeration, logical deduction, and rigid sequence were the sun and moon of Mr. Ferrand's intellectual system, and he made no account of such wandering and comet-like lights as imagination and the poetic faculty.

True, certain poets, such as Shakespeare, Milton, Cowper, and Wordsworth, were to be studied. They were facts in English history, and it was needful, therefore, to have some acquaintance with them. But stories of all kinds—"works of fiction," as he comprehensively classed them—could do nobody any good, and were not to be tolerated for a moment. One of his pet theories was that change of employment was sufficient relaxation; and as his own head and nerves were as hard as cast iron, he never found out the fallacy of his theory.

His only son had been a prodigy of learning—only he died at thirteen of a fever which, as Doctor Morton had said at the time, ought not to have killed a baby. Mr. Ferrand loved his son dearly and mourned for him deeply, but neither his grief nor his love prevented him from trying the same system over again with his daughter.

Isa was of a different stamp from her brother. Charlie had loved study for its own sake—Isa hated it; Charlie was uncommonly and precociously intelligent—Isa was by no means bright, and was rather young for her age: nevertheless, both must be put through exactly the same process. The system was everything—the individual nothing. Mr. Ferrand had begun by teaching Isa himself, but he had found the confinement too great, and he could not make her study unless he were over her. So he gave up the idea of home education, and sent her to a school whose master was a man after his own heart—a man who revelled on a plenteous diet of "facts and figures," and looked upon Virgil and Homer, Milton, Cowper, and Young, as so much material for parsing.

Professor Sampson certainly "got his pupils on" wonderfully fast. The great trouble was that those of them who did not faint by the way—fall sick and have to be taken out of school—left him with an inexpressible disgust for books and information of all sorts.

Professor Sampson had done his best with Isa, feeling quite sure that, however tightly he might put on the screws, her father would always be ready to give them another turn. The consequence was that Isa, who under proper treatment might have turned out a very good woman, with a healthy body and a sound mind, was fast becoming morose, feverish, and hysterical, utterly discontented, and ready to consider any change a gain. Moreover, she became sly and deceitful.

Rhoda saw this, and it gave her a good deal of trouble. Mr. Ferrand had said that Isa was not to associate with a servant, and had told Isa so, yet Isa did not scruple to come to Rhoda's room for help about her algebra, and to talk to Rhoda on every occasion.

One night, as Rhoda was getting ready for bed, Isa came round to her room in great glee.

"Marion Campbell is coming back, and oh, ain't I glad?" said she, in a joyous whisper.

"Who is Marion Campbell?" asked Rhoda.

"She is the Scotch cook who used to live here two years ago. She went away because her sister was sick; and now her sister is dead, she is coming back. Why, you don't look as if you were glad one bit."

"I can't say I am," said Rhoda.

"But why not? She is real good-natured and you won't have half so much work to do as you have now."

"I don't mind the work—it is not hard at all," said Rhoda; "and I like to have my room to myself. It is none too large for one."

"Oh, but Marion won't sleep in your room. She has the one on the other side. Don't you know it's part of pa's system that every one should have a room to themselves?"

"'Every one having a room to themselves' is a very good system, but it isn't very good grammar," said Rhoda, smiling.

"Who cares?" returned Isa. "But I want you to like Marion; she is very 'Scotchy,' but she is awful good-natured. There! I wonder what pa would say to such a sentence as that? I know," she added, laughing: "he would say, 'Isabella, will you give me the definition of awful?'"

"Miss Isa, you ought not to make fun of your father," said Rhoda, reprovingly; "and you ought not to be here. You know he does not like it."

"He isn't home," answered Isa. "Now, Rhoda, do show me how to do these sums. I know you understand them, and I don't the least in the world. Come, now, be good. I know I shall fail, and I have failed twice this week already. I believe I am growing a perfect idiot," said she, despairingly. "I don't seem to understand anything, especially in the morning, my head is so dizzy and confused."

"That's because you don't eat any breakfast or supper," said Rhoda.

"Well, I can't eat porridge—I fairly loathe it; and if I do eat it, it makes me sick, so I might as well feel badly for one thing as for another. Come, do help me, Rhoda, please."

Rhoda suffered herself to be persuaded. She knew it was not right to help Isa in deceiving and disobeying her father, but she felt very sorry for the poor oppressed girl, and she had not strength to resist her pleadings. Perhaps such strength was hardly to be expected of a girl of sixteen. Rhoda had been well drilled in common arithmetic, and she had a natural gift for mathematics, as she had for music. She soon made Isa's perplexities plain.

"You are the best girl that ever lived," said Isa, kissing her. "I am sure you were born for a teacher. But there goes half-past nine, and I must be in bed before pa comes home. I shall have to hurry."

"Don't forget your prayers, Miss Isa," said Rhoda.

And then she turned to her own devotions, but she did not find much comfort in them. She knew she was doing wrong in keeping up this kind of secret intercourse with Isa, and yet she could not quite make up her mind to abandon it. She said to herself that she only did it to help Isa, but in her secret soul she knew better. She found her own comprehension and memory greatly assisted by going over the lessons with another, and she hated to forego the advantage.

The truth was, Rhoda was getting into a bad way. She had one grand object in life, and it was a very good object, but she looked at it till it grew so large as to be in danger of eclipsing everything else.

Indeed, the atmosphere of the family where she found herself was not favourable to truthfulness. Mrs. Ferrand, if she did not absolutely deceive, certainly managed, her husband. Isa had no scruple about making a false excuse or telling a tolerable sized fib to escape the penalty of any infraction of Mr. Ferrand's numerous "rules."

Marion Campbell did not make matters any better when she came. She was a tall, thin Scotchwoman, an excellent cook, a superlative laundress, and neat and quick at all sorts of work. She was always good-natured, even in the agony of dishing up a company dinner, and she was strictly and scrupulously honest in all that pertained to her employer's property.

But she thought it no harm to gain her own way by a little canny management, and she had no scruple in bestowing on Isa, of whom she was very fond, all the indulgence that came in her way. Many a delicate sandwich and dainty cake and savoury pickle found its way into Isa's school satchel by Marion's means.

"You would na have me send her away hungry, and she such a slender lass?" she said, one day, when Rhoda ventured to hint a remonstrance. "She canna thole the porridge."

"I know, and it does seem cruel," answered Rhoda, "and yet it can't be quite right, either, to help her to deceive her father."

"It's just his ain fault, then, and no hers," said Marion, who had slipped into Rhoda's room on her way from Isa's. "I'm no that fond of the oatmeal myself, though I was brought up on it. Laws! How many books ye have! Are ye fond of reading?"

"Yes, indeed, I am."

"Aweel, ye must read to me whiles. I'm fond of a book myself, but my eyes are failed, and I canna see very well. I have a grand history of Scotland that I bought cheap at a stall the ither day. I'll bring it the next time I go home, and we'll have some readings. Eh! What a fine Bible!"

"Isn't it?" asked Rhoda. "Dear Aunt Hannah gave it to me the very last time I ever saw her." And Rhoda's eyes overflowed at the remembrance of her last interview with Aunt Hannah.

"Ah, well, dinna greet for her, my doo," said Marion, sympathetically. "She was a good woman, na doubt, and gane to a better place. Lass, your room looks fine, with all these pictures and little things about it. I ay like a young lass to be neat and dainty. I think you and I will 'gree very well."

### CHAPTER XI.

"THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP."

IN the course of a few days Marion produced her book, which turned out to be a fine edition of Robertson's history of Scotland, a very charming book, though strongly partisan, as is the case with most readable histories. Rhoda found it as interesting as a novel, and Marion was equally pleased.

"Lass, never mind the things," she would say on ironing days, when it was Rhoda's business to help her. "I can do your share as well as my own. Get your book and read."

Then Rhoda would get out Robertson and read aloud for hours while Marion, with marvellous dexterity, ironed and pleated and did two hours' work in the time of one. She listened to the clear, sounding periods with critical satisfaction, and made her odd remarks. She was a woman of fine mind; and though her schooling, as she called it, had not been long, she had always been a reader and a thinker.

"Eh, but that's grand!" said she, one day, as Rhoda closed the book. "He would have made a fine preacher, that doctor."

"He was a preacher," answered Rhoda. "I remember reading about him in a book Flora Fairchild lent me. It said he had a colleague, and they did not agree about church discipline, but for all that they never had a quarrel. I should like to see his sermons. I never read such an interesting history.

"But, Marion, Mr. Ferrand does not approve of young people reading history—I heard him read that out from the book he is writing; and I am sure he would not think well of my reading it. He said he would select some books suitable for me, and you ought to see them. Such silly little stories, all about wicked servant-girls that wore pink ribbons, and went straight to destruction in consequence, and about good labourers that were contented on ten shillings a week, and wicked labourers that wanted more. Do people really live on ten shillings a week over there, Marion?"

"Ay, do they, and far less than that," said Marion. "Ten shilling a week would be high wages in our parts, and it's called very good, even in England."

"But what do they live on?"

"Aweel, they don't see much of butcher's meat or tea and coffee, ye may guess. If they get kirnmilk—that's buttermilk—for their porridge, and butter for their potatoes, they ay think themselves well off. But come, lass, help me with the vegetables, or I shall be late with my dinner, and yon man's as petted as a bairn if his dinner is behindhand a minute. He behooves to please his own palate, let what will become of his daughter."

"He isn't stingy, either," said Rhoda.

"No, he is a good provider. It's only these nonsense maggots he gets in his head. Now, attend and see me make the pudding, and ye 'll know how yourself. Book-learning is a fine thing, but it's not all the learning worth knowing. It's fine to be a good cook, specially if you have a man to manage."

"Yon man," as Marion usually designated her employer, did not make his appearance in the kitchen so often, now that it was under the rule of Mrs. Campbell. In truth, he was a good deal afraid of the Scotch woman, having come off second best in more than one encounter. He would hardly have borne so much from any other servant, but Marion was, as I have said, a superlative cook, and Mr. Ferrand was fond of dinner company and liked to have a good and elegant table.

Rhoda, on the contrary, was no favourite with her employer. Mr. Ferrand had a great horror of feminine independence in any shape, and he felt quite sure that Rhoda had, as he said, "ideas of her own." He strongly suspected that she continued her studies in spite of his disapproval, and it was a real annoyance to him that a servant-girl should love study for its own sake, while his daughter hated it.

He watched Rhoda closely, but as yet he had been unable to detect any flaw in her conduct. She was neat and systematic in her work, and always respectful in her manners, though there was sometimes a twinkle in her eye and a movement of the muscles round her mouth which annoyed Mr. Ferrand.

She was especially apt in waiting on the table, and never interrupted his disquisitions with the noise of clashing plates or dropped silver. She never asked to go out in the evening, except now and then to go to church, and on these occasions she was at home so promptly that it was plain she went nowhere else. There was no fault to be found. Mrs. Ferrand was satisfied, and Mr. Ferrand could not discover any pretext for quarrelling with Rhoda.

Rhoda, on her part, was not satisfied with herself; though, thanks to Marion, she had more leisure than ever for her books, and was making very fair progress with her studies. There was all the time a little rankling thorn in her conscience. She knew she was helping Isa to deceive her father, and no sophistry of her own or Marion's would make deceit seem right to Aunt Hannah's pupil.

Nor was this all: her Bible was neglected from evening to evening while she pored over her mathematics; her prayers were shortened for the same reason; and when she did pray, her devotions were cold and lifeless, or else a mere discomfort. Even her visits to "The Home" and to Miss Brown were few and far between.

"We don't see you very often now-a-days," said Miss Wilkins, one day.

"I am so busy," answered Rhoda. "I hardly go out at all."

"I thought you would have more time, now that there is a cook in the family," remarked Miss Brown.

"I should, only we have so much company—dinner company every other day; and that makes a deal of work, you know. Then there are my lessons, and Marion likes to have me read for her evenings; her eyes are bad."

"What do you read?" asked Miss Brown, rather anxiously.

"History mostly; we have been reading some of Scott's works lately, and a pretty Scotch story called Magdalen Hepburn. I am going to borrow it for you, Miss Brown, I am sure you will like it. Oh, you needn't be afraid. Marion don't like trashy books any better than I do."

"And your music?" asked Miss Wilkins.

"Oh, that will have to wait," said Rhoda, starting up and taking the coal-scuttle from her hand as she moved to replenish the fire. "Mr. Ferrand thinks it is dreadful for a servant to learn geometry. I don't know what he would say to music."

"Then it appears he interests himself about what his servants do?"

"Don't he?" said Rhoda. "The other day I was altering a waist for Marion. I had just got it all contrived out, when I heard the clock strike, so I ran down to set the table, leaving the work lying on my bed. After dinner, as I was washing the dishes, Mr. Ferrand came into the pantry.

"'Rhoda,' said he, 'your room is in great disorder. I do not like to see a young person's bed covered with rags and pieces of cloth.'

"He always calls me 'a young person.' I thought I might say that I didn't like to have an old person prying into my room, particularly a gentleman. But I didn't. I explained it all as demurely as possible, and he was pleased to be satisfied, and to say that he liked to see persons in our position in life helpful to one another. Mrs. Ferrand is lovely; only she is always in a fidget for fear something should be wrong, but she don't worry so much since Marion came."

"I am sorry about your music," remarked Miss Wilkins. "You really have talent, and you had made a very nice beginning. My dear, how flushed your face is!"

"The room is so warm," said Rhoda, "and I have been out in the wind. Can I do anything for you? I am going down town to do some errands for Marion."

Miss Wilkins had several errands connected with worsted, wax, and leather, and Miss Brown wanted some yarn, so Rhoda executed the commissions successfully, and took her leave, promising to come soon again.

"It isn't right, I know," she said to herself as she walked homeward; "I am sure Aunt Hannah would say so. And yet I am getting on so well, and it does nobody any harm. Marion says what people don't know don't hurt them, but I can't think that. Well, I will just finish learning this piece, and then I won't touch it again."

The flush on Rhoda's face had been more than the reflection of Miss Wilkins's open fire or of her exposure to the wind. It was a blush of honest shame. Rhoda had been carrying on a course of deceit on which she could not think without shame and remorse. A celebrated lecturer was giving a course of lectures upon one of Mr. Ferrand's pet sciences—geology. Professor A—'s stay was limited, and in order to complete his course, he lectured every evening. It was no part of Mr. Ferrand's system to have Isa attend lectures for the present, and she was left at home with strict injunctions to practise an hour and a half, and to give at least half the time to her singing.

Isa had very little ear, and less voice, but Mr. Ferrand believed that any person could learn to sing with proper instruction. Her former teacher had bluntly told him that it was a loss of time and money for his daughter to take singing lessons. She might possibly learn to play tolerably, said this impracticable man, though she would never be anything but a mechanical performer at the best; but as for singing, it was all nonsense, and he really could not afford to waste his time on her.

Mr. Ferrand put on his grandest air of dignity, paid Mr. Tyndale's bill, and dismissed him, and then looked for another master who would be more docile. He found one in the person of Mr. Harvey, who was poor and had a family, two arguments which had much more weight with the music-master than any of Mr. Ferrand's.

"She will never learn anything," he said to his wife. "She has no more voice than a sparrow, and she hates music besides. She sets my teeth on edge worse than saw-filing. But her father is determined she shall learn, and two dollars an hour is not to be despised. It is all very well for Tyndale to set up for frankness. He has more pupils than he can attend to at forty dollars a quarter. I shall do the best I can by the girl, and at all events, I sha'n't work her to death, as Brown would."

Certainly the atmosphere around Mr. Ferrand did not seem to be favourable to sincerity.

One of the first times that Isa was left alone to her music, Rhoda came into the little back parlour where the piano stood just as Isa, was blundering over a new piece. It was that pretty little song, "The Origin of the Harp." The accompaniment is peculiarly simple and graceful, requiring delicacy of touch and execution, and Rhoda's ears were distracted by the way in which Isa attacked it.

"Oh, Isa, you do make such work!" she exclaimed, without ceremony, which indeed had been long disused between them.

"I can't help it," returned Isa, pettishly. "I can't see any sense in it. It is all up and down, without any tune at all. Do see if you can make anything of it."

"It can't do any harm just for once," said Rhoda, hesitating, for her fingers tingled to be at the piano.

"Of course not. As if anything could hurt this old piano! Come, do try."

Rhoda sat down. She could sing well at sight, thanks to the pains of her country singing-school master, and she had that real genius for music which is born with one in five hundred. She caught the spirit of the song directly, and in half an hour had mastered the accompaniment; and Isa listened with honest admiration.

"Oh dear!" said she, half envyingly, as Rhoda ceased. "If I had such a voice as that, I wouldn't mind my singing lessons. You don't have to pick it out a bit. You know just how to make your voice go by looking at the notes, don't you?"

"Of course," answered Rhoda. "I can sing any easy music at sight, and this is very easy, though it wants care and taste. I think it is lovely, though the words are not much."

"It is a rather pretty notion, though, to think of the poor things being turned into a harp," said Isa, who had a certain vein of poetry in her. "Now, I should never turn to anything but a miserable hand-organ, or at the best a musical-box, to go when it is wound up. Do play something else, Rhoda. Try this waltz. I thought it was very pretty when Mr. Harvey played it."

This was only the first of a series of surreptitious practisings. It became a regular thing for Rhoda to sit down to the school-room piano and occupy at least half of Isa's lesson-time playing over her pieces. It annoyed Isa that Rhoda would always play the scales first:

"What is the use of them? They are not a bit pretty."

"No, but they are useful, and I want to improve myself. Now I will play this waltz, and then you must play it after me. I must give you some help to pay for the use of the piano, you know; and besides, Mr. Harvey will make a fuss and tell your father if you don't know your lesson. Come, now, do your best."

Then Isa would sit down, and by dint of patient and careful teaching and overlooking, Rhoda would get her creditably through the piece.

"There! That is a great deal better than ever you played it before."

"Mr. Harvey says I improve," remarked Isa. "He told pa so. Pa found fault because he gave me such easy lessons, and Mr. Harvey told him he did it that I might acquire facility of execution. He said it was a part of his system to teach the true method of execution upon easy pieces, that the pupil's mind might be occupied with but one thing at a time; and then pa gave in directly. I think it is a part of his system to get through the lessons and earn his money the easiest he can," added Isa, shrewdly; "but I don't care as long as it saves me work. Come, now, sing this song."

And Rhoda sung the song, comforting herself by the thought that she really was helping Isa and doing nobody any hurt—a comfort which answered tolerably well till she came to say her prayers, when it vanished away and left her with a miserably burdened conscience and a sore heart.

These practisings went on very prosperously for a good while. To the geological lectures succeeded a chemical course, and then, dearest of all to Mr. Ferrand's mind, a course of lectures on education. At least three evenings in the week the girls were left to themselves, and spent their time over the piano. Marion grumbled a little at the loss of so much of her readings, but she liked the piano, and she was too good-natured to interfere with Rhoda's pleasure.

"This is a miserable piano," said Rhoda, one evening. "Mr. Harvey tuned it this morning, and now just hear!"

"Why, what's the matter?" said Isa as Rhoda struck a chord. "I don't see anything wrong."

"Eh, lass, you've no more ear than a brown pig," said Marion.

"Haven't brown pigs as many ears as other pigs?" asked Isa.

Rhoda laughed.

"She means a pitcher," said she. "That's the Scotch of it. But really, Isa, does that sound right to you?"

"I don't see anything out of the way, honestly. But, Rhoda, you might as well play on the grand piano if you want to. Nobody will be the wiser."

"It would be venturesome," observed Marion. "You see, nobody can hear this piano from the street, and your father ay makes such a work scraping his feet that you have time enough to get out of the way. But in the drawing-room, you would be sure to get caught unless you heard the gate shut, and that unlucky baker's boy ay leaves it open. You wouldn't like Mr. Ferrand to come home and catch you?"

Rhoda's very ears tingled with the burning blush which these words brought to her face.

Had it come to that? Was she afraid of being found out, like a boy who has been stealing apples? Some words of Aunt Hannah's, spoken long ago in Sunday-school, rose to her mind:

"Whenever you are afraid of being found out, be sure you are doing wrong."

What would Aunt Hannah say to her now? Rhoda had weakened her own moral sense and powers of resistance very much lately, but she had not brought herself to think deception right or excusable. She resisted faintly, however, as Isa continued to urge her to try the grand piano in the parlour, and only yielded after a struggle. The piano was a very superior one—by far the finest she had ever seen or touched; and she forgot everything in the fascination of playing Beethoven's grand waltz, which she had just learned.

"I declare, you are beyond everything," said Isa, drawing a long breath as the piece was concluded. "And just to think that you didn't know hardly anything when you came here!"

"Didn't know hardly anything?" repeated Rhoda. "Oh, Isa, what a sentence! But I did know a good deal, you must remember. I could read notes very well, and I had learn some pieces before I came from home. I used to play on Fanny Badger's piano and on the church melodeon, and Miss Wilkins taught me a great deal. Don't make me out quite a prodigy, Isa. But oh, I do wish I could have some lessons."

"Aweel, my dear, don't fret. Maybe they will come some time." And kind-hearted Marion began to consider the possibility of herself paying for some music-lessons for her young friend.

The grand instrument in the drawing-room made the school-room piano seem worse than ever by contrast, and Rhoda was easily persuaded to use it over and over again.

"But I will never touch it after I have learned this piece, I am determined I won't," said Rhoda to herself as she walked homeward after her visit to Miss Brown. "I must learn this piece, so as to show Isa. I am sure she will never get through it alone. Oh dear! I don't care; I do think it is a real abominable shame that I should be used so. I wish I should have been just like the others then. I should not have found out what was in me. And to think, after all, when they could afford to educate me as well as not, they should cast me off for the sake of that miserable baby! It was not his fault, either, poor little fellow! I am sure I don't wish him any ill, but I wish he had never been born, or else that I never had. I think that would be best of all." And Rhoda pulled down her veil to hide the hot tears which would gush out in spite of her.

"What's the matter, my dear?" asked Marion, her quick eye perceiving at once that something was wrong.

"Nothing," said Rhoda; "only I wish there was no such person as I am, that's all."

"Aweel, there's no use wishing that now, ye ken. A man canna unmake himself by any process that ever I heard of. Best wish for something you have a chance of getting. But what ails ye, lassie? Come, tell me, and ease your mind."

Rhoda poured out all her grief in a flood.

Marion listened with patience and sympathy.

"I'll no deny but it's a hard case," said she. "But, my lass, will you let me tell you one thing? And that's this: if ye mean to give up these music-lessons—and I'm no easy in my own mind about them—but if ye make up your mind to give them up, do it at once. Dinna wait to learn one more tune, no, nor one note more. It's like the poor drunkard that says he will take only one cup more, and that one cup more is just the ruin of him."

"But I do so want to learn this one piece," said Rhoda. "It suits me exactly, and I am sure Isa will never learn it unless I help her."

"Let every herring hang by its own head," said Marion. "You are not Isa's keeper. I said I was no easy in my mind about these lessons, and I'm not. I heard a grand sermon last Sunday on lying and leasing-making, and I have been thinking we have all been to blame in this matter; myself, maybe, worst of all. Come, don't cry any more, but wash your eyes and be ready to wait at dinner."

"Marion just wants me to spend the whole evening reading to her," said Rhoda to herself as she went up stairs. She knew she was unjust and that Marion was right, but in her present frame of mind, she found a certain comfort in blaming everybody. "I don't know but she is right though, about leaving off the music; only this piece is so lovely. Oh, I must finish it, and then I won't touch the piano again. Oh dear! It is too bad."

Rhoda's eyes overflowed again; she checked her tears as soon as she could, and tried to bathe away their traces, but this was never easy. Crying gave her a wretched headache, and made her usually fine complexion look pale and sallow.

Mr. Ferrand, who was not deficient in kind feeling when his system was not in the way, remarked to his wife that the young person was not looking well.

"You had better see that she diets and bathes properly," said he. "Young persons of her class—and indeed of every class—are apt to be careless about such matters."

Rhoda heard the remark, and it brought a new sting to her conscience. She tried to drive it out by resentment at being called a young person, but it stayed all the same.

"Now, Isabella, be faithful in your practising," said Mr. Ferrand as he set out for his customary lecture in the evening. "Mr. Harvey tells me that you are improving, and I am very glad to hear it."

"Then, pa, if you want me to improve still more, you must let me practise in the parlour, or else get a new piano for the school-room," said Isa, casting a glance of triumph at Rhoda. "Mr. Harvey says himself that school-room piano won't keep in tune five minutes."

"I think that must be an exaggeration," remarked Mr. Ferrand. "I should not suppose any instrument would become disordered in so short a time as five minutes. However, I will speak to Mr. Harvey on the subject; and if he thinks it desirable, I will request him to procure a proper instrument. Meantime, as you will not be subject to interruption from company this evening, you may practise in the drawing-room."

"Are ye going at it again?" said Marion as Rhoda turned toward the drawing-room after putting her dishes away.

"Only this once," answered Rhoda; "and then, Marion, I'll read to you all you like."

"It's not for myself I spoke," said Marion, justly offended. "But take your own gait. I'll say no more. If a wilful man must have his way, the byword is doubly true of a wilful lass."

"Oh, please don't be vexed, Marion," exclaimed Rhoda, ashamed of the words the moment they were spoken. "I didn't mean anything. Just come and hear me play this one piece, and I'll sing all the Scotch songs I know for you."

But Marion had "got her Scotch up." She retreated to her kitchen; and shutting the doors between, she sat down to her knitting. Meantime, Rhoda played piece after piece, excusing herself for taking up all the time by the thought that she should never touch the piano again.

"Only one more," pleaded Isa, as Rhoda made a motion to rise. "This is the last lecture-night, you know, and very likely we shall not have another chance for ever so long. Sing 'The Origin of the Harp.' I do think it is so lovely. Come; they won't be here for an hour yet, I know."

Isa was mistaken. The lecture had been very much shortened by an accident to the gas-pipes which had left the hall in darkness. Mr. and Mrs. Ferrand were alighting from the street-car at the corner at that very moment, and they entered the gate just as Rhoda began the second verse of the song.

"Can that be Isabella singing?" said Mrs. Ferrand, astonished at the clear, round notes which reached her ears—notes as different from Isa's as the whistle of the oriole from the twitter of the sparrow. "I never heard her sing like that, or play like that either."

"Perhaps your sister Harriet may have arrived unexpectedly," said Mr. Ferrand.

"Harriet would not be out of school so near the close of the term; and besides, she does not sing. No, that is like no voice in our family."

Mr. Ferrand stepped to the long drawing-room window, which looked out on the lawn, and opened the blind. He could hardly believe his eyes. There sat Rhoda at the grand piano, and there, standing by, with her arm on the "young person's" shoulder, was his own systematically educated daughter Isa, actually abetting this low-born servant's crime—so Mr. Ferrand at once called Rhoda's desecration of his treasured instrument.

"Mrs. Ferrand," said he, in a voice of calm, concentrated anger, "will you do me the favour to look into this window?"

Mrs. Ferrand looked, and at that moment, attracted by some slight noise, or by that curious sense of being looked at which almost every one has experienced, both the girls turned round and saw the faces at the window.

Isa uttered a shriek of dismay, rushed away to her own room, and bolted herself in.

Rhoda stood her ground. She was very much frightened, and equally ashamed also, but it was not in her nature to run.

"What are you doing here?" was Mr. Ferrand's first question.

"I was playing on the piano," answered Rhoda, humbly enough.

Mr. Ferrand turned to his wife:

"Mrs. Ferrand, I believe no words are necessary. You must see now—even you must see, I think—that this young person is no fit inmate of our household. She may remain to-night, and also to-morrow, as it is Sunday, but no longer."

"But, Mr. Ferrand, you know we are expecting company on Monday," pleaded his wife. "She might at least stay till I can find somebody. It will be very inconvenient. I don't mean to excuse her, but—"

"Is it possible?" asked Mr. Ferrand, with sarcastic emphasis. "I believe I have made myself understood, Mrs. Ferrand. The young person will leave on Monday. Meantime, you will please send Isabella to me in the library."

This, however, was more easily said than done. Isa had locked and bolted herself into her room, where she was to be heard sobbing hysterically, but no entreaties of her mother or commands of her father would induce her to unbar the door or get a word out of her till her father threatened to break the door down.

"If you do, I'll jump out of the window and run away," cried Isabella, and she was heard to open her window as if to put her threat into execution. She was crying at the top of her voice, and more than one person had already stopped in the street to listen.

Mr. Ferrand dreaded nothing so much as any publicity of his family affairs, and he was at last persuaded by his wife to let Isa alone for the night.

### CHAPTER XII.

AN OLD ENEMY.

RHODA went to her room burning with shame and anger. Her first impulse was to put on her bonnet and go home, but she reflected, as she grew a little cooler, that it was after nine o'clock of a dark night, and too late to undertake a walk of a mile alone, and that she could not possibly take her trunk. And then what would Miss Carpenter say? What would the ladies of the board say when they came to hear the whole story? They would think she had disgraced the institution and herself. Perhaps they would not let her stay there any more. And oh, what would Aunt Hannah say if she knew?

The very thought of Aunt Hannah seemed to bring some peace to Rhoda's tempest-tossed spirit.

"I know what she would say," thought the poor girl. "She would say that I had done very wrong, but that was no reason why I should go on doing wrong. She would tell me to confess my sin and ask forgiveness and grace to do better. But oh, how can I? I knew I was wrong. I knew I was deceiving and helping Isa to deceive, and yet I was so selfish, so bent on having my own way, that I kept on, though something warned me all the time. And yet—Oh yes, I must ask forgiveness for myself and Isa. Poor girl! I wonder what her father will do to her? I feel worse about her than even for myself."

Rhoda knelt down by her bedside, and humbly and with many tears confessed her sin and asked forgiveness in His name who said, "Not seven times, but seventy times seven." She was still kneeling when some one tapped lightly at the door. She started up and opened it, thinking of Isa, but it was Mrs. Ferrand who had knocked. She had been crying as well as Rhoda, and looked even more unhappy.

"Oh, Rhoda, how could you?" said she, in a half whisper. And then, with a fresh burst of tears, "I am sure I liked you and trusted you more than any girl I ever had. I thought you were almost perfect. And now Mr. Ferrand says it is just what he expected and what I might have known. Why wouldn't you be contented to read the books he gave you, and not get out of your station into algebra and geometry and all such things?"

Despite her grief and shame, Rhoda could hardly forbear smiling.

"Mrs. Ferrand, I am very sorry," said she, earnestly—"I am more sorry than I can tell you. You have been very good to me ever since I came here, and it was a shame for me to deceive you so. But I do think it was the deception that was the harm, and not the algebra and geometry, or the music either, for that matter."

"But, Rhoda, don't you see that you wouldn't have been tempted to deceive only for the music?"

"I am not sure of that, Mrs. Ferrand. Did you never hear of servants who didn't care about music or books deceiving their employers?"

"To be sure," said Mrs. Ferrand, considering. "There was Mary Blane. She couldn't even read, and she stole tea and candles, and baked cakes on the sly, and got out of the window and ran away to balls, and got taken up by the police. But I don't think that any excuse for you, Rhoda."

"I know it isn't, Mrs. Ferrand, and I don't mean to excuse myself. I think I was very much to blame—not for playing the piano, but for doing it slyly and helping Miss Isa to deceive her father. I feel worse about that than anything."

"And we all thought she was improving so much," said Mrs. Ferrand, wiping her eyes. "Mr. Harvey told her father that she had gained more in the last six weeks than in all the winter."

"Well, Mrs. Ferrand, honestly, I do think she has; and so far as her music went, I think I was an advantage to her, for I used to play over her lessons and show her how to learn them. Miss Isa—"

"Well, go on," said Mrs. Ferrand, as Rhoda checked herself and coloured. "What were you going to say?"

"I was going to say, if you will excuse me, that Miss Isa needs a great deal of help and showing to learn anything, or so it seems to me. She gets puzzled, and the harder she works, the more puzzled she grows; whereas, if she has some one to show her and make things that she don't understand plain to her, she gets on pretty well."

"I know it," said Mrs. Ferrand, sighing. "Isa isn't bright. She is like me, and I never was one bit of a scholar. I was the only dunce in our family. It used to trouble mother a good deal, but father said it didn't matter.

"'You can't make scholars out of everybody,' I remember his saying; 'Lucilla may make a very good and useful woman without knowing anything about algebra.'

"That was a great comfort to me."

"I am sure he was right," said Rhoda, warmly. "I think you are just as lovely and good as you can be, and it makes me feel all the more ashamed to think how I have treated you."

"Oh, my dear, and I was so fond of you, and trusted you so. I always felt perfectly easy about anything you undertook to do. You never disappointed me. Now, we are going to have ever so much company next week, and very particular company too, and I was thinking all the time what a comfort it was going to be to have you and Marion, and now I shall have a new girl to teach, and I dare say Marion will go away too."

"She mustn't do that," said Rhoda. "I will talk to her." Rhoda swallowed a great lump of pride that rose in her throat at that moment, and added, "I will stay through the week and help you if Mr. Ferrand is willing."

"Oh, if you would! But I am afraid he will not consent, he is so angry with me and Isa and everybody. I am sure I am at my wit's end what to do," continued the poor lady. "If Isa gets one of her obstinate fits, she will half starve before she will give in, and I am afraid she will make herself sick. Well, I mustn't stay any longer. Mr. Ferrand told me to talk to you and see if I could make you see your sin; but I am sure you do see it, don't you, Rhoda?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Rhoda, swallowing the lump again. "Will you please tell Mr. Ferrand that I am very sorry I deceived him about the piano, and that if he is willing I will stay and help you through this week?"

The next morning Isa's door was open, and Mrs. Ferrand found her daughter prostrated with a sick headache, which proved the beginning of a somewhat serious attack of fever and indigestion. Mr. Ferrand at first refused to believe in Isa's illness, declaring it was only another deception—a mere pretext for keeping her room and escaping merited reproof; but when he came to see her, he was compelled to own himself mistaken for once, and consented to send for Doctor Morton.

"She will get over it this time, or so I think," said the blunt doctor, who stood in no awe of Mr. Ferrand's wealth, family, or theories. "She has been working too hard and walking too much and living on too low diet. Her mother tells me that she has been breakfasting on oatmeal, and that she does not like it. That is all nonsense. Let her have meat twice a day, and plenty of it; keep her out of school a while, and let her have plenty of fun and amusement. Get some girl of her own age to stay with her, buy her a croquet set, or send her to some old woman in the country who will coddle and pet her and let her run wild. If you don't mind, she will slip through your fingers some day like the other one."

Mr. Ferrand's feelings were deeply wounded, and also his dignity. As he said to his wife, Dr. Morton really seemed to have no idea of the respect due to a gentleman of his family and social position. Still, he did not like to take the responsibility of disregarding the doctor's advice.

That remark about "the other one" had touched a sensitive place in Mr. Ferrand's heart, for he really had a heart. But he could not bear to give up and own that he had been in the wrong; and as to taking his daughter out of school and letting her run wild, the idea was not to be entertained for a moment. But something might perhaps be done by way of compromise, and Mr. Ferrand began to cast about for a way of saving his daughter and his dignity at the same time.

Mr. Ferrand said nothing to Rhoda all day Sunday, though she went about her work as usual.

On Monday morning, Marion came to her with a message.

"Yon man wants to see you in the library," said she. "He's stalking about like a midden-cock on pattens. The doctor gave him an awful take-down yesterday about Miss Isa, and he will have to be extra dignified to make up for 't. Lass, did ye really tell Mrs. Ferrand you would stay the week out?"

"Yes, I did," answered Rhoda. "I thought it was the best I could do, seeing all the trouble I had made."

"Aweel, it's very well done, and very pretty of you, and I am glad of it for the poor lady's sake as well as my own. I'm grown very fond of you, lass. I think I shall no stop myself when you're gone."

"Oh, please, Marion, don't go away if you can help it," said Rhoda; "Mrs. Ferrand will be so sorry. I am sure you are very good to be fond of me. I haven't treated you very well lately. If I had only taken your advice, all this wouldn't have happened."

"Tut, tut!" said Marion. "I was as bad as yourself, and worse, for I was older. But now, lass, take my advice this time. Speak yon man fair, and let him have it all his own way, and it will come out all right. But, above all, don't keep him waiting."

Mr. Ferrand was in the library, seated in his arm-chair, with his most decided expression of dignity and importance. But it is not easy to look dignified and important on purpose without overdoing the matter, and, consequently, Mr. Ferrand succeeded in being only stiff and pompous. Rhoda instantly compared him in her own mind to a certain small bantam cock formerly belonging to Aunt Hannah.

Mr. Ferrand looked at Rhoda, and Rhoda looked on the floor, vexed at herself for feeling like laughing. She had not felt in the least like laughing under Mrs. Ferrand's gentle and somewhat incoherent reproaches.

"I understand, Rhoda Bowers—I believe that is your name?" said Mr. Ferrand, pausing for an answer.

"Yes, sir," answered Rhoda, meekly, thinking, "The old goose! Just as if he didn't know my name!"

"I understand from Mrs. Ferrand, Rhoda Bowers, that you repent of your conduct on Saturday night and other preceding nights in invading my drawing-room and trespassing upon my daughter's instrument?"

Mr. Ferrand again paused for a reply, and Rhoda said,—

"Yes, sir, I am sorry I should have deceived you and helped Miss Isa to do so. I think it was very wrong, and I beg your pardon."

"Well," said Mr. Ferrand, "I understand also that you are very desirous to remain in my family a short time longer, until you can find another place. Since you see and acknowledge your errors—"

"Excuse me, Mr. Ferrand," said Rhoda, modestly. "It was not that I wished to stay till I can find another place. I can always go back to 'The Home.' But as Mrs. Ferrand was expecting company, and Miss Ferrand is not very well, I thought I might save her trouble by staying till she could find another girl. I have made her so much trouble that I should like to make some amends."

"Well, well, it comes to much the same thing," said Mr. Ferrand. "You are at liberty to remain this week, and then we will see. But one thing I must insist upon—that you shall have no intercourse whatever with Miss Ferrand. If you would give me your word to abandon those pursuits which you must be sensible are altogether unfitted for you, and to be guided by me in your reading, I might perhaps allow you to remain altogether."

"I don't think I can do that, Mr. Ferrand," said Rhoda. "It has always been my greatest desire to get an education, so as to be able to teach, and I do not think I can give it up."

"To teach!" repeated Mr. Ferrand.

"Yes, sir. I am quite sure I could teach if I only had an education. I don't want to boast, but I know I have a talent for both music and mathematics, and I don't think it would be right for me to neglect them altogether, any more than it was right for me to try to cultivate them in wrong ways. It would have been wrong for the man in the parable to use dishonest means to increase his one talent, but that didn't make it right for him to bury it in the ground."

Mr. Ferrand looked surprised, but not offended.

"You really seem to have thought upon the subject," said he. "Sit down. I should like to converse with you farther on this subject."

Never before had Mr. Ferrand asked a servant to sit down in that august apartment, But he was interested, as it were, in spite of himself.

Rhoda took a seat. She was a very pretty and somewhat distinguished-looking girl, and always neat in her dress; and as she sat before him, her face full of animation and thought, Mr. Ferrand was surprised to find himself admiring her and wishing that Isa looked like her.

"You say you think you can teach," he continued. "Why do you think so? You should be able to give a reason for your conviction."

"I think so," answered Rhoda, "because I have always succeeded whenever I have tried."

"Then you have tried?"

"Yes, sir. I have taught two or three of the little ones at 'The Home' to read this last winter. Then there was a little girl in Boonville whom every one thought was not quite like other children—deficient in mind, or peculiar, at any rate. She did not learn to read, and her parents thought she never would, but the poor thing wanted to learn—"

"Excuse me: wished or desired to learn would be the better expression," said Mr. Ferrand. "But go on. I am much interested in everything pertaining to education."

"She wished very much to learn," continued Rhoda, accepting the correction, not without some inward amusement, "and I asked Mrs. Bowers if I might try to teach her. I worked with her nearly three months before she learned a single thing. If she learned to know a word in one place, she did not know it in another; and when she had spelled bat and cat and hat, she had no more idea how to spell rat than if she had never seen a letter. But she would not give up, and I was ashamed to be less persevering than a little child, and at last she seemed to start right off and read without any trouble. It all came to her at once, and after that, I never saw any child improve so fast."

"That is a very interesting case," said Mr. Ferrand. "With your permission, I shall make use of it in my work on education. Have you ever tried to teach anything but reading?"

"Only when I was helping Miss Isa—Miss Ferrand, I mean," said Rhoda, blushing. "I have tried to help her in her music."

Mr. Ferrand's face darkened a little.

"I know it was very wrong," said Rhoda, humbly. "It was deceitful, and deceit can never be right; but Miss Ferrand does work so hard it seemed almost cruel not to help her when she asked me."

"Well, well, I am glad you are sensible of your error. We will talk of this matter again. Meantime, you can go about your duties as usual, for this week, at any rate. I should wish you to take down and dust all the vases and other ornaments in the upper hall. I observed several small cobwebs there yesterday when I had occasion to look behind them."

"Thank you, sir," said Rhoda, both gratified and surprised at the result of the interview.

She longed to intercede for Isa, but something told her that it would not be best. So she made her curtsey and withdrew, resolved to leave not the shadow of a cobweb anywhere within her jurisdiction.

Mr. Ferrand closed the library door, and sat down to meditate upon an idea which had crossed his mind, and which a week ago he would have rejected as utterly wild and impracticable. This young person had certainly a good and clear intellect, however she came by it. She was really talented, and it was evident that she had no common share of perseverance to pursue a course of study at home; yet here was a servant who, with all her work to do and without neglecting the duties of her position, had made very creditable progress in mathematics and music. True, she had been much to blame, but she seemed fully sensible of her error, and we are all human and liable to err, thought Mr. Ferrand, not even excepting himself from this general principle.

Doctor Morton had said very decidedly that Isabella must be taken out of school, and that she ought to have a companion of her own age.

"Get some girl of her own age to stay with her," was his inelegant expression, Mr. Ferrand remembered.

What if he should adopt this young person into his family, procure a suitable governess, and allow the two to study and associate upon equal terms? Rhoda was an orphan—that was one great advantage. She was well-looking and had good taste in dress—that was another. And though, as was to be expected, she used somewhat common and colloquial expressions, she was not vulgar or ungrammatical in her speech, Isabella was fond of her, so was Mrs. Ferrand.

"I will consider upon it, I really will," said Mr. Ferrand to himself. "I cannot but think the plan offers some considerable advantages, But it is not best to act in haste. I will consider upon it."

Two or three days after the conversation in the library there came a ring at the door, and Rhoda opened it, as usual, to be astonished at the apparition of Uncle Jacob Weightman, who looked no less surprised at seeing her.

"Why, Rhoda, is this you?" said he. "What are you doing here?"

"My work," answered Rhoda. "Whom did you wish to see, Mr. Weightman?"

"Oh, that is it?" answered the old man, with a smile of sour satisfaction. "I hope you like your boarding-school."

"Whom did you wish to see?" repeated Rhoda. She was choked with anger, grief, and a spasm of homesickness, but not for the world would she have shed a tear before Uncle Jacob.

"Does Mr. Ferrand live here?"

"Yes. Do you wish to see him?"

"You may tell him I have got some business with him," said Uncle Jacob. "Tell him a gentleman wants to see him on business about his Hobarttown property."

Rhoda knocked at the library door, and said,—

"Mr. Ferrand, here is a person wants to see you on business, if you please."

"Oh, so I am not a gentleman in your eyes, Miss Rhoda? See if I don't pay you for that," muttered the old man as he went forward into the library.

It was not very wise in Rhoda, or perhaps very Christian, but she was only a child, after all, and she certainly had small reason to love Mr. Weightman. She was to have still less before the morning was over.

Mr. Ferrand was polite to everybody for his own sake, and he received Mr. Weightman with his usual courtesy.

After they had finished their business, Mr. Weightman remarked, carelessly,—

"I see you have that girl that my niece took from the asylum."

"Your niece!" said Mr. Ferrand.

"Yes, Mrs. Bowers, of Boonville. She had no children, and adopted this girl from some home or asylum in the city here. It was against my advice, and turned out just as I expected."

"May I ask why your niece did not keep her?" asked Mr. Ferrand. "Please excuse my curiosity. I have a special reason for asking."

"Oh, well, the fact is, I don't want to say anything against the girl, but it did not answer. I don't think such arrangements often do. The girl was sly and idle, and made mischief in the family. I had a sister—she is dead now—but she was infirm in mind, and this girl actually got the poor old woman to make a will leaving her all her property. It was not signed, and of course was worth no more than so much waste paper. She made a deal of trouble for me with poor Hannah, and there were other reasons—in short, they had to get rid of her. But what can you expect? Crab trees will bear crab apples, you know. If people will take children of that kind, they must expect to have the father, and especially the mother, come out in them. You have seen enough of the world to know that, Mr. Ferrand. However, I don't want to injure Rhoda. I am glad to see her working honestly for a living, for there is no knowing what such girls will do."

Mr. Weightman had no particular intention of lying about Rhoda, although he did mean to pay her, as he said, for her disrespect to himself. He had all the time been trying to justify his treatment of Rhoda to himself by making himself believe that Rhoda was all he had represented, and he had to some extent succeeded. Was not Aunt Hannah always making her expensive presents? Had she not made a will at last leaving Rhoda that estate which was his by all right? True, it was not witnessed, or even signed, and he had reason to think that nobody knew of its existence but himself, but that was no thanks to Rhoda. Yes, she was a wicked, designing girl, and it was right to warn people against her.

Rhoda exchanged no words with Uncle Jacob as he went out. She of course knew nothing of what had passed in the library, but the moment she saw Mr. Ferrand, she felt there was a change in his manner toward her. He hardly spoke to her all the rest of the week. When Monday came, he paid her her wages and a month over, made her a present of a good book, handsomely bound, and hoped she would do well. He had reconsidered the matter, and had come to the conclusion that it would not do at all.

### CHAPTER XIII.

A NEW FRIEND.

RHODA did not know for a long time how near she had been to the accomplishment of her wishes. She took a tearful leave of Mrs. Ferrand and Isa, and went back to 'The Home' feeling sadly enough.

She was mortified at being dismissed and ashamed at the circumstances which led to the dismissal, and she was broken-hearted at parting with Isa, whom she had learned to love with all the intensity of a school-girl's affection. She had never been much given to striking up those sudden and violent intimacies common among girls, and which are often as short-lived as fervent. She had been a favourite with all the girls at Boonville, but she had been specially intimate with none of them except Alice Brown, who had gone away to the far West a year before. But she loved Isa Ferrand with all her heart, and none the less that she was not insensible to Isa's faults and weaknesses. And now they must part, and would probably never see any more of each other. They might sometimes meet in the street, but there could be no visiting and no correspondence—they could hardly even stop to talk, because Isa would be disobeying her father. It was very, very hard.

Rhoda fell easily enough into her old life at "The Home." Neither Miss Carpenter nor the good managers were disposed to be hard upon her, considering the temptations to which she had been exposed.

"You should not have done it, of course," said Mrs. Mulford. "Deceit is and must be always wrong. But I think Mr. Ferrand made a very unnecessary fuss about the matter. I dare say you would have felt twice as penitent if he had given you permission to practise every day."

"I don't know. I was very sorry as it was," said Rhoda. "But I did feel a great deal more so that day he talked so kindly to me."

"How was that?" asked Mrs. Mulford.

Rhoda repeated the substance of the conversation which had taken place in the library.

"He was just so kind, and even kinder, all that week, till the afternoon Mr. Weightman called, and after that he never spoke to me again till he paid me my wages when I came away. I can't help thinking Mr. Weightman set him against me. He has always been my enemy. I am quite sure that Mr. and Mrs. Bowers would not have sent me away but for him."

"It hardly seems as if any one could be so meanly spiteful as that, and toward a young girl," remarked Mrs. Mulford. "And yet I know narrow-minded, ignorant people will carry enmity to great lengths sometimes."

"I know he does. There was a woman lived next him with whom he had a quarrel. She was an ignorant, hot-tempered woman, and used rather hard language sometimes, but that was the worst of her. Well, he got angry at her for something about a grapevine, and he went to the man whose house she lived in and told him such stories about her that he got her turned out of her house. I don't really think, either, that he means to tell downright lies, but he thinks that any one who opposes him must be everything that is bad."

"He must be a nice person. Well, Rhoda, you did right to come back here, and you are come in very good time too, for several of the old ladies are ailing and need a deal of waiting on. Just take hold and help Mrs. Lambert whenever you see a chance. I suppose you don't give up your idea of getting an education?"

"No, ma'am. I don't think I can give it up so long as there is any 'me,'" said Rhoda, smiling somewhat sadly. "But the time is getting on very fast."

"Yes, and you are getting on too. Well, study as much as you can, my dear; and if you want any help in the way of books, come to me about it. Don't be discouraged. I shall try to find you a place where you can work for your board and go to school, and in the mean time just make yourself useful here. This will always be your home, you know."

Rhoda was very willing to make herself useful. She waited on Granny Parsons, now sick and confined to her room, and did errands for the house, and made caps and aprons for the old ladies, and read aloud to Mrs. Carson, the blind woman, and whenever she had a little time practised scales and exercises diligently on the little old piano, compared to which even the school-room piano at Mr. Ferrand's was a fine instrument.

One day, as she was coming home from executing multifarious commissions, with her hands full of little bundles, she saw Isa crossing the street, and waited for her to come up. Isa was thinner and more languid than ever. She had her arms full of books, and seemed so occupied with her own thoughts that she hardly recognized Rhoda, even when she spoke. Then, with a cry of joy which made two or three people look round, and dropping a shower of books, she threw her arms round her friend's neck and kissed her.

"Oh how glad I am to see you!" she exclaimed. "I have watched and watched for you every day since I began to go to school again, but I never could see you."

"To school!" said Rhoda, picking up Isa's books with some trouble, for her own hands were full. "You don't mean to say you are going to school again, after all the doctor said? I do think your father is crazy."

"I don't know whether 'he' is crazy, but I know who will be," said Isa.

"But when the doctor said so much about it—"

"Oh, pa thinks the doctor was mistaken," said Isa. "He went over and talked to the teachers, and Miss Black—just like her, the cross, meddling old thing!—told him that I was always going into Palmer's and buying ice cream and cake and candy, and that was what made me sick. I have done it sometimes when ma gave me money because I got so faint and hungry. So pa believed it all, of course, and here I am grinding away again. I declare, Rhoda, there isn't a day that I don't wish I was dead."

"Oh, Isa! You shouldn't!"

"I can't help it. I do, and so would you in my place. No, you wouldn't; you would like it, for you are not a dunce and a fool, as I am."

"You are not a dunce, nor a fool either," said Rhoda, warmly. "It doesn't follow that you are a dunce because you can't learn music. A great many people can't. But how do you get on in school? Can you learn your lessons?"

"Yes, some of them. We are reviewing, and the girls help me. But you don't know how my head feels. There is a place up the back of it that feels perfectly numb and dead, and some days the feeling goes down my spine and all over me, and I can't sleep at night. I am just doing lessons, lessons all the time. Oh, if I could only run away or do something!"

The girls had turned into a shady, quiet street by this time, and were walking slowly along together.

"What are you thinking about, Rhoda?" asked Isa, a little impatiently, after a minute's silence. "Why don't you speak?"

"Because I want to say something, and I don't quite know how," answered Rhoda. "I am afraid you will think it odd, coming from me, after all that has happened."

"I shall think it is just right, whatever it is, I know."

"Well, then, Isa dear, you know who it was that said,—

"'Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.'

"Why don't you go to him?"

"I don't know; I never thought I could. How?"

"Don't you know the Bible says—

"'...he is able also to save them to the uttermost that come unto God by him'?

"Nobody loves us as our heavenly Father does and if you ask him, I am sure he will find some way to help you."

"I shouldn't dare, I am so wicked," said Isa. "I suppose that is only meant for very good people."

"No, indeed," answered Rhoda, earnestly. "If it was, I don't know who in all this world would ever dare to come. Why, Isa, don't you read your Bible? Don't you know that Jesus Christ came into the world on purpose to save sinners? Don't you know what he said when the Pharisees found fault with him for eating with them? I thought you read your Bible every night."

"Well, I do, but I am so tired and stupid I can't take any sense of it. But, Rhoda, the Bible says very hard things about liars, and I do tell fibs and cheat in my lessons. I should be in disgrace all the time if Kate Collins and Mary Pomeroy didn't do my sums for me or let me copy theirs."

"Then I'd be in disgrace," said Rhoda, undauntedly. "Perhaps that would be the best way to make your father understand that you can't learn. Anyhow, Isa, I would pray. I would tell God all about that too, as well as the rest, and ask him to take you out of temptation. He will find some way, I know. He isn't like an earthly friend that can only do very little or perhaps nothing at all."

"But, Rhoda—"

"Well, what?"

"I suppose you must have asked him a great many times to let you get an education?"

"Yes, and I am sure he will, if it is best for me," said Rhoda.

"Yet he let you get found out and sent away from our house."

"Yes, and good reason why—because I had forgotten him, and was trying to help myself in my own way. I was like Jacob in the Bible. God had promised him the birthright, but he wasn't contented to wait. He went to work to get it in underhand ways—by cheating and deceiving his old father, and taking a mean advantage of his brother; and just see how much trouble he made himself. But come now, Isa dear, promise me you will pray."

"Well, I will, Rhoda, I truly will. I am sure I 'labour and am heavy laden' enough, if that is all. I know that it isn't right to cheat, and it makes me ashamed and miserable all the time; but if I don't bring home a good report, pa is so mortified and scolds so and ma is so miserable. But I will try, and you will pray for me, won't you?"

"Indeed I will! Oh, Isa, you don't know how I miss you and want to see you."

"And I am sure I miss you. Have you got a place yet?"

"No. Mrs. Mulford says I am not to be in a hurry about one, because I am really needed at 'The Home,' and she does not think they can spare me just yet."

"What do you do? Tell me."

"Oh, a great many different things," said Rhoda. "I carry up breakfast to Granny Parsons and Mrs. Josleyn when they can't come down; I make and do up caps, and go on errands; and sometimes I keep the books for Miss Carpenter. They are talking about having a school in the house again, when the new wing is done, and perhaps they may let me teach if Miss Wilkins is not able. And I practise an hour every day—sometimes more than that. I have plenty to do and plenty of variety, you see."

"I should like just such a life as that," said Isa. "Well, good-bye, dear; don't forget me."

"There is no danger," said Rhoda. "I haven't so many friends that I can afford to lose any."

"Oh, I forgot to tell you that Aunt Harriet is coming to make us a visit," said Isa, turning back. "I wish you could see her. She is perfectly lovely. I think I should be happy if I could only go to school to Aunt Harriet Hardy."

"She has a school, has she?"

"Yes, a boarding-school in Cohansey—not a large one: she has only about twenty-five girls; and oh, they do have such good times! I was there visiting once with mother, and if I didn't envy those girls! But I mustn't stop another minute, or pa will ask me where I have been. Good-bye."

"You are rather late, Isabella," said her father as she entered. "What detained you?"

"I walked round with one of the girls. Pa, I'll tell you the truth," said Isa, with a spasm of frankness, but trembling as she spoke. "I met Rhoda Bowers and walked part of the way home with her. Now, don't be angry, please don't."

"I am not angry, Isabella, but I am grieved and surprised. Why should you wish to associate with such a girl as that?"

"Why, pa, you said yourself that Rhoda had an uncommonly clear mind."

"She is not deficient in intellect," said Mr. Ferrand—"nay, I will go farther, and say she has an unusually good mind; but she is not trustworthy. She deceived me here, and the person who has called to see me on business two or three times lately tells me that she made great trouble in the family of her adopted parents."

"I don't believe it," said Isa, boldly, "and I wonder, pa, that you should let yourself be influenced by such a common man as that, especially when you said yourself that he tried to take the advantage of you."

"There is something in that view of the case, certainly," said Mr. Ferrand, "and I must say the young person expressed herself very becomingly in regard to her conduct here. But, Isabella, remember that I do not wish you to associate with her. You need not mortify her by refusing to speak when you meet,—we should be courteous to persons in every position in life; but you must not walk in the street, or stop to converse, with her. You had better go and dress for dinner, my daughter. Your aunt Harriet is here."

"Oh, is she? How glad I am! When did she come?"

"By the five o'clock train," said Mr. Ferrand, thinking, with a little something like a pain at his heart, that his daughter had never greeted his coming with any such show of warmth.

But he was altogether too well satisfied with himself—too well balanced, he would have said—to permit himself to be jealous. An affectionate and faithful father should, of course, have the first place in his child's affections. He was affectionate and faithful, therefore it must follow that Isabella loved him better than any one. He did not care very much for demonstrations of feeling, and it would certainly have annoyed him very much if Isabella had rushed into his room, thrown her arms around his neck, and hugged and kissed him as she did her aunt Harriet.

Aunt Harriet, however, did not seem to be in the least disturbed, even though Isa's embrace distressingly crushed her illusion ruffles and tumbled the rich soft black silk which was her favourite wear. She was a delicate little woman, well on in the thirties at the least, yet not old enough to account for the fact that her soft wavy hair was quite gray. She had clear gray eyes,—the colour of a shaded pond,—eyes not at all subdued in their expression by a life of school-teaching, but which could dance with glee or soften with affection or pity, or on occasion flash alarmingly with indignation. She was always elegantly and rather richly dressed, and was, on the whole, one of those persons of whom you naturally say, on seeing them, "Who is that?"

"There! Sit down and let me look at you," said she when Isa's raptures were a little calmed down. "Why, child, how thin you are! And how tired you look! I should not allow you to look like that if you were one of my girls."

"Don't you let your girls look tired, Aunt Harriet?"

"No. When they begin to have that sort of look, I carry them off for a row up the race and a pic-nic, or some such nonsense."

"Then I wish I was one of your girls, for I am tired all the time," said poor Isa. "I am so tired now I should like to go straight to bed."

"Go to bed, then," said Aunt Harriet. "Lie down here on my bed and sleep till dinner-time."

"I can't," said Isa. "I must dress for dinner, and then look over my Latin. I wish there had never been any ancient Romans, or else that I had been born one."

"Then you might have been obliged to learn Greek, and that would have been worse."

"Pa says I have got to begin Greek next year," said Isa. "Oh dear! If I could only see any end to it, I shouldn't mind so much. But I must go and dress, or I shall not dare to show myself at the dinner-table."

"Oh dear!" she said to herself as she went to her own room. "I do wish pa would go away, and then ma and I could have Aunt Harriet all to ourselves. Pa will be wanting to talk education all the time. I never was so sick of anything. If I ever have any children, they shall never be educated at all."

Miss Hardy was no very great favourite with her brother-in-law; and, as old-fashioned people say, "there was no love lost between them." Miss Hardy was by no means one of those vine-like, submissive women who were Mr. Ferrand's standards of excellence. She had been at the head of an establishment of her own ever since she was three-and-twenty—an establishment in which her will was law. She had had great experience of all sorts of people. She had formed her own opinions and was prepared to defend them, and she did not defer to Mr. Ferrand's superior claims in point of intellect, family, and social position so much as that gentleman thought his wife's sister should have done.

On the other hand, Miss Hardy thought her brother-in-law conceited and disposed to be tyrannical both to his wife and daughter, and perhaps she hardly did justice to his good qualities. However, she was incapable of treating him with disrespect in the presence of her sister, and Mr. Ferrand, on his part, could not be rude to a lady in his own house. Nevertheless, Mrs. Ferrand always felt a secret uneasiness when the two were together, and it was with a feeling of relief that she heard her husband apologize to her sister for the necessity which existed of his leaving town to-morrow to attend to some property he was about to sell at Hobarttown.

"So you mean to sell that mill?" said his wife.

"Yes, I think so. I have a good opportunity, and I prefer to invest the money where it will take care of itself. You had better take the carriage and give your sister a view of the different places in the city. Probably she will like to visit 'The House of Refuge' and 'The School for Truant Children.'"

"I want to see your old ladies' 'Home,'" said Miss Hardy. "They are thinking of getting up a similar institution in Cohansey, and I have heard this one highly spoken of."

"I believe the old people are made very comfortable," said Mrs. Ferrand. "Of course they grumble more or less; but from all I can learn, I think they must be well cared for."

"At the same time, there is a lamentable want of system in the arrangements," remarked Mr. Ferrand. "Their hours are very late, and there seem to be absolutely no rules about exercising and diet. It cannot be proper that any persons should have tea three times a day, and I am credibly informed that several of the old people are allowed to take snuff."

"I suppose they have been used to it all their lives, pa," Isa ventured to say.

"Do you consider that any argument for criminal indulgence, Isabella?" asked her father.

"I shouldn't call it exactly a criminal indulgence to take snuff," answered Isa, emboldened by her aunt's smile. "I shouldn't think it best for a young person to begin, because it is a disagreeable habit; but I should think, when a woman had taken it till she was seventy or eighty years old, she might be allowed to go on for the rest of her life."

"And if a man had gone on stealing till he was eighty, would that be a reason for his keeping on?"

"There is a difference between stealing and taking snuff," answered Isa.

"Decidedly a difference," remarked Miss Hardy. "Did you tell me that there was a department for children and young people attached to the institution?"

"Yes; they have eight little girls, who remain till they are fifteen, unless they are adopted or bound out to suitable places before that time."

"And what becomes of them then?"

"They go out as servants or seamstresses, and Mrs. Mulford tells me they usually do very well. They look upon the institution as a real 'home;' and as long as they behave tolerably well, they are allowed and encouraged to go back there whenever they are out of a place. In that way the managers are able to keep informed of them, and also to maintain a certain control over them."

"A very good plan," said Miss Hardy.

"Yes, I quite approve of that part of the institution," said Mr. Ferrand, "though I fear that hardly enough pains is taken to bring up the children with a proper sense of their position, and of the deference due to their superiors."

"I was not without an object in asking," said Miss Hardy. "I am very much in want of a dining-room girl—one to set and wait on the table and take care of the dishes, which is in itself no small piece of work in a family like ours."

"What has become of that pretty little Margaret you had when I was there?" asked Mrs. Ferrand. "You thought of taking her into school, I remember."

"So I did," answered Miss Hardy. "She did very well for a year and a half, and then she came to an untimely end. You need not look distressed, Lucilla; it was nothing very tragical. The last long vacation she went out to Denver with Mary Nichols—you remember her—partly as companion, partly to take care of the children. That was the last of her. A well-to-do farmer saw her, fell in love with her, and married her. I felt a little uneasy, but Mary writes me she has done very well and is very happy. Since then I have had a succession of incapables, and I want somebody I can keep."

Isa glanced at her mother. Mrs. Ferrand made her a little sign which she well understood as a signal that she was to say nothing.

In compliment to her aunt, and also because the school-room piano had altogether broken down, Isa was allowed to intermit her practising for one evening, but she could not on any account be allowed to sit up a moment later than usual.

But when Miss Hardy went up to bed, Isa peeped out and called her:

"Oh, auntie, please come in. I want to talk to you."

"Get into bed, then, you imprudent child," said Miss Hardy. "Why are you up in this cold room?"

"It is cold," said Isa, shivering—"too cold for you to sit here, I am afraid. But I do want to talk to you about Rhoda. I do want you to take her so much."

"Who is Rhoda?" asked Miss Hardy, wrapping herself in a shawl, for it was one of Mr. Ferrand's maxims that nobody should sleep in a warm room, no matter what the weather might be. "Tell me about her."

"She is a girl who used to live here—oh, such a good girl! She used to help me about my sums and my music, and all, but pa sent her away because he caught her playing upon the piano, but she is living at 'The Home' now, but she wants a place, and she is so anxious to get an education. She studies at home all the time, every chance she can get. Just think, Aunt Harriet—really studies algebra because she likes it; and she can sing beautifully, and read music, and all. Please ask ma about her. She can tell you the story better than I can. And she knows how to work, and she said herself that she was more help to her than any girl she ever had," said Isa, mixing up her pronouns in a way that would have horrified her father. "And she wants an education more than anything else in the world, and that made pa send her away—at least that wasn't all, for Rhoda herself said she did wrong, but she told pa she was sorry."

"I can't say I get any very lucid ideas from your story, Isa," said Miss Hardy.

"I never can tell anything straight, especially when I am in a hurry," said poor Isa. "But you ask ma. She can tell you all about Rhoda, for she liked her. And I am sure she would suit you, for I love her dearly."

"A very good reason. Well, my love, it is time you were asleep, so we won't talk any more to-night. How you are shivering!"

"I always shiver so when I first go to bed," said Isa, "and then I am so hot you don't know. Marion brings me a hot brick every night, but I can't get warm for all."

"I really think she might answer your purpose very well," said Mrs. Ferrand when Miss Hardy applied to her for information about Rhoda. "She is very neat, and the most trustworthy girl of her age I ever saw. She never disappointed me."

"That is a valuable quality, certainly; but why did she go away? Isa said something about a piano which I did not understand."

Mrs. Ferrand repeated the story, to which her sister listened with great interest.

"Poor child! It was a hard case," said she. "I have known plenty of girls who cheated to get rid of lessons, but I can't say I ever met such an instance as this. And you say she is out of a place? Could I see her, do you think?"

"Oh yes. We shall probably find her at 'The Home;' and if not, I will send for her."

"And won't you give her an education, Aunt Harriet, or let her work for it?" asked Isa, eagerly.

"I will see about that, my child. If she seems likely to suit me, I should prefer to take her as a servant, to begin with, and then I can observe her for myself. I promise you I will do all I can for her."

"All right," said Isa. She had perfect confidence in Aunt Harriet, and not the least doubt of Rhoda's capacity to make her way with "reasonable people," as she expressed it.

Miss Hardy called at "The Home," saw Rhoda, and had a long talk with her.

"You think you would like to come?"

"Oh yes, ma'am."

"It is a long journey," said Miss Hardy, "but a very easy one, and I will send you careful directions. I suppose, if I do not want you till the first of September, you can remain here?"

Rhoda looked at Miss Carpenter.

"Certainly," answered Miss Carpenter. "We shall be very glad to have her. Rhoda makes herself very useful in the family."

"Very well; then we will consider the matter settled," said Miss Hardy—"that is, if I can depend on your not disappointing me and going off to some other place. You look rather indignant, Rhoda, but that is the way I have been served a great many times. I keep a place for a girl and put myself to some inconvenience to keep my engagement to her, but she does not consider herself in the least bound by her promise to me if she fancies she can do better."

"I think you may depend on Rhoda," said Miss Carpenter.

Rhoda was delighted. She liked the change, and she had imbibed from Isa a very high idea of Miss Hardy, which was not lessened by seeing her. Then, best of all, she should be in a school, and it would go hard but she would benefit thereby.

### CHAPTER XIV.

MISS DAVIS'S LETTER.

"I SHALL probably want you to come down about the first of September, as our school opens on the thirteenth this year, but I can tell better when I have consulted Mrs. Hallowell, the housekeeper. At all events, I will write and let you know in good time."

These were Miss Hardy's last words on parting with Rhoda. It was now the last of March, and Rhoda settled down for the summer, as she supposed, fulfilling her multifarious duties as assistant sick-nurse, milliner, reader, and factotum in general at the home.

Miss Carpenter remarked one day, with a sigh, that it would be hard to fill Rhoda's place when she was gone.

"I am sure nobody will miss the child more than I shall," said Miss Brown, echoing the sigh. "She is in and out a dozen times a day, and always has something pleasant to say. Only that it is so clearly to her advantage, I should be sorry she was going so far. It don't seem as if I should ever see her again."

But Miss Brown was to go first, and on a longer journey than Rhoda's. She had been ailing for a day or two—not seriously, but so that Mrs. Lambert thought it best she should keep her room, especially as the weather was very trying. Rhoda had arranged her for the night, and left her feeling cheerful and comfortable; but when she went to call her in the morning, her good old friend was sleeping the quiet sleep which knows no waking in this world.

"It is a blessed release to her, I am sure," said Mrs. Lambert, wiping her eyes. "There isn't one in the house that would be more missed, for all she was so quiet, and never made any disturbance. Rhoda's 'most heart-broken, and no wonder. She was like a daughter to the dear old lady."

It was indeed a heavy blow to Rhoda—like losing Aunt Hannah over again.

"She was so good to me. It does seem as though my friends were taken away from me as soon as I learn to love them," she said to Mrs. Worthington.

"You have indeed had a sad experience of the changes of this life for one so young," replied her friend. "You must try to look all the more steadfastly at the things which are not seen, my child. It is the only comfort, and the only way to make affliction work out its good results. Taken in any other way, it only sours and hardens."

Rhoda knew that these words were not mere phrases and matter-of-course consolations, coming as they did from one who had been stricken so sorely, and she tried to take them to heart; but nevertheless she missed her dear old friend every day more and more.

"Well, they've given her a fine funeral," grumbled Granny Parsons, who had crawled down to see the ceremony—"rose-wood coffin with silver handles, and fine cashmere shroud, and all. You won't catch 'em giving me no such coffin as that. Any old pine box will be good enough for me."

"It won't make no great difference, I expect, whether we have a rose-wood or pine," remarked Mrs. Josleyn. "So long as we get safe to the other side of Jordan, we may as well go in a pine boat as a rose-wood one. And I'm sure Miss Brown has got nicer white robes by this time than any cashmere, or satin either; for she was a good woman if ever there was one."

"Here's a letter for you, Rhoda, with money in it," said Miss Carpenter, coming into Granny Parsons's room, where Rhoda was sitting with her work, listening to an interminable story of granny's wrongs from her first, second, and third husbands, and wondering in her own mind what anybody should have seen in her to marry. "I expect it is from Miss Hardy. She lives at Cohansey, don't she?"

"Yes, ma'am, but I didn't expect to hear so soon, and it isn't Miss Hardy's writing, either, or at least I think not. I hope nothing has happened," she continued, studying the address with that odd feeling which always prompts one to seek information from the outside rather than the inside of an unexpected letter.

"Well, do open it and see, child. It won't grow any worse or better by keeping."

Rhoda opened and read the letter, and uttered an exclamation of surprise.

"What is it?" asked Miss Carpenter.

"Oh, it is all right. She wants me to come, and has sent the money for my fare, but she writes me to be at Cohansey the first of June instead of the first of September."

"The first of June! Why, that is the day after to-morrow," said Miss Carpenter.

"No, the day after. May has thirty-one days, you know. But the notice is short enough, anyhow. My clothes are all in order, that is one comfort."

"Well, I think you needn't complain," grumbled Granny Parsons, "when she sends you money to go with, and all. Nobody don't send me no money in letters."

"You would hardly want to set off on such a journey as Rhoda's if they did, since you are afraid to ride even on the street cars," remarked Miss Carpenter. "Is the letter from Miss Hardy herself, Rhoda?"

"No, ma'am, from Miss Davis—Anna Davis is the signature. She is one of the teachers, I know. I saw her name in the circular Isa gave me. She says Miss Hardy requests her to write."

"Then it is all correct, of course," said Miss Carpenter. "Well, you must go right to work and get ready, so as not to have too much to do at the last. You had better go and see Mrs. Mulford and Mrs. Worthington."

"And Marion Campbell—I must bid her good-bye; and I dare say Mrs. Ferrand will have something to send her sister," said Rhoda, thinking, it must be confessed, more of the chance of seeing Isa than of obliging her mother. "How strange it will seem starting off on such a long journey!"

"I wish you were not going alone," said Miss Carpenter. "However, I dare say nothing will happen to you."

Rhoda's packing was all done the next day. She had received a good travelling outfit when she left Boonville, and had very little to buy. By Mrs. Mulford's advice, she left her money in the bank, taking only enough with her to pay her expenses back again if necessary.

"And have you all you want? Are you sure?" asked Marion. "A travelling-bag, now?"

"Oh yes," answered Rhoda. "My bag is an old one of mother's. It isn't very smart, but it will do."

"Awed, I thought you might need a new one, and so I bought this," said Marion, producing a very nice morocco satchel. "I'd like you to have everything nice and respectable, as you are going among strangers. But if you don't like it, you can change it at Pritchard's; I bought it on that condition, for I know young lasses have their fancies."

"Indeed, I don't want to change it. I think it is beautiful," said Rhoda, surveying her present. "But what is this in the pocket. Oh what a pretty purse! And money in it, too! Oh, Marion, you shouldn't! I ought not to take it!"

"Aweel, ye can do as you please, but the purse is no my present, it is Mrs. Ferrand's," said Marion. "She bade me give it to you from her and Miss Isa."

"Can't I see them, then?" said Rhoda. "Are they not at home? Oh how sorry I am!"

"No, they're gone away with yon man to some of his nonsense conventions, or such like. It is Isa's vacation, ye ken."

"Of course he couldn't let her have any good of it," said Rhoda. "He would be miserable if he thought the poor child was enjoying herself."

"Na, na, ye should not say that," said Marion. "The man means no harm."

"Perhaps not. Aunt Hannah used to say that more than half the mischief in the world was done by people who meant no harm. Well, good-bye, dear Marion; you won't forget me, will you?"

"What should ail me to forget you, lass?" said Marion, a little gruffly. "There, there! Dinna greet and make me as foolish as yourself. Ye 'll no forget to drop a line and let me know how you have got on."

With all her courage and all her hopes for the future, Rhoda felt rather forlorn as she started on her journey at three in the afternoon. She had taken a sleeping car, by Mrs. Mulford's advice, and was almost alone in it. A part of the road was the same as that she had travelled in coming from Boonville when she supposed herself bound for a boarding-school in the city, and a flood of bitterness rushed over her when she remembered her thoughts and feelings on that occasion. It required something of a crying fit and a good many prayers to quiet her spirits.

But by the time she had reached Caneota, she was sufficiently composed to look eagerly at the crowd around the dépôt to see if she could find any one she knew, for a good many people from Boonville came to Caneota to take the cars. At last her eyes were gladdened by the sight of Jeduthun Cooke's dark face, and she opened the window and called to him.

"Why, Rhoda, is that you?" exclaimed Jeduthun, cordially, shaking hands. "Where you bound?"

"To Philadelphia first, and then from there to Cohansey, where I am going to live for a while."

"Do tell! Going to school?"

"No," answered Rhoda, colouring; "I am going into a school, but it is as a servant, not a scholar. Do you know anything about—"

"About your folks? I heard tell they was going to Hobarttown to live. They ain't any great favourites in Boonville just now, I can tell you. But, Rhoda, you'll have company. Boss and his wife's going down."

"I am so glad!" said Rhoda. "I did dread going alone. Jeduthun, what has become of Aunt Hannah's cow, and the cats, and all?"

"Well, General Dent, he bought old Snowball of Mr. Weightman. The old man was just a-going to sell her to a drover, when the general came riding up, and kind of rescued her. Oh, she's well off, the old cow is. And Kissy, she's got Molly and Fuzzyball."

"Dear old Molly! Jeduthun, if Molly has any more kittens, and you are going to town some time, will you take one to Miss Carpenter at 'The Home'? She is so fond of cats."

"Of course I will. Then they was good to you there?"

"Yes, indeed; nobody could be better. And, Jeduthun, please persuade the Boonville folks to send them a nice box this fall. What has become of Aunt Hannah's house?"

"Oh, it's all torn down, and Mr. Weightman is building a mill on the place—means to run us all out, I suppose. Here comes boss, just at the last minute as usual. I never did see such a man. Well, good-bye, and good luck to you."

Under her altered circumstances, Rhoda rather shrank from meeting Mr. and Mrs. Antis. She had imbibed a strong dread of "putting herself forward," which, like a great deal of seeming humility, was nothing but "pride turned inside out." But she could not perceive that they made the least difference in their manner to her, even after they heard that she was going to live out as a servant.

"It is an abominable shame," declared Mrs. Antis, warmly. "Not but that it is creditable in you to do anything you can, Rhoda, and I am sure you will turn out all right; but I wish you had come to me instead of going away so far. Why won't you come now? You would just be one of the family, you know."

"You are very kind, Mrs. Antis," said Rhoda, "but there are several things in the way. One is that I have promised Miss Hardy to stay a year with her, and the other—Well, Mrs. Antis, the truth is—I suppose it is foolish pride, but the truth is, I would rather live out anywhere else than in Boonville."

"I understand," said Mrs. Antis. "But, Rhoda, I shouldn't wish nor expect you to be a servant; I should want you to come as a daughter or younger sister, and just be one of ourselves. I always did like you, ever since you came to Boonville; and if it hadn't been for the sickness and death of Mr. Antis's sister, which cramped us for means at that time, we should have sent for you at once. Of course I should expect you to help me with the work, as Mary used to, but that would be all."

Rhoda sat still, utterly overcome by this unexpected proposition.

"You mustn't think this is any sudden notion of Cassy's," said Mr. Antis, misinterpreting Rhoda's silence. "We have often talked it over since we knew your circumstances, and I don't see why we shouldn't suit each other very well."

"I am sure you are very kind—more than kind," said Rhoda, after a little longer silence. "I don't know how to thank you, but I am afraid it won't do. I must keep my promise to Miss Hardy, because she depends upon me, and it would be a great inconvenience to her; and then I do think I ought to earn my own living. But you don't know how much good you have done me by just speaking of such a thing. I don't think the world will ever look so dark to me again. And if I may come and stay with you sometimes—"

"Of course you may," said Mrs. Antis, a little disappointed, but at once understanding and sympathizing with Rhoda. "We shall be glad to have you any time."

"And I think all the more of you for wishing to keep your engagement," said Mr. Antis. "I wish every one was as careful. I begin to think sometimes that there is no such thing as faithfulness left in the world. I have had half a dozen boys since Eben Fairchild left me, and not one that I could leave to measure a bushel of corn and be sure it would be done."

"Good old Eben! How is he getting on now?"

"Just the same steady way. He is going to Philadelphia to attend lectures next winter."

And then ensued a flood of news and neighbourhood gossip about Boonville people.

"Have you ever heard anything about Aunt Annie—I mean Mr. and Mrs. Evans?" asked Rhoda, at length.

"Oh yes. They are in Scotland, so Mr. Evans's brother told me, and little Harry is so much better for the change that they mean to stay two or three years. Haven't you ever written to them?"

"No," answered Rhoda; "I knew how Aunt Annie would feel, and I didn't want to make trouble in the family, as Mr. Weightman says I did between him and Aunt Hannah."

"Did he say so? Well, he is a nice person!"

The party arrived in Philadelphia without accident. And finding that Rhoda had a few hours to spare, Mr. Antis took a carriage and showed his wife and Rhoda part of the city. Rhoda saw the Mint, the stores in Chestnut street, and the American Sunday-school Union, * and other places that she had heard of. They had lunch at the Continental.

* 1122 Chestnut street, Philadelphia, and which all of our readers are cordially invited to visit.—[EDITOR.

And when the time came, Mr. Antis went down and saw her across the river and into the Cohansey train.

"Now, remember, Rhoda, you have always got a home," said he as he shook hands with her.

"Mr. Antis, you don't know how I thank you," said Rhoda, earnestly. "I couldn't say half what I wanted to Mrs. Antis, but it seems as if you had made everything easy to me. I hope Mrs. Antis won't think I don't value her kindness?"

"No, no! Don't you worry yourself. Mrs. Antis understands, and so do I, and we shall think all the more of you. But I want you to tell me one thing, while I think of it. Did you ever know whether your aunt Hannah made a will?"

"I know she did," said Rhoda. "She told me a year ago that she had, and that her affairs were all settled."

"You don't know who the witnesses were?"

"No, I never heard."

"It is very odd. Mr. Weightman declares there was no will."

"Perhaps Aunt Hannah had burned it up, or something," said Rhoda.

"Or possibly Mr. Weightman has done the same. I don't think he is any too good. A man can't be honest and be so fond of money as he is. Well, good-bye once more."

Arrived at Cohansey, Rhoda easily found her way by the omnibus to Miss Hardy's school. It was a handsome, old-fashioned house, standing well up from the street, and covered to the chimney-top with luxuriant English ivy, which lives through the winter in that climate. A wing of much later date extended to one side, and evidently contained the school-rooms.

Rhoda's Education.
"It looks very pleasant," thought Rhoda, as she stood waiting.

"It looks very pleasant," thought Rhoda as she stood waiting for some one to answer the bell. "Oh, if I were coming to school! But there! It won't do to begin thinking about that. Those girls seem to be having a nice time. I wish poor Isa was here. I should like to hear her laugh like that for once. Here comes somebody at last. Is Miss Hardy at home?" she asked as a somewhat pert-looking servant opened the blind of the door.

Rhoda was ushered into a small, pleasant room, evidently used as a library, and surrounded on all sides with low book-cases filled with books looking as if they were made to be read. She waited several minutes, and had begun to feel a little uncomfortable, when Miss Hardy entered the room, followed by another person, whom Rhoda guessed at once to be the housekeeper.

"My dear child, what has brought you here now?" was her salutation. "Did not Miss Davis write?"

"Yes, ma'am," answered Rhoda, feeling as if she were in a dream. "Miss Davis wrote that I was to be here the first of June."

"The first of June! You must be mistaken. I told her to ask you to be here the first of September."

For all answer, Rhoda took the letter from her travelling-bag and handed it to Miss Hardy. The lady read it, while a shade of amusement and vexation passed over her face.

"So much for setting a girl who is just going to be married to writing a business letter!" said she, handing the letter to Mrs. Hallowell.

"It does say the first of June, sure enough," remarked Mrs. Hallowell. "Miss Davis was thinking about her own wedding-day."

"It is an awkward mistake," said Miss Hardy. "You see school closes in two weeks, and then we shut up the house and have our long vacation. But never mind," she added, kindly; "we will arrange it somehow. You did quite right to come."

"And it will be a great convenience to have you here during the closing weeks of school," added Mrs. Hallowell. "We always have so much company. Come, I will show you your room. Would you rather have a very small room to yourself, or a large one with some one?"

"A small one by myself, please," answered Rhoda; "I don't care how small, if I can get into it.

"Oh what a pretty little room, and what a nice window!"

"Yes, it is pleasant. Those trees are catalpas, and are lovely when in blossom. Well, child, make yourself comfortable, and I will send Hester to call you when your supper is ready."

"Shall I wait on the table to-night?" asked Rhoda. "I would just as soon; I am not at all tired."

"Yes, you may, if you choose. It will be half an hour to tea, so you will have time to change your dress."

"Well, how do you like her?" asked Miss Hardy when Mrs. Hallowell returned.

"Very much," was the reply. "She asked me whether she should not wait on the table to-night, and that looks well. But I must say she looks much more like taking Miss Davis's place in the school-room than Tilly's in the kitchen."

"I think so myself, but we shall see. How could Miss Davis make such a blunder? I hardly ever let her send away a letter without looking it over, but I was very busy and it slipped my mind."

"Well, as I said, it will be nice to have her here through the last two weeks—that is, if she takes hold well."

"But what to do with her in vacation-time?"

"We will see when the time comes. Maybe you can find her a place in town. I have a feeling that there is a providence in it."

### CHAPTER XV.

WHAT A BIT OF SOAP DID.

MRS. HALLOWELL was quite satisfied with Rhoda's way of "taking hold."

Rhoda's work was to set and wait on the table, to take care of the dishes, to dust and once or twice a week to sweep the library and school-room, and to attend to the door. She found it very easy and not at all disagreeable; but all her philosophy could not prevent her eyes from filling sometimes, when she heard the girls practising or saw them tripping into the school-room with their books at the time of morning prayer. It was hard to dust and arrange the piano and organ and never touch the keys, but she had laid down a rigid rule for herself in that matter, and adhered to it. She did venture to ask for a book to read; and once, when Miss Hardy spoke to her in passing through the dining-room, she preferred another petition.

"How do you like your place, Rhoda? Do you feel at home?"

"Oh yes, ma'am; I like it very much."

"Mrs. Marshall said you spoke about having something to read. Miss Adams has the charge of the books, and will let you have anything you like. Is there anything else?"

"If you please, Miss Hardy, if I might come in to prayers," said Rhoda, with a little hesitation; "I generally have my work done by that time, and it would seem more like home."

"Certainly you can come," said Miss Hardy. "I am glad you spoke of it."

And thenceforth Rhoda joined the rest of the family at prayers, just as if—so Hetty said—she felt herself as good as anybody.

Hester and Rhoda did not get on very well together. Hester had been somewhat affronted, in the first place, by Rhoda's preferring "a little hole," as she said, to a room with her. Then, Rhoda had not been disposed to encourage the flood of gossip which Hetty poured forth concerning the teachers, the girls, and the neighbours. Then, Rhoda preferred sitting in her own room and reading or studying when her work was done to strolling about the streets. She went once or twice when Hester asked her to go shopping, and even went into a saloon and got some ice cream, but the third time she declined.

"You needn't be afraid," said Hetty. "Ayers's is a very nice place. Miss Hardy goes there herself and lets the girls go."

"Yes, I know, and see how much money they spend! Miss Sellers must get rid of as much as a dollar a week there, I should think."

"Well, what of it? Her family is rich, and she has lots of money."

"And I haven't lots of money nor any family," said Rhoda; "and what little I have I want to save for a special purpose. That is one reason why I don't like to go shopping. I see things that take my fancy, and am tempted to spend a quarter here and ten cents there for what I don't need at all. And 'that's the way the money goes,' you know."

"Oh, well, if you are such a miser, there's no more to be said; only I'm thankful I'm not."

"I don't think I am a miser, Hetty; but I am saving money for a special reason."

Then, Rhoda did not show a proper spirit, in Hetty's opinion. She was always ready to do all sorts of odd jobs, and seemed ambitious of accomplishing rather more than her allotted task.

"Let me do that," she said, one day, to Mrs. Hallowell, who was washing the urn and other silver at breakfast. "I am used to it. I took care of all the silver at Mrs. Ferrand's, and they used a great deal."

"I shall be glad if you will," answered Mrs. Hallowell.

And thenceforth Rhoda had the care of the silver.

"More fool you!" said Hetty. "Now you will have to do it all the time."

"That is just what I want," said Rhoda as she lifted the urn to put it away.

"Oh yes, no doubt," said Hetty, sarcastically, to Aunt Sarah, a very efficient and intelligent coloured woman, who was filling the place of cook for the present. "She just wants to get the blind side of Miss Hardy: that's what she wants, with her work and reading and going to prayers."

"She'll be smart if she does," remarked Aunt Sarah. "I've been working for Miss Hardy off and on a good many years, and I never found out that she had any 'blind side.' If you mean that she wants to please Miss Hardy, I guess you are right, and I guess she'll make it out. That's the kind Miss Hardy likes, you see. You'd better be taking pattern by her than finding fault with her, my girl."

Hetty twisted her head and said she "wasn't going to be a slave to nobody."

"You won't be a slave, nor nothing else," declared Sarah, "not if you don't mend your ways. I never did see a young gal with such slomiking ways, never. Down goes everything just where you happen to be, and there you leave it. I'd like to know how long that old petticoat of yours has been lying on the stairs, and this morning I found a hairbrush right on the top step. You'll have somebody's life to answer for some day, you'll see."

The time flew quickly, as it generally does with busy people; and there remained only a few days to the end of school.

"Well, Rhoda, I believe I have provided a home for you during vacation," said Miss Hardy, calling Rhoda into her room one evening. "Mrs. Elsmore, the doctor's wife, is going to take a cottage at Cape May for the season, and she wants a girl to take care of little Harry. It will be an easy place; for Harry is a good little fellow, and Mrs. Elsmore is a very pleasant woman. Do you think you would like to go? Say just what you think."

"I should like it ever so much," said Rhoda, with sparkling eyes. "I love children, and I always did want to see the ocean."

"You don't ask anything about the wages," said Miss Hardy, smiling.

"I thought you would settle that," answered Rhoda. "I shouldn't know how much I ought to ask."

"You must learn to be a woman of business. Mrs. Elsmore will give you two dollars a week. It that enough?"

"Oh yes, ma'am, plenty."

"You must make yourself a bathing-dress and get all the good out of it you can," remarked Miss Hardy. "Would you like to take something to read?"

"Yes, ma'am. I should like to take the first volume of 'The Pictorial History of England,' if you have no objection."

"Certainly I have not. Take two volumes if you like. You seem to be fond of solid reading."

"I can't say I am so very fond of it," answered Rhoda, candidly, "but I don't have much time, and I want to improve myself. I think history is rather horrid and disgusting a great many times, but I suppose one needs to know it, especially—I beg your pardon, ma'am," said Rhoda, becoming conscious that she was, as Mr. Ferrand would have said, "getting out of her station."

"For thinking history horrid? You need not do that, for I think so myself," said Miss Hardy, smiling. "Well, especially what?"

"Especially if one is thinking of teaching, I was going to say," answered Rhoda.

"You are right, Rhoda. Teachers are too apt to be deficient in general knowledge. They know their own special branches, and often very little beyond them; and I am afraid the same is true of many school-girls."

"I am sure it is so with Miss Isa," Rhoda ventured to say. "Her father never lets her read an amusing book—not even a magazine—for fear of dissipating her mind. Have you heard from her lately, Miss Hardy?"

"Not very lately. Her mother wrote that she was taking music and French lessons from very superior masters. I am afraid she works too hard."

"Indeed she does, Miss Hardy," said Rhoda; "and the mischief is she works all the time. She never has any real amusement or any time for idleness. I never see our young ladies going out with the boat or botanizing but I wish Miss Isa was with them. I know she will break down some day, and have fits or something. I like work as well as anybody, but I think idleness is very nice sometimes."

"Not only nice, but necessary. Well, Rhoda, I am glad you like my arrangements for you."

"That girl has an uncommon mind," observed Mrs. Marshall, who had been busy writing, but who had a way of seeing and hearing everything. "She ought to be doing something better than waiting on the table."

"I am thinking about her case," replied Miss Hardy. "I almost wish I had set her to teaching the little ones when she first came. She has very nice manners."

But Rhoda was not destined to see Cape May or to use her new bathing-suit this season. School had closed with the usual exercises, and all the scholars had gone. Hester had secured a place in a hotel at Cape May, much to her own delight. The teachers had gone their several ways, including Mrs. Marshall, who had set out for a visit to her only sister, in California; and the day came when the house was to be locked up and left to its own devices, and to the gambols of the mice and the centipedes.

"We will just go over the house once more," said Miss Hardy to Rhoda. "Then Aunt Sarah can close the shutters and lock up."

The survey was nearly completed. Miss Hardy had gone through to one of the back staircases, with which the old house was very well provided, when Rhoda, who had lingered a moment in the painting-room, heard a heavy fall. Both Sarah and herself rushed to the spot, to find Miss Hardy lying at the bottom of the stairs, with one leg doubled under her, pale as death, and unable to rise, but, as usual, quite collected and composed.

"I believe I have broken my leg," said she. "I can't move in the least. I slipped on something that lay on the top stair and fell all the way down. Run and bring Doctor Elsmore, Rhoda; and, Sarah, call James to help you and get me on the drawing-room sofa. That is the nearest place."

When Rhoda came back with the doctor, she found Miss Hardy on the sofa, and Sarah standing over her loosening her dress.

"It's all that Hester," said she, indignantly, "just going and leaving a piece of soap on the stairs, of all places in the world."

"She ought to be whipped, or any one else who leaves things on stairs," said the doctor. "One of the loveliest wives and mothers I ever knew was killed by just such a piece of careless stupidity. It was well this was no worse."

The leg was set and Miss Hardy made as comfortable as circumstances admitted, and then arose the question of what was to be done. Aunt Sarah would stay and do the work, but who was to wait on Miss Hardy?

"I shall, of course," said Rhoda, quietly—"that is, if Mrs. Elsmore will release me. I dare say she can find somebody to fill my place easily enough."

"More easily than Miss Hardy can, I dare say. Mrs. Elsmore is a reasonable woman, and won't stand in the way," said the doctor. "But, my girl, you are young. Do you think you are competent to nurse a woman with a broken leg?"

"I think so, doctor, with Aunt Sarah's help," answered Rhoda, modestly. "I have had a good deal of experience at nursing, and under a professional nurse. I took most of the care of Miss Brown when she had her broken leg; and when I don't know what to do, I can always ask, you know."

"Can you? Well, perhaps you can. I have known people that couldn't. Miss Hardy, I don't think you can do better than to accept this young woman's offer."

"But it will be such a great disappointment to you, Rhoda," said Miss Hardy. "I know you wished to go to Cape May, and I am afraid it won't be very pleasant for you in this great, shut up house with no company."

"Aunt Hannah used to say 'It isn't pleasant' was no reason at all," said Rhoda. "I think I ought to stay, Miss Hardy."

"Aunt Hannah is a sensible woman, as I should expect an Aunt Hannah to be," said the doctor. "But there must be no talking, or we shall have our patient in a fever. I think we had better consider the matter settled, Miss Hardy."

### CHAPTER XVI.

MISS THURSTON.

FOR a week or two Miss Hardy suffered a good deal, and required constant care and attention; but after that time matters grew better. A very famous surgeon, a cousin of Miss Hardy's, came down to see her, and he and Dr. Elsmore between them contrived an arrangement which enabled the patient to sit up in bed—a great relief. The case was a simple one and doing as well as possible, and Rhoda received a blunt compliment on her handiness from Doctor Douglass:

"You understand yourself, I see. I like to see people's brains reach to the ends of their fingers."

Rhoda found her quiet life far from disagreeable. She read aloud to Miss Hardy a part of every day, she worked at her algebra, and took a certain pleasure in rambling over the great solitary house.

"You must not let yourself get dull and lonely," said Miss Hardy. "How will you manage to amuse yourself?"

Rhoda hesitated a moment.

"After all, it can do no harm to ask," she said to herself; and then added aloud, "Miss Hardy, if you don't object—if it would not disturb you—if I might practise on the piano over in the farther class-room—"

"Certainly," answered Miss Hardy—"practise as much as you like; only I think you had better use the piano in the little music-room at the head of the stairs. It is a better instrument, and you will be within hearing of the bell. I remember Mrs. Ferrand's telling me you were fond of music. You will find plenty of music there in the little cupboard at the side of the fireplace."

Rhoda was now indeed happy. She made her selections of music, and went up stairs feeling almost as if she were in a dream. The piano was a very good one, and Miss Hardy listened with pleasure as Rhoda played and sung.

"She has real talent," she said to herself. "Not one girl in twenty plays with such expression, and not one in a hundred has such a voice. She must certainly have lessons. It is a shame to let such talent be thrown away."

It was not Miss Hardy's way to act in a hurry. She waited for two or three weeks, letting Rhoda practise every day, hearing her read aloud, and talking with her on all sorts of subjects. One day, when Rhoda brought her book as usual, Miss Hardy said,—

"Never mind the history now, Rhoda. Get your work; I want to talk to you. But what have you there so very pretty?" she asked as Rhoda unrolled a parcel of snow-white wool and a pair of long slender needles.

"I was going to ask you about it," said Rhoda. "I was in Mrs. F—'s store looking at some little knitted shirts, and she asked me if I knew any one who could make them. I told her I could, and that I knew a much prettier pattern than hers. She said she would pay me a dollar a pair, and I told her I would like to knit them if you had no objection."

"Not the least," answered Miss Hardy. "It is very pretty work. Do you know, Rhoda, you have a very straightforward way of telling a story?"

"Aunt Hannah taught me that," said Rhoda. "She used to say, when I would begin to tell something, 'Now, don't begin in the middle. Stop and think what you want to say.'"

"Aunt Hannah must have been a very wise woman. But now give me your attention, for I want to talk about a very serious matter. I understand from my sister and niece, as well as from some things you have said yourself, that you are very desirous to have a regular education?"

"Yes, ma'am," answered Rhoda, her heart beating fast. "It has been the greatest desire of my life ever since I was twelve years old."

"How much have you studied already?"

"I have been well drilled in the common-school studies," answered Rhoda, considering. "I have been through the arithmetic and grammar two or three times, and I have studied American history a little. Besides that, I have been through three books of Euclid and as far as quadratic equations in algebra."

"Did you do that in school?"

"No, ma'am. After I came back to 'The Home,' I used to recite to Miss Brown, and while I was at Mrs. Ferrand's I went on by myself. I worked most at nay algebra, because I wanted to help Isa."

"What music-lessons have you had?"

"I learned to read notes and sing church music at sight in the singing-school, and Miss Emily Willson taught me the notes on the piano and how to play a little; and once, when we were visiting at Mr. Evans's, Aunt Annie gave me some lessons. We had no piano at home, but I used to practise on Miss Emily's till they went away. Father always said he meant to buy me a piano."

"Whom do you mean by 'father'?" asked Miss Hardy. "I thought you were an orphan."

Rhoda gave Miss Hardy a short account of her life.

"It was a most heartless and shameful proceeding," said Miss Hardy, who had a capacity for virtuous indignation. "I never heard anything worse."

"I believe I should think so if any one else had been the sufferer. And I don't think I did anything to deserve it, Miss Hardy. Of course I sometimes did wrong, like other children, but I do think I was as good as the average, and I am sure not one of the children I knew took more pains to please their parents than I did, or loved them more."

"I have no doubt of it. But even if you had not been as good as the average, it would have been no excuse for turning you off."

"So it seems to me," remarked Rhoda. "It seems to me that people are as much bound to children they adopt as to their own by birth. I remember, when we were at Aunt Annie's, a lady's saying to her,—

"'My husband and myself adopted a child one time, and had her name changed, and all, but as she grew older, she showed so many of her inherited tendencies that we had to let her go.'

"'Suppose she had been your own child, and had showed the same tendencies, would you have turned her off?' asked Uncle Evans.

"But the lady thought that was different."

"Yes, I dare say. But, Rhoda, not to pursue that matter any further, suppose I were to take you into the school on the same footing as the other scholars, giving you the advantage of the professor's lessons in music, could you contrive to clothe yourself, do you think?"

The world seemed to turn round with Rhoda for a moment at this question. Then she steadied herself by picking up a dropped stitch, and answered, quietly,—

"Yes, ma'am, I think so. I have a good stock of clothes, and I have seventy-five dollars in the bank at Milby and twenty-five here. I should think, with what I have, that ought to dress me for two years. I should have to be very plain, of course, but I think I could be decent."

"I have no doubt of it. How old are you?"

"I was sixteen last Christmas."

"Well, suppose you make the most of your time for three years; do you think at the end of that time you could be ready to take hold and help Mrs. Marshall and myself in the school? Because if you do, I think we will try it."

Rhoda tried to speak, but the words would not come. Instead came a great burst of thankful, joyful tears.

"Tut, tut!" said Miss Hardy. "That will never do. Don't you know the doctor said I must be kept quiet?"

"I am very silly," said Rhoda, striving to compose herself; "but oh, Miss Hardy, if you knew how I have longed for such a chance when I have seen the scholars going to their lessons! I felt as if I would work like a slave only to have their opportunities. I have tried every way to save money, hoping I might get enough to pay my board at least a year while I went to the public schools. But I never thought of a chance like this."

"It has been no sudden resolution with me," remarked Miss Hardy. "I have been thinking of it ever since you came here, and observing you closely."

"I am glad I did not know it," said Rhoda. "Miss Hardy, I don't know how to thank you."

"You may thank me by going down town and finding some fresh lemons," said Miss Hardy, smiling. "To-morrow we will have a little examination, to see where it will be best for you to begin."

A more thankful heart was not under the sun than Rhoda's that day. She would not even go out for her walk till she had shut herself into her little room, and there poured out her heart to her heavenly Father and dedicated her life and talents anew to him and his service.

"It's all right—just as it ought to be," was Aunt Sarah's comment. "I always knowed you was meant for a young lady the first minute you came into the house,—you had such polite, genteel ways of speaking, and eating, and all; and when you was fixed for Sunday, there wasn't one in the school looked any nicer than you—not a bit like that loose-ended Hetty, with her great greasy braids of false hair, and her dress hitched up and stuck out forty different ways, and her hair frizzled up like my old feather brush that Tony stuck in the fire. You couldn't make a lady of her, not if you was to work at her for ever."

"You know what a lady is, don't you, Aunt Sarah?"

"Well, I ought to, honey. I've always lived in the first families in Cumberland county, and my mother before me. Yes, indeed, I know, and I am just as glad as if you was my own."

The next day but one Rhoda brought a letter from the post-office which she felt sure was directed in Mrs. Ferrand's hand, and she lingered in the room while Miss Hardy opened and read it.

"Mr. and Mrs. Ferrand and Isa are coming here day after to-morrow," said Miss Hardy; "we must have everything in order, Rhoda."

"Are they going to stay here?" asked Rhoda, divided between joy at the prospect of seeing Isa once more and a certain dread of meeting Mr. Ferrand.

"No. My sister says that, considering the state of the case, Mr. Ferrand thinks they had better take rooms at the hotel, and perhaps it will be as well."

"I shall be so glad to see Isa again," said Rhoda. "I never was so fond of any girl as of her. How I do wish she could come here to school! I should be perfectly happy if she could."

"And I wish so too," said Miss Hardy. "However, I think you will find plenty of friends among our scholars."

"I was not thinking of myself so much as of Isa," said Rhoda. "It doesn't seem right to say so, but, Miss Hardy, Isa isn't one bit happy at home."

"So I have feared."

"It isn't Mrs. Ferrand's fault," continued Rhoda—"she is almost the loveliest person I ever saw—but Mr. Ferrand doesn't understand Isa. He wants her to be a scholar, and it is not in her. She works harder than any slave, and, after all, she doesn't succeed. That Mr. Sampson gives her the longest lessons—just think! Six propositions in geometry—and then the minute her lessons are done, she must go at her music, and she has no more ear than—than the tongs," said Rhoda, rather at a loss for a comparison.

"But how does she learn her lessons?"

"She doesn't; that's the worst of it. The girls at school like her and feel sorry for her, so they do her sums for her and let her copy their exercises. Isa knows that isn't right, and it makes her unhappy; but her father is so displeased and so mortified if she has a bad report that she keeps on doing it. Then she isn't well any of the time."

"How is she unwell?"

"She has a headache and a backache, and she is so nervous she can't sleep, and she is tired all the time. Besides that, I don't know but it was my fancy, but the last time I saw her I thought she seemed queer. She was so absent, and every now and then such a dull, vacant kind of look would come over her face, and for half a minute she would seem to forget what she was saying."

"That is bad," said Miss Hardy.

"Dr. Morton told Mr. Ferrand that he ought to take her out of school last spring," continued Rhoda, "but he thought there was no need of it. Mr. Ferrand doesn't approve of amusement. He says change of employment is the best recreation, and that if one is tired riding the best way to rest is to walk."

"Mr. Ferrand is a wise man," said Miss Hardy. "I think we will try to have Doctor Douglass happen down while Isa is here. Mr. Ferrand is an old college friend of the doctor's, and thinks highly of him. Did you bring the daily paper?"

"Yes, ma'am; here it is," said Rhoda, taking it from her basket.

"And here is a letter in it, and for you," said Miss Hardy, handing it to Rhoda.

"Oh, from Miss Carpenter. I am so glad," exclaimed Rhoda. "She hardly ever gets time to write."

She read her letter, and uttered an exclamation of surprise.

"What now? No bad news, I hope?" said Miss Hardy.

"No, ma'am—at least I hope not. Miss Carpenter says that an old gentleman has been at 'The Home' inquiring for me, and by her description it must be Mr. Weightman. She says he wanted to know where I was living and what was my real name before I was called Rhoda Bowers. I can't think what he wants of it."

"Perhaps he means to leave you a fortune," said Miss Hardy.

Rhoda laughed heartily at the idea.

"More likely he wants to do me an ill turn," said she. "I shouldn't be a bit surprised if he were to write to you telling you what a bad girl I was."

"He may save himself the trouble," said Miss Hardy. "I know bad girls when I see them, and good girls too. But, Rhoda, while I think of it, what is your real name?"

"Thurston—Rhoda Mary Thurston. Mrs. Mulford told me all about my parents. She said my father was a good mechanic, but he was always unlucky, and finally died by a fall from the roof of a building. I was born and my mother died at 'The Home.' Mrs. Mulford said mother was one of the best women she ever knew, and very well-educated. She had charge of the nursery, but she only lived two years after I was born, and I don't remember her at all, but they all say I am like her."

"I think you had better take your real name again," said Miss Hardy.

"I am sure I would much rather," answered Rhoda, flushing. "I have tried not to have any hard feeling toward Mr. and Mrs. Bowers, but I don't like to think of them."

"Very well. Henceforth you are Miss Thurston. I shall introduce you by that name, and put it down in the catalogue."

"But you will let me take care of you all the same?" said Rhoda, anxiously; "you won't want anybody else?"

"Oh no; never fear," answered Miss Hardy, smiling. "You are too good a nurse to be put aside."

### CHAPTER XVII.

DOCTOR DOUGLASS.

IT was something like a douche of cold water to Mr. Ferrand when Miss Hardy, with a certain twinkle in her eyes, introduced:

"Miss Thurston, one of my young ladies."

But he "accepted the situation" like the gentleman he really was, in spite of his numerous crochets.

"I have had the pleasure of meeting Miss Thurston before," said he, cordially shaking hands with Rhoda. "I am glad to see her looking so well, and so pleasantly situated. Mrs. Ferrand, my dear, here is an old friend."

But Isa had already thrown herself upon Rhoda's neck with a cry of joy, which was decidedly hysterical in its sound, and Mr. Ferrand, for a wonder, did not reprove her, as he certainly would have done if such a demonstration had taken place in his own home.

"Suppose, Rhoda, you take Isa up and show her the house," said Miss Hardy, presently.

Mr. Ferrand looked a little uneasy, but he did not interfere.

"Isa is not looking well," remarked Miss Hardy when the girls had left the room.

"She is not well," answered her sister. "I hoped Henry Douglass might come down while we were here. I should like him to see her."

"I have written to him that you were coming," said Miss Hardy. "I presume we shall see him before many days."

"My dear, you are over-anxious about Isabella," remarked Mr. Ferrand. "The child is essentially well, though perhaps somewhat fatigued with her late application. We have had a visit in Milby from a very superior music-master who only stayed a month. I was desirous of having our daughter profit as far as possible by his instructions, and she has therefore taken a lesson every day and spent most of her time at the piano. But she is quite well, and the recreation of travelling will soon remove any little extra fatigue."

It struck Miss Hardy that there was a little unnecessary self-assertion and emphasis in Mr. Ferrand's remarks, as if he were trying to convince himself as well as his wife.

"And so you have taken our young friend Rhoda into the number of your pupils?" continued Mr. Ferrand, as though willing to change the subject. "Is not that rather a hazardous experiment? I do not mean as regards Rhoda herself—she has a fine mind, and a real love of study for its own sake; but will not the parents of your pupils take umbrage at a young person in her station in life being put on an equality with their daughters?"

"If they do, they have their remedy: they can take their daughters away," said Miss Hardy, smiling. "But I have no fears on that score. It is not the first time I tried the experiment."

"I thought you wrote me that you had secured her a place as nurse with a family going to Cape May?" remarked Mrs. Ferrand.

"So I had, and a very good place. Rhoda was delighted with the prospect, but after I was hurt, she would not hear of leaving me; and indeed I don't know what I should have done without her. She is an excellent nurse and a most agreeable companion."

"I had thought, myself, of taking her into the family and educating her with Isabella," said Mr. Ferrand, "but something occurred which changed my determination. I found out afterward, however, that the person whose representations influenced me was untrustworthy. However, it has all turned out for the best."

Meantime, Rhoda and Isa, seated in Rhoda's little room, were pouring out such a flood of talk as only two such girls are capable of.

"And Aunt Harriet is going to educate you—is she really?" asked Isa.

"So she says. I practise two hours a day now, besides reading history to Miss Hardy, and I have begun the Latin grammar. I can tell you, Isa, I have to pinch myself sometimes to be sure that I am awake and not dreaming. And the best of it is that I owe it all to you and your mother. But what have you been doing lately? Miss Hardy said you had been taking some wonderful music-lessons."

"Wonderful! Yes, I should think so," said. Isa, with a groan. "A lesson every day, and then practise five hours. What do you think of that, Miss Thurston?"

"I think it is a shame," said Rhoda, warmly. "You look regularly worn out."

"Well, I am," said Isa, wearily. "I think I shouldn't want to go to heaven if they have music there. I should like to lie down and sleep a thousand years. And my head—"

"Well, what about your head?" said Rhoda, as Isa paused.

There was no answer, and Rhoda looked up from the ruffle she was arranging. Ira's head had dropped on her breast, her eyes were half closed, and there was a slight purplish tinge on her lips. Rhoda, startled, rose from her chair, but before she could speak Isa seemed to recover herself, and went on as if unconscious of any pause:

"My head feels so badly I don't know what to do. It doesn't ache, but it feels heavy and empty at the same time."

"How I wish you could come here to school!" said Rhoda, a good deal alarmed by what she had seen, but thinking it better to take no notice, as Isa seemed unconscious of anything unusual. "The girls do have such good times."

"What do they do? Tell me all about it," said Isa. "And may I lie down on the bed? Oh, you don't know how good it seems to be doing nothing," she continued, sinking down, and turning her face toward Rhoda. "You won't mind if I go to sleep, will you? I am so tired and heavy."

"No. Go to sleep, there's a dear," answered Rhoda. "I will cover you up, and then I must just run down and see to setting the table and tell Sarah to make a sweet omelet for desert. I want your father to have a nice dinner, such as he likes."

Rhoda betook herself to the dining-room, and busied herself with the arrangements of the table. She was presently joined by Mrs. Ferrand.

"Useful and handy as ever, I see," was her comment. "Where is Isa?"

"She is asleep on my bed," answered Rhoda. "She seems very tired, and I thought she would enjoy her dinner all the more for a nap."

"She is tired, poor child! Rhoda, how does she strike you?"

"I think she looks thin and worn—more so than usual."

"Do you see any other alteration—anything odd about her? Do tell me," added Mrs. Ferrand, as Rhoda hesitated.

"I thought there was something odd about Isa before I left Milby," answered Rhoda. "She seems to have times of forgetfulness almost as if she lost herself for a minute."

"That is it, exactly. I can't make Mr. Ferrand see it. He says she is listless and absent-minded, and that her hesitation in speaking is only a trick such as girls are always catching. But I can't think so; I wish I could. I don't know what it is I fear, but I am afraid."

"I think Isa would be the better for a change," remarked Rhoda. "I wish she could come here."

"And so do I, but I fear her father would never consent. You look very well, Rhoda."

"I am well; I never was better. Mrs. Ferrand, you don't know how often I thank you for introducing me to your sister.'

"Not at all, child. It is we who should thank you. Harriet says you have been everything to her since she has been laid up. But about Isa. I wish you would watch her carefully and tell me what you think of her. I do hope Doctor Douglass will come down."

Dr. Douglass came down next day, as he announced, for a three days' holiday, and made himself very agreeable, especially to the girls. The second day of his stay, Dr. Elsmore proposed to carry Mr. Ferrand to see certain lately opened marl-beds in which various interesting animal remains had been discovered. Dr. Douglass was invited to join the party, but declined:

"I am going to carry off these girls for a row up the race to the Tumbling Dam pond, and show them the scenes of my innocent childhood, where I used to ensnare the agile turtle and hunt the pensive and melodious frog. Put on your oldest frocks, young women, and also your rubbers."

Mr. Ferrand looked doubtful when appealed to, but he stood a little in awe of Doctor Douglass, and made no substantial objection.

"You may find some valuable botanical specimens, and you should observe the difference in the soil and vegetable growths from those of our region," said he. "Doubtless our cousin knows how to combine amusement with instruction."

"Doubtless 'our cousin' has too much sense to do anything of the kind," retorted the doctor. "Not one grain of instruction will you get this afternoon, my young friends, so don't expect it. Come, get your hats, and lose no time."

"And don't hurry home," added Miss Hardy. "Tell Sarah to put up a lunch, Rhoda, and then you can stay as long as you like."

Cohansey race is a place by itself. It is canal, so to speak, about a mile long and of various widths, leading through oak woods and shrubs to a pond large enough to be called a lake, and named, for some inscrutable reason, the Tumbling Dam. Various sentimental names have been applied by sentimental young girls to this pretty piece of water, but none of them ever stick. The Tumbling Dam it remains, and will remain to the end of time. Calla-like plants grow in the edges of the water, and hollies, scarlet honeysuckles, and magnolias adorn its banks. You might think yourself in the depth of a wilderness instead of within half a mile of great iron-works and mills.

They were gone the whole afternoon, and came home tired and happy, Isa delighted with the possession of a very small turtle which the doctor had captured and given her for a pet.

"Well, have you had dissipation enough?" asked Mr. Ferrand.

"Not half enough," answered the doctor. "We are meditating even more. Miss Hardy, can you spare Miss Thurston for a couple of days? Because, if you can, I propose to take her and Isa up to town by the boat to-morrow, keep them two or three days, and show them the lions and bears of the Quaker City."

"I can spare her, certainly," said Miss Hardy. "She ought to have a holiday before school begins."

"I don't know about Isa," said Mr. Ferrand, doubtfully. "She has not touched the piano or opened a book for nearly a week. I think she should settle to some employment."

"Go and put your turtle in water, Isa," commanded the doctor. "Give him something to crawl out upon, and he will do very well.

"The fact is, Ferrand, I want to observe the girl," he added when Isa and Rhoda had left the room. "There is something radically wrong with her—very seriously wrong, I fear; but perhaps not. Anyhow, I want to observe her a little. As for lessons, you ought not to mention the word to her."

Mr. Ferrand demurred a little still, but at last consented.

The expedition was a brilliant affair. The weather was beautiful. The doctor carried them to the Park, Girard College, and other sights, and brought them home greatly delighted.

"And what do you think of Isa's health?" said Mr. Ferrand when they were alone together.

"Bad—very bad," was the answer; "hardly could be worse."

They were talking in the library. The doctor closed the door carefully, returned to the table, stood a minute in silence, and then broke out:

"Ferrand, I do think you have been utterly insane to let that girl be driven so. What were you thinking of? Couldn't you see with your own eyes how it was affecting her? Why, she tells me she has been practising music six hours a day for the last four weeks; and such tasks in school! That Sampson must be a mule. I wish I had the arrangement of his hair."

"We wished our daughter to make the most of her advantages," Mr. Ferrand began, but his friend interrupted him:

"Advantages! Yes, fine advantages for working her utter ruin. Can't you see what ails the girl?"

And he uttered a word which sent a terrible thrill to Mr. Ferrand's heart.

But he was too well entrenched in his own conceit to give up so easily:

"I cannot but hope you may be mistaken, Henry."

"Don't you think I know my own business? I have seen hundreds of such cases."

"Yet you might be mistaken perhaps the more for that very reason," said Mr. Ferrand. "I have heard that physicians are apt to see their pet diseases in all their patients. I do not think Isabella has been overtasked. I have not wished her to be so, neither do I desire to see her a dunce."

"Would you rather see her a dunce or an idiot?" demanded the doctor, irritably. "For one or the other she must be. I tell you, Ferrand, as sure as you are born, the girl has epileptic seizures. She has had two at my house, and Miss Thurston says she had one when she first came here—clearly marked epilepsy, and that of the worst kind. The fits are slight as yet, and it is just possible that with an entire change of air and scene, entire freedom from mental excitement, and cheerful companionship of her own age, the mischief may go no farther. Why, I should think you would have observed it yourself."

"I am not familiar with the symptoms," said Mr. Ferrand. "Can you describe them to me?"

Dr. Douglass gave the particulars, and Mr. Ferrand considered.

"I will not deny that I have noticed something like what you describe in Isa, but I thought it only one of those awkward tricks that girls are apt to pick up. Douglass, don't be hard upon me," said the poor father. "Indeed, I have meant to act for the best. Are you sure?"

"As sure as that I stand here. As I said, the attacks are slight at present, but they are none the less to be dreaded. Has Morton seen her? He is a man of sense."

"Never since last spring, when she had an attack of fever and headache. He said then that she should be taken out of school, but I thought I traced the attack to some improper habits of eating, and I felt desirous to have her finish the school-year."

"Another school-year like the last will finish her," said Doctor Douglass.

"I fear I have been very blind—culpably blind," said Mr. Ferrand, almost for the first time in his life admitting that he might be in the wrong. "I thought Doctor Morton extremely unfeeling in hinting that I had injured my son, but I fear it is true, and that I have destroyed both my children."

"Isa is in no danger of dying," said Doctor Douglass, gravely. "If she were, it would not matter so much."

"I understand you," returned Mr. Ferrand. "Death would indeed be a light calamity compared to—But I cannot think of it. Henry, can anything be done, or is the case hopeless? I have the fullest confidence in your judgment, and will spare no trouble or expense. A journey abroad, now—"

"I shouldn't advise that," said Doctor Douglass—"it involves too much fatigue and excitement; and besides, you never could refrain from 'improving her mind.' Let me consider."

He stood looking out of the window for a few minutes at Isa and Rhoda, who were playing croquet on the lawn. Then, as if the sight had inspired him with the idea he wanted, he turned to Mr. Ferrand, who stood the picture of distress:

"Why not leave her here with Harriet? She has a deal of sense in managing delicate girls, and makes a kind of specialty of it. I made Sellers send his daughter down here, and I never saw a child improve faster. Isa seems devoted to this Miss Thurston, who is a fine, sensible young woman, and evidently very much attached to your daughter. She told me in a conversation I had with her that she would do anything for Isa. Let Isa stay here and room with Miss Thurston, who will watch over her and keep her infirmity a secret from herself—a thing to be desired above all things. Let her have some easy lessons as a pretence of employment, with abundance of ease and idleness. The place is healthy and the atmosphere of the house pleasant and cheerful. I don't think you can do better than that."

"Perhaps Harriet might not be willing to accept such a charge, or Miss Thurston, either," said Mr. Ferrand.

"That we can tell by asking. They ought to understand the whole matter beforehand."

Miss Hardy was a little startled at first, but she loved her niece and sister, and was not one of those who set their own ease and convenience above everything else. She consented to receive Isa, if Rhoda would room with her and take charge of her.

Rhoda, on her part, did not hesitate an instant. She loved Isa dearly, and felt that to her and her mother she owed all her present advantages.

"You can have the room which was Miss Farly's last year," said Miss Hardy. "It is pleasant and sunny, and somewhat out of the way of the rest of the house. A great deal will depend on you, Rhoda."

"I know it," said Rhoda. "It is a great trust, but I will do my best; and even if poor Isa is not cured, she will be happy here."

"And that is half the battle," observed Doctor Douglass.

There was no mistaking Isa's delight when she was informed that she was to go to school to Aunt Harriet and room with Rhoda.

"You won't let me have hard lessons or music?" she said to her aunt. "Because, indeed, aunt, I cannot learn it if I try ever so hard."

"The doctor thinks we had better let the music go, at least for the present," answered Miss Hardy. "As for the other lessons, we will see. I think a good deal of play will be the best for the present."

Mr. Ferrand's eyes were at last opened, and he watched his daughter with most painful solicitude and with self-reproach, which were not lessened by the sight of her evident delight in getting away from him. He seemed to find his only relief in fitting up Isa's room with everything which he thought could give her pleasure. He was extremely cordial to Rhoda, and expressed to her in formal but earnest words his obligations to her.

"I have requested Miss Hardy to supply all things needful for both your wardrobes, and she will give to each of you the same allowance of pocket-money. If any unforeseen occasion for expense arises, you will please let me know."

"You are very good, Mr. Ferrand," said Rhoda, "but indeed it is not necessary. I have enough to clothe myself for the present."

"You must allow me to have my own way in the matter," said Mr. Ferrand. "I choose that my daughter's chosen companion should be fully on an equality with her school-mates in every respect. You must be content to be our other child, Rhoda, and Isabella's sister. On no other terms could I allow you take such a care upon yourself."

And Rhoda put her pride in her pocket, and let Mr. Ferrand have his own way.

### CHAPTER XVIII.

SCHOOL.

THE school-year opened, as usual, on the second Wednesday in September, with its full number of pupils. Rhoda was a little embarrassed at first by the natural surprise of the girls on meeting as a school-mate and companion one whom they had left in such a different position, but the awkwardness soon wore off, and she took her natural place among them. She was soon a favourite with all, especially the younger girls, whom she was always ready to help on proper occasions.

Miss Hardy's girls were a well-bred and, for the most part, a well-principled set. Indeed, there was among them only one of those black sheep who are to be found in every school. This was a young girl named Caroline Burtis. She was an orphan and an heiress, according to her own account, who had come to school during the last quarter.

Miss Burtis put on very grand airs, considered herself, for some mysterious reason, quite superior to her companions, and also to her teachers, and made more fuss about her board and accommodations than all of the rest of the girls put together. She had begun by being very haughty toward Rhoda and declaring openly in her hearing that Miss Hardy had insulted all the other pupils by taking a common servant-girl into the school. She seemed to conceive a great aversion to Rhoda, and made no hesitation in saying that Miss Hardy had placed her in the school as a spy on the other girls.

Rhoda, on her part, went quietly on her way, working hard at her lessons, happy in the musical instructions of a first-rate professor, and in the companionship of Isa, over whom she watched more like a mother over a child than one girl over another. It was soon discovered that she was equally handy and obliging in managing a boat, beginning a piece of crochet-work, or setting to rights a confused bit of embroidery; and henceforth no rowing- or sewing-party was complete without Rhoda Thurston. This being the case, Rhoda troubled herself very little about Miss Burtis and her airs.

On a sudden Miss Burtis changed her tactics, and became as polite to Rhoda as she had formerly been rude. One day, as Rhoda was going out on an errand for Miss Hardy, taking Isa, with her, they met Miss Burtis in the hall.

"Oh, girls, are you going out?" said she. "Will you just drop this letter in the post-office for me? I want it to go by the early mail, and I forgot to send it by Miss Hood."

"Certainly," said Rhoda, taking the letter. "Come, Isa, I want to find Miss Hardy and ask her about this wool."

"But you mustn't let Miss Hardy see the letter. You know," said Miss Burtis, in alarm, "she makes no end of fuss if the girls send letters on the sly. This is only to my cousin, but she is such an old maid she never will believe that."

"Excuse me, Caroline, but I can't do anything in that way," said Rhoda, handing her back the letter; "I don't like doing things 'on the sly,' as you say."

"But what harm is it, you goose? The letter is only to my cousin."

"If it is no harm, why don't you want Aunt Harriet to know?" asked Isa.

"Just as though one wanted to publish in the newspaper all that one did!"

"Letting Aunt Harriet know isn't publishing in the newspaper," said Isa.

"Really and truly, Caroline, I can't do it," said Rhoda. "If you will ask Miss Hardy—"

"Well, I sha'n't ask Miss Hardy, so there!" answered Caroline, pettishly, snatching the letter from Rhoda's hand. "For my part, I don't think a servant-girl need be above doing an errand. You would have been glad to do it and get paid for it three months ago, I dare say; but I suppose, as you are a charity girl, you think you must be extra particular."

"That is it exactly," said Rhoda. "Come, Isa, we shall be late."

"Mean thing!" said Caroline to herself. "I'll pay her off some way. But do just wait a minute, Rhoda," she added, aloud. "There! I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, but I am so disappointed. I do want this letter to go so much. It is very important indeed. Come, it isn't as if I was asking you to tell a lie, you know."

"I think it is all the same," said Isa.

"Who cares for what you think?" asked Caroline, rudely. "Every one knows that you haven't common sense, and that Rhoda is your keeper. Come, Rhoda, do."

"You might as well talk to the wall, Carry Burtis," answered Rhoda. "I wouldn't do it any way, and I am not likely to be persuaded by your insulting my friend. Come, Isa."

"What did Caroline mean by what she said to me?" asked Isa as they were walking.

"Who knows?" answered Rhoda, carelessly. "She meant to say the most spiteful thing she could think of. All the girls know that you are not well."

"You don't think that I am an idiot, do you, Rhoda? Tell me truly."

"No, unless asking such a silly question proves you one," answered Rhoda, laughing. "You have been overworked, and your mind needs rest. Dr. Douglass said such lessons as you had were enough to kill anybody. Don't let such a notion come into your head for a moment."

"I suppose pa did it for the best," said Isa.

"Of course he did. He was mistaken, that was all. Let us go and have some ice cream; Miss Hardy said we might. We will sit out on the balcony and watch for the steamer. See, there she comes."

Isa was diverted for the time, but she recurred to the words several times afterward, and it was plain they had made a strong impression on her. They set her to watching the operations of her own mind—a very undesirable thing in all cases, but particularly to one like Isa. So easy is it for an angry word to do mischief which nothing can ever mend again.

Miss Burtis's career in Cohansey was not a long one. It happened one night that Isa was feverish and restless, and Rhoda slipped on her dressing-gown and went down to get her some ice water, which she knew she should find in the dining-room. The moon shone brightly and the gas was always kept burning low in the hall, so she did not take a light. She found what she sought, and was coming back, when just at the head of the stairs she ran full against somebody who was coming down.

The unexpected shock knocked her pitcher out of her hand, and it rolled down stairs, making a great noise, while Rhoda caught hold of the person, exclaiming, as she did do,—

"Who are you?"

"Hush, can't you?" said Caroline's voice, in low but energetic tones. "You will raise the house. Let me go, I tell you."

But even if Rhoda had obeyed, it was too late. The alarm was given. In a moment Miss Hardy was out in the hall. A full blaze of the gas revealed Rhoda, barefooted and in her dressing-gown, and Caroline Burtis dressed as for travelling, with her bag in her hand.

It was not Miss Hardy's way to make a grand scene about anything. She led Miss Burtis to her room in the third story, and quietly turned the key on the outside. Then she went back to where Rhoda was picking up the pieces of the broken pitcher.

"How did it happen?" she asked.

Rhoda told the story.

"Did you see anything unusual when you were down stairs?"

"No, ma'am; I went to the dining-room, and came straight back again."

"Are you afraid to go over and call Mrs. Marshall? Don't make any noise about it."

Rhoda called Mrs. Marshall, and then went back to Isa, who was wondering at her delay.

"What kept you so long?" she asked. "I was getting frightened."

"Well, you might be, if you heard the noise," answered Rhoda. "I thought I should rouse the house. I ran against something and dropped my pitcher all the way down stairs."

"Didn't any one hear you?"

"Only Miss Hardy. There! Lie down and go to sleep."

The next day there was some telegraphing back and forth, and in the course of the next, Miss Burtis's guardian appeared and took her away. There was a rumor of some misbehaviour on her part, and nobody was sorry when she was gone; but Rhoda kept her own counsel, and the encounter on the stairs was known to nobody but herself and Miss Hardy.

This was Rhoda's only serious trouble in school. She would have been altogether happy, only for her anxiety about Isa, whose health did not improve, as Rhoda in her ignorance had confidently expected it would do, when the pressure of lessons was taken off. Only for this care, Rhoda would have been happier than ever before in her life.

"Yes, some folks has all the luck," grumbled Hester one day.

Hester had come back to Cohansey, confidently expecting to take her former situation with Miss Hardy. She was utterly astonished when she found her place filled by a quiet, steady young girl, and was informed that Mrs. Hallowell had no occasion for her services. She could not perceive or would not own that she was in the least to blame for Miss Hardy's accident, and could not see any reason why Mrs. Hallowell should decline to take her on that account.

"I suppose Rhoda is in the dining-room yet?" she said to Aunt Sarah, after Mrs. Hallowell had left the kitchen. "I thought she was coming down to Cape May with Mrs. Elsmore?"

"She was, but she stayed home to nurse Miss Hardy."

"It must have been stupid and dull," said Hester. "I should have died in a week. Where is Rhoda now?"

"Oh, she's one of the scholars now, and rooms up in eighteen with Miss Hardy's niece," said Sarah, secretly delighted with the chance of "taking down" Hester. "The family has adopted her, and she's going to have a first-rate education."

"Oh dear me!" said Hester, sarcastically. "She will be more stuck up than ever. Well, some folks has all the luck."

"'Twan't all luck, neither," answered Aunt Sarah. "Rhoda was one that did well all she undertook. When she was working, she gave all her mind to it, and when she was nursing, she gave all her mind to that. I never see a girl so handy in a sick-room. As for her education, she'd a had one any way. She was always learning everything she could. She used to watch my cooking, and get me to show her how to make nice things; and when Hannah was doing up the girls' white dresses, Rhoda used to look at her till she learned her ways. It was just so about everything else. If you were in the kitchen a year, you'd never improve a bit, because you wouldn't try; and it would be the same if you were in school."

Isa, for her part, was as happy as Rhoda, though in exactly a contrary way. Freedom from hard work and from the dread of fault-finding was a thing utterly new in her experience. It was thought best that she should have some pretence of employment, and she was set to reviewing her English grammar, and to taking lessons in drawing, for which she really showed some talent. These, with the daily Bible lesson, formed the whole of her school-duties, and they were made as easy to her as possible.

For it became more evident every day that Isa's mind had lost its spring. Probably that last four weeks of music-lessons had been the last feather on the camel's back. She could hardly commit the easiest lesson, and stumbled painfully over the simplest reading. Her great enjoyment lay in the daily Bible lessons, to which she listened with interest, though she hardly ever answered a question.

"You love your Bible, don't you, Isa?" Mrs. Marshall said to her one day.

"Yes, ma'am," answered Isa, looking up, with a sweet smile. "I don't understand it all very well, but it makes me feel quiet and happy, and it seems so good to have time to read as much as I like. I don't think He will mind my not understanding, do you?"

"No, my love. He will see and know, and teach you to know all that is necessary."

Isa had one other great enjoyment, and that was in embroidering a wonderful worsted chair cover for her mother. She had always loved needlework, but Mr. Ferrand considered that plain work was only fit for servants, and ornamental needlework was utterly unworthy the attention of rational beings. Now, however, it was enough that anything gave pleasure to Isa, and Mr. Ferrand had himself purchased a handsome and expensive work-box for his daughter, with the materials for her work, and had told Rhoda to spare no expense in supplying whatever Isa wanted in that line. He seemed anxious that the two girls should be on a perfect equality, for he had at the same time presented Rhoda with an equally beautiful writing-desk, to Isa's delight, no less than Rhoda's.

One day, as Rhoda was busily practising a duet with Matty Sellers, there came a ring at the bell.

"What made you start so?" asked Matty.

Rhoda laughed:

"A very funny thing. Do you know I never hear the bell ring without thinking that I ought to go to the door?"

"I think you are a real sensible girl, Rhoda," said Matty, in the serious tone with which she usually announced her wonderful discoveries.

"Thank you. Why?"

"Because you never seem one bit ashamed of having been a servant. I don't know why you or any one should be, of course, but still a great many people are, or would be—you know what I mean," said Matty, who was famous for grammatical entanglements. "There, Rhoda! They are asking for you."

"Miss Thurston is wanted in the library," said Annie, putting her head in at the door.

"Who is it, Annie?" asked Rhoda.

"Two gentlemen—one young and one old. The old gentleman sent up his card, and the name was Francis."

"It can't surely be Mr. Francis of Hobarttown? I never knew any other," said Rhoda to herself.

She arranged her dress a little and hurried down, to find Mr. Francis himself as well as Mr. Antis in the library with Miss Hardy.

"Upon my word, little Rhoda, you have grown a fine young woman," said Mr. Francis. "I should have known you anywhere, however. I suppose I must call you Miss Thurston, now that you are grown-up and an heiress."

"She doesn't understand," said Mr. Antis.

"No, I suppose not. Probably she has not heard that Mr. Jacob Weightman is dead, and that you and I are his executors?"

"You don't mean to say, Mr. Francis, that Uncle Jacob has died and left anything to me!" said Rhoda in amazement.

"Even so, my girl. He has left you the lot which was his sister's, and on which he has built a fine mill, and ten thousand dollars besides. The mill is worth ten thousand—I will pay that if you want to sell it; so you see you are really an heiress on a small scale."

"I should think it was a pretty large scale," said Rhoda. "But Uncle Jacob! I can hardly believe it. He always hated me from the first time I came to Boonville to live."

"He did you great injustice," said Mr. Antis; "and so I always supposed. We found among his papers a will written in Aunt Hannah's hand, but neither signed nor sealed, leaving you her place and all her other property. The will was not legal, of course, but under the circumstances it should have been binding on any honest man; but Uncle Jacob was too fond of money to be right straight."

"It always did seem very strange that Aunt Hannah's will should not be found," said Rhoda.

"I suppose from the date she had destroyed the first and made another not two hours before she died," replied Mr. Antis. "Jeduthun tells me she had asked him and Kissy to come up that evening, and doubtless she meant they should witness this will."

"What has he done with the rest of his property?" asked Rhoda.

"He has left five thousand to the Caneota Bible Society and as much to the orphan asylum, and a thousand to missions. The rest goes to the nieces, share and share alike."

"How much will their parts be?"

"About eight thousand to each one—Mrs. Bowers, Mrs. Evans, and Mrs. Chapman."

"I am glad he remembered poor Mrs. Chapman at last," said Rhoda. "He never would help her when he was alive, though she used to want for necessary clothes. Aunt Annie has given her and the children many an outfit, I know. But I am afraid Mr. Bowers will be dreadfully disappointed."

"So he is. He talks of breaking the will, and what not, but that is all nonsense. He cannot touch it, and that he knows very well. He will have to take his eight thousand or nothing. That is all he will get."

"I always supposed Mr. Weightman was much richer," said Rhoda.

"He was at one time, but he lost a deal in bad investments," said Mr. Francis. "Well, my girl, what are you going to do?"

"I haven't learned to feel that the money is mine yet," answered Rhoda. "Just think! Ten thousand dollars!"

"Twenty."

"Of my own! Won't I make a nice tea-party for the old ladies?"

"Considering already how she can throw it away," said Mr. Francis.

"That's the Rhoda of it," said Mr. Antis, smiling. "When she was a child, if any one gave her ten cents, she was always considering how to buy somebody a present with it."

"She might do worse. Well, now, my girl, what do you mean to do?" asked Mr. Francis as Miss Hardy left the room. "You seem to be pretty well off here. I like the looks of Miss Hardy."

"You would like her the more if you only knew her," said Rhoda. "I think I must stay here, Mr. Francis. You see, Miss Hardy took me into the school when there wasn't the least chance of my being able to make her any return; and even if I wanted to go anywhere else, I don't think it would be right."

"Decidedly not," said Mr. Francis.

"And then I don't want to go anywhere else," continued Rhoda. "I wish all the orphan girls in the world were as well off."

"I wish all the orphan girls one tries to help had as strong a sense of it," said Mr. Antis, who had had "experiences" in that line. "How is Mr. Ferrand's daughter? He told me she was a good deal out of health."

"She is, and I am afraid she will never be much better," said Rhoda, sadly. "She does not improve at all. And there is another reason why I could not go away. I could not think of leaving poor Isa."

"It is a good deal of care for you, though," said Mr. Francis. "So much nursing must interfere with your studies."

"Oh, there is very little real nursing; and besides, if there were, my studies would have to wait. Improving one's mind isn't always one's first duty, after all."

"Humph! You seem to have improved yours to some tolerable purpose," said Mr. Francis. "Well, Rhoda, you must use your own judgment, and I have no doubt you will decide rightly."

### CHAPTER XIX.

THE END.

ISA was at first delighted with the news of Rhoda's good fortune, but presently she grew troubled.

"You won't go away and leave me, will you?" she asked.

"No, dear, of course not. Don't think of such a thing," was Rhoda's reply.

"Because, really and truly, I don't think I could bear to live if you did," continued Isa. "You know, Rhoda, pa calls you his other daughter now, and I can't help thinking, I don't know why, that you will be all the daughter he has before long."

"Why do you say that, Isa?" asked Rhoda. "Don't you feel as well as usual?"

"I don't feel a bit strong," answered Isa; "but that isn't the reason. I can't tell you what it is, but I think so. And I do want you to stay with me so much."

"Of course I shall stay with you. I never thought of anything else. You know I am to go home with you for holidays; and won't we get up an elegant Christmas tree at 'The Home'? I wonder what would be the best presents for the old ladies? I think shawls would be nice, don't you?"

The diversion of the Christmas tree proved enough for the time, and Isa was presently quite happy in planning a crochet shawl for Mrs. Josleyn. But she recurred to the subject more than once, and Rhoda could see that her mind dwelt a good deal upon it.

Rhoda thought it best to mention the matter to Miss Hardy, who sent for Dr. Douglass. The doctor came down, examined Isa, and made her happy by the present of a bird.

"There is no immediate cause for alarm," said he to Rhoda afterward. "She has certainly lost both strength and flesh since I saw her, and I think she has a little fever. She is likely enough to go off in a decline; and you know, my child, that as things are, we could not wish it otherwise. You can see yourself that her mind fails more and more."

"Yes, sir," answered Rhoda, sadly. "I wouldn't see it for a good while, but I have had to give it up."

"It was to be looked for," said Dr. Douglass. "The poor child has been utterly and recklessly sacrificed on the altar of her father's deity, 'Education.'"

"I don't think Isa ever would have made a scholar under any management," observed Rhoda. "She never liked books. She loved to work about the house and sew and do little things in the kitchen, but she never cared even for reading, and she hated the piano. I remember her saying once that she did not want to go to heaven if it was all music."

"Do you often have such cases, Dr. Douglass?" asked Miss Hardy.

"I have similar ones far too often," replied the doctor. "Usually they are like this. A girl goes on till she is twelve or fourteen, learning absolutely nothing that she ought. Very likely she will not be able to read intelligibly or write a page without misspelling half the words. All at once the parents wake up to the fact that their daughter is a dunce. Then they proceed to put on the screws. The girl's own ambition is awakened, and she works with might and main, and all the work that ought to be spread over ten or fifteen years is crowded into five. The girl graduates with great honour—at sixteen, very likely; and the next thing you hear of her, she has gone to a water-cure, or she is in a decline, or some slight attack of cold or fever carries her off. Then everybody but the doctor says, 'What a mysterious dispensation of Providence!' Very much so! The 'mysterious dispensation' to me is that which gives children to people who have no sense to take care of them."

"I don't think Isa ever had any easy time," remarked Miss Hardy. "She has always been driven. I wonder her mother would allow it."

"She could not help it, Miss Hardy," said Rhoda. "Mr. Ferrand had a system, and that answered for everything. Isa must sleep on a hard bed, in a cold room, without a fire, with no carpet, and always with her windows open in all weathers, because the system required hardening. She must eat porridge for her breakfast, though she could not bear it; and if her mother remonstrated, Mr. Ferrand had something to say about the Spartans and their black broth."

"The Spartans were a set of blockheads and ruffians," said the doctor, very conclusively.

"And the worst of it was there was no 'let up,'" continued Rhoda. "Isa never had any fun like other girls. I hardly ever heard her laugh heartily till after she came here. No girls ever came to see her, and she never visited, because Mr. Ferrand thought their society was not improving. And yet he meant well; and he is half broken-hearted about poor Isa now."

"It is not enough, my young friend, that people 'mean well,'" said the doctor. "They also need a little sense and some capacity of being taught. As to Isa, there is nothing to be done. Let her have her own way as far as possible, and try to keep her cheerfully employed. It was an excellent move of yours to set her to work for the old women, as she tells me you have done. Get her out as much as you can. Has she had any attacks lately?"

"Not for five or six weeks but I can't help thinking her general health is not so good as when she had them oftener."

"Very likely. You are managing her well, for aught I see, but you must take care of yourself. You look rather tired. Don't let her kill herself with work, Miss Hardy. She can't be spared just yet."

Rhoda and Isa went home for holidays, and there they found matters altered indeed. The cold bare cell which Isa had always occupied was exchanged for one of the best rooms in the house, newly fitted up with everything that Isa could be supposed to fancy, including a superb work-table and a most commodious tank for Diogenes, the turtle, which Isa had brought along. An adjoining room was prepared for Rhoda.

Isa was delighted.

"How good you are, pa!" said she. "I always did want a nice, pretty room, with an open fire in it, and some plants. You do love me if I am not awful smart, don't you, pa?"

Perhaps nothing more showed the change in Mr. Ferrand than the fact that he allowed this expression to pass without criticism, thinking with a pang, as he received Isa's offered kiss, how easily he might have let his simpleminded child grow up a happy and useful woman.

Isa's holidays were very pleasant. She helped to get up the Christmas tree at "The Home," which was a great affair; and they had another at home which Marion pronounced the very bonniest thing she ever saw.

"Eh, if we had only had such doings before, I'm thinking the dear lass would have been different the day," said she to Rhoda. "It just breaks my heart to look at her and her father. Poor gentleman! He has a sore heart the night."

Isa went back to school in very good spirits and seeming decidedly better, but she soon began to droop again. Once or twice Rhoda found her crying, but could not get at the cause of her grief.

"Do you want to go home, dear? Is that it?" ask Rhoda, at last. "Tell your own Rhoda."

Isa threw her arms around her friend's neck and laid her head down on her shoulder.

"Oh, Rhoda, I do, I want to go home, where I needn't hear the piano nor the girls singing. It goes through and through my head, and I hear it all night long."

"Then you shall go home," said Rhoda. "I will speak to Miss Hardy this very day."

Miss Hardy was consulted, and in her turn consulted Dr. Douglass. The result was that Mr. Ferrand was written to and came down as soon as possible.

"But you won't think of taking Rhoda away?" said Miss Hardy. "She is doing wonders with her music and mathematics."

Mr. Ferrand looked at Rhoda, who answered quietly for herself:

"I think I shall have to go for the present, Miss Hardy. I don't think Isa would be happy without me."

"But your music, my child? You know Isa cannot bear the sound of the piano or singing. It seems to drive her nearly distracted, and there is nothing one loses so quickly as music."

"I can pick it up again," said Rhoda. "My music is not as important as Isa's comfort."

"My dear, it is a great sacrifice," said Mr. Ferrand. "I hardly think we ought to ask it. You have always been so anxious to pursue your education, and you have just made an admirable beginning."

"My education can wait," said Rhoda. "I don't know any use in educating people, except to fit them to do their duty in that state of life to which it has pleased God to call them; and I do feel that he has given me a clear call to take care of Isa as long as she wants me. Only for her, I never should have come here at all, you know."

"That is true," said Miss Hardy. "Well, my dear, sorry as I am to lose you, I shall not urge you against your own conscience. 'Not to be ministered unto, but to minister,' is the motto on our school seal, you know."

"So, Mr. Ferrand, unless you utterly refuse to take me, I shall be ready when Isa is," said Rhoda, smiling. "And if you do, I shall go back to the home and come asking for a place in the dining-room again."

"Very well, 'my daughter,'" said Mr. Ferrand, not without emphasis. "Get your sister ready, and we will go to town to-morrow."

Isa bore the journey home pretty well. Once at home, however, she faded rapidly, and it soon became evident that her days were numbered. She rarely left her room, though she sat up most of the time. She was always cheerful and smiling, and suffered very little, though she had some days and nights of sad restlessness and wandering, her mind always running upon lessons of impossible length, and, above all, on the piano. At such times only Rhoda could quiet or control her. Usually, however, she was very manageable and very happy.

It was most touching to see Mr. Ferrand putting aside all his usual employments to read the simple stories and play over and over the simple games in which Isa took pleasure, and to observe the change in Isa's feelings toward her father.

"Pa, I want to talk to you all by ourselves," said she, one day. "You will let me say all that comes in my head, won't you?"

"Certainly, my love."

"You never used to call me by such nice names," said Isa. "I used to get so tired of hearing you say 'Isabella.' But never mind that, pa; I want to talk to you about Rhoda."

"Well, my darling, what of her?"

"You used to say, a good while ago, that you meant to take me to Europe some time to finish my musical education with some of the great masters there," continued Isa. "Didn't you?"

"Yes, daughter; I had such a plan at one time," answered Mr. Ferrand, with a sigh that was almost a groan.

"Well, pa, I want you to do that for Rhoda when I am gone. I shall be gone before a great while, you know, and then Rhoda will be your daughter. I never could learn music, but Rhoda can, and she loves it dearly, She will play and sing splendidly, I am sure. And it was so good in her to give up all her lessons and her practising for the sake of taking care of me, wasn't it?"

"It was indeed, Isa. I shall never forget it."

"Then you will do this for her and me, won't you?"

"Yes, my dear," answered Mr. Ferrand. "I promise you that Rhoda shall never want any advantages that I can give her."

"And you will let her be your daughter, won't you, pa?"

"Yes, Isa, if she will. But you know Rhoda has an independent property of her own now, and perhaps she may prefer some other arrangement."

"No, she won't, pa," said Isa, eagerly. "I asked her, and she said she loved you and ma dearly, and would rather live with you than with anybody."

"You and Rhoda seem to have settled it nicely between you," said Mr. Ferrand, with a sad smile.

"Well, I wanted to have it settled," answered Isa, simply, "because I know I haven't long to stay. Don't cry, pa. It is all for the best, I am sure. I never was smart, you know, and, I should not have got any better. But I shall be very happy in heaven, and we shall all be together before long. Only, pa, if you finish your book about education, won't you put in it that people ought to play sometimes and do nothing sometimes? Because I am sure they ought."

This was Isa's last long conversation with anybody. In a few days she passed away, smiling and happy to the last.

The evening after her funeral, Rhoda went, after family prayer, to bid Mr. and Mrs. Ferrand good-night as usual.

"Good-night, Mr. Ferrand," said she.

Mr. Ferrand took her hand and kissed her forehead.

"I think you had better say father and mother, Rhoda," said he. "You are all the child we have now."

"Good-night, dear father," said Rhoda, softly, and so the matter was settled.

Three or four years after, Mr. and Mrs. Bowers were attending an exhibition of flowers at the store of a world-famous florist in Milby. Mr. Bowers had been very successful in business, "making money hand over hand," as the saying is, and his wife was quite the most fashionable lady in Hobarttown. But neither of them looked either happy or contented. Money and fashion are two things of which people who are devoted to them do not easily have enough.

As they stood looking at the flowers, Mr. and Mrs. Antis, their old neighbours at Boonville, came in, and were met and warmly welcomed by a very handsome and elegant young girl who had been standing near Mrs. Bowers.

"I ought to know that girl," said Mrs. Bowers to her husband. "I have seen her, but I don't know where. How very pretty and stylish she is! And how elegantly her dress sets! I should think she got it in Paris. I wonder who she is? I would like very much to know."

"The carriage is here, Miss Thurston," said a man-servant, entering the store.

Mrs. Bowers looked out, and saw a very elegant and comfortable equipage containing an elderly gentleman.

"I must not keep father waiting," said Miss Thurston to her friends. "I shall come out to see you as soon as Aunt Harriet comes."

Mrs. Bowers had a little hesitation about speaking to Mrs. Antis, with whom she had hardly exchanged a word since that little woman spoke her mind very plainly on the subject of Rhoda's going away, but her curiosity got the better of her resentment.

"Who was that young girl?" she asked, after the usual greetings had passed. "It seems as if I had seen her before, but I could not tell where."

"Didn't you recognize her?" asked Mrs. Antis. "That was Rhoda. I don't think she is so very much altered."

"What! Not Rhoda Bowers! Not the girl we had, and—"

"And got rid of," said Mrs. Antis, finishing the sentence. "Yes, the same. She has been abroad, travelling and taking lessons, and she is called the best educated young woman in Milby."

"I suppose Uncle Jacob's money did it all," said Mrs. Bowers, with a sour smile.

"Not at all," answered Mr. Antis. "Rhoda has never touched Uncle Jacob's money. She just lets it accumulate, and means to found some kind of school or asylum with it as soon as she is of age."

"But how was it, then? And who is this old gentleman she calls 'father'?"

"Oh, it is a romantic story. Rhoda worked out at Mr. Ferrand's, it seems, and went from there to his sister-in-law, who has a girls' school. She showed so much talent and such a good disposition that Miss Hardy took her into the school. There she and Ferrand's daughter struck up a great friendship—"

"Now you are not quite right, William," said his wife. "They were attached to each other before that."

"Well, anyhow, when Miss Ferrand was broken down by 'cramming,' Rhoda left school and everything for the sake of nursing her, and after her death, the Ferrands adopted Rhoda in her place."

"And I suppose she is stuck up to the skies?" sneered Mrs. Bowers.

"Not a bit of it. She has been to visit us at Boonville since she came home, and everybody says she is just the same simple, openhearted girl she always was. She asked about you, and said she had visited your sister in Scotland."

"I have always felt that we made a mistake in sending Rhoda away," said Mr. Bowers, who had hitherto been quite silent. "We took her for our own, and we ought to have kept her, whatever Uncle Jacob might say. Then we should have had a child to care for us in our old age, instead of being left alone. Rhoda was always a good girl, and one that would have turned out well anywhere, and I am right glad she has had such good luck. Tell her so, Antis, will you? And tell her that, rich as I am, I would give it all to get back the child I turned away for the sake of a little more money."

"Why not go and see her and tell her so yourself?" asked Mr. Antis.

"No, it would be only an aggravation. But tell her that I ask her forgiveness, and that it would be a comfort if she would send it to me."

THE END.

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