Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
Percy's Holidays.—Frontispiece.
CHAPTER
"PERCY, Percy!"
"Oh, dear me!" said a pale, thin little girl, all black hair and brown eyes, who was sitting on the door-step, studying with all her might. "I shall miss, I know I shall, and then I shall get marked again!"
"Percy! Perseverance!" called the voice again,—a somewhat high but very pleasant and kindly voice. "Come here, my dear, I want to see you!"
"There now! Aunt Zoe will want me to do some errand or other, I know, and what will become of my lesson!" said Percy, impatiently, closing her book, and rising. "I am sure I wouldn't mind, only for missing!"
She went slowly up-stairs to the room from whence the voice proceeded, and uttered a cry of delight, as she beheld Aunt Zoe holding up a large folio like a scrapbook, which she seemed to have just taken from the depths of a great chest she was rummaging.
"Mother's book of drawings! Oh, how glad I am! I felt sure I never should see them again!"
"Well, you were worrying for nothing, you see, child, for here they are all safe and sound. I thought all the time they would turn up; and this morning I happened to think I had never taken the things out of this chest. So I went to work at it, and here is the book all right. What are you doing?"
"Learning my geography, aunt."
"But I thought you learned that Saturday night."
"I was going to, but Louise wanted me to help her clear off the table and wash the dishes, and then—"
"And then she ran away and left you to do the whole, I suppose?" said Aunt Zoe, as Percy paused. "That is her way exactly. Now, Percy, there is one thing I am going to tell you, and you must mind me. You must not indulge Louise by doing her work for her. She will shirk quite enough without any help from you, and you are only doing her an injury."
"She is so slow; and then she thinks I am cross if I don't do what she asks me," replied Percy.
"Let her think so, then! She thinks every one is cross who will not let her be just as idle as she wants to be. But don't you see, Percy, that it is absolutely necessary for her own sake and mine, that Louise should learn to work? I can't afford to keep her, unless she is some help to me; and as she is now, she will never learn to get her own living in the world."
"She thinks it is very hard that she cannot go to school, as I do," remarked Percy. "She says she knows she could do well enough, if she could only have an education."
"Yes, I know. She thinks she would do anything better than her own work; but what do you think she would do in school?"
"Not much, unless she did very differently from what she does now," replied Percy. "I told her so yesterday; and that Miss Van Ness and Miss Reynolds would never have the patience with her that you do."
"And what did she say to that?"
"Oh, she said she should do differently, if she only had work that she liked."
"Then why doesn't she learn the lessons I give her?" asked Aunt Zoe. "All I can do, I can't make her learn the multiplication table nor the definitions in the grammar; and half the days she manages so that she has no time for her lessons at all."
"I told her of that, and she said it would be different in school. But there, it is ten o'clock, and I must get ready. Oh, dear. I know I shall miss in my geography!"
"Well, if you should, it won't break any bones," said Aunt Zoe, kindly. "Why cannot you study your lesson on the boat?"
"I can," answered Percy; "I never thought of that. Thank you for telling me. But, Aunt Zoe, don't you think I ought to wish to have my lessons perfectly?"
"Of course, child. Learning lessons is your work, and you ought to do it the best you can; but not be unhappy or fretful, if you do happen to make a mistake. It would be a good thing if you and Louise could be stirred together, and divided evenly," added Aunt Zoe, smiling again, and drawing forth a pretty, old-fashioned writing-desk from the great chest. "See, here is your mother's old writing-desk. Don't you want to take it to school to help make your room look pretty? It is in very good condition; and I have put your clothes into my hat-box, so you will have plenty of room."
"Thank you, Aunt Zoe, I should like it very much; but how shall I manage when I get to Round Springs? I can't carry the hat-box up myself, you know."
"Oh, Percy, you do go beyond everybody I ever saw, for putting mountains in your own way!" exclaimed Aunt Zoe, laughing. "Are there no men, or boys, or carts, or wheelbarrows, down at the wharf when the boat comes in? How do other girls get their trunks carried up to the school?"
"To be sure: John Fisk is always down with his wagon," said Percy, blushing a little. "I didn't think of that."
"Your box is all ready, and I told Harry to take it down for you," said Aunt Zoe; "and I have put in some apples and pears, and a bag of ginger-nuts, which you can eat or give away, as you please. You find it pretty pleasant now, don't you—in the school, I mean?"
"Oh, yes, aunt; I like it better than any school I ever was at. The teachers are so kind, and everybody is so good to me. I never saw such nice girls anywhere."
"And you don't find it so very bad to go up and down in the boat, either, do you?"
"No; I think it is very pleasant. I know what you mean, Aunt Zoe. I did think it would be horrid when I began. I felt sure I should be left or put off at the wrong place, or something."
"You would hardly do the last, unless you were very ingenious, seeing there is not a single landing between here and Round Springs," said Aunt Zoe. "But come, put away your desk and lock your box, for it is time Harry was under way. You need not set out yourself till you hear the boat-whistle, unless you like."
Percy packed up her desk and locked her box, and then went down to find Harry. As she passed through the kitchen, she saw Louise just finishing the washing of the breakfast-things—which were not many, as there were only three in the family, even when Percy was at home.
"Why, Louise!" exclaimed Percy, her eyes opening very wide,—which was not necessary, seeing that they were large enough by nature. "Haven't you finished your dishes yet? Well, if ever!"
"Oh, yes, it is all very well for you to say, 'Well, if ever!' when you are all dressed up and going off to school on the boat," said Louise, sulkily. "Wait till you have it to do, before you make so much fuss about it!"
"But I have done it ever so many times: I washed the dishes all that week you were at home, and I never had one thing round after nine o'clock. You talk about going to our school; I can tell you, you wouldn't do very well there, unless you had more ambition."
"That's what's in the way!" remarked Mrs. Swayne, the washerwoman. "Louise hasn't a speck of ambition; and, like all such folks, she thinks if she were only in a different place, it would be all right. I am sure I often wonder at Miss Devine's patience with her. I only wish my Maggy had the chance that she has."
"I thought Maggy went to the district school," said Percy.
"So she does, dear; but you see the school is very large, and Maggy, though she is good as gold, isn't that quick at her book; and the teacher doesn't have time nor patience to explain to her as Miss Devine does to Louise. Ah, Louise, it's sinning your mercies you are, child, and 't is a wonder if you don't lose them some day."
"What did you mean by Louise sinning her mercies, Mrs. Swayne?" asked Percy, as, having dispatched Harry with her box, she came back to the kitchen door, to watch for the first whistle of the little steamer which lay in sight at the landing below.
"Oh, 't is just a by-word they have in Scotland," replied Mrs. Swayne. "When a person is well off, and yet keeps grumbling and discontented-like, and all the time wishing themselves elsewhere, people say they are sinning their mercies. Louise has just as good a place as any girl could have, and as kind a friend as ever lived in your aunt; and yet you see she thinks, if she were only somewhere else, or if things were only different—but there's the whistle. Good-by, dear, and a pleasant voyage to you!"
"I wonder," said Percy to herself, as she established herself in a snug corner on the upper deck of the steamer, and sat watching the people who were coming on board, "I wonder if I ever sin my mercies."
PERCY, or Perseverance, Denham was the orphan niece of Miss Zoe Devine, who lived at Bridgeport, or "The Bridge," as the place was familiarly called.
Percy's father had been an officer in the regular army. He was a man respected and honoured in the army and out of it, and was in a fair way of rising in his profession, when his career was cut short by an Apache bullet; and his young wife was left without any earthly consolations except her little girl, and the thought that at least her husband had been granted a swift and easy passage to heaven, instead of falling alive, like some of his less fortunate companions, into the hands of those amiable savages, whom, by the way, he had always befriended to the extent of his power.
Mrs. Denham was not very strong, and her life, like that of most officers' wives, had been a trying one. In fact, her husband's death-blow had been hers also; and she only lived long enough to write to her husband's half-sister,—the only near relative he had,—and beg her to take charge of his little girl. Miss Zoe Devine was, as she described herself, a stay-at-home body in general; but she was one of those people who can always do what seems necessary to be done. She received her sister-in-law's letter in the morning, and set out for the distant post, whence the letter was mailed, at six o'clock that evening. She arrived only in time to see her sister die; and in two or three weeks she was once more at home at "The Bridge" with little Percy, then eleven years old, but so small of her age, and so shy and retiring in her manners, that she might easily have passed for three years younger.
But if Percy was backward in her growth and manners, she was by no means so in her mind; and when she began to feel herself at home with Aunt Zoe, she showed such a capacity for and eagerness in learning, that Miss Devine at once decided to give her niece the best education possible. This was not done without some self-sacrifice on her part; for though "well off" as the phrase is, Miss Devine was by no means rich, and the income of Percy's own little property was not much more than enough to clothe her. Miss Devine did not altogether like the school at "The Bridge." It was too large, and was arranged and managed with so much "system," that there seemed very little chance for improvement. There was a boarding school at Round Springs, the next port on the lake, and to this school Miss Devine determined to send Percy.
When Percy found that she was to go away to boarding school, she was in despair. She had learned to love Aunt Zoe and to feel at home with her; but she was totally unused to the society of girls of her own age, and she dreaded them almost as much as the Indians who had been her daily terror, who even yet haunted her dreams. She knew that she should be perfectly miserable; and she was not at all consoled when her aunt told her that she should come home every Saturday and stay till the next Monday,—at least till the steamers were laid up for the winter.
"But shall I have to go alone?"
"To be sure, child. Why, one would think that you were talking of going to Australia! What do you think can happen to you, when you go on board the boat within sight of your own door, and have nothing to do but to sit still till you reach your stopping place? It will only be a pleasant sail, for the lake is hardly ever rough. I know Captain Seymour very well, and I will ask him to take care of you, and see that you get safely ashore. However, you need not come home on Saturdays, unless you like."
But Percy thought that staying at school week after week without coming home would be even worse than the weekly journey on the steamboat. She had sense enough to understand how greatly the arrangement would be to her advantage; and she had no objection to the lessons, for she was one of those rare children who love learning for its own sake; and, in the wandering life she had led, she had enjoyed very few advantages. But then those dreadful girls—those girls who had always been to school, and who would know so much more than she did—and the teachers would be shocked at her ignorance and stupidity! Then she would be obliged to have a room-mate, and Percy knew the said room-mate would be a cross, disagreeable girl, or a very orderly and particular lady, who would be shocked at her carelessness; or, worse still, one of those wicked, worldly girls she had read about in books, who would hinder her from reading her Bible, and laugh when she said her prayers, and who would want her to do all sorts of bad things.
Percy was a good little Christian child, and she felt instinctively that it would be very ungracious for her to object to a scheme which was so much for her own advantage, and was at the same time so generous on Aunt Zoe's part; so she never said a word about all these bugbears which, to her fancy, were lying in wait for her at Hansen school. But it was with a down-sinking heart and a decidedly long face that she accompanied her aunt on board the steamer on that first eventful Monday morning.
But in one thing Percy was very unlike many weak-spirited and timid people: her fears and forebodings were no affectation. They were very real, and they made her really and truly unhappy; so that she was very glad to get rid of them when she could. The first thing that brought her a drop of comfort was the steamer. It was such pretty little boat, so clean and fresh and so tastefully furnished, and it rode so lightly and easily in the water; and Captain Seymour seemed such a kind old gentleman; and the banks of the lake were so pretty; and it was so interesting to watch the gulls as they followed the boat or sat twittering to each other on the water, that Percy began to brighten up and think that the weekly sail would be very pleasant, and that she should not be so much afraid after all. As they came near the landing, Percy's great eyes were wide open to see all that could be seen, and she presently exclaimed:
"Oh, Aunt Zoe, just see those young ladies rowing! Don't they look pretty? See, there is another boat!"
"Those are the school boats," answered Aunt Zoe. "The girls go out rowing a great deal in pleasant weather. See, they are managing to get into the wake of the boat, so as to rock on the swells."
There was a wagon to carry up the trunks landed from the boat, and Aunt Zoe and Percy walked up to the school.
"It doesn't look a bit as I expected," said Percy, surveying the building.
"All the boarding school buildings I ever saw before looked like barracks or factories. I think this house seems more like a home."
Nevertheless, Percy shrunk very close to her aunt's side as they entered the house. School was out for the afternoon, and there was a great buzz of young voices. Percy could see through an open door into the library, where two or three young ladies had their heads together over a volume of prints, and another was reading by herself in a book which looked as if it had been a good deal used, but was not a school book, nor a history. Percy loved books dearly, and she had been kept on a pretty short allowance of them. She thought the young ladies looked pleasant and not at all stuck-up or supercilious, and she wondered whether either of them would turn out to be the room-mate she had so much dreaded.
"Percy has always been used to sleeping alone," remarked Miss Devine to Mrs. Richardson, the lady Principal. "I don't quite know how she will get on with a room-mate."
"I think we can manage that matter nicely," replied Mrs. Richardson, and then she looked into the library, and called:
"Blandina, my dear, will you come here?"
The young lady, who was reading, closed her book, and came forward neither shyly nor boldly, but with a modest and self-possessed air.
"This is Miss Blandina St. Clair," said Mrs. Richardson. "Blandina, the little room which opens out of yours is unoccupied, I believe?"
"Yes, ma'am," answered Miss St. Clair: "Henrietta Hardy had it; but she is not coming back."
"Then I think I shall ask you to take in this little girl—Miss Percy Denham. Suppose you carry her off, and show her the room and the house, while I talk with her aunt a while."
Percy looked rather miserable at being separated from her aunt; but she could not be ungracious when every one was so kind, and she rose to follow Miss St. Clair with more alacrity than her aunt expected.
"Percy is very bashful," Miss Devine remarked, when the girls had left the room; "but it is real shyness, and not affectation. She has never been to school, but has lived with her father and mother in a little world of her own, and she is as much afraid of children of her own age as if they were Indians."
"I think she will do very well," said Mrs. Richardson. "Blandina and her room-mate are very nice, kind, well-principled girls; and if they have your niece in their room, they will keep a kind of oversight of her, and help her when she needs help."
Meantime Percy's conductor led her up-stairs, through a passage, and then at right angles by another passage, and then down two steps to an open door.
"This is our room," said she, as she entered. "My cousin and I sleep in the large bed, and this will be yours in here. It is a little place, you see, but comfortable enough; and you can study here or in the large room just as you like, only you know we shall expect you to be quiet when we are busy. What did your aunt call you—Percy? What an odd pretty name!"
"My real name is Perseverance," replied Percy, rather wondering at herself for not feeling as shy as she had expected. "I think it is a dreadful name: don't you?"
"Oh, it is not half so bad as mine!" returned her companion, laughing. "Mine is Blandina Violetta St. Clair. It sounds exactly like a name in a novel. They call me Blandy, which is not quite so bad. Well, how do you like your room?"
"I think it is very pretty," replied Percy; and indeed it was, being nicely carpeted and papered, and tastefully though plainly furnished.
"You can bring some little things from home to ornament it, you know," observed Miss St. Clair. "Those brackets are Jenny's and mine, and so are the pictures."
"I always thought it would be very nice to have a great many pretty little things," said Percy, venturing on an original remark. "Mamma never could, because she and papa were always travelling about, and living in camps; and an officer's wife can only have just so much baggage, you know."
Blandina did not know, and began asking Percy questions, and before they had made the round of the house, they were so well acquainted that Percy ventured to ask about the lessons.
"I suppose they are very hard."
"Oh, no," replied Blandina: "we are never allowed but three at the most; and the teachers are very good at explaining. But then we must mind what we are about, and do our best."
"I don't mind that. I like to work hard when I do work," said Percy; "but I am afraid I shall be very ignorant and backward, because I have never been to school. I have always done my lessons at home with my father or mother."
"Don't you borrow any trouble about that," said Blandina. "Miss Reynolds says she likes to teach girls who have never been to school, because they have so much general information."
By the time Percy had finished seeing the house and returned to the parlour, she felt considerably reassured, and bade her aunt "Good-by" without crying. She did not very much mind the long tea-tables; and she managed to get through the recreation hour very well, by dint of keeping very close to Blandina. The reading hour was quite delightful, when all the girls were assembled in the great room with their work-baskets, their mending, and their fancy work, while one of their number read aloud. Percy had no work, and seeing one of the elder girls winding some worsted on her arm, she plucked up courage to offer her hands as a reel. Mrs. Richardson noticed the movement, as she did most things, and was pleased to see it.
But with bedtime came a renewal of Percy's terrors and forebodings. She must say her prayers and read her Bible. She had promised her mother that she would never sleep without reading at least three verses in the Bible: but "Oh, how could she do so before those strange girls, and especially before Miss Merton, whom she had never seen?" She was to have a lamp of her own in a few days, but at present she depended on that in the large room. Suppose they should laugh at her? Suppose they should laugh and talk while she was reading? With all her shyness and timidity Percy never thought for a moment of giving up her devotions. She belonged to that class of brave cowards who are greatly annoyed but never conquered by their own fears.
But she made herself very miserable during the forty minutes when the other girls were studying, and while she, having no lessons to prepare, sat with her eyes fixed on a story-book which Blandina had borrowed for her; and it was with a terrible sinking of heart that she followed her companions up-stairs to their room. Miss Merton had been spending the evening out of the house. She was quite a grown-up young lady, and looked, Percy thought, very elegant and fashionable in her black silk; but she kissed Percy and made her welcome; saying, at the same time, that it would seem pleasant to have a little girl with them again. There was a quiet chat while they were undressing and brushing their hair; and then Jenny said to Blandina in French:
"Shall we ask her to read with us?"
"Yes, I think so," answered Blandina, and then in English: "Percy, would you like to read your Bible alone or with us? We read a chapter, verse about, at night."
Percy's heart rose with a rebound.
"I should like it very much, if you please; but—" she added, with a desperate effort, "I think I ought to tell you and Miss Merton that I understand French, because you might say something you didn't want me to hear."
The girls looked at each other, and then Jenny bent down and kissed Percy again.
"You are a dear, honest little girl, and I am sure we shall get on nicely together. I am glad that you speak French, because we can talk together; and it is such good practice. But where did you learn to speak French?"
"Papa taught me. His father was of French descent, and all the family speak the language. It comes almost as natural to me as English."
"Well, we will have our reading, and go to bed," said Blandina. "It is almost time to put out the light."
When Percy said her prayers that night she did not forget to thank her heavenly Father for making everything so smooth and easy for her in her new home; but she did not think to ask Him to keep her from useless fears in future. She had not yet found out that her habit of making herself miserable by borrowing trouble was a fault.
The next morning she was examined in her studies, and, very much to her own surprise and pleasure, she was put into the intermediate instead of into the primary department, as she had expected.
PERCY did not miss in geography; on the contrary, she rather distinguished herself. She had lived both in Arizona and in Colorado, and could tell a great deal about the wonders of those places. Miss Reynolds drew her out to talk, and both the teacher and the pupils were so much interested as to be surprised when the hour elapsed.
"I am sure we are very much obliged to you, Percy," said Miss Reynolds. "You have made the lesson very pleasant."
Percy blushed with pleasure, and thought, "There, I needn't have been so uneasy about my lesson."
"I did have my lesson perfectly, after all," she wrote to Aunt Zoe (for she always wrote home every week); "and Miss Reynolds says I made the lesson interesting, because I could tell about Arizona and Colorado."
"I am glad you had no trouble with your lesson," wrote Aunt Zoe; "but I was not surprised, because I had no idea you would have any. It would be a good thing if you could learn a good old maxim: 'Never cross a bridge till you come to it.'"
When the steamboat ceased its daily trips in November, Percy's weekly visits to her aunt came to an end, as a matter of course; for, though a stage ran between the two places, the road was heavy clay, and apt to be very bad.
By this time, however, Percy had learned to be well contented at school. She liked the girls, and they liked her; she was getting on famously with her studies, and had actually made an intimate friend of a girl of her own age. Flora Lester's father had been a physician in Round Springs for many years; but he had lately gone to Colorado with his wife to look after some property which had fallen to him by the death of a brother; and Flora had been left as a boarder at Hansen school, where she had been a day-scholar almost ever since she could remember.
The acquaintance began through Flora's desire to learn as much as she could about the place where her father and mother were living, and where she might some day go herself. For Dr. Lester liked the climate of Colorado, and found his own health and his wife's the better for the change, and he began to talk quite seriously about selling his place and practice at Round Springs, and setting up his staff in Denver city.
"Don't you hate the thought of going out there, away from everybody you have ever known?" asked Percy one day, after Flora had been reading a letter from her father.
"I don't know—no," answered Flora, considering before she spoke, as usual. "Perhaps I should, if I thought much about it; but I don't. Something may happen, or father may change his mind; and if I do have to go, maybe I shall like it after all. There is no use in borrowing trouble, and fretting about things that may never come to pass, you know, Percy."
"That is just what Percy doesn't know," remarked Blandina, in whose room the conversation had taken place. "If she did, she would not keep such a zoölogical garden of bugbears to frighten herself with. She is always sure she is going to be late at breakfast, and afraid that she shall miss in her lesson, and perfectly certain that she shall never have wool enough to finish her cushion, or be able to match the colour, if she hasn't. It is no wonder Mrs. Herman complains that she doesn't grow fat. How can she, when she has all these ravenous bugbears to feed?"
Percy laughed and blushed a little. Flora's contented spirit and Blandina's good-natured ridicule had begun to make her feel a little ashamed of her constant forebodings of evil.
"I know I am silly," said she; "but, somehow, I can't help it."
"Because you don't go to work the right way," answered Blandina: "but now get your slate, and I will help you over the hard place in your arithmetic lesson, so you cannot make yourself miserable about that."
Percy laughed, and owned that it was foolish to worry herself so about what never might come to pass. Nevertheless, it was not more than a week afterwards, that Blandina and Jenny, coming home from a walk, found Percy on the bed, drowned in tears and sobs, and Flora in vain trying to comfort her.
"What is the matter?" exclaimed both girls at once. "Has Percy heard any bad news from home?"
"I can't make out," said Flora. "It was something in her aunt's letter; but I can't find out what; only that Miss Devine wants her to go away somewhere."
"May I look at the letter, Percy?" asked Blandina, picking it up from the floor. Percy made a strangled sound in the depths of the pillow to which she was confiding her grief, which might pass for an assent, and Blandina began reading the letter.
"I am sure I don't see anything here to cry about," said she, when she had finished it. "Miss Devine tells you that your aunt, Mrs. Ackerman, in New York, wants you to spend your Christmas holidays with her; and Miss Devine thinks you had better do so, as she wants to make a visit to some friends in Millby. What is there so dreadful in that? Is Mrs. Ackerman an ogress, who dines on little girls? Come, tell me, Percy?" she added, sitting down on the bed; "what do you know about this dreadful aunt of yours? What has she ever done to you?"
"She—she—sent me a box of candy—and a doll—and—a stereoscope!" sobbed Percy. "And she is very rich and—and fashionable, and she lives on FIFTH AVENUE!" concluded Percy, bringing out these words as if they formed the climax of all her woes. Neither of the girls could help laughing.
"What a dreadful aunt, to be sure!" said Blandina, "To send you boxes of candy. My aunt in New York never sends me anything but dreadfully stupid and instructive books. But, Percy, all ladies who live on Fifth Avenue are not heathens nor cannibals. I have known some quite respectable people from that part of the city."
Percy giggled rather hysterically among the pillows.
"The long and the short of the matter is, that Percy has been tormenting herself for nothing, as usual," said Jenny Merton. "I must say, I don't think she is very gracious or very grateful. Why do you suppose your aunt took the trouble of inviting you to visit her, except to give you pleasure and do you a kindness? I wish I had somebody to spend my holidays with. When you have spent your whole life at school, holidays and all, as I have done, ever since I was six years old, you won't cry because any one sends you an invitation."
"Why, Jenny, don't you ever go home for holidays? Why not?" asked Percy, forgetting her own troubles for the moment and sitting up.
"Principally because I have no home to go to. My mother is dead, and my father is a merchant at Shanghai; and I have no near friends in this country. I'll tell you what it is, Percy, it is time you left off making such scarecrows for yourself out of nothing at all. You keep yourself in a perpetual worry about things more than half of which never come to pass after all. I should think you had had enough of real troubles to be contented, without making imaginary ones. Come now, wipe your eyes and wash your thee, and go out for a walk with Florry before tea, and you will be better able to meet this great calamity."
Percy was a little afraid of Jenny, who, though very kind, was not so indulgent to her humours as Blandina. She made a great effort to swallow her sobs, and presently was ready for her walk.
"Did you think I was very silly, Florry?" asked Percy, when they were alone together.
"Well, I really couldn't see anything to make such a fuss about," replied Flora, frankly. "Why don't you want to go to your Aunt Ackerman's? I am sure it was very kind in her to ask you."
"I suppose it was," said Percy, dolefully. "But then you see, Florry, don't know her the least bit: I have never even seen her."
"Well, you had never seen me only a little while ago. It doesn't follow that people are bad because you don't know them. Your Aunt Zoe is acquainted with Mrs. Ackerman, and she thinks her a nice woman, you see."
"And, besides, she isn't my real aunt—not my aunt at all," pursued Percy. "Her husband's first wife was my mother's sister. Miss Ackerman is my cousin; but that doesn't make her stepmother my aunt, does it?"
"No; but it doesn't make her a monster, either. I think it is all the more kind in her to ask you."
"And then she is so rich, and lives in a grand house; and I am sure she and my cousin will think me a silly little goose!"
Flora thought they might have had some grounds for their opinion, if they had seen Percy in her present mood.
"But I shall have to go, of course, if Aunt Zoe thinks it best," continued Percy, with mournful resignation. "Oh, dear! I thought I was going to have such a nice time in holidays, and now—"
"Well, there, don't cry in the street," said Flora, rather alarmed. "How do you know that you won't have a nice time, as it is? I am sure I think it will be very nice. Does your aunt keep a carriage?"
"Yes!" said Percy, as though Flora had asked, "Does your aunt keep a tame dragon?"
"I dare say she will take you to Central Park, and Greenwood, and everywhere," continued Florry; "and you will see the pretty holiday things in the shops; and I dare say have plenty of nice presents. And oh, Percy, perhaps you can match my worsted for me. Will you try? I do hate to give up my work," said Flora, alluding to a wonderful camp-chair which could not be completed for the want of certain "dead-leaf" greens, which were not to be had even in Millby.
"Of course I will; I like to match worsted," replied Percy, brightening up a little at the prospect of doing something for somebody. "Perhaps Jenny will like to have me do some errand for her."
Percy returned from her walk in a somewhat more cheerful frame of mind, and, by dint of schooling herself severely, was able to be at least resigned, and even cheerful, when Aunt Zoe came up in the stage the next day, to look over her clothes and see what she was likely to want.
"It happens nicely that Aunt Ackerman should have asked you just at this time," remarked Miss Devine; "because I really did want very much to visit Cousin Julia's family once more before they went away West. I should have taken you with me, and Julia would have made you welcome, I am sure; but their house is small; and I don't know how you would have got on with all their noisy big boys."
The thought of the noisy big boys did something to reconcile Percy to the New York visit, and she was able to tell Aunt Zoe with truth that she thought she should like it better than going to Cousin Julia's.
"Oh, you will have a very nice time, you'll see," said Aunt Zoe. "I know Mrs. Ackerman and her daughter; and I think they will make their house very pleasant for you."
Percy was to have gone down to New York with Mr. and Mrs. Hausen, but something occurred at the last moment to change their plans; and she was committed to the care of Miss Baldwin, one of the lady teachers, who was going home to New Haven for the holidays. Percy was, as usual, afraid that she should be late, and quite sure that they should miss the train at A—; for, as Round Springs is not on any railroad, they were obliged to go to a neighbouring city to take the cars for New York.
"Well, if we are late, we will wait for the next train," said Miss Baldwin.
"But, then, my aunt would not be there to meet me; and what shall I do, if she isn't?"
"You have the address, haven't you?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Oh, well, you won't have any trouble: I shall ask somebody to find us a carriage, and we can drive straight to your aunt's door."
"But suppose the driver should be a bad man, and should carry us to some lonely place, and rob us," said Percy. "I have read of such things, Miss Baldwin; haven't you?"
"And suppose the city should have been sunk by an earthquake or overflowed by a deluge?" answered Miss Baldwin, laughing. "I have heard of such things: haven't you?"
"But I am sure I have read of dreadful things being done in New York. It was only the other day—"
"My dear child," interrupted Miss Baldwin, "I have passed through New York on an average six times a year for the last six years, and I have never yet met with the least annoyance or unpleasant adventure. Nobody has ever robbed or murdered me, or ever wished to do so, as far as I know. Why should we meet with anything now? New York might be better, no doubt; but it is not such a dreadful place after all, and a great many nice people live there. Do put all these worries out of your head, and think about something else. You will not enjoy your journey at all, at this rate; and I am sure I shall not."
Percy was nervously sensitive about annoying other people, and she at once resolved that, however much frightened she might be, she would not show it nor speak of it. This was a very good resolution, and Percy kept it all the way to New York. The train was behind time, and there was nobody to meet the little girl.
"What shall we do now?" asked Percy, trying to speak cheerfully, though her heart sank very low.
"I shall get a carriage and take you to Mrs. Ackerman's, and then go and stay at my sister's till to-morrow morning," answered Miss Baldwin. "I am not very sorry after all, that I have an excuse for stopping a day in New York. Oh, you need have no fears; we shall do perfectly well."
Nothing seemed to Percy more unlikely than that they should do perfectly well, when she saw the crowds of people in the streets, and realized what a great city she had come into. Nevertheless, she could have wished the ride to be longer; and her heart began to beat very fast when the carriage drew up at a very handsome brown house on Fifth Avenue.
"Here we are, all right," said Miss Baldwin. "See there the name on the door. Good-by, dear; I hope you will have a very nice time. The expressman will bring your trunk before long."
It seemed a dreadful thing to Percy to have to go alone up those stone steps and pull the bell; but she did it; and between the ringing and answering of the bell, she had time to think that probably her aunt would not be at home, and that perhaps she had come to the wrong house after all. The door was opened presently by a very stylish-looking, elderly coloured man, who looked at Percy in some surprise.
"Is—is my aunt at home? Mrs. Ackerman, I mean," Percy managed to say at last.
"Oh, yes!" replied Sylvester, all smiles, directly. "Missy will be the young lady that was expected to-morrow morning. Let me take your things, Miss, and please walk up-stairs. How you do favour your dear ma, to be sure. This way, Miss. Mrs. Ackerman is in her room, but she will be down directly. Take a seat by the fire."
Percy sank into the depths of the comfortable arm-chair placed for her by a bright, open fire in the handsomest room she had ever seen; and she waited what seemed to her an hour before anybody came—though in reality it was not more than ten minutes. The house seemed wonderfully still. The drawing-room opened into a beautiful conservatory, where there were plants in flower and birds in cages; there were handsome books on the tables and pictures on the walls, which Percy would have liked to look at, if she had not been too much scared. A solemn clock in the hall ticked loudly, and she could hear somebody moving over her head. Percy began to think about enchanted castles and the palace of the White Cat, when her reveries were interrupted by the entrance of a very handsome and handsomely dressed lady, whom Percy guessed at once to be her cousin Margaret.
"MY dear child," said Miss Ackerman, speaking in a tone which made Percy start, "I am so glad you have come; but we did not expect you till to-morrow. How did you get here?"
Percy had to explain that Mr. Hausen had changed his plans, which had changed her own; and added, that Mrs. Richardson had telegraphed to that effect.
"And here comes the message, I fancy," said Miss Ackerman, as Sylvester brought in a yellow envelope. "But it does not matter, so long as you are safe. I dare say you are tired and hungry enough. Come up and see your room, and then we will see about some lunch. Never mind your bag; Sylvester will bring it."
Percy followed her cousin, feeling more and more as if she was in a dream; for Cousin Margaret's face, figure, and voice were exactly like what her mother's had been before she was ill.
"See, this is your room," said Miss Ackerman, opening a door. "We could have given you a larger one up-stairs, but mamma thought you would like to be near us. Do you think you shall like this little blue and brown place?"
"I think it is lovely," answered Percy, who had a great liking for all sorts of pretty things. The room was finished with light oak wood in the natural colour, and the furniture was of the same. The curtains were of blue and white, and there was a blue and oak carpet on the floor. Some pretty china figures and a sociable little clock stood on the mantel; there was a dainty little writing-desk, and three or four shelves hung over it, filled with books both new and old.
"It is the prettiest room I ever saw," said Percy.
"I am glad you like it," said Miss Ackerman. "Mamma had it fitted up on purpose for you." She did not say that Mrs. Ackerman had given up her own special sitting-room, that the strange little girl might not have to go up-stairs alone to sleep. "Mamma is dressing to go out," continued Miss Ackerman; "and I hope you won't consider us uncivil if We leave you to your own devices for a couple of hours. You see, we have an engagement at the Orphans' Home, which can't be very well put off. I will tell them to send you up some lunch; and you can amuse yourself with a book, or in any way you please. You won't mind, will you?"
"Oh, no, ma'am," answered Percy, rather relieved than otherwise at the prospect of a little solitude. At that moment the door opened, and in came the prettiest—yes, the very prettiest—little old lady that Percy had ever seen, with a bright, gentle face and bright blue eyes, and thin, soft-looking gray hair, put up in puffs under her bonnet. She was dressed in black, with a good deal of beautiful fur; and everything she wore was so suitable and becoming, that it made one feel as if her dress were a part of herself.
"So this is my little niece?" said she, kissing Percy. "I should know her anywhere from her resemblance to you, Margaret. My dear, it was very good in you to give your holidays to us. I hope we shall make them pleasant for you. Margaret, have you explained to Percy about our going out?"
"Yes, mamma."
"You see, we are going to arrange about the orphans' Christmas-tree," continued Mrs. Ackerman, in a soft, purring kind of voice. "We have to divide the work of buying supplies, because there are so many children this year. To-morrow you shall go around to the shops with me to see what we can find; and I dare say you will like to help Margaret dress some dolls."
"Oh, yes, ma'am," answered Percy; and gathering courage, she added: "I have got the doll you sent me out in Colorado; and it is as good as new."
"Indeed! You must be a very careful little girl, I think. And how do you like your school?"
"Oh, very much!" answered Percy, with animation. "It is not a bit like a school: it seems just like home."
"It must be very unlike any boarding school I ever attended," said Miss Ackerman. "Mamma, the carriage is ready; and there is not much time to spare, you know."
"True," answered her mother. "Good-by, my love; you must try not to feel lonely. Sylvester will show you the library and the flowers, if you like, or you can lie down and rest after your lunch, just as you feel disposed. It seems pleasant to have a little girl in the house once more: doesn't it, Margaret?"
"Yes, indeed," answered Margaret, and Percy was sure that she saw tears in her beautiful eyes. She wondered whom they could be thinking of. There was a lovely picture over the mantel, of a little fair girl playing with some flowers, and both the ladies looked at it as they spoke.
Then they kissed her and went away, and presently Sylvester brought her up a dainty luncheon.
"Whose picture is that?" she ventured to ask, as Sylvester busied himself in setting out the table by the fire, and arranging the tray.
"That is Mrs. Ackerman's only daughter," replied Sylvester. "She was a sweet, pretty young lady, and favoured her mother as much as you do yours."
"I think Cousin Margaret looks like mamma," said Percy.
"The very picture of her. I've often said that very thing myself," replied Sylvester, evidently pleased with being talked to. "Miss Margaret and your ma were near about of an age, and more like sisters than aunt and niece. You see, your aunt—the first lady, as I may say—was much older than your ma; and after your grandma died, she took the charge of her. She was a splendid lady, was the first Mrs. Ackerman; and the second is just as good, only different—more quiet and gentle like, and apt to believe everything anybody tells her. The way them beggars and folks does impose on her! Do you like stewed oysters, Miss?"
"Very much."
"Then you are just suited, for here they are. I told Symantha I guessed you would like something kind of hot and comfortable; and she thought of oysters the very first thing. Symantha, she's my wife, and Drusilla, the chambermaid, she's our girl. We've got a boy, too, but he works out for himself. Just ring the bell, Miss, when you want anything." And Sylvester departed, coming back again presently with the evening papers.
Percy was hungry, and she ate her oysters and drank her coffee with great satisfaction, thinking, as she did so, that the dreadful part of her visit had not begun as yet. Aunt Ackerman was not in the least like the image she had formed in her own mind; which image was modelled principally on that fashionable city aunt to be found, I believe, only in a certain class of story-books. Milly Russell's aunt, in the story of "The Broken Saucer," had been very wicked and worldly, and had treated Milly with such scorn and contempt, because the said Milly had read her Bible on Sundays. But Aunt Ackerman, though she was beautifully dressed, and lived in such a fine house, did not seem as if she could be either scornful or unkind.
"And I am sure it was very good in her to fit up this pretty room for me, next her own," thought Percy; "and I am sure Cousin Margaret looks good. Oh, dear, I hope they will like me. I wish I was fair and rosy, like the little girl in the picture."
Percy's meditations were here interrupted by a sound as of a cat scratching to be let in. She arose and opened the door, to admit a beautiful great Persian or Angora cat, with very long hair and long, bushy tail; the most superb pussy that Percy had ever seen, and followed by an equally pretty kitten. Percy loved all kinds of pets, cats and kittens especially.
"Oh, you beauties!" she exclaimed. "I wonder if I dare give you a little milk. I have heard that milk is dreadfully dear in New York; but, then, aunt is so rich, I dare say she won't mind."
Pussy accepted the milk, and drank it with an air of having conferred a polite attention on a stranger, and established herself on the rug before the fire, while the kitten frisked about the room. Percy finished her own lunch, and then began exploring her new quarters. The room was furnished with every convenience, and on opening the desk she found a store of nice paper and envelopes, all—wonderful to tell!—marked with the name of Percy in bright blue and red. There was an inkstand filled with perfumed violet ink, a gold pen,—even a little waferstand and a box of wax matches: and on the top of all lay a card with this inscription, "To Percy from Aunt Ackerman."
"What a lovely Christmas present!" exclaimed Percy, as she turned over the contents of the desk. "I always did want some paper stamped with my name. I mean to write to Aunt Zoe directly, and to Blandina and Florry, and everybody."
"That looks nice," said Sylvester, as he came after the dishes and found Percy busy at her letter-writing. "Looks as if Missy was getting to feel at home. Mrs. Ackerman she bought that desk herself on purpose for your room. I am so glad you have come, Miss Percy. I am sure you will do Mrs. Ackerman good; and it seems so nice to have a young lady in the house again."
In process of time, Mrs. Ackerman and Margaret came home; and they had dinner. Mrs. Ackerman told Percy of the arrangements for the orphans' Christmas-tree, and of the number and kind of children in The Home; and she and Margaret talked over the different children on their list, and discussed what would be the best present for each, and Percy quite forgot to be shy as she listened. They would go out in the carriage to-morrow, Mrs. Ackerman said, and Percy should help her buy the presents, "unless you want to spend the morning writing to your aunt," added Mrs. Ackerman.
"I wrote to her this afternoon," answered Percy; "and oh, aunt, I want to thank you and Cousin Margaret for my beautiful writing paper and things. I always wanted some paper stamped with my name, and I never saw any so pretty."
"And the desk? I hope you like that," said Margaret; "because it is my taste. We will have it safely boxed for you to carry home."
Percy's eyes opened so wide that they seemed to swallow up her whole face, as she exclaimed:
"Why, Cousin Margaret! You don't mean that the desk is mine to take home with me? Not mine to keep? I thought it belonged to the room."
"It belongs to you, and nobody else, my little cousin," answered Margaret, smiling.
"Well!" said Percy, in a tone between resignation and satisfaction. "I never thought I should have such a desk as that in this world. But I don't know what I ought to say."
"You have said just the right thing, dear," remarked Margaret. "You can't please mamma better than by being pleased yourself."
"Well, I do like to have people pleased when I take pains for them," said Mrs. Ackerman, piling some raisins and almonds on Percy's plate. "Now there was old Mrs. Smith, at the Aged Widows' Asylum, you know, Margaret: I hunted the city over to find her a purple-and-black checked shawl, because she wanted one so much; and, after all, she said she thought she would rather have a black and white one, because the purple made the black look green. And when I bought that Paisley shawl for Cousin Sarah, I am sure I would not have taken so much pains for myself, that hot weather. I actually put off going out of town three days, on purpose to buy that shawl; and yet Sarah was not pleased, because she said she was sure she found three threads of cotton on the wrong side."
"I have about made up my mind that I shall not do any more shopping for Cousin Sarah," said Margaret; "only, I suppose, if I don't, you will: and she can't impose on me quite so badly as she does on you; I am not so good-natured. But, as you say, mamma, I do love to have people show themselves gratified, when one tries to please them. I think you must be satisfied this time."
Percy resolved that she would be pleased with everything her aunt did for her. She was examining her desk again before she went to bed, hardly able to believe that she could be the possessor of so many little drawers and pigeon-holes, when there was a knock at a door which Percy had not seen opened, and presently her aunt opened it.
"I was only going to tell you that you can have this door opened into my room, if you like," said she. "You need not hurry in the morning. We are not very early risers; and I will see that you are called in time for prayers and breakfast. You say your own prayers: don't you, dear?"
"Yes, aunt. Mamma taught me," answered Percy, in a low tone.
"Well," thought Percy, as she lay down, "I don't think the dreadful place has come yet. I do believe I was silly, as Jenny said. I wish she had as nice a place to spend her Christmas in."
A WEEK of Percy's visit had passed, and yet the "dreadful place" had not come. Percy had thought it just at hand two or three times. Once when Aunt Ackerman left her alone, at a great fancy store, to select wools for a sofa cushion, and to match Flora's dead-leaf greens; and once when she went with Margaret to spend the day at a house where there were two girls of her own age. But the young woman in the worsted shop was very polite and helpful. She assisted Percy in her choice; told her how much of each colour she would need, and, when she had finished, set her a chair and gave her a great heap of patterns to amuse herself with, while she was waiting for her aunt.
Presently Percy gathered courage enough to go to the door and look out for her aunt's carriage; and seeing that it had not come, and that there was a nice bookstore next door, she actually ventured to enter the said bookstore all alone, and there to purchase a book-slate and two pretty note-books, intended as presents for Flora, Blandina, and Jenny; for Miss Devine had given her ten dollars to do what she liked with; and she had already spent it, in her own mind, in presents for everybody she knew.
The other bugbear was rather more alarming. Maria and Alice Ward were only just as old as herself, but their manners and dress made them seem at least four years older. They were young ladies, while Percy had never thought of being anything but a little girl. However, they found a common subject of conversation in comparing their schools; and when Percy heard their stories, she was very thankful that she had been placed at Hansen School, instead of at the grand establishment of Mrs. Flag. Then the girls found out that Percy had lived all her life on the frontier, and they were full of curiosity about army life and Indians; and, altogether, the visit went off very well, and Percy could honestly say, in answer to her aunt's question, that she had passed a pleasant day.
Percy's resolution, which she had faithfully kept so far, not to speak of her terrors and worries, was a very wise one, and it did her a great deal of good. She forgot her troubles much sooner when she did not talk about them, and using self-control in words helped her to use it in her thoughts as well. She did not say a single word even when the carriage became entangled in a jam on Broadway, and made no objection to going up and down in the elevator at Stewart's, though she felt quite sure that they should stick somewhere and never get out.
Percy had not expected any Christmas presents after her beautiful desk and paper; but when she came down on Christmas morning, there was a mysterious pile on her plate, covered by a white napkin.
"Oh, aunt, you give me too many nice things!" she exclaimed, as successive boxes developed a silver napkin ring, a set of Scott's poems with beautiful pictures, a package of dainty little kid gloves (Percy always loved kid gloves), and some unheard-of sugar-plums and dried fruits. "You and Cousin Margaret give me so much and do so much for me, and I can't do anything for you."
"You can do one thing for us, little cousin," said Mrs. Ackerman. "How would you like to give us half of yourself?"
"I don't quite understand, aunt."
"You know Margaret and myself are two very lonely women here," continued Mrs. Ackerman. "Do you think you would be willing to give us half your holidays and half of your heart, and let us be at half the expense of your education?"
"But, but—Aunt Zoe—I don't know what she will say," stammered Percy. "I believe mamma gave me to her, and she has been so good to me. I must do as Aunt Zoe says."
"Very true, my love," answered Margaret. "But we are as nearly related to you as Aunt Zoe, and we have a kind of right to help in your education. We have written to her about the matter, and she has given her consent. At first, mamma thought she would like to have you at school here, so as to be near us; but you seem to be doing so well where you are, that it hardly seems worth while to change. So, if you will give us half your holidays and half your letters, we shall be quite content. My dear little girl, what is the matter?" For two large tears came splashing down right into Percy's coffee cup.
"Nothing; only,—only you are so good, and I was so naughty and silly about coming here. I didn't want to come; and I thought Aunt Ackerman would be exactly like a New York aunt in a story-book! I was just as ungrateful as I could be."
"But, my dear, you couldn't be ungrateful for what you never had," said Mrs. Ackerman, soothingly. "You did not know us at all then."
Percy's Holidays.
"Well, I needn't have been so foolish," answered Percy, wiping her eyes. "Jenny said it was silly, and it was; and I am sorry. The girls say I am always borrowing trouble, and I am."
At that moment, Sylvester brought in a letter, which Margaret opened.
"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed, as she glanced over it. "Mamma, Cousin Sarah is coming to-morrow, to stay a week!"
Mrs. Ackerman sighed gently. "Well, my dear, you know she must be somewhere; and if we only have her a week, we shouldn't complain."
"There is one comfort: she can't be afraid of sunstroke in winter," said Margaret, laughing.
"I dare say she will make it up by being afraid of fires," said Mrs. Ackerman. "However, we must be kind to the poor thing, and we won't let to-morrow spoil to-day, if we can help it. Come, Percy dear, gather up your pretty things and put them away. It is time we were getting ready for church."
Percy had dreaded Christmas, because she thought she should feel so sadly, but the day passed very pleasantly, after all. She went to church with her aunt and cousin, and after church they drove round to the Orphans' Home, and saw all the children at their dinner of turkeys and plum puddings. Percy passed a pleasant two hours in her cousin's dressing-room, by the light of the fire, telling Margaret about her father and mother, and learning from her anecdotes of her mother's school life.
"And you knew papa, too, when he was young," asked Percy.
"Oh, yes; I knew him very well," answered Margaret. She spoke quite cheerfully; but yet something, she did not quite know what, made Percy think that Cousin Margaret would rather not talk about her father, and she asked no more questions.
They had company at dinner and to spend the evening: two or three young ladies who were very plainly dressed, and who were brought and sent home again in Mrs. Ackerman's own carriage. Percy found out afterwards that they were teachers in the public school and the Sunday-school.
"Mamma is apt to make her holiday parties on Scripture principles," said Margaret to Percy, when they were alone together. "She does not invite her rich neighbors, but looks out for those who have no friends or home to go to."
The next morning Percy went to the station with Margaret to meet Cousin Sarah.
"There she is," said Margaret, as a thin, tall, anxious-looking woman came out of the car. "Take care! She will be run over."
Percy could hardly keep back a scream, as the tall lady, having hesitated at least two minutes while the track was clear, ran across directly in front of an advancing engine, and only just cleared herself.
"Well, I know I shall be run over by an engine sometime," said she, as Margaret uttered an exclamation of thankfulness. "I don't expect anything else. I don't know why I come to New York, for I never expect to get out alive. But this is not your carriage, Margaret. This is a public hack."
"I know it, Cousin Sarah," answered Margaret. "Our horses had to go to the blacksmith's this morning. Just get in, and give the coachman your check, and he will bring your trunk."
"But do you think it will be safe to give my checks to a hackman?" asked Cousin Sarah, in a loud whisper. "Don't you think he may run away with the things?"
"And leave us in possession of his carriage and horses? Hardly, I think," answered Margaret, smiling. "I don't think there is any danger, Sarah."
"Oh, but I assure you, I have heard of such things being done." Then, after she had seen the trunk safely placed on the carriage: "Oh, I was so frightened in the car. There was a man on the opposite seat, who looked exactly as if he was drunk; and he spoke to me."
"Indeed! What did he say?"
"He said, 'Would you like to see the morning paper, ma'am?'"
"There was no great harm in that. What made you think he was drunk?"
"Oh, his face was red; and he kept laughing while he was reading the paper."
"Perhaps there was something funny in it," Percy ventured to remark.
"I don't know about that, child. I wasn't going to have any words with him, so I just said, 'No, I thank you, sir,' and looked out of the window. Why, Margaret, there is the very man. Depend upon it, he is following us. What shall I do?"
"Why, Cousin Sarah, that is Mr. Walden, a most respectable merchant, and a neighbour of ours," said Margaret, laughing, as she returned the gentleman's bow.
"Dear me! Well, I am sure! But, Margaret, does this man know the way to your house? It seems to me this is not the way I have come before."
"No. Percy and I want to stop down town a moment to do an errand. You will not mind waiting five minutes, will you?"
When they came to the shop, Cousin Sarah was so long in deciding whether she would sit in the carriage, and risk being run away with, or go into the shop and leave the hackman to run away with the trunks, that there seemed some danger of the errands not being done. However, she finally decided to wait while Margaret and Percy went into the candy-shop and bought some matters with which to finish the decoration of the orphans' Christmas-tree, which was to be lighted up that evening.
"Now, Percy," said Margaret, when they arrived at home, "do you suppose you can run round to The Home with these things, and find your way back again?"
"Oh, yes!" replied Percy, cheerfully.
"You know you turn to your left, when you come out of the Asylum, and go to the next corner, and then straight down the street. If you are puzzled, ask a policeman."
"I think I can find the way," answered Percy; and she actually enjoyed the idea of going out in the street alone, and on her own feet. She did her errand at the Asylum and came home quite safely, to report that the tree was going to be beautiful; and that the two dolls she had dressed hung right at the top. When evening came, there arose a new difficulty. Mrs. and Miss Ackerman, being managers of The Home and knowing every child in it, naturally wished to be present at the Christmas festival. But Cousin Sarah would not go, because she was afraid to be out in the evening; and she could not stay at home alone, because she should never dare to be left with only the servants.
"But our coachman and horses are perfectly safe, Sarah," said Mrs. Ackerman.
"Everybody thinks their own horses safe," answered Cousin Sarah.
"And with reason, I suppose, since most horses are safe," remarked Margaret.
"I will stay at home with Cousin Sarah, Aunt Ackerman," said Percy, following her aunt to the hall, whither she went to speak to a servant. "Mrs. Stewart told me to tell you and Margaret to be sure and come early; especially Cousin Margaret, because they want her to help."
"My dear child; but I thought you wanted to see the tree and the children very much?"
"I did," answered Percy, with a little sigh; "but then I saw it this afternoon, you know; and the ladies seemed to want you so much. Only, please, I should like to know who gets my dolls. I hope that little round-faced infant will have one—the little girl I told you, was like my little sister."
"I will see that she does. My dear little girl, I am ever so much obliged to you. I am afraid you will have a dull evening."
"Oh, no. And please, aunt, may I have those big books of birds to look at?"
Percy was not destined to have much comfort with the big books of birds. Cousin Sarah was by no means pleased to be left alone in the house, as she said, though she had an able-bodied man and three women within call, whenever she chose to ring the bell.
"But I ought to know what to expect," she concluded, plaintively. "Poor relations are of no account here. They just measure everything by money, money. Such worldliness! My dear, didn't you hear something moving up-stairs?"
"I don't hear anything," answered Percy, listening.
"Well, perhaps not; but I am so afraid of burglars. I know perfectly well that some night I shall wake up and see a man in my room looking into my bureau. But, as I said, poor relations don't count. I dare say you have found that out."
"I don't know what you mean," said Percy, colouring. "I am sure Aunt Ackerman and Margaret are just as kind as they can be."
"Oh, well! I dare say they are kind to you, child. You have a social position, you see. And Cousin Julia Ackerman does mean to be kind, I dare say; but she is no hand to do shopping at all. I sent her sixty dollars to buy me a Paisley shawl; and when I came to look it over, there were three threads of cotton in it. Now, a shawl that is part cotton will fade in streaks, you know; and it seems hard to give so much money for a faded shawl."
"Has your shawl faded?" asked Percy.
"Why, no, not yet; but of course it will. Now, such a shawl ought to last one a lifetime; but I can't wear it after it is all faded out. My dear, I certainly do hear somebody up-stairs."
"I dare say it is only the cat; but I will go and see," said Percy, rising.
"But suppose it should be a robber?" whispered Cousin Sarah; "or suppose one of the servants should be looking over Margaret's bureau?"
"I don't suppose it is one or the other!" answered Percy, rather impatiently. "I suppose it is pussy. She lies on aunt's sofa half the time. There, don't you hear her mew to be let out? I must go, or she may do some mischief." Cousin Sarah would not be left alone, and Percy rang the bell for somebody to let out the cat. Then came another fear.
"My dear, I have left my trunk unlocked. You don't think any of the servants will meddle with my things, do you?"
"I should think not," replied Percy. "You know they have all lived here a long time, and aunt thinks they are quite honest. But I will go up and lock it, and bring you the key, if you like."
"But you will be afraid to go up there in the dark. No, I think perhaps you had better let it be. However, I assure you that the last time I was here I lost fifteen cents in the strangest way. I never could account for it."
"Perhaps you spent it, and then forgot about it," suggested Percy. "One does sometimes. I know I paid twenty-five cents yesterday for something, and I can't remember what it was."
Cousin Sarah here began to put Percy through a series of questions relating to her aunt Devine, her father and mother, her school, and other things which diverted her from her fears, till Mrs. Ackerman and Margaret came home. Then came another trouble. She was sure she never should dare to sleep alone, and in the third story, too. What if there should be a fire, and she should not wake till it was too late to save herself. What if a robber should come in? He would be sure to go up-stairs first of all. The matter was finally settled by Margaret's giving up her own room to her cousin, and sleeping with her mother.
"Dear me, what a fuss she does make," thought Percy, as, after she was in bed, she heard Cousin Sarah fretting about the gas and the fire, and the window fastenings, &c. "I wonder if I am as silly as that? I declare I'll never borrow any more trouble; not if I never have any," thought the little girl, sleepily.
The next day at breakfast, Cousin Sarah announced that she had a great deal of shopping to do; and she must have Margaret to go with her, as she never could trust herself in those dreadful New York shops alone. Margaret looked at her mother with a glance which said plainly, "What shall I do?"
"I believe Margaret will be wanted at the Asylum this morning, cousin," said Mrs. Ackerman. "Will not Percy and myself do as well?"
"But I wanted Margaret's judgment," answered Cousin Sarah. "I always expect to be cheated. I want to buy a poplin and an American silk; and as likely as not they will make me take one that is half cotton; and I don't think you are a judge of cotton in things, Cousin Julia: I really don't, because there was that shawl, you know. I never put it on or take it off without expecting to see it all faded in streaks."
"I think you will have to rely upon me, or else put off your shopping till to-morrow, cousin," replied Mrs. Ackerman, without a trace of ill-temper or annoyance; "because, really, Margaret cannot be spared. I don't think you need be afraid of being cheated at any of the respectable stores. I have bought dry goods at Stewart's ever since I was married, and I have never been imposed upon in a single instance. Percy, my dear, will you ring the bell?"
All that morning, Percy wondered at the patience of her aunt. She herself was very well entertained, looking at the pretty things in the shops, or sitting in the carriage with her book; but Aunt Ackerman must look at and pronounce upon every piece of goods half a dozen times over. Cousin Sarah at last made up her mind to buy a silk and a poplin, after having looked at, at least a hundred pieces of each; but no sooner were they cut off and paid for, than she regretted her choice, and wished all the way home that she had bought the black silk instead of the blue, because blue was apt to fade, and the green poplin instead of the black, because black poplin was no dress at all. After they had finished their shopping, they went to Bigot's to lunch; and here Cousin Sarah would not take any chocolate, because she had heard that chocolate was shockingly adulterated, nor any stewed oysters, because she had been told that they always used the stale oysters to make the stews; and having finally disposed of a large glass of calves-foot jelly, she remembered having read that such jelly was always made of gelatine, which was manufactured out of horses' hoofs and the parings of sheepskins. After lunch, Mrs. Ackerman asked Cousin Sarah, whether she would like to go home, or whether she had any more to do.
"I want to make a call in Brooklyn; and it is such a pleasant day, I think Percy will enjoy the ride and crossing the ferry: won't you, my dear?"
Now Percy had had a great dread of crossing ferries all her life; but with the example of Cousin Sarah before her eyes, she resolved at once not to be afraid, and answered promptly:
"Oh, yes, Aunt Ackerman! I shall like it very much."
"But won't it be very disagreeable getting out of the carriage down there?" asked Cousin Sarah, doubtfully. "And what shall we do when we come to the other side?"
"We shall not get out," answered Aunt Ackerman. "We shall drive on the boat at this side and off at the other. Of course you can get out, if you please; but I never do, because it is some trouble, and our horses are perfectly steady."
"Now, Julia," said Cousin Sarah, solemnly, "do you really think I am going to do such a thing as that? Suppose the boat should sink? How dreadful, to be drowned in a carriage and horses!"
Percy laughed in spite of herself.
"What would you do, if you had to cross on a raft, Cousin Sarah?" she asked. "Or in a little bark canoe, where you had to sit flat down in the bottom, and not move for fear of being upset?"
Cousin Sarah thought that under those circumstances she should immediately die.
"But dying would be as dangerous as crossing the ferry," argued Percy, gravely. Solomon, the coachman, giggled, and striving to turn the giggle into a polite cough, he choked himself; whereat Cousin Sarah remarked, in a terrified whisper, that she thought that he must be drunk or crazy, and would certainly upset the carriage or make the horses run away. She finally decided to be left at home, because she wanted to see her bundles when they came, for she couldn't help thinking, after all, that her merino must be part cotton.
"Aunt Ackerman," said Percy, very soberly, after they had gone on some little way in silence, "I never will borrow any trouble again as long as I live."
"That is a very good resolution, my dear," answered Aunt Ackerman. "Borrowing trouble is very foolish, and it is also wrong."
"I know it is foolish," said Percy, blushing; "though I never knew how silly it made people till—till lately. It makes one very unhappy for nothing. I felt so badly because Aunt Zoe sent me to school; and after all, I liked it ever so much; and, oh, aunt! You don't know how silly I was about coming down here. Jenny said I was a goose, and I was!"
"And yet you have had rather a nice time, haven't you?"
"Yes, indeed!" answered Percy. "I am so glad I came. It seems as if I had been unfeeling and heartless sometimes, to enjoy myself so much without dear papa and mamma."
"My love, papa and mamma would wish you to enjoy yourself," answered Aunt Ackerman, gently. "They do not want their little girl to be unhappy all her life, because her heavenly Father has taken away her earthly parents for a little while."
"But, aunt, why is it wrong to borrow trouble?" asked Percy, after a little silence. "I know it is foolish, but why is it wrong?"
"It is wrong to be foolish, if one can help it: isn't it, dear?"
"Yes, I suppose so. I never thought of that, though."
"Then the habit of borrowing trouble is wrong because it interferes very much with the comfort and convenience of other people," continued Mrs. Ackerman. "Nothing is more disagreeable than to be in the company of a person who is always foreboding evil."
"And it makes people fretful, don't it, aunt?" asked Percy. "Blandina says sometimes, 'Don't fret, Percy!' when I am in a worry for fear of being late or losing my place."
"Yes, it is very apt to make people fretful and impatient; and, besides that, my dear, the habit of borrowing trouble shows a want of faith in our heavenly Father, and is a disobeying of an express command: 'Take therefore no thought for to-morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.' You know who said that, Percy."
"Our Lord," answered Percy, reverently.
"We know that our heavenly Father is perfectly wise and good and all-powerful," continued Aunt Ackerman. "And we know that he loves us, and has promised to give us all things that we need, if we seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness. We know of course that he does, and permits many things which seem to us very mysterious; but we must be content to leave all such things to him."
"We don't always know how things will turn out when we do our very best," observed Percy.
"No, we never know exactly; and all we can do is to 'do our very best,' as you say, and leave the result with him. Our Lord says we are not to be anxious even about such necessary things as food and clothes, you know. You see how unhappy poor Cousin Sarah makes herself: and her mother is just so. They are always sure that something dreadful is going to happen. They have a nice house; but they take no comfort in it, because they are afraid it will burn down, or that somebody will break into it. The last time I was there; Mrs. McArthur and Sarah went all around the house with a candle, to see that there were no robbers concealed in any of the rooms or closets. Then they went around again without a light, to be sure that they had not dropped any sparks; and, finally, Mrs. McArthur made another round, to be sure that all the doors were fastened. They have a beautiful garden; but they are always certain that the buds will be killed, or the fruit stolen, or that the grapes won't ripen. They are afraid of keeping a man-servant, for fear of being robbed, or of doing without one, because they feel so unprotected. I don't tell you these things to make you laugh at your cousins, my dear,—though I allow that one cannot always help doing so; but I want you to see what such a disposition is likely to grow to, unless it is taken in time."
Percy had plenty of chances to see this during the week that she spent with Cousin Sarah, and the lesson did her a great deal of good. All the girls noticed the change in her when she came back to school. She did not reform her fault all at once, of course, but her eyes were opened to see that it was a fault; and that, as Blandina said, was half the battle.
THE END.