OLD STANFIELD HOUSE; (continued 3)

Look at it as she would, she could not see that she had done anything very wrong. True, she had put the working-case in her pocket, but she certainly had no intention of stealing it; and though she had been tempted to take the gold pieces, she had not touched them with her little finger. She did not feel that she had wronged Miss Priscilla in any way. Neither could she feel under any obligation to her. Kindness she had had none, and as to support, it was clear from Mr. Settson's story that her grandfather had intended to give her father his share of the estate, which, therefore, owed her much more than the bare maintenance she had received from it.

She felt that she could not stay longer with Miss Priscilla if Miss Druett went away, and that she would go Calista was pretty sure. At last she made up her mind. She would go to Mr. Settson, lay the whole matter before him, and be guided by his advice. At another time she would have looked forward with pleasure to residing in his family, but Mary's conduct in the morning had thrown a cloud over that prospect. Perhaps Miss McPherson would let her live in the school for the help she would give Miss Meeks and Miss Jessie. Miss Priscilla could not keep her shut up always, and as soon as she was at liberty, she would hasten to town, lay the case before her best friends, and be guided by their opinion.

Having settled this matter in her mind, Calista felt comfortable. She bathed her eyes, arranged her hair and her dress, and looked about for something wherewith to divert herself. She could not perform the task of cutting carpet-rags, even if she had been so disposed, for the very sufficient reason that she had no scissors; so she hung the garments away in a disused closet, after examining the pockets of the coats, in one of which she actually found an old sixpence.

"Really, what a treasure!" said Calista. "I think I will hand it over to Aunt Priscilla; or shall I buy a lead pencil with it?"

There was nothing else to be found except an old pocketbook, which contained nothing whatever.

She took down her treasured "Cecelia" from its niche; but even the story of the silver gauze and the trouble resulting from its purchase could not fix her attention, so she took out her knitting, and found a more effectual diversion in the intricacies of feather stitch.

Calista had almost forgotten her trouble for the moment, when the door was unlocked, and Chloe put her head into the room.

"You are to go down to supper, Miss Calista, if that is any great privilege," said she.

"Who says so?" asked Calista.

"Miss Priscilla. She says you are to come down now. Reckon she's afraid to stay alone any longer. Well, I know one thing—if I didn't believe in the Lord, I wouldn't be so dreadful afraid of the devil."

"Perhaps you would, now," said Calista, as she took up her work and prepared to go down stairs. "I rather think those who fear the Lord most are just those who have fewest fears of anything else."

"I reckon you are about right there," said Chloe. "Anyhow, I know one thing: I ain't a-going to stay here much longer. But I must go and get supper."

Calista descended to the sitting-room, wondering what kind of a reception she should meet, and determining if her aunt laid hands on her again, to leave the house at once. But Miss Priscilla's mood had worked itself out for the time.

"Well, Miss Stanfield—so you have condescended to come down?" said she, in the bitter, sarcastic tone in which she usually spoke to her niece. "And, pray, how many carpet-rags have you cut this afternoon."

"None at all," answered Calista, concisely.

"Oh! I suppose such work is not fine enough for your mother's daughter."

"Neither my mother's daughter nor any one else can cut carpet-rags without scissors, and you know very well I have none," answered Calista.

"Oh! Is it possible? But if you had them, no doubt you would not use them. Of course, Miss Folsom's daughter would not stoop to anything so ungenteel. She must keep her hands white and soft, so that she may catch a rich husband, like her mother."

"Miss Stanfield," said Calista firmly, "if you say another word about my mother, I will leave this house and never enter it again while you are in it!"

Miss Priscilla looked at Calista, as she stood tall and stately in her young beauty, and seemed to think she had gone far enough.

"Don't be a fool, child," said she. "Sit down and be quiet! Who cares for your mother?"

"I do!" said Calista, firmly. "And I will not hear her abused."

"Well, well, sit down! What is that in your hand?"

"The knitting I am doing for Miss McPherson."

Miss Priscilla gave a kind of grunt, and the two sat in silence till Chloe came in to set the table.

Now, setting a tea-table is, in itself considered, an act of a peaceful and even softening nature; but Chloe converted it into a declaration of war by her manner of performing the same. She reproached Miss Stanfield with the bread, upbraided her with the butter, defied her with the milk, and, so to speak, threw at her head every article she put down. She knew that Miss Stanfield detested anything like a clatter, and she hit every spoon against every other spoon and every dish against every other dish on the table. She made separate journeys to the kitchen for everything she wanted, and slammed more doors than would have been supposed to be in the famous palace of the one-eyed Calender.

"Supper is ready!" said Chloe at last, when she could by no possibility spin her preparations out any longer.

"Well, why don't you ring the bell, then?" asked Miss Priscilla, fretfully. "Where is Miss Druett?"

"Miss Druett ain't a-coming down!" answered Chloe.

"Not coming down! Why not?"

"She says she is too busy. And I have took her tea up to her."

"Why, what is she doing?" asked Miss Priscilla.

"She is a-taking of her things out of her drawers and a-looking of them over, and a-laying of them in her trunks," answered Chloe, with great deliberation and an evident enjoyment of her words and of the annoyance produced by them. "David and me has brought her trunks down out of the garret, and David is a-going to take the biggest of 'em over to Cohansey to be mended when he goes in the morning. And I have took her tea up to her room, and she is a-drinking of it there, so there is no use of waiting for her."

Miss Priscilla took her place at the tea-board with an impatient—"Well, there, you may go!"

And Chloe retired, firing off another volley of what Mr. Sydney Smith calls "wooden swearing," on her way to her own quarters.

Miss Priscilla did not like to make her own tea, and that for an odd reason. She liked it very sweet, and she never could bring herself to put in as much sugar as she wanted. However, she poured out the weak beverage and handed a cup to Calista, who received it with a formal "Thank you."

No more was said till, to her surprise, Miss Priscilla asked Calista if she would have another cup of tea.

"If you please," said Calista, with equally formal politeness, determined to give no opening for another outbreak if she could help it.

Not another word was spoken.

Miss Priscilla composed herself for her usual nap, and Calista was about to leave the room when she was recalled by a—

"Don't go. Sit here with your work," which she could not but think had something rather imploring in its tone.

"I wonder whether she really is afraid to stay alone," thought Calista, as she resumed her seat.

She knitted in silence till it was too dark to see; and then, leaning on the window-seat, she meditated on the various things which had happened during the day.

She was gaining the mastery over her own spirit. Mary had treated her not only unkindly, but, what was much worse, treacherously; for she argued with herself that it was impossible for Mary so to misunderstand her as to think that she was really laughing at Miss Meeks. Mary had been at once her idol and her pattern for nearly two years; a pattern unapproachable in its perfection, it was true, but still her model of all that was good and lovely. And now that idol was fallen—a very Dagon—in helpless ruin, and the fair model was chipped and stained—no more to be a model, but only a sad warning. As Calista thought of it, in her girlish exaggeration and passion, she said to herself, more than once, "I wish she had died, like poor little Julia Lawrence, last year."

Calista did not know what death meant, any more than any other young creature who has only seen it at a distance. It is curious, but, I believe, quite true, that young people are apt to think of death just in this way, as an easy method of escape. She did not realize what it would be to have no Mary anywhere within reach; no possibility of explanation or "making up;" no possibility of finding Mary any more, though she should go all over the world to look for her.

She was but a child, after all, with a child's experiences. Still, as she thought of the dead girl, with whom she had had a merry game only the day before she had seen her laid out on her narrow white bed, her heart grew soft toward her friend, and she said to herself that she would try to forgive Mary.

"I am sure she will be sorry when she thinks about it," she said to herself. "I need forgiveness enough myself, for that matter; and Mary has done nothing worse than I was tempted to do. To be sure, I was not overcome by the temptation; but that was no thanks to me."

And then Calista went back to her childish days, and began to recall all she could remember about them and Miss Malvina.

"I am sure those are mother's trunks. I remember Miss Malvina making me spell out the name on the end—'Calista Folsom'—and telling me that it was my dear mother's name, and that those were her things. Oh, if I could only get possession of them! I mean to ask Mr. Settson if there is anything to be done. There, Aunt Priscilla is waking up."

In fact, Miss Priscilla roused herself and Chloe brought in the candles at one and the same moment.

"Druey—why, where is Druey?" asked Miss Priscilla, rubbing her eyes. "Chloe, where is Miss Druett?"

"She is up in her room, and she ain't a-coming down to-night, either," was Chloe's answer, as she slapped down first the candlesticks and then the snuffer-tray. "I've took her up a candle, half an hour ago."

"But she must come down. What does she think I am going to do all the evening? Go up to her, Chloe, and tell her—no, ask her if she isn't coming down to play cribbage."

"Oh, well, I can go, of course," said Chloe, "but it won't do any good."

She departed on her errand, accordingly, and returned with the message that Miss Druett was very tired and must be excused to-night.

Miss Priscilla fretted, and all but cried, like a child deprived of a plaything.

"And you are no good—no good at all," she said to Calista. "I don't suppose you could ever learn cribbage."

"I don't know, I am sure," answered Calista; and then, moved by a feeling of compassion for which she could hardly account herself, she added, "but I will try, Aunt Priscilla, if it will amuse you to teach me."

Miss Priscilla seemed to think even the prospect of teaching Calista better than no game at all, and the board was set out. But cribbage is a difficult game to learn under the most favorable circumstances. Perhaps Miss Priscilla was not a patient or skillful teacher, or Calista was more than usually dull. Certain it is that after a short trial, she abandoned the attempt in despair.

"There, it is of no use, I never could teach anybody anything. Put the things away, child."

"I am sorry," said Calista, and she really was sorry to see the poor withered, peevish woman deprived of one of the very few pleasures she allowed herself; "perhaps if I were to try again—"

"No, no, never mind. Take your knitting. It is very good-natured of you, though, I must allow."

Calista listened in amazement. It was literally the very first word of commendation she had ever received Aunt Priscilla. She took up her work again, and the two sat in silence till Miss Priscilla said, abruptly but not angrily—

"Calista, what made you go into that room?"

"Only curiosity," answered Calista. "I was looking in the book-case, and picked out some old books and papers to read. Then I tried the door of grandfather's room and found it would open, so I went in to see what was there."

"And what did you see there? Come, tell me," said Miss Priscilla, almost coaxingly.

"Surely, aunt, you know what is there as well as I do, or better."

"Well, never mind that. Tell me what you saw."

"A great many moths, for one thing," said Calista; "the carpet is full of them. And I saw a picture which I suppose was one of grandfather's wives; a fair woman, with light hair rolled on a cushion."

"Yes, that is your grandmother. Well?"

"And I saw another picture, a miniature of a young boy, which I suppose was my father."

"Well, and what else?" asked Miss Priscilla, as Calista paused. "My father's desk is there; did you look into it?"

"I did," answered Calista, briefly, determined to tell the truth at all risks.

"Well, what did you find? Don't be afraid to tell me."

"I am not afraid," answered Calista. "I saw a good many old papers—I don't know what they were. Then I saw an old seal lying in one of the pigeon-holes, and took it up to look at it. Then I put my hand back in the hole to see if there was anything else, and in so doing I touched the spring that opened the cupboard door where the gold pieces are. Then I shut it all up and went up to my own room."

"Gold!" said Miss Priscilla, sitting up straight and startled in her chair. "What gold?"

"The gold pieces in the little cupboard, aunt. Did not you know they were there?"

"I! No, indeed! I have never touched a thing in the desk since my father died—never been into the room since he was buried. How much gold was there?"

"I don't know; I did not count it: six or seven gold pieces—English, I should think."

"Where is the cupboard?" demanded Miss Priscilla, her eyes glittering and her face flushed with excitement.

"In the desk, as I told you," answered Calista; "it is in one side of the desk, over the little drawers and shelves. Nobody would think it was there."

"Then I dare say there is one on the other side just like it. I suppose you did not look to see?"

"No, I did not. When I saw the money, I did not wish to meddle any further."

"Calista," said Miss Priscilla, in a low, trembling tone, and laying her hand on Calista's arm, "you need not cut any carpet-rags, unless you like."

"Thank you," said Calista, dryly.

"And—and you may go to school to-morrow, and—and the rest of the term, if you will only go and bring me those gold pieces, and whatever else you can find in your grandfather's desk."

"I would rather not, aunt," answered Calista, proudly. "There might not be quite as many as I said, and then you would think I had stolen them. And, by the way, here is a sixpence I found in the house this afternoon."

Habit stretched out Miss Priscilla's lean fingers to the sixpence, and greed of greater gain drew them back.

"You may keep the sixpence, child—only don't waste it—and perhaps I will give you more some time. No, I won't think you stole anything. Come, do go and bring that gold. It isn't safe. Some one else might find it."

"Why not go yourself, aunt?" asked Calista, surprised at her aunt's pertinacity. "I will hold the light for you, if that will do any good."

"No, no, I cannot, I dare not," quavered Miss Priscilla. "He might not like it—but he would not mind you."

"He! Who?"

"Your grandfather, child. No, no, I can't go in, but you will go. Come, now, I know you will."

"Very well, I will go," said Calista. "Even if my grandfather were there, he has no reason to be angry with me. I have never gone against his will, or kept from him anything he ought to have known. Let me take the candle, and I will go."

Notwithstanding Calista's bold words, she could not restrain a tremor when she found herself alone in the large, lofty, gloomy room. She was, however, no coward to give way to groundless fear, superstitious or otherwise. She set down her candle and opened the desk deliberately enough and began her search for the secret spring. Still she could not get rid of the feeling that some one or something was watching her. She was sure she heard a subdued stir somewhere, and, glancing toward the opening in the shutters, she felt almost certain that an eye was looking down upon her.

She looked again—a straight, steady look. Nothing was to be seen, and she smiled at her own fancy.

"What a goose I am!" she said to herself, as she found and touched the spring which opened the secret cupboard.

The door flew open, and there lay the pieces as she had left them, eight in number.

She felt all round the cupboard, but there was nothing more. Further search, however, developed a corresponding recess on the other side, containing another gold piece, a lady's old-fashioned gold watch, with a heavy chain and seals, and two or three ornaments set with amethyst and pearls—pretty, but of no great value.

Calista collected all in her handkerchief, and, assuring herself by a hasty search that there was nothing more, she closed the desk and took up her candle. At that moment she heard a slight rustle, and looking up she saw, or fancied she saw, the same eye at the hole in the shutters watching her movements. She walked straight toward the window, holding up the candle, but there was nothing to be seen.

"It must have been a reflection in the glass, or perhaps a cat looking in," she said to herself. "One might found a good story on it."

Miss Priscilla was sitting in an attitude of expectation, and started nervously as Calista entered. She gave a childish cry of delight as Calista laid the handkerchief open before her.

"You are a good girl, Calista—a very good girl!" said she, in a fluttered manner. "Let me see—two, four, five; yes, eight guineas—and that is your grandmother's watch. You shall have it when—when you are old enough to wear it properly. School-girls don't wear watches, you know."

"But you might let me keep it, aunt," said Calista, mischievously. "It would be very convenient to have in my room."

"No, no! You would lose it; or some one might steal it. You shall have it when—when you are old enough. And, mind you, don't tell any of the school-girls about these things."

"Then I am to go to school again!" said Calista.

"Why, yes—yes. You can go to the end of this term, and then we will see about it. Call Chloe; I want to go to bed. And don't you think you had better let me have that sixpence to take care of for you?"

CHAPTER TENTH.

MISS DRUETT.

CERTAINLY Miss Priscilla was disturbed "by ordinary," as Miss Jessy would have said, or she would never have gone up to bed leaving Calista below. Usually she was driven off to her room with about as much ceremony as a cow dismissed to her night's lodging. While she was setting back her chair, and wondering whether she ought to go round and see to the fastenings of doors and windows—a ceremony usually performed by Miss Druett with great care and minuteness—Miss Druett herself entered the room. She looked pale and tired, and Calista thought she had been crying, but her eyes were as bright and her lips as firm and resolute as ever.

"So you are here alone!" said she. "I heard Priscilla in her room, and I thought I would come down and see to the fastenings."

"Thank you ever so much," said Calista. "I was just wondering what I ought to do about it; and to tell you the truth," she added, lowering her voice, "I did not quite fancy the task of going round alone, for I could not help thinking there was someone prying about the house this evening."

"Indeed! What reason had you for thinking so? But never mind now. You shall tell me up stairs in my room, for I want a little talk with you before you go to bed. Meantime, if you are not afraid, you can go round with me and hold the light."

"Who will do this when you are gone?" said Calista, struck with the thought as Miss Druett tried the fastening of bolt and bar in the great dusky kitchen.

Miss Druett sighed. "I don't know who will do a great many things," said she. "I fear Priscilla will miss me more than she thinks."

"She missed you enough this evening, I am sure of that," said Calista. "She almost cried because there was no one to play cribbage with her. I offered to try to learn, but I think I must be very stupid, for I could make nothing of it. However, she did not scold me, and it helped to pass away a part of the time."

"Cribbage is a very intricate game, and Priscilla never had any faculty of teaching. I think, Calista, if you are not tired, we will go through the cellars—all at least that are unlocked. I should like to make sure of them."

"What a castle of a place it is!" said Calista, holding up her light and surveying the long gallery, floored with brick, and with heavy doors opening on either hand. "It looks like something in an old romance. What is in all these cellars, Miss Druett?"

"Nothing at all in most of them," answered Miss Druett. "There is some silver plate and china packed away in this one, and a good deal of valuable wine in that further one, at the end of the hall."

"Here is a door bricked up," said Calista. "What is that?"

"That is another small wine-cellar which has a history," answered Miss Druett. "When your father was born, your grandfather had just received a quantity of very fine Madeira, which had made the voyage to India. He ordered two small casks to be placed in this cellar and built up as you see, saying that one should be opened on his son's marriage, and the other at the weaning of his eldest child."

"And it has staid there, undisturbed, all this time," said Calista. "Father and grandfather are both gone, but the wine stays on. Perhaps it is just as well there as anywhere else. I sometimes think so much wine drinking is not very desirable."

"More people than you are beginning to think so," said Miss Druett. "Well, as everything is safe for the night, we may leave these old vaults to the centipedes and the efts." "Affets" she called them.

"See, there is one now!" said Calista, pointing out the little red lizard running up the wall. "Are affets poison, Miss Druett?"

"I don't know, child. I never ate one," answered Miss Druett, absently. Then, as Calista laughed,—"I do not know what I am saying. No, I don't think any lizards are venomous, though, I dare say, they might bite, like other creatures, if alarmed or provoked. Are you very tired? Do you want to go to bed directly?"

"No, ma'am," answered Calista. "Not if I can do anything for you."

"Come into my room and sit down a little. I have something to say to you, and I may not have another chance."

Calista obeyed.

The usually neat room was not disorderly—for nothing about Miss Druett could be that—but disarranged. A great trunk, nearly filled, stood open at the foot of the bed; a picture, which had always hung above the fireplace, was taken down; and some books were missing from their places. Miss Druett cleared a chair for Calista and took another herself, but she did not seem in a hurry to begin the conversation.

"Are you really going, Miss Druett?" asked Calista, presently, seeing that she did not speak.

"I have no choice, child, as things are at present. I have borne a great deal from Priscilla, and if I staid, I should, no doubt, bear a great deal more; but you must see yourself that I cannot remain in her house after she has ordered me out of it."

"Of course not. I only wonder that you should have staid so long."

"Well, your grandfather and Priscilla's mother were kind to me when I was an orphan and poor, and Priscilla and I were friends in youth. Latterly I have had another reason for staying. You heard what your aunt said, this morning, about your father." And Miss Druett blushed a vivid carnation blush, which gave an almost unearthly lustre to her dark eyes.

"I heard it," said Calista, "but I thought it was, perhaps, only one of the spiteful things she says when she gets angry."

"It was true," said Miss Druett. "I am going to tell you a little of my own history, Calista. It will help you to understand some things which must have seemed strange to you."

"I was left alone in the world at a very early age. My mother, who was a relation of the first Mrs. Stanfield, was clandestinely married to a British officer of high rank and small principle, at the time that New York was occupied by the British. When the city was evacuated, she was left alone, with a young baby, and no dependence but the old father whose heart she had broken, and who was sinking into his grave. General Stanfield, then recently married, found her out in her darkest hour of trouble. She was then alone in the world, sinking in a decline, having sacrificed everything to a man who cared for nothing but the amusement of a passing hour. Calista, whatever you do, never make a secret marriage."

"I never mean to marry at all," pronounced Calista, with all the confidence of sixteen.

"Of course not," said Miss Druett, dryly; "girls like you never do. To go on with my story: General Stanfield sent his cousin and her child home to the old house here. My mother revived with the change of air and the generous diet, and lived till I was about five and Priscilla twelve years old. Yes, there was all that difference in our ages, yet we were constant companions and friends.

"It was not a happy household. Two people less fitted to live together than General and Mrs. Stanfield were, perhaps, never united. He was open-hearted, liberal to a fault, fond of gayety, and much given to hospitality, both to rich and poor. She was proud and reserved, standing much on her dignity, very strict and narrow in all her notions, and as fond of saving as Priscilla herself. It was she who taught Priscilla to regard economy as an end, not a means. To save the consumption of a candle or an ounce of butter; to make a sixpence stretch as far as a shilling; to keep the whole household on half rations when the General went away—these were the triumphs of which she was most proud, and for which she lived. I heard her say once that she meant to save something for herself and Priscilla when the General was dead. But she died long before him.

"Priscilla mourned her sincerely; but she found consolation in walking in her mother's steps. But her reign was not a long one. In less than two years the General brought home another bride, not so very much older than Priscilla herself. She was a sweet, gentle, pretty creature, but she was not a fool by any means. She had a great deal of steady principle, and was very religious. She would go to church every Sunday, and read the Bible, both alone and with the servants. At first she had both the General and Priscilla against her; but latterly the General was won to go to church with her once on Sunday; and, though he never made any profession of Christianity, I think his feelings toward it were a good deal softened before he died.

"A cousin of my poor mother's, who had a good and popular school in Philadelphia, wrote, offering to give me an education, and General Stanfield accepted the offer for me. I staid with her ten years; first as pupil, then as teacher; till she died and the school was broken up. My cousin ought to have left a good fortune; but she was unfortunate and lost a good deal of money. The estate was divided, and all that fell to my share was a small house, a little way out of Philadelphia, and about a hundred dollars. Priscilla wrote for me to come to her, and I came. At this time, Richard—your father—was a gay young man, in college, coming home for his vacations, and turning his father and every one else—except Priscilla—round his finger, by his winning and coaxing ways. Even Priscilla herself was won by him while he was present, though she hated him when he was away."

"Why did she hate him?" asked Calista.

"Principally because he was extravagant and your grandfather indulged him in every whim. I cannot dwell on that part of it," said Miss Druett, with that vivid blush again. "He never cared for me. I don't suppose he ever imagined that I could care for him. I would have laid down my life for him, but he did not want it. I never supposed that even Priscilla suspected me till this afternoon. I had a long illness, and when I rose up from it, I was a soured, hardened, elderly woman.

"Then came the news of your father's death. Priscilla kept it to herself for a long time; your grandfather never knew it at all."

"Why didn't you tell him?" asked Calista.

"Because I did not know it myself. Priscilla always made a point of going to the office herself, and all the letters went through her hands. The first I ever heard of the event was when one of your mother's cousins wrote of her death. Your grandfather had been dead about six months then; and one day, to my utter amazement, Priscilla said to me,—

"'Druey, I am going to bring home that girl of Richard Stanfield's. A child like that won't cost much to keep, and when she grows up, she can be useful in the house. I want you to go and bring her here.'

"'Why, where are her parents?' was my natural question.

"And then, for the first time, I learned that Richard Stanfield and his wife were both dead.

"You know the rest of it. Do you remember anything that happened before you came?"

"Sometimes I do and sometimes not," answered Calista. "I have a kind of shadowy recollection of my mother, as a pale lady, in black, who used to dress dolls for me, and who taught me to say 'Gentle Jesus' and 'Now I lay me down to sleep.' I remember a sickly, lame little boy I used to play with sometimes, and an old lady I used to call Aunt Malvina. I recollect her perfectly. She was feeble, and I don't believe she was rich; but I was very happy with her. I thought of her to-day, when I saw those trunks. Oh, Miss Druett, I do think it is too bad that I cannot have my mother's things."

"It is a very hard case, I admit," said Miss Druett. "You had better consult Mr. Settson about the matter."

"But, Miss Druett, I can never stay here without you," said Calista. "You are the only friend I have ever had."

"And I have not always been very good to you—have I?"

"Yes, I think you have—only you do say dreadfully sharp, hard things sometimes. But you are not like Aunt Priscilla; and I am sure I can never live alone with her. I should be afraid. Do you think she can be a little insane?"

"No; no more insane than any person is who gives herself up to the dominion of one idea and the pursuit of one object," said Miss Druett. "She is sharp enough about business matters."

"She said, to-night, she had never been into grandfather's room since his funeral," said Calista. "Do you think it can be true?"

"I presume it is. She has an extreme dread of death, and everything connected with it. Did you go in? I thought I heard you."

Calista related what had taken place, and added that her aunt had given her permission to finish her term at school.

"I dare say she will take it back," she added. "She will want me to stay at home and cut carpet-rags."

"You had better say nothing on the subject, but take the permission for granted, and go as usual," said Miss Druett. "I want you to do several little things for me in town. But now, to finish my story: It seems that my father, Colonel Druett, had his conscience awakened in his latter days, and by his will left a few hundred pounds to his child and a small annuity to his wife. His brother, who was his heir, never took any steps to execute this part of the will; but his nephew was more honest or less indolent. He took pains to inquire me out, a few years ago, and actually sent me not only the five hundred pounds which was my due, but two hundred more on account of the annuity which my mother should have received. So that I have a reasonable provision for my old age."

"I wonder you should have staid on here under the circumstances," said Calista. "Why did you?"

"Why, for several reasons. I am attached to Priscilla, with all her faults, and know that I am necessary to her; and I remember old kindness at the hands of her parents; and besides all this," said Miss Druett, with that sudden, lightning-like smile which so transformed her face, "there was a certain wayward girl who had somehow contrived to win her way into my heart in spite of me, and I staid to look after her. And now I come to what I want to say particularly. I have, as I told you, a small house in the outskirts of Philadelphia. If I can get it into my own hands without too much sacrifice, I shall do so. Then, will you come and live with me, Calista? No, don't answer now," as Calista sprang up and threw her arms around her neck. "Take time to think about it. It may involve a good deal. You know Priscilla has all this property absolutely in her hands, and can leave it to whom she pleases. The property has greatly increased in value with the advance of rents, and she must leave a large fortune, supposing she does not lose everything in some wild speculation, which is not at all unlikely."

"Do you think so?" asked Calista, surprised.

"She has already spent hundreds of dollars on lottery tickets," said Miss Druett, "and would have spent more but for my influence. She wasted nearly as much with those miserable treasure-seekers, and is likely to do it again. I fear leaving her here alone. It is time for you to go to bed now. I will give you some money to lay out for me in the morning; and I should like to have you tell Mr. Settson of my plan, and ask him what he thinks about it. There, good-night, child, and God bless you. I have not made you as happy as I might, but at least you know the worst of me."

The next morning Calista prepared for school as usual, and then went to Miss Druett, who gave her a list of commissions and directions.

"They will take you some time, but I dare say you won't mind. Only, if you walk home, don't come by the river road. It is too lonely for you; and I don't fancy having you encounter Zeke or his wife. Here, you may buy yourself something with that," handing her a silver dollar—the very first Calista had ever owned.

"How nice!" exclaimed Calista. "Now I can have something of my own to give away."

Miss Druett smiled and sighed.

"Richard Stanfield, all over," said she.

"You don't mind, do you, Miss Druett?"

"No, no, child; use it in the way that will give you most pleasure. There, go; I hear Priscilla calling you. If she asks what we were talking about, you can tell her."

"Where are you going, child?" was Miss Priscilla's first question.

"To school, aunt. You said, last night, I was to finish the term."

"Humph! Mind, I didn't say anything about another. What did Druey want of you?"

"She wants me to buy her some handkerchiefs and a travelling bag and an umbrella, and to tell the man about her trunk. David took it in when he went to market."

"And did she give you the money?"

"Yes, aunt."

Miss Priscilla groaned. "Well, there, go along, child; and tell Chloe to bring me my breakfast. Does she mean to make me wait all day? But nobody cares what becomes of me. I suppose I shall starve when Druey is gone."

"Perhaps she will stay, aunt, if you ask her," said Calista, secretly hoping she would not; for the prospect of going to live with Miss Druett, in the little house with the garden and orchard, had already taken very strong hold on her imagination.

"Mind your own business," snarled Miss Priscilla. "There, never mind, child. Go along and send Chloe with my breakfast. And perhaps when you come home, you will look in that room again. You might find something else. Some people are lucky in finding things."

"Very well, aunt. I have no objection, if you wish it," said Calista, thinking again of the possibility of finding her grandfather's will. "Only, I am afraid you will accuse me of stealing again, as you did about the working-case."

"No, no, I won't. Here, you may have the working-case, if you like; only, don't lose it. It was your grandmother's, and perhaps she might be pleased—there, do go and send up my breakfast."

"Two presents from my aunt in two days—what is going to happen?" said Calista to herself. "Oh, how much I have had to think about! It seems a year since I went to school yesterday morning. How odd that she should speak in that way of my grandmother's being pleased, when she does not believe in any existence after death!"

CHAPTER ELEVENTH.

THE NEEDLE-CASE.

WHEN Calista arrived at school, she found Mary waiting for her at the gate. The occurrences of the afternoon had almost put those of the morning out of her head; but the sight of Mary renewed the sore feeling in her heart. How could she meet Mary and treat her as if nothing had happened, after her treachery of the day before? Fortunately, she had no time left her to debate the matter. Mary came forward to meet her, with both hands outstretched and her face dyed with blushes.

"Oh, Calista, won't you forgive me? I am so sorry—so ashamed. Do, please, forgive me."

It was not in Calista to resist such an appeal. Silently the two friends embraced and kissed each other.

"I went to Miss Meeks and told her just how it was," said Mary, as, with interlacing arms, after their old fashion, they walked toward the school-room. "And then I wanted to find you, but you were gone."

"Yes; aunt sent for me to go home."

"So Miss Meeks said. Calista, you were right: it was love of the world and its praise that made me act as I did. I saw that when I came to look myself in the face. I think there never was any one so inconsistent as I am," concluded Mary, with a sigh. "And how I have lectured other people!

"Well, you are the least bit given to preaching—that cannot be denied," said Calista, smiling.

Mary was a little piqued, notwithstanding her late resolutions. "Anyhow, I shall never do it again," said she.

"Oh, yes, you will—dozens of times," returned Calista. "If you were to see the state my desk is in, you would give me a lecture on the spot. Come and help me to put it in order before Miss Meeks catches me."

Somehow or other, Mary did not feel quite satisfied. She would have liked to have her penitence made of a little more consequence. So hard is it to put down in our hearts the love of the praise of men. She was, however, conscious of the feeling, and, instead of allowing it a lodgment, she resolutely turned it out and shut the door.

"Oh, Calista! How can you ever find anything in such a chaos?" she exclaimed, as the lid of the desk was lifted.

Then, as Calista laughed, she put down a rising feeling of anger and laughed too.

"Well, there! You see it is second nature," said she. "But seriously, Calista, if you really wish to be a teacher, you must learn to be more orderly."

"I know it; and really, Mary, I am improving. The fact is, I had all the things out of my part of the desk yesterday, preparatory to a grand 'redding up,' as Miss Jessy says; but then came the summons to go home, and I tumbled them back anyhow. Come, let us put it to rights before school."

"Was anything wrong yesterday?" asked Mary, as she collected a dozen quill pens, and set herself to mend them.

The making and mending of pens was a serious business in those days, and took up an amount of time which no teacher at this day can realize.

"Everything was the matter," answered Calista. "I never saw my aunt in such a tantrum. She declared at first that I should not come to school again, but should stay at home and cut carpet-rags. And she actually ordered Miss Druett out of the house."

"I wonder what she thinks she would do without her."

"I don't know, I am sure. She all but cried last night, because she had nobody to play cribbage with her. I tried to learn, to pacify her, but could make nothing of it. However, she was pleased with my trying, and said I was good-natured—the very first time I ever had a word of praise from her—and more than that, she gave me a sixpence."

"Not a whole one?"

"No, it has a hole in it, and I am not sure it is good; but I mean to try at Mammy Bates's, after school. And more than that, she gave me a working-case—the very one that brought down Alexandre on poor Antoinette's devoted head yesterday. See what a pretty, old-fashioned thing it is."

"Very pretty," said Mary, examining the little case. "If I were you, I would have Mr. Parvin sharpen up the knife and scissors. They are very good yet. I wonder what rattles so in the bottom. Does this little velvet tray come out?"

"I don't know; I have not tried. Yes, see, it does lift up, and—well I wonder what will happen next!" said she, as she turned up the case and shook out two English half-crowns. "That is the third sum of money I have found in twenty-four hours. I must be a lucky person, as aunt says. I wonder whether I had not better try my fortune on the pirates' treasure."

"Why, what were the others?"

"Oh, the sixpence, in the first place. That was in the pocket of one of the old coats I was to cut into carpet-rags. Then I was looking in an old drawer, and I found some gold pieces of grandfather's that Aunt Priscilla did not know of. That was a lucky find for me, for it put her in a good humor and gained me permission to finish my term at school. But there, Aunt Priscilla told me not to speak of it," said Calista, vexed at herself. "How careless of me! Please, Mary, don't say anything about it, will you?"

"Of course not," said Mary. "But do you really think Miss Druett will go away? How will you get on without her?"

"I shall not try," said Calista. "She has a plan for herself and me which she told me to talk over with your father."

"I am afraid you will not have the chance to-day," said Mary. "Father has gone up to Princeton, and will not be back till after commencement. Cannot you tell me? Would it be wrong?"

"No, I don't think so. She did not tell me not to tell," said Calista, considering. "Of course, I would not want the affair talked over, at least, not till it is all settled; but so long as I was to tell your father, I don't see any harm in telling you."

Calista then detailed her friend's plan; busying herself, meantime, in polishing the handles of the different implements in the equipage with a bit of chamois leather which she kept to wipe pens on.

Mary listened with great attention to the end. Then she said, gravely:

"Have you thought, Calista, how much this plan involves? If you leave your aunt in that way, will she not be very much displeased?"

"There is no telling whether she will be or not. One thing is certain, I cannot and will not live alone with Aunt Priscilla. I don't think your father would advise it. As to the estate, if that is what you are thinking of, I try to give up all thought of it."

"That is the best way, I suppose. And yet, do you think you shall like living with Miss Druett? Is she not very odd-tempered?"

"She is odd-tempered, but not ill-tempered, if you understand the difference," answered Calista. "She sometimes says very sharp and sarcastic things; but she does not delight to hurt and mortify one, like Aunt Priscilla; and she is very just. You always know where to find her. And she has not one way of Aunt Priscilla's which is particularly exasperating—that of taking up some perfectly harmless word or observation, and twisting and turning it into a great offence. Then, I know all her ways and she knows mine. We are used to each other, and, as old Mrs. Graves said the other day, when her husband died,—

"'We have lived together so long that we have got kind of wonted to each other.'"

"Would not you rather come to us, Calista, if it could be arranged so?" said Mary. "You know my father spoke of it the other day."

"Of course I should, for most reasons," answered Calista. "But then, you see, Mary, I owe a great deal to Miss Druett. She was my only friend for a great many years. I should never have had any education but for her; and now that I look back at it, I can see how she stood between me and Aunt Priscilla's stinginess and tyranny. I verily believe I should never have been anything but a down-trodden drudge of a servant girl but for her. She is very fond of me, in her way, too, and she has no one else. So, if she wants me to go with her, I think I ought to do it."

"But don't you owe any duty to your aunt, Calista?"

"No, Mary, I do not," said Calista, flushing. "I believe, at this moment, my aunt is keeping me out of my inheritance, and enjoying—no, not enjoying, but holding—what is my rightful property. She owes me a great deal more than the bare support she has given me. But there, I don't want to talk or think about that; it does me no good. See how beautifully these handles polish. I believe they are gold, and not gilded, after all."

"I should think so, but I am no judge. I dare say Mr. Parvin can tell you. See, I have rubbed up the velvet and morocco so that it is almost as good as new. You ought to take great care of this case, Calista."

"Yes, indeed; I mean to. I believe I won't take it out to the play-ground, but leave it here in my desk, behind these books. My pocket is worn so thin, it is not very secure. Come, let us go and see what the girls are all about. Oh, by the way, will you go out with me at noon recess? I have some errands for Miss Druett, and I ought to have done one as I came along, but the shop was shut. It was about her trunk that was sent in this morning. The rest can wait till afternoon."

"Oh, Calista," said Mary Burns, meeting her at the school-room door, "may I go to your desk and take out Miss McPherson's 'Deserted Village?' She said you had it, and I want to learn a piece out of it."

"Of course," answered Calista. "Why didn't you take it at once?"

"I didn't want to open your desk without asking you," answered Mary Burns.

"What a terrible thing if you had done so!" said Calista, merrily. "Who knows what dark and dreadful mysteries you might have discovered? However, I will say, Mary, I wish all the girls in school were as particular about such things as you are. It would save lots of trouble."

"Allow me to remind you, Miss Stanfield, that 'lots of trouble' is not a very genteel expression," said Miss Meeks, who was standing near.

"I know it, Miss Meeks, and I stand corrected," answered Calista. "You must allow that the sentiment was correct, though the expression was awkward, as you say."

Miss Meeks glanced sharply at the speaker, as if suspecting ridicule, which she always was suspecting, poor lady. But Calista's smile and glance disarmed her, and she said pleasantly:

"I quite agree with you there. I hope your desk is in order, Calista. You know I must mark you if it is not."

"Indeed it is, Miss Meeks; I have just put it all to rights."

"Then perhaps I had better look at it before you go back to it," said Miss Meeks, smiling, as she turned away.

"Just think! Miss Meeks made a joke," said Calista. "What is going to happen? It is as great a wonder as Aunt Priscilla's making a present. What is the matter, Mary?"

"Nothing," answered Mary Settson, resolutely bruising the head of a little serpent of envy and annoyance which had popped up and hissed in her heart at hearing another praised. "How does your work get on?"

"Nicely. I should have finished the middle last night but for taking a lesson in cribbage from Aunt Priscilla. I think I will knit the border in rosebuds."

"Do you think they wash well? You know you want to do up a bureau cover pretty often."

"Oh, yes; just as well as any other."

Two or three other girls now came up, and the conversation diverged to patterns, stitches, and other similar mysteries. Then Mary Burns brought "The Deserted Village," * and asked Calista's opinion as to what part she should learn.

"Take the character of the pastor," said Mary Settson.

"Begin at the beginning and go straight through," suggested Calista. "It is all worth remembering. I am doing that by the 'Lady of the Lake.' It is very nice to know plenty of pretty verses, especially if one has not many books."

Meantime, some one else had been at Calista's desk. Antoinette Diaments had not expected to go down to Graywich till Saturday morning, but her uncle from Philadelphia had called for her, and Miss McPherson had excused her in consequence. She had seen Calista with the coveted working-case in her hand, and had seen where she put it in her desk. Finding herself alone in the school-room, the temptation to examine the little equipage was too strong to resist. Just as she was about opening the desk, Mary Burns entered, and Antoinette stepped behind an open closet door watched Mary Burns as she examined two or three books, stopped to read a page or two in the "Lady of the Lake," and then, closing the desk, walked away with the book she had come in search of. Then she herself went to the desk and took out the working-case. It was prettier than ever.

"What hurt will it do for me just to take it down to Graywich with me? Nobody will know who took it, and I can slip it into the desk when I come back. It would be serving her right if I kept it altogether."

Antoinette dropped the case into her pocket and went away, first tumbling over Calista's papers and throwing the whole orderly desk into confusion. It was with a malicious smile that she saw Miss Meeks come into the room, open the desk, and frown as she observed the contents.

"I will teach you to interfere and get me into a scrape, Miss Stanfield," said she. "I should like to be by when your aunt asks you what you have done with her working-case."

"Miss Stanfield, what did you mean by telling me that your desk was all in order?" asked Miss Meeks, coming to Calista as soon as the school was opened.

Calista looked surprised, as well she might.

"See here," continued Miss Meeks, opening the desk. "Do you presume to call that order?"

"Why, who in the world has been at my desk!" exclaimed Calista, too much surprised to answer the question, or to modulate her voice to the proper pitch required by the school-room etiquette, which Miss McPherson and her assistants strictly enforced.

"Miss Stanfield, are you aware how loudly you are speaking? You forget yourself."

"I beg your pardon, Miss Meeks," said Calista. "But I was so surprised, I forgot myself, as you say. I assure you, I left it in perfect order, as Mary can bear witness."

"Indeed she did, Miss Meeks," said Mary, who had asked and obtained permission to occupy Antoinette's vacant place.

"Don't you believe me, Miss Meeks?" asked Calista.

"Certainly I do, Calista," answered Miss Meeks, in a more friendly tone. "But it is very singular. Who could have meddled with your things?"

"Mary Burns looked into the desk for a book she wanted," said Calista. "Mary is apt to keep her own things rather at loose ends, but I hardly think she would turn mine upside down in this way, especially as the book she wanted lay directly in front, on the shelf. Don't you remember, Mary? You put it there yourself."

"She might have accidentally displaced the books, if she were in a hurry," said Mary.

Now, it was an undeniable fact that Mary Burns, with all her good qualities—and they were many—was decidedly careless and untidy in her habits; and being so, she was a continual cross and annoyance to Miss Meeks. Consequently, she was no favorite with that lady, and it was with some sharpness that she called:

"Miss Burns!"

Mary rose from her seat and came to Calista's desk.

"Yes, Miss Meeks."

"What did you do to Miss Stanfield's desk this morning?"

"Nothing," said Mary, coloring scarlet as she met Miss Meek's severe glance, and the surprised looks of the other girls.

"What do you mean by saying, 'nothing'? Did you not open the desk and take something out of it?"

Mary was a shy girl and easily disconcerted; and she stammered from sheer nervousness as she answered—

"Yes, ma'am; I took out a book that Calista—that Miss McPherson—" and here she stopped from absolute inability to articulate another word.

"You mean that you took out the book of Miss McPherson's which she told you to ask me for," said Calista's clear, reassuring voice. "Did you notice then whether the desk was in order or not?"

"It was, I know," answered Mary, recovering herself a little.

"Allow me to manage this matter in my own way, and do not take the words out of my mouth, Miss Stanfield," said Miss Meeks, sharply—jealous for her own dignity, as usual. "Did you or did you not meddle with the other contents of Miss Stanfield's desk, Miss Burns?"

"I didn't meddle with anything; only, I took a book and read a little," said Mary. "The book I wanted was Miss McPherson's 'Goldsmith.' Calista had it, and I asked her if I might go to her desk and get it; you heard me."

"I am aware of that. What then?"

"Then I did go and get it. It lay on the shelf. I did not touch anything else, only the 'Lady of the Lake.' I took that up and read in it a little and put it back. The desk was all in order then, I am sure."

"Well, it is very odd, that is all I can say; and a great shame," said Calista, "to go and cheat me out of a credit-mark for order, when I get so few. I don't mean you, Mary."

"Allow me to ask whom you do suspect, Miss Stanfield? You say that you put the desk in order; Miss Settson says same. It is found in great disorder, and nobody is known to have been near it but Miss Burns."

"I don't know anything about it, Miss Meeks. But I don't believe Mary did it. If she had, she would say so—she would not tell a lie about it."

Now, it had unfortunately happened that Mary's extreme timidity had, once on a time, betrayed her into evasion, if not absolute falsehood; and this Miss Meeks remembered, as, unluckily, she always did remember anything which told against the character of a person she disliked.

"I wish I were as sure of that as you are, Miss Stanfield. Please look over your desk and tell me whether you miss anything."

Calista looked through her possessions, and turned, first red, then pale, as she pointed out a particular compartment in the desk to Mary.

"Well, what is it?" said Miss Meeks, sharply. "I see that something is wrong. What do you miss?"

"A little old-fashioned working-case my aunt gave me. It is the same one that Antoinette wanted to borrow yesterday. Miss Priscilla gave it to me this morning, and I brought it into town to have the knife and scissors sharpened; and because my pocket was not very strong, I put it away in my desk while I went out to the play-ground. I am quite sure Mary did not touch it."

"Did you see any one in the school-room when you were here?" asked Miss Meeks.

"No, ma'am—yes, ma'am," stammered Mary. "That is, I saw Antoinette Diaments come out of the room a few minutes after I did."

Miss Meeks's face grew rigid with displeasure.

"Your attempt to throw suspicion on a schoolmate will hardly save you, Miss Burns. Miss Diaments left for Graywich at eight this morning."

"I can't help that—I know I saw her," said Mary Burns, obstinately; her own "Scotch" getting up. "I could not be mistaken. She had on her bonnet and her gray riding-dress."

"At what hour did you come to school?" asked Miss Meeks, turning to Calista.

"I don't know exactly, Miss Meeks. It wanted a quarter to nine when I finished putting my desk in order. I looked at the clock to see how much time I had before school."

"You can go to your seat, Miss Burns," said Miss Meeks, severely. "And you will please remain there till the close of school. Miss McPherson is unfortunately laid up with one of her severe headaches; but I shall lay the matter before her as soon as she is able to attend to it, and perhaps some light may be thrown upon other events which have occurred lately."

"Miss Meeks," said Calista, warmly, "you may suspect Mary, if you please; but I shall never think that she either disarranged my desk or took anything that did not belong to her—never!"

"Miss Stanfield, you forget yourself. Go to your seat, as I tell you, Miss Burns. This matter shall be sifted to the bottom."

Mary obeyed with burning cheeks and a beating heart, and Miss Meeks went on with the business of the school. At recess all the girls gathered round Mary Settson and Calista.

"Have you really lost your needle-case, Calista? Do you believe Mary Burns got it?"

"No, I don't," answered Calista, shortly.

"But it could not go without hands, and who else could have touched it?" argued one of the girls.

"I don't know who did, but I know who didn't," answered Calista. "I wish the old needle-case had been in the bottom of the creek before I ever found it," she said to Mary, when they were alone. "It has made nothing but trouble so far. I no more believe Mary took it than I believe Miss Meeks did herself."

"But, you must admit, it had an odd look, Calista," said Mary. "I mean her stammering so, and her trying to throw the blame upon Antoinette, who must have been ten miles away."

"As to her stammering, she always does that," answered Calista. "As to her seeing Antoinette, I don't know exactly what to think; but I believe the truth will come out in time."

"Well, I must say you take the loss of your pretty case very philosophically—more so than I should," said Mary.

"I am not philosophical at all, I am very much vexed," returned Calista; "but I don't want to accuse any one falsely, and I don't see why Mary should say she saw Antoinette when she did not. I am very sorry Miss McPherson is sick; she would be at the bottom of the matter in no time. There is the recess bell. Where is Tessy to-day?"

"I don't know. Emma, where is Tessy?"

"Oh, she is quite laid up again with her ankle. She cannot walk at all. She thinks it is the weather, but I don't," added the little girl, with an air of wisdom. "I think it was going down to the milliner's after Antoinette's veil, which she forgot. And do you know, girls, the milliner would not let Tessy have it without pay, and Tessy was just silly enough to pay for it herself, after all."

"Well, she is a goose. Why did she do that?"

"Oh, she thought Antoinette would be so disappointed. Miss Jessy is as vexed as can be, and says Tessy's ankle will never be well unless she is more careful, and that she ought to go to a hospital, where she would be made to keep still."

"It would be more to the purpose to send Antoinette, I think," said Calista.

"It wouldn't make any difference," replied Emma. "If it was not Antoinette, it would be some one else. Tessy's great trouble is that she can never say 'no.'"

"I think you are right, little one," said Calista. "If you see Tessy, tell her I am coming up to see her after school—that is, if Miss Meeks will let me."

For it was a rule of the establishment that there should be no room-visiting between day scholars and boarders without express permission.

In the afternoon, as Miss Meeks had her hands full with the sole care of the great school-room (Miss Jessy being occupied with the care of her aunt), she sent Calista again to take charge of the little girls and their sewing, giving her permission to choose any one she pleased to help her. Calista chose Mary Settson, of course, and they had a pleasant afternoon. As she observed Mary's manner with the children, she could not but own that Miss Meeks was right, sad that Mary was not cut out for a teacher. Mary had a way with her that was not encouraging. She set a copy or gave instructions in knitting with a tone and manner which seemed to say,—

"Well, there it is, but I have not the least idea that you will do it right. I have no doubt you will blot the writing and pucker the seam, and drop half the stitches at least."

Calista, on the contrary, was always certain things would be done well, or, if they did not succeed the first time, that they would infallibly do so with a little more practice. The children felt the difference, and so did Mary herself, and it cost her a hard fight with her besetting enemy. But those who were for her were more than those who were against her, and she was able to say to Miss Meeks honestly, and without a quaver in her voice—

"Calista manages beautifully, Miss Meeks. I think she would make an excellent teacher in our Sunday-school, if we get one up."

"I dare say," replied Miss Meeks. "Well, Miss Stanfield and Miss Settson, I am much obliged to you."

"Please, Miss Meeks, may I go up and see Tessy?" asked Calista.

"You may go, but do not stay long. I think she is a little disposed to be feverish."

"Will you go, Mary?"

"I think not. I have a bit of work to finish. I will be ready to go out with you when you come down."

Calista found Tessy bolstered up on her little bed, with her French dictionary and a volume of fairy tales which belonged to Miss Jessy, and was only lent as a special favor. She looked pale and suffering, but welcomed her visitor cheerfully.

"And what is going on down stairs?" asked Tessy, presently. "I thought I heard one of the girls say something about Mary Burns being in trouble. The old story of mislaying her things, I suppose?"

"Well, yes, partly; it all grows out of that," answered Calista, determined not to be the first to tell of what she believed to be Mary Burns's undeserved disgrace. "I don't think it would have come to much if Miss McPherson had been about; but you know people make mountains out of mole-hills sometimes."

"Yes, and the mountain sometimes brings forth a ridiculous mouse."

"I suspect the mouse in this case will be ridiculous enough," said Calista. "But, Tessy, what made your ankle so much worse all at once? I thought it was almost well."

"It was a great deal better," answered Tessy, blushing. "I suppose I walked too much and too fast."

"That is to say, you half killed yourself, as usual, running to wait on Antoinette," said Calista.

"Well, yes, I suppose that was it. You see she forgot her veil and I had to go after it."

"Why did you have to? Why could not she call for it as she went along?"

"I don't know. I suppose she did not think of it."

"Well, I know," said Calista, "or at least I guess. Tell me now, honestly, did you not pay for it?"

Tessy blushed scarlet, and cast an imploring glance at Calista.

"Please don't tell, Calista; it will only get her into a scrape."

"I shall not tell, because it would get you into a scrape, you little goose. But I will tell you this, Tessy: if you ever want to be good for anything in this world—or any other, I might say—you must learn to say 'No,' and say it good and strong; in capital letters, with a string of exclamation points after it."

"I think I could always say no if it was about anything right or wrong," said Tessy, thoughtfully.

"Are you sure? Was there nothing wrong about this?"

"Why, no. Was there?"

"Yes, I think so. In the first place, you had no right to injure your ankle, especially as Dr. Elsmore told you that a little imprudence might lame you for life. In the second place, you know that Miss McPherson has forbidden Antoinette to borrow anything whatever, don't you?"

"Yes."

"And if it is wrong for her to borrow, it is clearly wrong for any one to lend to her."

"But it wasn't lending, exactly. Antoinette did not ask me to pay for the veil, though, to be sure, she must have known I could not get it without paying, because Mrs. McPherson has forbidden any one to trust the school-girls. Yes, I see, Calista, you are right, and I am a poor, weak, silly fool, and always shall be."

"Now you are going just as far the other way," said Calista. "I never said a word about your being a silly fool. All I say is that you must learn to say 'NO!' and say it good and strong."

"It seems so ill-natured," pleaded poor Tessy.

"Pray, whose good opinion do you care the most for, Antoinette's or Miss McPherson's? But there, I did not come to give you a dose of instructive moral sentiments. How does your work get on?"

"Oh, nicely; it is almost done, and Miss Jessy praises it up to the skies. Don't you want to see it? It is in that drawer, if you don't mind getting it out."

"How nice your drawers look!" said Calista.

"Yes, I am really learning to keep things straight, thanks to Miss Jessy. That is it. Spread it out."

Calista admired to Tessy's heart's content the lace-like netted curtains, with what we should now call a guipure pattern around the edge.

"They are perfectly lovely. Do you think they will sell?"

"Oh, yes; they are bespoken already by a friend of Miss McPherson's from Philadelphia—that Scotch lady who was here the first of the week."

"How glad I am! Mine is done, too, all but the border. I mean to knit a double row of rosebuds. There, I must not stay another minute, or Miss Meeks will be after me. Oh, by the by, Tessy, what time did Antoinette go away this morning?"

"Do you mean the first time or the last?"

"Why, did she go away twice?" asked Calista.

"Yes. She set out at eight o'clock, but something happened to the horse's foot, and uncle had to go to the blacksmith's; so Antoinette came back and waited till he was ready. She left the room here just as the quarter to nine bell was ringing, but she did not go away directly, I know. I heard her go into the school-room; I always know the peculiar squeak of her boots. Why?"

"Only that one of the girls thought she saw her in the school-room after the first bell rung, and Miss Meeks said it must be a mistake, because Antoinette went away at eight," said Calista, rejoicing in the power Tessy had given her of so far clearing Mary. "Good-bye, dear; I shall bring you some flowers Monday. I know where I can find some late laurel, and perhaps a moccasin-flower or two."

"Oh, thank you! I do love laurel, and I have not been able to get out to gather any this year."

Calista went straight to Miss Meeks's room, but she had gone out. Miss Jessy was sitting with Miss McPherson, who had just fallen asleep, and must not be disturbed on any account.

"I don't see but I must let the thing rest till Monday," said Calista to Mary, after she had told her Tessy's story.

"You might call and see Mary Burns herself," suggested Mary Settson. "But perhaps it would be as well to leave the whole matter till Monday, as you say. Mary needs a lesson."

"She may need a lesson, but I don't care to be the one to give it to her," answered Calista, with some warmth; "and I don't think I should thank any one for giving such a lesson to me. Would you?"

"Perhaps not," answered Mary; "and yet it might very good to me, for all that."

"Well, I don't feel any special mission for doing people good by keeping them in uncomfortable suspense when there is no need for it," returned Calista. "I would rather do as I would be done by. Come, let us stop and see Mary."

They were disappointed again. Mary had gone to her aunt's directly after school, and would probably stay all night, as her aunt was more than usually unwell.

"I can't go all the way up to Mrs. Rolfe's, that is certain," said Calista; "and I don't like to leave a message either. Well, let it go. Perhaps you will see her or Miss Meeks to-morrow. If you do, please tell them what Tessy says. Come, I must do Miss Druett's errands."

The errands were accomplished, and then Calista did one for herself. With a part of her dollar she bought a pound of sperm-candles—an article much cheaper and better than the parafine-candles which have taken their place.

"What on earth did you do that for?" asked Mary, as they turned into the street.

Calista laughed, and then became suddenly grave as she said—"I suppose you cannot realize what it is never to be allowed a light when you go to bed, except perhaps a mite of tallow-candle in winter."

"You don't mean to say you never have a light in your own room!"

"Neither light nor fire, except as I told you, in the dead of winter."

"But Miss Druett—"

"Miss Druett helps me all she can; but Aunt Priscilla keeps the keys. Now and then Chloe makes candles, and then she contrives to save one out for me. Good-bye, Mary. Do say a kind word to Mary Burns, if you get a chance. I am just as sure of her innocence as I am of yours or my own."

Calista had just reached the place where the river road turned off, when the rattle of wheels made her look round, and she saw Cassius driving up in his neat, serviceable little Jersey wagon. He stopped as he saw Calista.

"Evening, Missy," said he, taking off his hat as usual; "I heard you was on the road, and so I drove fast to catch up with you. Won't Missy have a ride?"

Calista gladly accepted the offer, and Cassius drove on leisurely, entertaining his companion with various little bits of news.

"Did Missy hear that we are to have preaching at the old meeting-house every Sunday evening now?"

"No," said Calista, very much interested. "I think that will be very nice. Who is to preach?"

"I disremember his name, though I have seen him often when we was both young," answered Cassius. "He is quite an old gentleman now, and has come to end his days with his niece over here at the Mills. So when he heard there was no preaching anywhere rounds here, he said he would see what he could do, and he got leave to use the old meeting-house. I am going round to-morrow to tell all the neighbors. Won't you try to come, Missy? You know what that pretty hymn says—

"I will certainly try to come," said Calista. "It is very good in you to take so much pains about the matter."

"It ain't much I can do to serve the Lord these times; but I think it a great privilege to be allowed to do the leastest thing for one who has done so much for me," said the old man. "And, bless the Lord, he don't look at how much we do, but how we do it. When that poor woman in the Scripture put in her two mites into the treasury, the good Lord said she had put in more than they all."

"You love him, don't you, Cassius?"

"Yes, bless his name, Missy, I do."

"Well, I wish I did."

"So do I, Missy, for I am sure he loves you. Why don't you?"

"Well, I hardly know, Cassius. I suppose I don't think enough about it. I have not had much chance, you know."

"Ah, Missy, don't say that. You have been to church and heard the minister preach and read about him, and you've heard the Bible read in school. I'm afraid it is as you say, and you don't think enough about it."

"Perhaps so."

"You will think, won't you, Missy?"

"Yes, Cassius, I will," answered Calista, frankly. "And I will go to the meeting if aunt will let me. Thank you ever so much for bringing me home. Good-night."

Calista peeped into the sitting-room. She had come to look on the Philadelphia scheme as quite settled and certain, and she felt a sudden sinking at her heart as she saw Miss Druett and Aunt Priscilla sitting together just as usual. Miss Stanfield was the first to speak.

"Whose wagon was that I heard? Have you taken to hiring carriages to bring you home?"

"Not quite, yet," answered Calista. "Cassius overtook me, and brought me home in his wagon."

"Well, that is well enough. If you were a little sharper, you might often get a ride and save your shoes. But catch you saving anything!"

"Let the child alone, Priscilla," said Miss Druett. "Calista, did you get the things as I told you?"

"Yes, ma'am, they are all here. Shall I leave them in your room?"

"If you please. I am just going up."

"So you have made it up with Aunt Priscilla," said Calista, as they were going up stairs together.

Miss Druett nodded.

"She came to my room, begged my pardon for what she had said, and asked me to stay, and I have said I would for the present."

"And so all our fine plan falls to the ground," said Calista, sadly.

"For the present, as I said; but it may yet come to pass. Meantime, here is something to console you."

She put a bunch of keys into Calista's hand as she spoke.

Calista looked at them in wonder.

"What are these?" she asked.

"Keys," said Miss Druett, smiling. "Look into your room, and perhaps you will find something they will fit."

With a beating heart Calista, opened the door. There in a row at the side stood the three brown leather trunks, marked on the end "Calista Folsom."

CHAPTER TWELFTH.

THE TRUNKS.

"I KNOW it was your doing, Miss Druett. How did you manage it?"

"Why, I thought the present was a good time for some diplomacy, so I made the restoration of the trunks, and several other things, conditions of my remaining. You are my girl now, Calista, and must mind me. I mean to be very harsh and tyrannical, so you must make up your mind to it. I shall take out all my injuries of every sort on you."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I made it one condition of my staying another day, that you were to be delivered over to my care altogether, Priscilla furnishing your board as long as you stay here, and I being at all the other expenses of your maintenance and education. So mind you don't tear your dresses and spoil your shoes running after flowers and squirrels, or I don't know what will happen."

"It is too much, Miss Druett; more than you ought to do."

"No, I can afford it well enough; as things are, I have not much use for money."

"But you might live so much more pleasantly somewhere else."

"More pleasantly, perhaps, but pleasure is not all, my little girl. Here is my place, and here I must remain for the present. General Stanfield was my mother's friend and helper in her sorest hour of need, and I will stay and watch over his daughter as long as I can do her any good."

"I believe you are the only person who has any influence with her," remarked Calista.

"I think so too, and I don't know how long that influence will last; but while it does, I am bound to use it."

"But about the trunks?" said Calista.

"Well, they are another condition. Of course, I cannot say in what state you may find their contents, but they have never been touched since they were piled up in that room."

"I wonder Aunt Priscilla has not ransacked them long ago."

"She never had the chance," replied Miss Druett. "I mislaid the keys, and did not find them for a long time, and when I did, I thought it just as well not to mention the fact. But now, Calista, I have one or two conditions to impose as you, if this bargain of ours is to stand. The first is, that you shall not go out, visit, or make any new acquaintances, without consulting me."

"I am sure I agree to that," said Calista; "I am only too thankful to have some one who really cares what I do."

"The second is, that you shall never speak disrespectfully to, or of, Priscilla; it is not good for you or her."

"I agree to that, too," said Calista. "I never speak of her at all, if I can help it; never to any one but Mr. Settson or Mary, who know all about her. I never fancied making family matters common property—'setting all your broken dishes out on the fence,' as Chloe says."

"That is the true ladylike spirit," said Miss Druett. "You must come to me whenever you want money, clothes, or books, and you must let me be the judge as to your need of them. When I have time to look over and calculate my resources, I shall try to make you a regular allowance of pocket-money, though it will have to be very small. Take care of your keys; keep the trunks always locked, and the keys in your pocket or under your pillow. Now get yourself ready for supper, and mind you don't say anything to exasperate Priscilla."

Calista obeyed. It required some firmness on her part to resist the temptation at once to open the trunks, which she could hardly believe to be really within her reach. She made herself as neat as she could, taking particular pains with her hair, which Miss Druett said was like her father's. As she entered the sitting-room, Miss Druett sighed, and even Miss Priscilla seemed struck with her appearance.

"Just like her father," said she, half to herself; "just like him, mind and body; and would make the money fly just so, if she could get it; but that won't be in my time. No, no."

Calista thought of her promise just in time to suppress a sharp retort. She took her place at the table, which was rather better furnished than ordinary, and helped herself to bread and butter without receiving the usual rebuke. Indeed, Miss Priscilla seemed rather anxious to conciliate her niece, and actually asked her two or three civil questions.

"Well, really, she got through a meal without snapping at me once," said Calista to herself; "but I suppose it is too good to last."

"Where is the working-case I gave you this morning?" asked Aunt Priscilla, as Calista rose to leave the room after supper. "I want to see it."

"I took it to town to have the knife and scissors put in order so that I could use them, and I did not bring it home," answered Calista, telling the truth, but not quite the whole truth.

"Humph! However, it doesn't matter to me; only I should like to know how you expected to pay for it."

"Why, aunt, you know you gave me a whole sixpence," answered Calista.

"More fool I!" answered Miss Priscilla, gruffly.

"And Miss Druett also gave me a little money—so I was quite rich."

"More fool she!" again ejaculated Miss Priscilla. "However, it is no concern of mine."

Miss Priscilla composed herself for her usual nap.

And Calista, dismissed by a glance from Miss Druett, stole away to examine her treasures.

The keys and locks were alike rusty, but a little grease from her treasured bit of tallow-candle soon removed that trouble; and it was with a feeling of awful delight that Calista opened the long-shut lids, and inhaled the odor of the spices, camphor, and tobacco, with which Mrs. Tom Folsom and Miss Malvina had embalmed their contents so long ago. It almost seemed to her as if she were about to have an interview with her mother.

The first trunk she opened contained only linen—real linen, and of good quality—for, at the time poor Calista Folsom's wedding outfit was provided, cotton was very little worn, except in the shape of chintz. Calista found her own baby-clothes, pinned up in a separate bundle, and shed some tears over the dainty sewing, the beautiful satin stitch, and lace-like cut work with which they were adorned. The next trunk contained dresses and other things of that nature, and Calista opened her eyes wide at the three or four rich silks, the soft gray Canton crape, and the beautiful, unapproachable India camel's hair cloth—such as I remember seeing upon old ladies when I was young. Then there were two er three white dresses, worked in deep patterns, with floss and amazing lace stitches; a large white Canton crape shawl, and another which Calista was sure was an Indian cashmere, of a soft, dusky, almost smoky, red—such as no Western dyer ever attained or ever will—with wide borders at the ends and narrow ones at the sides.

"I wonder whether I shall ever wear any of these things?" said Calista to herself, as she carefully restored them to their neat folds and wrappings. "But, oh, how I wish I could find something which tells more about herself!—some letters or journals. Perhaps they are in the other trunks."

So it proved. The contents of the last trunk were more valuable than any of the others. It contained a gold watch and chain much like that one which Calista had discovered is her grandfather's desk; a box containing an expensive set of ornaments and some beautiful lace—poor Richard's wedding present to his bride; a number of books, among them a Bible and Psalm-book, bound alike and marked with her mother's name. In the inside of the Bible was written, in a legible but unsteady hand:

"I leave this Book—which was given me by my own dear mother, on her death-bed—to my precious and only child, Calista Stanfield. May it be a lamp to her feet and a light to her path, which shall grow brighter and brighter unto the perfect day!"

On another leaf, and evidently by the same hand, was inscribed Richard Crashaw's inscription in a prayer-book:

The trunk also contained a work-box and writing-desk each covered with red morocco, and having the key tied to the handle. Calista was just going to lift out the writing-desk, when some one knocked and opened the door. It was Miss Druett.

"Just as I expected," said she. "Do you know what time it is?"

"No, ma'am. Is it late?"

"Only half-past ten—which is rather late for you. Put up your things and lock the boxes for to-night, or you will have Priscilla in here. Where did you get your candle?"

"I bought it with some of the money you gave me. Was that wrong? It does seem so hard not to have a light for anything."

"Not wrong at all. I should have thought of it; but somehow it is only within a few weeks that I have found out you are not a baby. Here, let me help you. In what condition did you find the things?"

"They seem to be all right. I don't think the boldest moth would have ventured into the trunks, they are so filled with tobacco and camphor. I believe I will keep out mother's Bible and Psalm-book. I know she would want me to use them."

"Very well. And, Calista, that reminds me of another thing I wanted to say. Don't read a book in this house—I mean, not a book you find in the house—without asking me. I don't want your young blood poisoned as mine was."

"You don't mean that I shall not read mother's books!" said Calista, a little dismayed.

"Oh, no! I am not afraid of any books your mother was likely to have. There, good-night! And don't burn the house down."

Calista fastened her door and then sat down to look over her treasures. The Bible had evidently been long and carefully used, and was marked from end to end with pencil marks, notes, and references. As Calista turned over the leaves, it seemed to her as if her mother was talking with her, so many of the passages seemed marked with special reference to herself. But the most precious of all was to come. Pinned to the last leaf of the book was a letter in her mother's handwriting, addressed—

"To my dear and precious daughter, Calista Stanfield. To be given her as soon as she shall be able to read and understand it."

Calista carefully unpinned the letter and looked at it before she broke the seal, and a feeling of anger rose in her heart at the thought that so precious a legacy should have been kept from her hands so long. But this emotion passed away as she read the letter—just such a letter as a loving, tender, Christian mother might be expected to write to a daughter under such circumstances. It began with a slight sketch of the writer's own life, and from it Calista first learned that her maternal grandfather had been a somewhat noted New England minister.

"I wonder whether I have any relations living," thought Calista. "I must try to find out some time."

The letter proceeded to give some judicious counsel as to the guidance of her future life.

"I cannot but feel that I have been hardly treated by your father's family," the writer went on to say. "Certainly, I never intended to injure them in any way. Nevertheless, for your father's sake, should you be brought in contact with your grandfather or aunt, I beg you will try to make friends with them."

The writer concluded with a most earnest appeal to Calista at once to give her whole heart to her heavenly Father, to put herself body and soul in his hands, and strive to follow the steps of her Saviour into all holiness and godly living, that she might not fail to meet her friends at the right hand of God in the great day of account.

Calista shed many tears over this letter, as was only natural.

"Oh, I will—I will!" she said to herself. "I will try to be a Christian, like my dear mother. I will resolve this minute to serve God, and to put myself into his hands."

So she did, poor lonely child, and that in all sincerity; but she was to find out that the gate was straiter and the way narrower than she had any idea of. The "lion in the way" does not usually lie on the threshold, but just a little way inside.

Calista went to bed thinking that she should not sleep at all; but youth and health do not often lie awake long. She was asleep almost before her head touched the pillow, and did not awake till the robin which lived in the great tree opposite her window began his usual musical morning call.

"It can't be more than four o'clock," said she to herself. "You stupid robin, what did you wake me so early for? Can't you get up yourself without making such a fuss about it? I suppose I had better go to bed again."

She lay down, accordingly, and tried to go to sleep for full ten minutes. Then she decided that there was no use is trying any longer, and she might as well get up and finish looking over the things. She was soon dressed and seated on the ground before her treasures. She opened the work-box first: it contained the usual working implements, and one thing not often seen in these days—a thread-case, stitched into long, numbered compartments, into each of which was drawn a skein of thread or silk, cut at one end.

Calista opened a velvet case with some trouble, and found, as she expected, a miniature picture of her father. Fastened into the lid of the case was a sketch, in water colors, of a sweet, fair, somewhat prim and precise-looking female face, evidently done by no professional hand. It afforded a great contrast, in its thin tints and stiff outlines, to the beautifully painted picture on the other side; but there about it that nameless something which showed it was a likeness. The clear, well-opened, but somewhat hollow blue eyes, with their level, even brows, looked at Calista with love; and the firm, but not stern, mouth seemed as if it might speak. A shadowy remembrance came over Calista of her mother sitting before a glass and painting, while she herself sat on the floor and scribbled with a lead pencil. She kissed the picture again and again.

"She painted it for me—I am sure she painted it for me. My precious mother!"

But the writing-desk was the most interesting and important of all. It was of pretty good size, and was packed full of papers arranged in neat order. There were letters, which had evidently been received from young friends, full of news and gossip about companions and work and books, and also with more serious matters—news of a schoolmate's conversion, requests for prayers, and the like. There were letters from her father, written after he left her mother to go to the wars; manly and tender, and thoroughly devout and Christian in their tone. The last one expressed great regret at the writer's estrangement from his father.