OLD STANFIELD HOUSE; (continued 4)

"I have written to him, and I hope you will do the same. I am sure if he were only to see you, all would be right between you."

This letter was endorsed,—

"The last letter I ever had from my dearest husband. God's will be done!"

Wrapped up with this letter was a very different one. On the cover was written, in her mother's hand:

"I have been, two or three times, on the point of destroying this letter; but have refrained, thinking it might, at some time, be of use. I wish to record my firm belief that General Stanfield never saw it or ordered it written."

Calista opened the letter. It was in Miss Priscilla's clear, cramped hand, and read as follows:

"Mrs. Richard Stanfield's letter is received. Mrs. Richard Stanfield is hereby informed that General Stanfield wishes to hold no communication with her or her husband on any subject whatever; and that no letters from either of them will meet with any attention. (Signed) "PRISCILLA STANFIELD, "For Richard Stanfield."

At the end was written:

"Nevertheless, I wrote to my husband's father and to his sister at the time when my child was born, but I never received the slightest answer."

Calista sat with burning cheeks, holding this letter in her hands. Her lips were compressed, and her eyes full of trouble. She was not thinking of the loss of property, not at all of herself in connection with it, but of the cruel injury done to her mother.

"Then she did know. She knew all the time. But Mr. Settson said grandfather did not know of my existence, and it would certainly seem so from what Miss Betsy said. She must have contrived some way to keep the letters from grandfather altogether. Oh, how could she—how could she be so cruel! And there was my poor mother working herself to death to support herself and me. I never can forgive her—never. If it had been myself—but my mother—to write so to my mother! If I cannot be a Christian without forgiving Aunt Priscilla, I shall never be one. But there is the bell. I must go down. Oh, how I did want these things, and now I almost wish I had never seen them."

As soon as breakfast was over and she could get away, she renewed her examinations. The trunk contained much that was of interest to her—books of various sorts, chiefly religious and poetical; scraps carefully preserved from newspapers; an old-fashioned water-color box, well furnished with colors, brushes, &c.; a white frock, began but not finished; and divers other matters of no interest to the reader. When she had gone through them all once, she locked up the trunks and went to Miss Druett's room, where she was pretty sure to find her alone at this time, when Miss Priscilla, always methodical, was engaged in her daily scolding match with Chloe.

"See here, Miss Druett, what shall I do with these?" said she, showing her the watch and ornaments she had found.

Miss Druett looked at them with great interest.

"I suppose your father gave your mother these things," said she. "You must not keep them here. If Priscilla gets wind of them, she will leave no stone unturned to get them into her hands."

"She will never get them into her hands," said Calista.

"She will try, though. You might give them to Mr. Settson, only he is not at home. I believe the better way will be to leave them with Mr. Fabian, at the bank. I could make an errand for you there, and give you a note to Mr. Fabian. And yet you ought not to walk into town carrying such a treasure, either. Let me think a little. Here, quick, child, let me put them in my desk. I hear Priscilla coming."

Miss Priscilla came in, evidently in a great fume.

"Druey, I want you to go to town," was her salutation.

"What now?" asked Miss Druett, with her usual coolness.

"That man Anderson was to have been here day before yesterday, to pay his interest, and he hasn't come. I want you to go and see about it."

"I can't possibly go to-day. What does it signify? I dare say he will be here to-morrow. He is always pretty punctual."

"But I want the money."

"Nonsense; you are not suffering for it."

"But I want it," said Miss Priscilla, fretfully; "and you don't know whether I am suffering or not."

"I know I am," said Miss Druett. "I had earache all night, and if I should ride to town in this wind, I should have it for a month."

"You can wrap your head up," pleaded Miss Priscilla. "Come, Druey, do; just to oblige me."

"I would if I could, Priscilla. I want to go myself, but I am not able. Why not let the child go?"

"The child, indeed! What good can she do?"

"She can carry a note as well as I, and do my errand at the same time. Let her take the pony. You don't mind, do you, Calista?"

"No, I should like it," said Calista.

Miss Priscilla grumbled and complained, but finally decided that Calista might do the errand, if she would be careful and not drive the pony too fast.

"I should like to see myself doing it," said Calista, laughing in spite of her trouble. "Never fear, aunt; Jeff and I are old friends. I will run and tell David to get up the chaise."

"He knows about it already," said Miss Priscilla. "I counted on Druey's going, but she thinks so much of her precious ears."

"They are all I have, you see, and I might not find another pair to fit me," said Miss Druett. "Never mind, Priscilla, the child will do the errand just as well. Come to me when you are ready."

Calista dressed herself as neatly as she could, and it was with a mingled feeling of pain and pleasure that she hung over her arm a long, soft, gray cloth cloak, which she had found among her mother's things. Miss Druett noticed it as soon as she entered the room.

"That is a very nice, pretty cloak; was it in the trunk?"

"Yes, ma'am. The air is so damp and chilly that I knew I should need something, and my old shawl is all in holes. I thought perhaps mother would like to have me use it."

"No doubt she would like to have you use all the things. Be careful of them, that is all. And, by the way, stop at Mrs. Dare's and see when she can fit your frocks."

"Oh, she cannot do them at all," said Calista; "she has broken her arm, and her niece has all she can do with the girls' examination dresses. But I heard Cassius say that his step-daughter, Drusella Pine, was coming here directly to set up dressmaking. I know Miss Alice had her last summer, and was very much pleased with her. I might find out when she is expected."

"True, and with the horse you will not be afraid to come round that way. If I were a little richer, you should have a pretty white frock. However, we will talk of that another time. Here are your trinkets and a note to Mr. Fabian. Take care you don't lay the bag out of your hand, and go straight to the bank the first thing."

"May I go up to the school and ask for Miss McPherson? She had one of her bad headaches yesterday."

"Yes, but don't stay. I shall feel rather anxious till you are safe at home."

"Why to-day more than any day?"

"Because I am an old fool, child."

"How foolish I have been!" she said to herself. "I believe I have been of some use to the child as it was, but what comfort we might have been to each other if I had not been so determined to nurse my anger and grief all my life! Even now, at my age, I can hardly help being jealous of the dead mother's cloak. Truly, the sorrow of the world worketh death."

Miss Druett did not often quote Scripture, but she had done so once or twice lately. After Calista had gone, she went into her room to see that everything was safely secured. Her eyes fell upon Calista Folsom's Bible, and taking it in her hand, she sat down and read a long time.

"What have you been about all the morning, Druey?" said Miss Priscilla, as they sat down to their twelve o'clock dinner. They were alone, for Calista had not yet returned.

"You would never believe it if I were to tell you, Priscilla," was the answer. "I have been reading the Bible."

"What ails everybody?" was Miss Priscilla's comment. "Here Chloe tells me that old Mr. Alger is going to preach in the old meeting-house every Sunday evening. There must be something in the air. We shall have you turning Methodist and leading a class yet."

"I might do worse," said Miss Druett.

I incline to think Miss Priscilla was right, and that there was something stirring in the air about the Stanfield neighborhood, a-going in the tops of the trees, as it were, which might be a sign that a gracious rain was about to fall on that hitherto dry and barren ground.

CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.

THE OLD MEETING-HOUSE.

CALISTA had truly said that she and Jeff understood each other. To oblige her, he even condescended to trot. Just as she reached the town, she met the delinquent Joseph Anderson, and stopped to talk with him.

"Good-morning, Friend Anderson. I was just coming to bring you a note from my aunt."

"I was on my way to see her," was the reply. "I suppose she is in a fret about her interest, as usual. I have had it by me these ten days, but my poor sister Rolfe was so ill, I did not like to be out of the way."

"I heard yesterday she was not as well."

"She is not long for this world, though she is more comfortable this morning," said the old man, shaking his head. "Well, it will be a glorious exchange for her, that is one comfort."

"A great one, I am sure," said Calista.

"Yes, yes, thee is right; but then thee knows the heart will cling to those it loves. Well, I must go on my errand and get back. Thee had better give me the note, perhaps."

Calista did so, and drove on to the bank, where she found Mr. Fabian, an elderly white-haired man, of precise, polite manners, who shook her by the hand, and complimented her on her growing resemblance to her father.

Calista presented her note, which Mr. Fabian read with interest.

"Quite right, quite right, and very sensible on your part, my dear young lady. Yes, I will take care of the things, and have them put into the vault. I knew your father and grandfather well. Pray, call upon me without hesitation if I can be of any service to you."

As Calista was waiting a moment for Mr. Fabian to write a receipt and a note for Miss Druett, she heard an old gentleman, who had been sitting in the back office, say to him—

"Is not that old Richard Stanfield's granddaughter?"

"Granddaughter and heir, if every one had their rights," answered Mr. Fabian in the same tone. "But the second will, if indeed he ever made one, will never be found."

"It may turn up yet."

"Possibly; and then the girl would be a great heir, for the property has increased tenfold in value. I fear the will will never be found. I suspect some one took care of that."

At another time this conversation would have set Calista off into one of the day dreams in which she had so much delighted; but now her head and heart were full of something else.

She asked at the school for Miss McPherson, and heard that she was better, and had gone out driving with Miss Meeks and Tessy; for Miss McPherson kept a handsome, roomy carriage, and drove out with some of her young ladies almost every day. It was not till she was on her way home, and had turned into the river road, that Calista remembered Mary Burns and the missing working-case.

In fact, Calista's mind and head were full of a new and strange trouble. A fierce contention was going on for that small empire—so small, so great—a human soul.

The night before she had fully determined to follow her mother's counsel—to give herself heart and soul to him who had given himself for her. But since then, she had read Miss Priscilla's letter, and her mother's remarks upon it, and hence arose her trouble. This it was which had waked up the lions which disputed her passage, and if the lions were chained, she saw not the chains. She knew that to follow the footsteps of her Lord she must forgive not only her own enemy—she thought that would be almost easy—but her mother's.

"Forgive if ye would be forgiven," rung in her ears, and she felt the words were true.

"If it had been only myself,—" she said over and over again—"but my mother, my dear precious mother, who never did harm to any one in all her days—no, no! I never can! Oh, why did she keep that letter! She might have known! Oh, what shall I do!—What shall I do!"

In her trouble of mind, she had nearly passed Cassius's modest little house, but was recalled by a cheerful greeting from the old man, who was cutting some wood outside the gate.

"Morning, Missy! Don't you mean to stop and give us a call?"

"Yes, of course," answered Calista, recalled from her abstraction, and pulling up Jeff, nothing loth, at the gate. "I will come in if you will fasten the pony."

Cassius tied the pony, and brought him an armful of fragrant new hay from the next field, with which the attention of that ancient sage was soon wholly engrossed.

Meantime, Calista had alighted, and was receiving a hearty welcome from Aunt Sally, who conducted her to the house and seated her in the best chintz-covered rocking-chair, bringing her a fan, and sending a little girl to the well for cool water.

"Who is that little thing?" asked Calista, as the child disappeared. "Your grandchild?"

"Lord bless you, honey, no. My grandchillen's no such peaked, puny little things as that, thanks to Massy. No, that's poor Maria Jackson's child, that works to Mrs. Dare's, the dressmaker. You see, Mrs. Dare she can't very well have the child round—she can't, really—and Maria boarded the little thing out, down to Gouldtown. But the woman that had her didn't do her justice—made her work far too hard, though Maria paid her regular. Besides, she didn't give her half enough to eat. One day I met Maria in the street, and says she,—

"'Just look at this child, will you!'

"And says I, 'For Massy, Maria, what ails her?'

"So she up and told me, and Sister Wilson, that was with her, said it was all so.

"And says I, 'Maria, you just let me have her a few weeks, and you won't know her. Don't you never send her back to that woman,' says I.

"'But I don't know as I can afford to pay what it is worth,' says she.

"'Never mind,' says I; 'you pay what you can, or don't pay anything. Just let me have her a few weeks, and see what I can do with her. And Cassius says the same.'

"So we brought her home, and she's picked up wonderful in a week."

"But I thought the Gouldtowners were pretty nice people," said Calista, as she fanned herself and admired the cool, cheerful aspect of the room.

"So they are—so they are; but Missy knows there's a black sheep in every flock!"

"They's all middling black sheep up to Gouldtown!" said old Cassius, who had entered in time to hear the last remark.

Calista smiled, and the old woman laughed they heartily.

"So they are, old man—so they are; but that's only the outside. Bless the Master's name, he don't look at their skins. And old Sister Williams, she told me herself that the folks was up in arms about the way this child was treated. But I'm most sorry we took her, for she's such a smart, clever, lively little piece, I sha'n't never want to part with her."

All this time Sally had been, on hospitable thoughts intent, covering a little table with a white cloth, and setting thereon white bread, golden butter, a great pitcher of milk and cream, and various other good things. Having finished her preparations, she invited Calista to draw her chair to the table, excusing herself for having no meat cooked.

"This hot weather we don't do much cooking. We generally eats bread and milk, or some such thing, at noon, and I cooks something for supper. But I can make a fire and boil Missy some eggs in a minute."

"No, thank you," said Calista. "I like this beautiful, cool milk better than anything."

"That's just what Drusella Pine says," replied old Sally, much delighted. "She says, 'Aunt, we can get meat in the city, but we can't get such milk as you have here—not for no price,' says she."

"Philadelphy's pretty well off for milk, too, for a city," remarked Cassius. "Not like New York."

Cassius always spoke of New York with a kind of pitying contempt, as a place which might come to something some time, but could never hope to vie, either in beauty or importance, with "Philadelphy."

"I wanted to ask about Drusella," said Calista. "When is she coming?"

"We expect her to-night," answered Cassius. "I'm going to meet her at the Cohansey stage and bring her out here. She'll stay with us a few weeks, and then, I expect, she'll have to rent a room in Cohansey. It is too far out here for her business."

"I asked because I thought she would, perhaps, do some work for me," said Calista. "Miss Druett wants me to have a couple of dresses made, and she told me to call and see if Drusella could take them home and cut and fit them."

"I'll speak to her about it the first thing Monday morning," said Cassius. "I don't doubt she'll be glad to do the work. I hope Missy means to go to the preaching to-morrow night?"

"Oh, yes, I shall go," said Calista. "Thank you very much, Aunt Sally, for your nice lunch. I only wish I could make you any return for all your kindness to me."

"Law, Missy, don't you think of such a thing!" said Sally. "Your family has done more for us than we can ever pay."

"Well, I'm glad the poor child is going to have some new frocks, for once in her life," she added as Cassius came back to the house. "I only wonder how she came by them. Have a drink, old man?"

"Maybe Miss Priscilla's turning liberal," observed Cassius, accepting the offer.

"Maybe the sky's turning pea-green!" returned Sally, scornfully. "Maybe that milk you're a-drinking is made of melted pearls!"

"Don't taste like it," said Cassius. "Tastes like first-rate cow's milk."

"Much you know how melted pearls taste! There, now, don't go to work in the sun right off. Sit down in the big chair and have a nap. Naps in the middle of the day is good for old folks."

Calista arrived at home just as Friend Anderson and Miss Priscilla had finished their business, which had not been done without some wrangling; Miss Priscilla maintaining that the money was twenty-five cents short.

"Thee is in the wrong," said Jacob Anderson, "but I will pay the money rather than dispute longer. I will thank thee for a receipt."

"What is the use of a receipt when it is endorsed on the bond?" snapped Miss Priscilla.

"I'll trouble thee for the receipt all the same," said the old Friend. "Accidents sometimes happen, and there is so harm in a double security."

"Won't you have a cup of tea, Friend Anderson?" said Miss Druett, struck with the old man's weary expression. "You look very tired."

"No, thank thee, Friend Druett. I am a poor man, but I don't think I could swallow grudged victuals. They would stick in my throat. Thank thee for the offer all the same. Farewell, Priscilla; I hope thee may some day come to a better mind. Remember, if riches don't leave thee, thee will have to leave them. When thee comes to lie on a death-bed, like my poor sister, twenty-five cents won't look quite so big to thee as it does now."

And Jacob Anderson took his departure, having certainly taken the worth of his twenty-five cents out of Miss Priscilla.

"So you had your ride for nothing," remarked Miss Druett.

"Not altogether. I did your errand at the bank, and stopped to see about Drusella Pine. She is coming to-night, and Cassius says he will send her over Monday morning."

"What on earth do you want with Drusella Pine?" asked Miss Priscilla.

"I want her to cut and fit the child's new frocks, and perhaps make one of them. She has not a decent thing to wear."

"She is not coming here to make it, I can tell you that," said Miss Priscilla, in alarm. "I won't have a dressmaker eating more than her day's wages, and telling and tattling about family matters all over."

"Don't alarm yourself, I have no intention of having her here," replied Miss Druett; "she need not come into the house, if you prefer she should not. Calista and I can go over there. Don't you want some dinner, child?"

"No, thank you, Miss Druett. I had a good lunch of bread and milk and gingerbread at Aunt Sally's?"

"Sally makes a great deal of you, it seems to me," said Miss Priscilla. "I dare say she would not offer me so much as a crust."

"Oh, yes, she would, aunt; try her and see."

"Did you hear any news?" asked Miss Druett.

"Only about Mrs. Rolfe; they say she cannot live but a few days, at the outside."

"That will be a great relief to her family," said Miss Priscilla; "it must cost a great deal to have her ill so long."

"I don't believe they feel in that way," observed Calista; "they are all very fond of 'Aunty Rolfe,' as they call her. Can I do anything for you, Miss Druett?"

"No, child, unless you can find a brick to heat for my face. I am going to try to get a little sleep, for I had none last night."

Calista found the brick and heated it, and having done all in her power to make Miss Druett comfortable, she betook herself to her own room.

How she would have liked to set her mother's work-box and writing-desk on the table; but she knew it would never do, though she did venture to arrange her small store of books on two shelves which had long ago been put up in a corner. These books were, as I have said, chiefly religious; but there was a thick, fine-printed but handsome Shakespeare, with her father's name in it, and some volumes of English poetry—Cowper, Goldsmith, Young's "Night Thoughts," and others of that stamp. There was a "Saint's Rest," much used and blotted here and there with tears; a "Pilgrim's Progress," apparently quite new, and the "Life of Mrs. Fletcher," by H. More.

The next morning, Miss Druett was really ill with a severe cold, and Calista, was kept busy all day running and waiting on her. As it came towards night, however, Miss Druett felt better, and insisted on Calista going to the meeting. Calista had felt a dull, miserable pain at her heart all day; she could see no way of deliverance, and she did not hope for much help at the meeting; but she had promised to go, and she went.

She was surprised to see what a large congregation had been collected by the exertions of Cassius and the others who had interested themselves in the matter. Sally and her husband had washed the windows and floor, dusted the benches and pulpit, and really made the poor deserted old sanctuary look bright and cheerful. Cassius, who was acting as sexton, assigned Calista a seat near the desk, where the minister was already seated.

He was an elderly, somewhat hard-featured man, who looked as some one said of another minister, as if he had been through the fire and come out brightened and also a little hardened by the process. He glanced at Calista with peculiar interest, and Calista wondered whether he was thinking that she looked like her father. That, however, was not the case. He was thinking, "That child looks as if she were in some great trouble. I wonder what it is. God help her."

The service began with a hymn, then a chapter in the Bible—the first of St. John's gospel—then a prayer, and then came the announcement of the text, taken from the same chapter:

"Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world."

The style was so plain that a child could have understood it; plain with the simplicity of high cultivation and much reading, and also that of deep feeling. It was evident that the preacher meant every word he said. Calista drank it in as a man dying in the alkaline desert would take in a draught of cool, fair water brought from a mountain spring. Here was the Saviour she needed—he who was called Jesus, because he came to save his people from their sins; because his blood cleansed away sin; because he suffered in their stead; because he blotted out transgression in the past and promised help for the future.

As the preacher went on in his even, mellow voice, so clear, so calm and tender, setting forth Jesus Christ crucified in the place of sinners, Calista's head sank down on the bench before her, and her full heart overflowed at her. The question was no longer with her, "Can I forgive Aunt Priscilla?" but "What, oh, what can I do for him who has done so much for me; who has paid the debt I owed; who has so loved me all these years that I have never thought of him at all?"

Calista's was not the only bowed head in the assembly. There was a universal silence and hush, and even the careless and wild young men whose presence in the back part of the room had caused Cassius and others some anxiety sat hushed and silent.

The sermon was short—too short for Calista, who would have liked to sit an hour longer. The speaker announced that a prayer meeting would be held in the same place on Wednesday evening, and that after the service, he should be glad to converse with any one who wished for further religious instruction. Then a hymn was sung and the congregation dismissed.

Two or three of the better class of neighbors came up to speak to the minister.

And one grave, formal old man, after saying good-evening, turned to Cassius and reproved him, with some asperity, for letting in Tom Edgar and his companions.

"Why, Mr. Heminway, I thought they were just the people who needed the gospel," answered Cassius, no ways abashed. "I suppose Tom Edgar has a soul to be saved, and that the Lord died to save it, and he ain't any worse than the publicans and sinners that same Lord preached to and sat down to table with."

"That was very different," said the old man. "Tom Edgar is a swearing, fighting, drunken sot,—the pest of the whole neighborhood."

"So much the more need of his having the gospel preached to him," returned Cassius. "Ain't that so, Mr. Alger?"

"Certainly," answered the minister, promptly. "Was that tall, dark young man by the door Tom Edgar? I looked at him several times, and thought him quiet and attentive enough. He sings very finely."

"Well, Mr. Alger, all I have to say is, that if you encourage such sort of people, you will have enough of it. That is the worst of these outside and out of the way meetings. They draw in all the riffraff of the community. * If only the respectable people will come, it would be very well."

"Inasmuch as there is joy in the presence of the angels over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons who need no repentance, perhaps that may be an effect of outside meetings not altogether displeasing to him who has promised to be in the midst of us," said Mr. Alger, mildly.

Mr. Heminway deigned no answer, but walked away.

"Well, for my part, I was downright glad to see the poor young fellow come in," said Mr. Davis, a small, plain man, who rented one of Miss Priscilla's farms. "Tom Edgar was just one of the nicest little boys that ever lived to begin with, but he hadn't much chance. His father never spoke a kind word to him, and whipped him half to death for every little fault, and his stepmother, who was young and a kind-hearted little thing, thought to make it up by indulging him in everything, and covering up his faults just as far as she could. Tom ain't altogether bad. Don't you remember how he risked his life nursing that poor creature that had the fever up in the woods here?"

"I must try to have a talk with him," said the minister. "Who was that very pretty girl who sat near the desk and seemed so much affected?"

"Oh, that was old Miss Stanfield's niece," said Mr. Heminway, who had rejoined the group.

"That was Miss Calista Stanfield, daughter of Mr. Richard, and granddaughter of old General Stanfield of the mansion house," said Cassius, with a glance of severe rebuke at the first speaker. "She is as fine a young lady as any in the country."

"That she is," rejoined Mr. Davis. "I wish her aunt was only half as much of a lady. I wonder why Miss Druett wasn't down. I kind of thought she would be."

"Oh, she's sick abed with a cold. As to Miss Priscilla, I should think the millennium was coming sure enough if I should see her in a religious meeting. Well, Mr. Alger, I'm sure we have had a profitable time to-night, and I hope it may be the beginning of better things."

Calista went home as it were on wings. She hardly felt the ground on which she trod. The whole world seemed changed to her. Here was the Friend, the Protector, the Helper, the Physician, she needed, all in one. She had been walking in darkness, and here was light; hungry and thirsty, and here was the bread and the water of life; shut in with bolts and bars, and here was the deliverer who had broken the gates of brass and burst the bars of iron asunder, and the guide who would lead and teach her in the way she should go. She had been fighting with what she knew to be sin, and here was one who came before her saying, gently,—

"'Stand still, and see the salvation of the Lord.' "'I, even I, am he that comforteth you.'"

Calista had, of course, much to learn of the force of temptation, of inbred sin, and of the corruption of her own heart, but of these things she did not think, nor would there have been any wisdom, but quite the contrary, in telling her of them. The traveller who sets out on a long journey knows very well that he will meet many discomforts, trials, and dangers; but he would be a foolish man who should lose the freshness of the morning, and the singing of the birds, and the beauty of flowers and scenery, in pondering over these coming dangers and trials.

Calista went up to Miss Druett's room, and softly opened the door.

"Come in, child, I am not asleep," said Miss Druett. "Come and tell me how you liked the meeting."

"Oh, so much, Miss Druett. How I wish you had been there."

"Then you had a fine sermon?"

"I don't know whether it was fine or not," answered Calista. "I never thought. I knew it was just what I wanted."

Miss Druett drew Calista nearer to her, and fixed her piercing eyes on her face. Then she sighed deeply.

"I see," said she. "You have found him of whom Moses and the Prophets did write."

"You are not sorry, are you, Miss Druett?"

"No, child! Heaven forbid! I found him once, or so I thought; but I lost him again."

"Oh, Miss Druett! Surely he did not forsake you!"

"No: I forsook him. I quarrelled with him because he would not give me the sweets I cried for, and I have never seen him since. I shall never find him again, I fear."

"Perhaps he will find you," said Calista softly. "You know that was what he came for—to seek and to save that which was lost."

Miss Druett had always rather suffered than returned Calista's caresses, but now she drew the girl down to her, and held her in a long, close embrace.

"Get your Bible and read the same chapter the minister read."

Calista obeyed, and Miss Druett listened with evident pleasure and interest.

"To think that any man with a heart could turn that into ridicule, whether he believed it or not!" said she when the chapter was finished. "Now tell me what hymns they sang. Do you know any of them?"

"Yes, ma'am. I know the whole of—"

"'Alas! and did my Saviour bleed,—'

"because we sing it sometimes in church."

"Sing it."

Calista sang the tender, simple old hymn, worth more than whole piles of sentimental stuff which go under the name of hymns in some quarters in these days. Miss Druett listened, and more than one tear stole out from under her closed eyelids.

Miss Priscilla listened as she nodded over her volume of Rousseau, in the parlors below, and made up her mind that she was not going to have that sort of thing going on in the house to please Druey nor any one else.

"Thank you, child. Your voice is like your father's and your grandmother's. There, get me some fresh water, and leave me alone. I dare say I shall have a good night."

CHAPTER FOURTEENTH.

OLD JAEL.

CALISTA rose early as usual, with the feeling that she was entering on a new life. She had lived heretofore for herself—now she must begin to live for him who had live and died, and lived again, for her. She read over again her mother's letter, and saw hosts of new meanings in it. Especially was she struck with these words:

"You must expect to meet with many trials within and without. It may be that you will no sooner resolve to be wholly a Christian than you will find yourself assaulted with more ad sorer temptations than you have ever experienced. This will be partly because you will see things to be wrong which you never thought to be so before—partly, but not wholly. Satan makes his fiercest assaults upon those who are just escaping from his grasp. Be instant in prayer, study your Bible daily, and I would advise you also to study the 'Pilgrim's Progress.' You will find it a treasury of help and instruction."

Some persons might have been discouraged by such a warning—Calista was not so.

"Sure I must fight if I would win," she said to herself. "I always did like that hymn."

And she began to sing it, and then instantly checked herself as she considered that might wake her neighbors.

"I believe I will go out and get the flowers I promised Tessy," said she. "When I am out in the woods, I can sing as much as I please."

She put on her oldest frock and shoes—not that there was so very much to choose between oldest and newest—and, crossing the burying-place, was soon in the shady place where she knew the laurel lingered longest. It was a little hollow on the edge of the woods, and was kept green and damp by three or four springs which united their waters to form a rill—a somewhat uncommon sight in those parts. The place was no favorite with the country people. On one side of the dell was a curious grave-shaped mound, from beneath which rose one of the little springs I have mentioned, which was reddened by oxide of iron. It was believed that a murdered man and his murderer had there been buried in one grave, and that the water, in its color, still bore witness to the deed—and that a kind of venomous snake was found there which lived nowhere else.

Calista had no superstitious fears, and she had never seen any of the snakes, so she was not at all alarmed, but went on gathering her flowers, and then, catching sight of a great prize—a fine cluster of yellow moccasin-flowers—she descended to the centre of the hollow, and, stepping lightly and carefully—for the centre of the hollow was dangerously soft and boggy—she secured her prize. As she did so, she was startled by an odd, hollow-sounding laugh, and rose hastily, to find herself face to face with a very tall woman, dressed in indescribable rags, whom she at once guessed to be Old Jael, the fortune-teller.

"Well done!" said the woman, with another mocking laugh. "'Tis a bold young lady who comes alone to the Murderer's Hollow to gather flowers."

"Why, you come here yourself, it seems," said Calista, whose spirit always rose against any attempt to frighten her; "why should I need any more boldness than you?"

"Ah, but I go to many places where the young lady dare not go," answered the old woman; "and in the dead of night, too."

"I dare say," returned Calista; "but you see I come in broad day, and for a good purpose, so I carry the blessing of God with me, and have nothing to fear."

"Nothing!" repeated the old woman. "Not even the snakes!"

"I have often been here and have never seen any snakes," said Calista.

"Well, I like a bold spirit," said the old woman. "Don't pretty Missy want her fortune told? Old Jael can tell her any fine things past and future."

"I know the past for myself, and as for the future, it is in God's hands," answered Calista; "he knows it, and that is far better than knowing it myself."

"Mighty fine words!" said the old woman; "but maybe I can make the proud young lady change her tune, when I tell her where she was—say last Wednesday evening—peeping and looking for the red gold all alone in the secret chamber!"

"I can do as much as that," said Calista, struck by a sudden thought; "I can tell who was climbing up on an old wall, peeping through holes and crannies like a cat."

The old Woman, who had evidently calculated greatly on the effect of her words, drew back as if some one had struck her, and turned more ashy pale than she was before.

"No, Mother Jael, I want none of your skill," said Calista, as she turned to go. "As you have offered to tell my fortune, I will tell you something in return: 'he that believeth on the Son of God hath eternal life, and he that believeth not shall not see life, but the wrath of God abideth on him.' I advise you to go to the meeting Wednesday night, and learn what will do you good. Good-morning."

The woman nodded not ungraciously, and stood looking till Calista was out of sight.

"You are a bold one, anyhow, and I like your spunk; but—Yes, we must have her out of the way, or we shall do nothing."

Muttering thus to herself, she walked away in the opposite direction with more activity than could have been expected.

Calista put her flowers in water, changed her draggled dress and shoes, and then went to see Miss Druett, whom she found, to her surprise, up and ready for breakfast.

"Are you able to go down?" asked Calista. "I was coming to ask if I had better not stay at home and take care of you."

"Nonsense, child! I am not sick; it is only a cold. Where have you been so early?"

"I have been in the Red Hollow after flowers, and I have met the presiding genius of the place."

And Calista recounted her adventure.

"Were you not frightened?" asked Miss Druett.

"Not a bit! I believe I scared her a good deal more than she did me."

"Still, I don't like your meeting her."

"But, dear Miss Druett, I can't stay in the house all the time for fear of Old Jael. Do you think, like Chloe, that she is a witch?"

"I think she is an unscrupulous, wicked woman, and that is bad enough," replied Miss Druett. "I don't like to have you lose one of your few pleasures, but I must say I don't fancy your meeting her. How bright you look!"

"I feel bright; I feel as if I were in a new world. Oh, Miss Druett, if you would only find him too! Why won't you try?"

"There, don't talk about it, child," replied Miss Druett, hastily; "pray that he may find me, and perhaps he will. Come, it is time to go down."

Calista walked somewhat more slowly than usual this morning, and reached the school-room just as the first bell rung. She went directly to her desk and looked into it, half hoping to see the missing needle-case, which she disliked losing, both for its own sake and because she knew the trouble the loss would occasion at home. It was not there, however, and her desk was exactly as she left it.

"It is very strange," thought Calista; "anyway, I am sure Mary did not take it."

Mary Burns and Antoinette Diaments were the last to enter—the latter in her riding-dress, which she had had no time to change. She had hoped to reach school in time to restore the case to its place, but in this she was disappointed; and as she looked at its beauty, she could hardly make up her mind to return it at all.

"Calista is so giddy, Miss McPherson will think she lost it herself; and so will Miss Meeks, if I can only get held of her first."

Mary Burns looked tired and worn with grief and watching, as, indeed, she was; but her face, in all its sorrowful paleness, had a steadfast, settled expression. She knew in whom she had put her trust, and she did not believe he would desert her in the hour of need, however he might suffer her to be tried. For this poor, plain, stammering tailor's daughter had a faith which nothing could shake. She would have faced all the sophistry of all the infidels in the world with the simple unanswerable argument of St. John:

"WE have SEEN him."

It was the custom on Monday morning for each person in the school-room, beginning with Miss McPherson herself, to recite a verse from Holy Scripture. The verses this morning were unusually significant to those who were in the secrets of the past few days. Miss McPherson's was from the thirty-second Psalm and fifth verse:

"'I said, I will confess my transgressions unto the Lord; and thou forgavest the iniquity of my sin.'"

Miss Jessy's (with a beseeching glance at poor Mary) was:

"'If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.'" (1 John 1:9.)

Miss Meeks (sharply, and with a glance in the same direction):

"'Be sure your sin will find you out.'" (Numbers 32:23.)

It was Mary Burns's turn next, and she spoke up clearly, and with a bright light in her usually pale blue eyes.

"He shall bring forth thy righteousness as the light, and thy judgment as the noonday." (Ps. 37:6.)

"How hardened she must be to choose that verse!" thought Miss Meeks.

But Miss McPherson and Miss Jessy exchanged a glance which said, "She is innocent, whoever is guilty."

Antoinette was unfortunate. She had opened hastily to the same Psalm, and, keeping her Bible in her lap (for she had quite forgotten to learn a verse), she read the first her eye fell upon:

"The wicked borroweth, and payeth not again: but the righteous is merciful, and giveth." (Ps. 37:21.)

Calista's eyes brightened and her color deepened beautifully as she repeated:

"We have found him, of whom Moses in the law, and the prophets, did write, Jesus of Nazareth." (John 1:45.)

There was a short silence after Miss McPherson's prayer, is which she asked that the innocent might be justified and the guilty led to confession and amendment. Then she made a little speech. She said most of those before her had heard of the loss of the needle-case from Miss Stanfield's desk, and the suspicion which had fallen on one of their number. If the matter had not become public already, she should not have made it so, but she hoped all would suspend their judgment.

Then she asked, "Can any one throw any light on this matter?"

Then, as no one else said anything, Calista spoke modestly:

"Miss McPherson, there is one point at least in which Mary Burns can be cleared. She said that she saw Antoinette come out of the school-room at a quarter to nine, but Miss Meeks thought she must be wrong, because Antoinette went away before eight."

She paused and looked at Antoinette, who gave her a vengeful glance in return.

"Well, what then?" asked Miss McPherson, after waiting a moment for Antoinette to speak.

"Tessy told me that her cousin came back because some accident happened to the horse," answered Calista. "Antoinette staid in Tessy's room till just before the quarter bell rung, and then went to the school-room, or so Tessy thought. So Mary might have seen her, as she said."

"Is this true?" asked Miss McPherson of Antoinette.

"Yes, ma'am," answered Antoinette, temper and the wish for revenge getting the better of her prudence. "I did not mean to say anything, but, since Miss Stanfield seems determined to throw the blame upon me, I must tell the whole story. I was in the school-room a moment, my skirt came untied, and I stepped behind the study door to fasten it. As I stood there, I saw Mary Burns come into the room and look into Miss Stanfield's desk. She turned the things over till she found something, and dropped it into her inside pocket. Then she took a book, shut the desk, and went hastily out."

"You did not see what she took?" said Miss McPherson.

"No, ma'am. It was something pretty heavy, which pulled her pocket down, and jingled a little."

"What do you say to this, Mary Burns?" asked Miss McPherson, turning to her.

"It is not true, Miss McPherson. I did not turn over one thing. I took up the 'Lady of the Lake' and read a little, and then I laid it down, took the volume of Goldsmith, and carried it away. I have no more to say."

"I am sure I don't know what to think," said Miss McPherson, much perplexed.

"I should say it was all very plain," said Miss Meeks, not perplexed at all, as, indeed, people seldom are who have made up their minds beforehand. "Here is positive evidence on one side, and simple denial on the other."

"Good!" thought Antoinette. "You might have held your tongue, Miss Stanfield."

But another witness was to the fore on whom she had not calculated. Elizabeth Howell had come a little late and sat down quietly by the door. She now rose up, tall, fair, and prim, as delicate as an August lily, in her light-gray bombazine and clean muslin kerchief and apron.

"I should like to speak to thee in private, Friend McPherson."

"What can she have to say?" thought Antoinette, but without much misgiving. "She does not know anything about the matter. I took care of that."

After a few minutes' conversation, Miss McPherson opened the door of her private room and called—

"Miss Meeks, will you come in? Miss Burns, Miss Stanfield, Miss Antoinette Diaments, Miss Settson, please come also. The young ladies will recite their French grammar to Miss Jessy."

The party tolerably filled the little room. Elizabeth looked a little flushed, and Miss McPherson both grieved and angry.

"You will please listen, Miss Meeks and young ladies, to what Elizabeth Howell has to say."

"First, if Friend McPherson pleases, I should like, Calista, to hear thee describe the needle-case."

Calista did so, taxing her memory to be exact in every particular.

"Precisely so!" said Elizabeth. "I saw Antoinette Diaments at her cousin Richard Whitecar's, in Graywich, and she had and was using just such a case as Calista describes."

"How could you see it, I should like to know, when I put it in my pocket before you came into the room?" asked Antoinette, unguardedly.

"Then you admit that you had it!" said Miss McPherson.

Antoinette saw she had betrayed herself, and was sullenly silent.

"Please answer her question, Elizabeth."

"I saw the whole through the window, and reflected in the large mirror opposite," answered Elizabeth. "I came in by the back way, as I often do." (The two families being relations as well as neighbors.) "I stood two or three minutes watching some kittens at play, and then looked into the room. I could not see Antoinette—only her reflection in the glass, and this case on the table, with the scissors, by her side. Antoinette was using the thimble. I was rather struck, and it did occur to me to wonder whether this was the needle-case that had made all the trouble. Then Richard Whitecar came along and spoke to me, and I saw Antoinette hastily gather up the things and put them in her pocket. Then I felt quite sure. I meant to speak to Antoinette about the matter, but had no private opportunity. It seemed to me this morning that the attempt to throw blame on Mary Burns was a clear call to tell what I knew."

There was a moment's silence, and then Miss McPherson said, in a sterner tone than had ever been heard from her before—

"Antoinette, where is the needle-case?"

Antoinette was obstinately silent.

"Miss Meeks, you will please search Miss Diaments's room thoroughly, and especially her travelling-basket and work-bag. Antoinette, stay here—" (For Antoinette was moving toward the door). "Sit down on that chair, and do not stir from it till I give you permission. I will have this matter sifted to the bottom."

There was a short but very awkward pause till Miss Meeks returned without the needle-case, and looking a good deal excited.

"I cannot find it," said she.

"Of course you can't, when it is not there!" said Antoinette, in a tone of triumph.

"Look in her desk," was the next order.

"Look as much as you please!" said Antoinette insolently.

But her manner changed as Miss Meeks said pointedly, "There are some things in Miss Diaments's room which need investigation."

"I will attend to that matter," said the principal. "Look in her pockets."

Antoinette turned pale.

"I won't have my pockets searched!" she stammered. "It is a pity if the daughter of one of the richest men in the state is to be insulted for the sake of beggarly tailor's girl!"

Antoinette had kept fast hold of her work-bag, but in her agitation she dropped it. It fell on the floor with a heavy, ringing sound.

Miss Meeks picked it up and opened it. There was the case.

"Antoinette, I beg for your own sake you will confess the whole matter," said Miss McPherson, earnestly. "Tell the whole truth, my poor child."

"I shall not tell anything!" answered Antoinette. "If you choose to make a fuss about it you can. I guess you will lose more than I shall. I don't think you will make much by quarrelling with the richest man in the state for the sake of tippling old tailor Burns's daughter."

Those who knew Miss McPherson actually trembled for the effect of these words. That lady, however, answered with a calmness more alarming than any storm—

"Miss Diaments, you are no longer a member of this school. You will remain in this room till I can send for your uncle. Mary Burns, my dear, you are entirely cleared from the shadow of blame. Is she not, Miss Meeks?"

"So far as this matter is concerned, certainly," said Miss Meeks; "but I must remind her that but for certain past equivocations, to call them by a mild name, I should not have suspected her."

"I know I have not always told the truth exactly, Miss Meeks," answered Mary, humbly. "I have been easily frightened and confused, and sometimes I have seemed to tell lies when I did not mean to. But I hope I shall be enabled to do better, and not think so much of what men will think of me."

Miss Meeks was melted. She kissed Mary, and told her she had no doubt she meant to be a very good girl.

"You will now all return to your places," said Miss McPherson. "Miss Meeks will clear Miss Burns, and I hope we shall none of us be the worse for the lesson we have received."

Miss McPherson spent some time in trying to persuade Antoinette to a confession, but Antoinette was obstinate. The fact was, she did not believe Miss McPherson would dare to expel her, and took all her persuasive gentleness for a method of getting gracefully out of the scrape.

"Very well, I shall say no more," said Miss McPherson. And rising she led Antoinette to a smaller room which opened from her own, and which was used in extreme cases as a kind of chamber of penitence. "You will remain in this room, seeing no one, till I can see your uncle, and make arrangements for you to return with him."

"I must put up my things," said Antoinette, for the first time showing some alarm.

"I shall myself look over and put up your things with the assistance of Mrs. McGregor."

Antoinette now gave way entirely, and with tears and sobs and the most abject entreaties begged to be allowed to go to her room, if only for a few minutes, to put up her own things.

"No," answered Miss McPherson, her suspicions confirmed by Antoinette's conduct. "I must attend to that matter myself. The servant will bring your dinner, but you will not leave this room."

So saying Miss McPherson left the room, shutting and locking the door. She was sorry for the girl, but hers was not the false compassion which will expose the innocent to contamination on the mere chance of reforming the guilty. She found more than enough in her search of Antoinette's room to confirm her resolution. It was astonishing to see how many little articles, some of considerable value, which had been given up for lost by their owners, were found carefully hidden in boxes and under beds. It seemed evident that Antoinette must have carried on the business of petty thieving almost ever since she had been in the school.

Antoinette departed in the afternoon, regretted by no one, unless by Tessy, who had been the greatest sufferer by her meanness. I may as well say that neither her father nor mother believed one word against their daughter, her mother declaring that Antoinette never told a lie in her life. Two or three large sums paid on account of shoplifting performances, and a final disgraceful elopement, partly opened her father's eyes, but her mother persisted in declaring that it was all the fault of the influences under which poor Antoinette was thrown at that abominable Cohansey school.

This is no fancy sketch, as many a teacher can testify. It is no wonder, seeing of what it is the root and spring, that God abhors covetousness.

CHAPTER FIFTEENTH.

EVIL INFLUENCES.

"WELL, I am sorry for Antoinette, after all," said Calista, as the girls gathered in the play-ground.

"So am not I," returned Mary Settson. "She brought it all on herself, and deserves a far worse punishment."

"I don't deny that, but still I am sorry for her. And, Mary, what would have become of all of us if somebody had not been sorry for us while we were yet sinners?"

"But she was so mean to try to throw all on poor Mary."

"That is true. I don't extenuate her fault in the least, but still I am sorry for her."

"Well, I ain't so sure, after all, about this business," said Charity Latch, who was a great worshipper of wealth. "It seems a great deal more likely that a poor beggar like Mary Burns should steal than that Antoinette should."

"I should like to know what makes Mary Burns a beggar," said two or three girls at once, and Emma added, "Did she ever beg anything of you?"

"If she did, she didn't get it," said Belle. "We all know Mary is poor, but there is not a girl in the school less of a beggar than she. I think she even goes too far the other way. She just hates to receive a favor. As to Antoinette, there can be no doubt. She not only took the needle-case, but a good many other things besides, my button-hole scissors and cornelian necklace, that I thought I lost in the street, among others. One would think she need not have done that, when she had such lovely cameos of her own."

"I am glad Mary is cleared, anyhow," observed Calista. "Dear little soul, how pretty she looked when she stood up and said her verse! And I am glad I have my needle-case back, but I am sorry for Antoinette, and I think—" Calista hesitated a little and blushed as she added—"I think we ought to pray for her."

"What, is Saul among the prophets?" said Belle. "Are you going to be another Mary Settson? We sinners are likely to be deserted entirely."

Mary put on her "martyr face," as Belle called it, and turned away. Calista only said, gently and seriously—

"Don't, Belle. I know you don't mean any harm, but don't make fun of religion or things connected with it. Think if your words should come true!"

"Well, I won't," said Belle, more seriously; "I know you are right, even as a matter of good taste. But tell us, Calista, do you really mean to be a Christian, like Mary and Clarissa Whitman?"

"I don't know that I shall be like anybody," replied Calista, "but I do really mean to be a Christian if I can."

"Well, for my part, I'd wait and see if I was going to persevere, if I were you, before I spoke out so plainly," said Charity. "But I don't call any girl in this school a consistent Christian, for my part. There's Clary Whitman—just look at her playing battledore and shuttlecock with Emma Ross."

"Well, where is the harm? I don't know anything in the Bible against playing battledore and shuttlecock, do you? I am sure Clary Whitman is a good girl, if there ever was one," said Belle, warmly; for she was one of those happy spirits that delight in the goodness of other people. "Come, Calista, will you have a game, or do you think it is wicked?"

"Not a bit," said Calista; "but I can't play now, Belle. I must find Mary; I have something to tell her."

Calista found Mary Settson sitting pensively in the school-room, and sat down by her.

"What is the matter?" she asked. "Surely you don't mind Belle's words. You know she means no harm."

"I don't know how you can say that, when she laughs at religion as she does."

"Oh, she was not laughing at religion exactly, she was laughing at us. Besides, when I told her I did not think it was right, she stopped directly. But I want to tell you ever so many things, Mary—so many, I don't know where to begin. But, first of all, Mary, I have found him, as my verse said. I have found Jesus of Nazareth."

The little snake of jealousy and ill-humor which had been hissing in Mary's heart for a few minutes was silent and dived into his den. She kissed Calista.

"Tell me how it was," said she.

"It began with mother's Bible, and some letters I found in her desk—for you must know that, thanks to Miss Druett, I have all mother's things. I made up my mind that I must and would be a Christian, and then I found a letter—such a letter!—from Aunt Priscilla to mother.

"That upset me again, for I knew I must forgive, or my own sins would never be forgiven; and I felt sure I never could. But Sunday evening Mr. Alger preached in the old red meeting-house, and I went to hear him. His text was,—

"'Behold the Lamb of God!'

"Oh, Mary, I can't tell it all, but he made me see him in the garden and on the cross, and all for me. All the bitterness seemed to go out of my heart, and I felt I could forgive anything—even the cruelty to my poor, gentle mother. I said,—

"'Lord, if thou wilt—'

"And he did. I did not do it at all."

"I am sure I am very thankful," said Mary; "I did not suppose Mr. Alger was a very eloquent preacher."

"I don't know whether he was eloquent or not," said Calista; "I did not think of the preacher at all—it was what he said. He brought me just the help I wanted. And we are to have another meeting Wednesday evening, and perhaps a Sunday-school."

"I rather wonder your aunt should let you go," said Mary.

"Oh, I did not ask her. Miss Druett let me. I am to be Miss Druett's girl now. But, all the same, I mean to qualify myself for a teacher, as you advised me. I think one can do as much good in that way as any other; don't you?"

"Yes, indeed; but I hope you won't ever have to work for a living, Calista."

"Oh, I shall not mind, if only I am as well and strong as I am now. By the way, when is your father coming home?"

"Oh, not for a long time, and that is something I had to tell you," replied Mary. "Father has written from Princeton for Alice and me to join him there, and we are going a long journey with him up to Vermont or somewhere. This is the last day I shall have in school."

"Oh, how sorry I am! I was counting on having you sit with me."

"I will next term. And, Calista, if you like, you can have my place in the drawing-class. There are three weeks to vacation, and you might do quite a good deal in that time."

"Oh, thank you! I shall like it ever so much! I have all mother's pencils and paints. But I am so sorry you are going away. I shall miss you more than ever now."

"You will have a better friend than I," said Mary. "I shall feel a great deal easier about you now that I know you have learned to love him," she added, feeling that her sympathy with her friend had not been as hearty as it ought to have been. In fact, the little snake had put out his head again and whispered that it was very strange Calista had been so affected by the preaching of such a dull old man as Mr. Alger, while she (Mary) had talked and urged in vain. Surely Calista ought to have listened to her. Probably it was only some passing excitement—some mere emotion, and not a real conversion. But Mary had come to know the voice of the serpent, and she, so to speak, set her heel on his head with a force that sent him crushed and wounded to his den.

The next day Mary went away, and Belle Adair came to occupy Antoinette's vacant place. She was not precisely the companion Calista would have chosen, but they got on well together. Belle recognized the force of principle which made Calista absolutely refuse to whisper or to take any notice of any little notes written in school hours. In her turn she did Calista good by her orderly habits and punctuality in doing the hour's work in its own hour.

They soon became great friends, and every one noticed that Belle had entirely left off her habit of jesting on serious subjects, and that she even came down sharply on Charity for a riddle founded on Scripture, telling her that was not the way to use the Bible. If she had lived in these days, when "Bible Puzzles" are published in religious newspapers, perhaps she would not have been so particular.

At the Old Stanfield Manor things were a good deal altered. Miss Priscilla scrimped, and saved, and scolded, but did not interfere as usual with Calista, and it seemed, sometimes, as if she were even trying to conciliate her niece.

Calista was sure her aunt had more than one interview with Zeke and Jael. At first Miss Priscilla would steal out to the barn or the edge of the wood, but at last the old woman would come boldly to the house and ask for Miss Stanfield. Then the two would be closeted together for an hour, and Jael would go away laden with provisions. These interviews usually took place on Sunday morning or evening, when Miss Druett and Calista were at church. For Miss Druett had taken to going to the Sunday evening meetings, and had actually given something to help on the repairs of the old meeting-house.

"There goes Jael now!" said Calista, as they were walking home on Wednesday evening, and came in sight of the house just in time to see Jael leaving it with a large bundle in her arms.

"What is that old woman after?" asked Calista. "Miss Druett, what does it mean, do you suppose?"

Miss Druett sighed. "I am afraid it means mischief, child. I wish Mr. Settson would come home, though I hardly know what he could do if he were here. Nobody could say that your aunt is insane. My only hope is that she will become disgusted with the rapacity of these people, as she was before. However, if Mr. Settson were here, he might find some means of driving them away, though I fancy they are like some animals which are said never to commit depredations in their own neighborhoods."

"Did you notice Tom Edgar to-night?" asked Calista.

"I noticed that he sung very finely, and seemed much affected. He seems very regular in his attendance."

"I heard him tell Mr. Alger that he hoped he had found the Lord at last. And what do you think Mr. Heminway said?"

"Something very encouraging, I dare say."

"He said, 'Well, I hope he has; but he has been a dreadful wild, hard case, and for my part I don't believe in sudden conversions.'

"Then old Brother Davis said, 'Brother Heminway, it's a good thing you wasn't in Jerusalem on the day of Pentecost; you'd never have believed in those three thousand being taken into the church.'

"And then Mr. Heminway frowned, and said he didn't believe in using Scripture in that way."

"In what way?"

"In the way that went against him, I suppose," answered Calista, shrewdly. "I have noticed people seldom do. But I wanted to ask you about the Sunday-school, Miss Druett. Mr. Alger wishes me to take a class of little colored girls."

"Well, I have no objections, if it does not tire you too much. You will learn more than you will teach for a time, but that won't hurt you or your scholars either."

"Mr. Alger asked me if you would teach a class."

"I would if I were able. I used to teach a Sunday-class years ago, in Philadelphia, and liked it very much."

"And don't you feel able?"

"No, child. Oh, I am not sick; you need not open your eyes so wide, and look so alarmed! But it tires me to talk much lately, and I shall have to be a little more careful of my health than I have been. I am beginning to find out that I have bones and nerves to ache and keep me awake nights, as well as other people. But as to yourself, I think the teaching will be very good for you. You will never find out how much you don't know till you try to tell what you do know."

"I have found that out already, helping Miss Meeks. But I do wish you would have a doctor, Miss Druett."

"Nonsense, child! I am not sick; what should I want a doctor for?"

The next day Calista had been out in the pasture hunting mushrooms, and coming back across the little burying-ground as the nearest way, she stopped to pull some tall weeds from her grandfather's grave. As she did so, she saw that the long grass had been disturbed and a little earth scattered about.

"Oh ho, Mr. Ground-squirrel, are you here!" said she. "I think you might find a better place."

As she moved away the long grass with her foot, she caught sight of something glittering. She bent down and drew it out. It was a long purse, such as people used in those days, and are beginning to use again, and well filled with coin and bills. She knew it in a moment—her aunt Priscilla's purse. How in the world did it come there?

She did not stop to think, but hurried home and went straight to the sitting-room, mushrooms and all. Miss Priscilla was nodding over her book, Miss Druett sewing, as usual.

"Aunt Priscilla, have you lost anything?" said she.

Miss Priscilla started, put her hand in her pocket mechanically, and turned pale as ashes.

"My purse!" said she, in a kind of shrill whisper. "Where is my purse?"

"When did you have it last?" asked Miss Druett.

"Last night, at the back kitchen door. Oh, what shall I do? Who has taken it?"

"Here it is," said Calista, producing it. "Now, where do you guess I found it?"

"Out by the door," said Miss Druett.

"Not a bit. You are not even warm."

"Then you must tell us."

"That I will, for I am sure you will never guess." And Calista told where she had discovered the purse.

Miss Priscilla looked more scared than ever.

"You—you don't suppose he came and got it, do you, Druey?"

"Your father, do you mean? No, indeed. I think some one took it and hid it for purposes of their own—probably to make a parade of telling where it was and restoring it."

"Exactly," said Calista; "I never thought of that."

"It was very odd that you should find it."

"I would not if I had not stopped to pull the weeds from grandfather's grave. Aunt Priscilla, why don't you have that place put in order? I should not dare go near it, only that ivy never poisons me. It is a shame to have it so neglected."

"Well, well, perhaps I will some time," said Miss Priscilla, after she had counted her money and found it was all there. "You are a lucky girl, Calista. You are always finding things. Who knows but you would find the pirates' gold, if you were to look for it?"

"I never shall find it, because I never shall look for it," said Calista, boldly. "I believe, as Cassius says, that if there is any such treasure, it would be bloody gold and bring ill fortune to any one that touched it."

"Why do you let your thoughts run so much on such matters, Priscilla?" said Miss Druett. "Suppose you found a thousand pounds of gold, what good would it do you? You would never spend it or give it away, and any minute you might be called to leave it."

Miss Priscilla looked as if she thought "Druey" had suddenly gone mad.

"What do you mean?" said she.

"I mean what I say," said Miss Druett, "and I am going to free my mind for once. You know that you must die, like all the rest of us. It is the only event to which we can look forward with any certainty. You cannot take money into the grave with you. Shrouds have no pockets, and a coffin is made only just large enough to hold the corpse it is meant for. Perhaps this very night you will hear the summons—then whose shall those things be that you have prepared? Come, Priscy, we have been wandering in the wilderness of this world a great many years; let us set our faces heavenward, asking the way thither, and go heme to God together."

Calista had often noticed the curious musical chord in Miss Druett's voice, but she had never heard its tones so rich and harmonious as now. She sprung forward in her usual impulsive way, threw her arms round Miss Druett's neck, and kissed her.

"Oh, I am so glad!" she exclaimed. "Oh, do, Aunt Priscilla!"

"Do what?" asked Miss Priscilla, sullenly. "I will tell you what I won't do. I won't have my house turned into a Methodist meeting-house. If you must believe in such nonsense, keep it to yourself. I haven't made any objection to your running off to meeting and all that, but I won't have any such stuff here, I tell you that."

Just then Chloe opened the door with a handful of letters.

"Here's the mail, and here's one for you, Miss Calista. You are in luck to-day."

"In more ways than one it seems," said Calista. "Oh how sorry I am!" she exclaimed, as she read.

"What now?" asked Miss Druett.

"Mr. Settson and the girls are not coming home for several weeks," replied Calista. "Mary says,—

"'Papa has heard of something very important, which will take him to Boston, so he will be away for some weeks longer. He says you must keep my place in the drawing-class till I come.'"

"Drawing, indeed!" said Miss Priscilla. "Spinning would be more to the purpose. You shall stay at home and learn to spin."

"Remember the child belongs to me, Priscilla; that was part of the bargain."

"Well, well, have her; I don't care. I must go to town this afternoon, Druey, and I want you to go with me."

"Very well," said Miss Druett. "I have an errand of my own. Calista, stay within bounds, and don't go running over the woods. We shall have you bitten by one of the gray snakes, or killed by a wild pig or something."

"I don't in the least believe in the gray snakes," said Calista. "I have never seen one yet, as often as I have been in the Red Hollow. But I shall not go out of the house, for I have a bit of work to finish for the fair."

"Oh, it is to-morrow, is it? Whom do you mean to stay with?—For I suppose you must stop all night with some one."

"Emma Ross asked me to stay with her. Clary Whitman and Belle Adair are going to be there, so we shall have a fine time. Elizabeth Howell won't come, because she says she has not a clear evidence that it is right. The girls laugh at her, but I don't see anything to laugh at. It seems to me if you are not sure that a thing is right, it makes that thing wrong for you."

"She is quite correct. Keep that rule in mind, and you will save yourself a deal of trouble."

When her aunt and Miss Druett were gone, Calista established herself in the front room with the child's apron she was ornamenting in crewels. Thanks to her mother's store of working materials, she was now able to do something independently.

The front parlor was kept in decent order, only by the exertions of Miss Druett, and hither Calista resorted with her work, pulling down the inside venetian blinds, so that she could see without being seen. She had not sat long before she saw old Jael come to the kitchen door and speak to Chloe. By leaning a little out of the window she could hear the whole conversation.

"Where's your mistress?"

"What's that to you?"

"Come, old woman, keep a civil tongue, will you? Is Miss Stanfield at home?"

"She's gone to town, if you must know."

"Has she found her purse?"

"She hasn't lost it. I saw it in her hands just as she went away."

"But, I tell you, she did lose it," said the old woman, in a voice which betrayed some agitation. "She lost it last night, I know."

"Oh, you do, do you?" thought Calista. "I thought so."

"Well, if I was a fortune-teller, I'd tell straighter than that," said Chloe, in a tone of great contempt. "Don't I know Miss Priscy? I tell you if she had lost her purse last night, not one in this house would have a wink of sleep till it was found. Besides, I saw it in her hands not an hour ago—the very long green purse she always carries; so you needn't talk to me."

"Well, well, I dare say you are right, only I thought I heard something about it. Get me a drink of cider, Chloe, there's a good soul. You'll be old yourself some day."

"I ain't far from it now," mid Chloe, relenting a little, as it seemed by her tone. "Then sit down in the shade, and I'll give you some cider, and your pail full of skim milk if you want it."

Calista heard the kitchen door shut and bolted, while Chloe departed on her errand.

But Jael did not sit down in the shade. She hurried across the road with wonderful swiftness, and disappeared for a moment behind General Stanfield's monument. When she appeared again, her face was a curious mixture of anger, confusion, and fear. She got back just in time to meet Chloe as she unbarred the door.

"What took you across the road in such a hurry?" asked Chloe. "I saw you from the buttery window."

"I thought I saw a lame quail," said the old woman.

"Smart you must be, to be taken in by a lame quail! There, there's a fine pail of milk and some cold potatoes for you. Why don't you and your husband settle down like decent folks, and have good times?"

"Oh, we have our good times now and then as well as you," chuckled the old woman. "Thank you all the same. Good-bye."

"She ain't a witch, that's certain," muttered Chloe to herself, as she watched Jael out of sight. "Maybe she is something as bad or worse; anyhow, a pail of milk won't hurt her."

Calista laughed behind the blinds to think how she had circumvented the old woman. But she did not know all the plans in that wicked old head, by a great deal.

CHAPTER SIXTEENTH.

THE FAIR.

THE fair was a great success, though a good deal of the pleasure was marred to Calista by the absence of several of her friends. Miss McPherson had been called to New York to see Miss Jessy off for Scotland, whither she had gone to attend to a small inheritance which had fallen to her. Miss Meeks was with her sister, who was sinking in a rapid decline. Mary Settson was going about with her father, now and then writing a long letter to Calista—now and then, but not very often, for postage was a consideration in those days, when every single letter cost eighteen cents and a double one a great deal more.

The law was a very whimsical one. You might use one sheet the size of a barn door, if you could get one; but if you put in a second bit of paper, though no larger than a visiting card, you must pay double postage. Under such circumstances, a letter was a grave consideration.

In Miss Jessy's absence, Clary Whitman took charge of the school table, assisted by Calista and Belle Adair, who had come back to Cohansey for the purpose. Everything went off beautifully. Calista had hardly ever been out in an evening before, and she thoroughly enjoyed it. For once in her life she had the pleasure of appearing in a handsome new frock—a sprigged India muslin, which she had found among her mother's things.

For the satisfaction of my young lady readers, I will just mention that it was made with a short waist, of the style then called Grecian, very large gigot sleeves with stiffeners, a lace cape with ruffles, crossed and fastened behind, and a broad blue silk belt, fastened with a gilt buckle.

Every one noticed how very handsome she looked, and what ladylike, modest manners she had, and every one wondered how she came to be there at all. Almost all the articles on the table were sold and brought good prices. Old Mr. Fabian himself bought Mary Burns's rug to put under his office table, and his wife even bought Charity Latch's work-bag, saying to herself that it would do to hold clothes-pins, and it was a pity the poor thing should be mortified when she had done her best.

Clarissa Whitman, Belle Adair, and Calista spent the night with Emma Ross. Bell and Calista, slept together, and as they were going to bed, Calista said, in the most natural way in the world:

"Oh, Emma, will you lend me a Testament?"

"I've got one for you," said Belle. "It is in my trunk. I thought a pocket Testament would be convenient if you were teaching a Sunday-class, so I brought you one."

"Oh, thank you," said Calista, gratefully. "I have wanted one ever so much. How very pretty!"

"Do you suppose Miss Stanfield will let you keep it?" asked Emma. "I heard that she would not allow one in the house, and when she and Miss Druett found an old one somewhere, they trampled it all to pieces and then burned it up."

"Nonsense!" said Calista, laughing. "My poor aunt is not quite so bad as that. Miss Druett and I each have one, and we read together every day. But I suppose people tell all sorts of things about our family."

"Indeed they do. Such stories—" Emma began, but Belle interrupted her—

"Don't tell her, Emma. What is the use of repeating such things? I am of my stepmother's opinion about that. Some one came to her with a story of what Mrs. So-and-so had said. Mamma checked her at once, in that tremendously dignified way she has when she chooses.

"'Please don't tell me if it is anything unpleasant,' said she. 'If it is anything agreeable, I shall be glad to hear it.'"

"Well, I dare say you are right," said Emma, smiling, but blushing a little; "so I will tell Calista that Mr. Alger said she was one of the greatest helps he had in his work at the mills. He told pa so."

"What a sweet temper Emma has!" said Belle. "She is a little too fond of gossip though."

"She hears a good deal of it, I presume," said Calista. "Perhaps no one is quite as careful as they should be, unless it is Elizabeth Howell."

"Or yourself."

"Well, I am not under any very great temptations. Miss Druett does not talk about people at all, and Aunt Priscilla calls them all fools."

"I should not think your religion and your aunt would agree very well," Belle ventured to say.

"Oh, well—she snaps sometimes, but either she is not so sharp as she used to be, or I don't mind it so much. I really get on quite nicely. But, please, don't talk for a little, Belle. I want to read my chapter and say my prayers."

"I will be as mute as a fish at Quaker meeting," said Belle. "But don't keep all the good to yourself. Read your chapter aloud."

Calista did so, and Belle listened with evident interest; and when Calista knelt down, she sat quite still till she had finished.

"I'll tell you what, Calista, you are a comfortable sort of Christian to be with," said Belle, when they were both in bed and the light was out. "You don't put on a long face, and look all the time as if you were afraid something dreadful was going to be done or said, like—"

"Hush, now! I won't have you censorious," said Calista.

"Well, I won't say it, then; but you know who I mean, all the same."

"You two would be the best friends in the world if you would only come to understand one another," said Calista.

"How are you to come to an understanding with a person who always takes it for granted that you mean to say and do the very worst thing possible?" demanded Belle, with some heat.

"Oh, come; you judge too hardly. M—, that person is naturally inclined to low spirits and brooding. It is very different with me."

"Yes, I know that. But if she is a Christian, why doesn't she try to overcome such a disposition as that?"

"She does try. And anyhow, Belle, it is better to be a faulty Christian, who knows her faults and tries to conquer them, than not to be a Christian at all."

"Well, I don't know; I don't think I would try unless I could be a perfect Christian—consistent in all things."

"If your rule had been followed out, we should never have had any Christian Church at all," said Calista. "There was not one of the Apostles that we know anything about but had some fault."

"Oh, Calista!—St. John!"

"Well, he was for calling down fire on his enemies; and St. Peter certainly had his faults, and so had St. Paul. I don't think that excuse will stand for much at the last day. Come, Belle, do think it over again, and without delay. Your time may be very short, you know. Think of poor little Lawrence!"

"Well, I will; I promise you I will. Now we must go to sleep, or we shall never be ready to get up."

Calista was, as Belle said, "a comfortable Christian," both to herself and others. As some one said about Christiana, in the "Pilgrim's Progress,"—"she never was in Doubting Castle at all."

Probably her vigorous health had something to do with the matter, though I think a great deal more is made of this excuse—"the state of my health"—than is desirable or justifiable. I have known a man impute all his dryness and lack of interest in religious matters to the state of his health, when that same state of health did not hinder him from taking the liveliest interest in the price of stocks or the report of the last ball-game. I have seen a lady sit down contentedly with the same excuse, who was as much occupied with her new dress as though the fate of the Christian Church depended on the decision between a princesse and a polonaise. Besides, what is that religious experience worth which deserts and leaves us in the dark when we need it most? This by the way.

But Calista saved herself a great deal of trouble by the simplicity with which she accepted the gospel. She did not ask herself whether her repentance was deep enough, or her joy high enough, or her motives pure enough. The Saviour said "Come," and she came. He had said, "Be ye holy, for I am holy," and she would try her best to be so to please him, trusting to his promise to help her, and his love to forgive and wash away her offences when she failed.

To be sure, Aunt Priscilla was trying, and even Miss Druett was sometimes sharp and sarcastic, though she had softened much of late. Her future was uncertain, and she was much troubled at the increasing influence of old Jael; but the Lord had expressly said,—

"'In the world ye shall have tribulation,'"

and he had also said,—

"'Be of good cheer, I have overcome the world'" (John 16:33).

Her greatest trouble had arisen from the return of her angry and revengeful feelings about her aunt. This distressed her so much that one night she opened her trouble to her pastor. Mr. Alger listened, and gave her sound and useful advice.

"That is nothing strange," said he. "It is what every one has more or less experience of. Satan is not going to give up any part of his kingdom without a struggle, and there is always a traitor within to help him. What you must do is this, hold no parley with the enemy, no, not for an instant. Every minute of delay makes the work of resistance tenfold harder. Lift your heart at once to the source of all strength. Pray for your enemy as well as for yourself, and then resolutely turn your thoughts from the subject, think of something else, and leave your champion to fight the battle for you.

"'Stand still, and see the salvation of the Lord.'

"And I'll tell you what, my dear child, Christians would save themselves a great deal of trouble if they would learn this one lesson,—to control their thoughts, and make them work, so to speak, in harness. I can understand, from the little I know of your family affairs, that your position is a very trying one, but do not give way to fretfulness or despair. Wait on the Lord and be doing good, and fret not thyself in any wise. And, by the by, study well that thirty-seventh Psalm, and you will come to feel as if it were made for you."

Calista obeyed, and found the wisdom of the good minister's advice. She was studying very hard this vacation, with Miss Druett's assistance, who fully approved her plan of qualifying herself for a teacher. She also learned to spin, to please Miss Priscilla, who actually gave her a shilling as a reward when Calista brought her her first skein of smooth fine thread to show what progress she had made. She took great pains with her class of little girls, very few of whom could read, and was gratified with their improvement. She tried hard to read Mitford's "Greece," and persevered through a volume and a half, when she gave it up, and took to "Plutarch's Lives" instead.

Zeke and his wife seemed for the present to have disappeared from the neighborhood. Miss Priscilla was more quiet and reasonable than usual, and, on the whole, it was the most comfortable vacation Calista had known.

But a very great sorrow was about to fall on Calista,—the greatest sorrow she had ever known since the death of her mother.

Miss Druett had been troubled with a cough for two or three years, which cough had grown worse since her apparently slight attack of illness in the summer. Still Calista, in her ignorance, did not think of her being ill. True, she was somewhat thin and languid, but this Calista attributed to the great heat of the weather. Surely she could not be ill when her eyes were so wonderfully bright and she had such a beautiful color in her cheeks.

At last, however, even Calista's eyes were opened. Miss Druett one Sunday evening fainted in church, and, though she revived so as to walk slowly home with the assistance Chloe and Calista, she never went again. The next day she sent for the doctor and Mr. Fabian.

Dr. Elsmore soon finished his examination, and on Miss Druett's demanding to know the truth, he told her that, though she might linger a few days or weeks, there was no recovery possible, and the end might come at any time.

"God's will be done," said Miss Druett. "I should not have a regret but for the child; but she is in his hands, and will be cared for."

Mr. Fabian came, and with him she had quite a long private conversation. Then she seemed to have given up the world altogether, and lay patient and smiling, waiting till the change should come.

Calista, at last awakened to her friend's true condition, staid by her night and day, hardly leaving the room except for her meals and a run in the fresh air now and then, when Miss Druett insisted upon it. She could not think; she dared not give way to grief. Her whole being seemed to be given up to the work of caring for her friend, and making her last days more comfortable.

Mr. Alger and Mr. Lee came to see her; the former almost daily, and she seemed to enjoy their visits and their prayers, but she was unable to talk much at a time. Calista spent hours in reading the Bible and singing old familiar hymns, to the great but secret annoyance of Miss Priscilla. Miss Priscilla did not, could not, and would not believe that, "Druey" was going to die. It was all nonsense; she was a little unwell, and gave way instead of exerting herself and riding out. She was always thinking about herself and her bad feelings, just as though she, Miss Priscilla, was not a great deal worse. Then, veering round all at once, she declared it was all the fault of old Alger and his Methodistical cant putting gloomy ideas into Druey's head. It was coming home from those meetings in the dew which had brought on her cough; but she would get over it—yes, she would get over it in a few days. Oh, yes, if she wanted wine, she must have it, no doubt. Doctors were always making all the expense they could.

"You can go down and get a bottle of that old Madeira," she said to Chloe; "get anything she fancies or the doctor orders. But it is a great shame; I shall die in the poor-house—I know I shall."

"Well, what hurt will that do you?" asked Chloe, who spoke her mind on all occasions. "The next minute after you are dead, it won't make any odds to you whether you died in a poor-house or a palace."

Miss Priscilla seized her favorite volume of Rousseau's "Confessions," made as if to throw it at the bold speaker, but thought better of it, and contented herself with a threatening look, as usual.