[Transcriber's note: The spelling inconsistencies of the original have
been retained in this etext.]
[Illustration: SADIE HAD A GLIMMERING OF SOME STRANGE CHANGE AS SHE
EYED HER SISTER CURIOUSLY. - _Page 263_.]
ESTER RIED
BY
PANSY
AUTHOR OF "JULIA RIED," "THE KING'S DAUGHTER," "WISE AND OTHERWISE,"
"ESTER RIED YET SPEAKING," "ESTER RIED'S NAMESAKE," ETC.
_ILLUSTRATED BY ELIZABETH WITHINGTON_
BOSTON LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.
PANSY TRADE-MARK Registered in U.S. Patent Office.
Norwood Press: Berwick & Smith Co., Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. ESTER'S HOME
CHAPTER II. WHAT SADIE THOUGHT
CHAPTER III. FLORENCE VANE
CHAPTER IV. THE SUNDAY LESSON
CHAPTER V. THE POOR LITTLE FISH
CHAPTER VI. SOMETHING HAPPENS
CHAPTER VII. JOURNEYING
CHAPTER VIII. JOURNEY'S END
CHAPTER IX. COUSIN ABBIE
CHAPTER X. ESTER'S MINISTER
CHAPTER XI. THE NEW BOARDER
CHAPTER XII. THREE PEOPLE
CHAPTER XIII. THE STRANGE CHRISTIAN
CHAPTER XIV. THE LITTLE CARD
CHAPTER XV. WHAT IS THE DIFFERENCE?
CHAPTER XVI. A VICTORY
CHAPTER XVII. STEPPING BETWEEN
CHAPTER XVIII. LIGHT OUT OF DARKNESS
CHAPTER XIX. SUNDRIES
CHAPTER XX. AT HOME
CHAPTER XXI. TESTED
CHAPTER XXII. "LITTLE PLUM PIES"
CHAPTER XXIII. CROSSES
CHAPTER XXIV. GOD'S WAY
CHAPTER XXV. SADIE SURROUNDED
CHAPTER XXVI. CONFUSION - CROSS-BEARING - CONSEQUENCE
CHAPTER XXVII. THE TIME TO SLEEP
CHAPTER XXVIII. AT LAST
Ester Ried
ASLEEP AND AWAKE
CHAPTER I.
ESTER'S HOME.
She did not look very much as if she were asleep, nor acted as though
she expected to get a chance to be very soon. There was no end to the
things which she had to do, for the kitchen was long and wide, and
took many steps to set it in order, and it was drawing toward tea-time
of a Tuesday evening, and there were fifteen boarders who were, most
of them, punctual to a minute.
Sadie, the next oldest sister, was still at the academy, as also
were Alfred and Julia, while little Minnie, the pet and darling, most
certainly was _not_. She was around in the way, putting little fingers
into every possible place where little fingers ought not to be. It
was well for her that, no matter how warm, and vexed, and out of order
Ester might be, she never reached the point in which her voice could
take other than a loving tone in speaking to Minnie; for Minnie,
besides being a precious little blessing in herself, was the child of
Ester's oldest sister, whose home was far away in a Western graveyard,
and the little girl had been with them since her early babyhood, three
years before.
So Ester hurried to and from the pantry, with quick, nervous
movements, as the sun went toward the west, saying to Maggie who was
ironing with all possible speed:
"Maggie, do _hurry_, and get ready to help me, or I shall never have
tea ready:" Saying it in a sharp fretful tone. Then: "No, no, Birdie,
don't touch!" in quite a different tone to Minnie, who laid loving
hands on a box of raisins.
"I _am_ hurrying as fast as I _can_!" Maggie made answer. "But such an
ironing as I have every week can't be finished in a minute."
"Well, well! Don't talk; that won't hurry matters any."
Sadie Ried opened the door that led from the dining-room to the
kitchen, and peeped in a thoughtless young head, covered with bright
brown curls:
"How are you, Ester?"
And she emerged fully into the great warm kitchen, looking like a
bright flower picked from the garden, and put out of place. Her pink
gingham dress, and white, ruffled apron - yes, and the very school
books which she swung by their strap, waking a smothered sigh in
Ester's heart.
"O, my patience!" was her greeting.
"Are _you_ home? Then school is out".
"I guess it _is_," said Sadie. "We've been down to the river since
school."
"Sadie, won't you come and cut the beef and cake, and make the tea? I
did not know it was so late, and I'm nearly tired to death."
Sadie looked sober. "I would in a minute, Ester, only I've brought
Florence Vane home with me, and I should not know what to do with her
in the meantime. Besides, Mr. Hammond said he would show me about my
algebra if I'd go out on the piazza this minute."
"Well, _go_ then, and tell Mr. Hammond to wait for his tea until he
gets it!" Ester answered, crossly.
"Here, Julia" - to the ten-year old newcomer - "Go away from that
raisin-box, this minute. Go up stairs out of my way, and Alfred too.
Sadie, take Minnie with you; I can't have her here another instant.
You can afford to do that much, perhaps."
"O, Ester, you're cross!" said Sadie, in a good-humored tone, coming
forward after the little girl.
"Come, Birdie, Auntie Essie's cross, isn't she? Come with Aunt Sadie.
We'll go to the piazza and make Mr. Hammond tell us a story."
And Minnie - Ester's darling, who never received other than loving
words from her - went gleefully off, leaving another heartburn to the
weary girl. They _stung_ her, those words: "Auntie Essie's cross,
isn't she?"
Back and forth, from dining-room to pantry, from pantry to
dining-room, went the quick feet At last she spoke:
"Maggie, leave the ironing and help me; it is time tea was ready."
"I'm just ironing Mr. Holland's shirt," objected Maggie.
"Well, I don't care if Mr. Holland _never_ has another shirt ironed.
I want you to go to the spring for water and fill the table-pitchers,
and do a dozen other things."
The tall clock in the dining-room struck five, and the dining-bell
pealed out its prompt summons through the house. The family gathered
promptly and noisily - school-girls, half a dozen or more, Mr. Hammond,
the principal of the academy, Miss Molten, the preceptress, Mrs.
Brookley, the music-teacher, Dr. Van Anden, the new physician, Mr.
and Mrs. Holland, and Mr. Arnett, Mr. Holland's clerk. There was a
moment's hush while Mr. Hammond asked a blessing on the food; then the
merry talk went on. For them all Maggie poured cups of tea, and
Ester passed bread and butter, and beef and cheese, and Sadie gave
overflowing dishes of blackberries, and chattered like a magpie, which
last she did everywhere and always.
"This has been one of the scorching days," Mr. Holland said. "It was
as much as I could do to keep cool in the store, and we generally ARE
well off for a breeze there."
"It has been more than _I_ could do to keep cool anywhere," Mrs.
Holland answered. "I gave it up long ago in despair."
Ester's lip curled a little. Mrs. Holland had nothing in the world to
do, from morning until night, but to keep herself cool. She wondered
what the lady would have said to the glowing kitchen, where _she_ had
passed most of the day.
"Miss Ester looks as though the heat had been too much for her
cheeks," Mrs. Brookley said, laughing. "What _have_ you been doing?"
"Something besides keeping cool," Ester answered soberly.
"Which is a difficult thing to do, however," Dr. Van Anden said,
speaking soberly too.
"I don't know, sir; if I had nothing to do but that, I think I could
manage it."
"I have found trouble sometimes in keeping myself at the right
temperature even in January."
Ester's cheeks glowed yet more. She understood Dr. Van Anden, and she
knew her face did not look very self-controlled. No one knows what
prompted Minnie to speak just then.
"Aunt Sadie said Auntie Essie was cross. Were you, Auntie Essie?"
The household laughed, and Sadie came to the rescue.
"Why, Minnie! you must not tell what Aunt Sadie says. It is just as
sure to be nonsense as it is that you are a chatter-box."
Ester thought that they would _never_ all finish their supper and
depart; but the latest comer strolled away at last, and she hurried to
toast a slice of bread, make a fresh cup of tea, and send Julia after
Mrs. Ried.
Sadie hovered around the pale, sad-faced woman while she ate.
"Are you _truly_ better, mother? I've been worried half to pieces
about you all day."
"O, yes; I'm better. Ester, you look dreadfully tired. Have you much
more to do?"
"Only to trim the lamps, and make three beds that I had not time for
this morning, and get things ready for breakfast, and finish Sadie's
dress."
"Can't Maggie do any of these things?"
"Maggie is ironing."
Mrs. Ried sighed. "It is a good thing that I don't have the sick
headache very often," she said sadly; "or you would soon wear yourself
out. Sadie, are you going to the lyceum tonight?"
"Yes, ma'am. Your worthy daughter has the honor of being editress, you
know, to-night. Ester, can't you go down? Never mind that dress; let
it go to Guinea."
"You wouldn't think so by to-morrow evening," Ester said, shortly.
"No, I can't go."
The work was all done at last, and Ester betook herself to her room.
How tired she was! Every nerve seemed to quiver with weariness.
It was a pleasant little room, this one which she entered, with its
low windows looking out toward the river, and its cosy furniture all
neatly arranged by Sadie's tasteful fingers.
Ester seated herself by the open window, and looked down on the group
who lingered on the piazza below - looked _down_ on them with her eyes
and with her heart; yet envied while she looked, envied their free
and easy life, without a care to harass them, so _she_ thought; envied
Sadie her daily attendance at the academy, a matter which she _so_
early in life had been obliged to have done with; envied Mrs. Holland
the very ribbons and laces which fluttered in the evening air. It had
grown cooler now, a strong breeze blew up from the river and freshened
the air; and, as they sat below there enjoying it, the sound of their
gay voices came up to her.
"What do they know about heat, or care, or trouble?" she said
scornfully, thinking over all the weight of _her_ eighteen years of
life; she hated it, this life of hers, _just_ hated it - the sweeping,
dusting, making beds, trimming lamps, _working_ from morning till
night; no time for reading, or study, or pleasure. Sadie had said she
was cross, and Sadie had told the truth; she _was_ cross most of the
time, fretted with her every-day petty cares and fatigues.
"O!" she said, over and over, "if something would _only_ happen; if I
could have one day, just _one_ day, different from the others; but
no, it's the same old thing - sweep and dust, and clear up, and eat and
sleep. I _hate_ it all."
Yet, had Ester nothing for which to be thankful that the group on the
piazza had not?
If she had but thought, she had a robe, and a crown, and a harp, and
a place waiting for her, up before the throne of God; and all they had
_not_.
Ester did not think of this; so much asleep was she, that she did not
even know that none of those gay hearts down there below her had been
given up to Christ. Not one of them; for the academy teachers and Dr.
Van Anden were not among them. O, Ester was asleep! She went to church
on the Sabbath, and to preparatory lecture on a week day; she read a
few verses in her Bible, _frequently_, not every day; she knelt at her
bedside every night, and said a few words of prayer - and this was all!
She lay at night side by side with a young sister, who had no claim
to a home in heaven, and never spoke to her of Jesus. She worked
daily side by side with a mother who, through many trials and
discouragements, was living a Christian life, and never talked with
her of their future rest. She met daily, sometimes almost hourly, a
large household, and never so much as thought of asking them if they,
too, were going, some day, home to God. She helped her young brother
and sister with their geography lessons, and never mentioned to them
the heavenly country whither they themselves might journey. She took
the darling of the family often in her arms, and told her stories of
"Bo Peep," and the "Babes in the Wood," and "Robin Redbreast," and
never one of Jesus and his call for the tender lambs!
This was Ester, and this was Ester's home.
CHAPTER II.
WHAT SADIE THOUGHT.
Sadie Ried was the merriest, most thoughtless young creature of
sixteen years that ever brightened and bothered a home. Merry from
morning until night, with scarcely ever a pause in her constant flow
of fun; thoughtless, nearly always selfish too, as the constantly
thoughtless always are. Not sullenly and crossly selfish by any means,
only so used to think of self, so taught to consider herself utterly
useless as regarded home, and home cares and duties, that she opened
her bright brown eyes in wonder whenever she was called upon for help.
It was a very bright and very busy Saturday morning.
"Sadie!" Mrs. Ried called, "can't you come and wash up these baking
dishes? Maggie is mopping, and Ester has her hands full with the
cake."
"Yes, ma'am," said Sadie, appearing promptly from the dining-room,
with Minnie perched triumphantly on her shoulder. "Here I am, at your
service. Where are they?"
Ester glanced up. "I'd go and put on my white dress first, if I were
you," she said significantly.
And Sadie looked down on her pink gingham, ruffled apron, shining
cuffs, and laughed.
"O, I'll take off my cuffs, and put on this distressingly big apron of
yours, which hangs behind the door; then I'll do."
"That's my clean apron; I don't wash dishes in it."
"O, bless your careful heart! I won't hurt it the least speck in the
world. Will I, Birdie?"
And she proceeded to wrap her tiny self in the long, wide apron.
"Not _that_ pan, child!" exclaimed her mother "That's a milk-pan."
"O," said Sadie, "I thought it was pretty shiny. My! what a great pan.
Don't you come near me, Birdie, or you'll tumble in and drown yourself
before I could fish you out with the dish-cloth. Where is that
article? Ester, it needs a patch on it; there's a great hole in the
middle, and it twists every way."
"Patch it, then," said Ester, dryly.
"Well, now I'm ready, here goes. Do you want _these_ washed?" And she
seized upon a stack of tins which stood on Ester's table.
"_Do_ let things alone!" said Ester. "Those are my baking-tins, ready
for use; now you've got them wet, and I shall have to go all over them
again."
"How will you go, Ester? On foot? They look pretty greasy; you'll
slip."
"I wish you would go up stairs. I'd rather wash dishes all the
forenoon than have you in the way."
"Birdie," said Sadie gravely, "you and I musn't go near Auntie Essie
again. She's a 'bowwow,' and I'm afraid she'll bite."
Mrs. Ried laughed. She had no idea how sharply Ester had been tried
with petty vexations all that morning, nor how bitter those words
sounded to her.
"Come, Sadie," she said; "what a silly child you are. Can't you do
_any thing_ soberly?"
"I should think I might, ma'am, when I have such a sober and solemn
employment on hand as dish-washing. Does it require a great deal
of gravity, mother? Here, Robin Redbreast, keep your beak out of my
dish-pan."
Minnie, in the mean time, had been seated on the table, directly in
front of the dish-pan.
Mrs. Ried looked around. "O Sadie! what _possessed_ you to put her up
there?"
"To keep her out of mischief, mother. She's Jack Horner's little
sister, and would have had every plum in your pie down her throat,
by this time, if she could have got to them. See here, pussy, if you
don't keep your feet still, I'll tie them fast to the pan with this
long towel, when you'll have to go around all the days of your life
with a dish-pan clattering after you."
But Minnie was bent on a frolic. This time the tiny feet kicked a
little too hard; and the pan being drawn too near the edge, in order
to be out of her reach, lost its balance - over it went.
"O, my patience!" screamed Sadie, as the water splashed over her, even
down to the white stockings and daintily slippered feet.
Minnie lifted up her voice, and added to the general uproar. Ester
left the eggs she was beating, and picked up broken dishes. Mrs.
Ried's voice arose above the din:
"Sadie, take Minnie and go up stairs. You're too full of play to be in
the kitchen."
"Mother, I'm _real_ sorry," said Sadie, shaking herself out of the
great wet apron, laughing even then at the plight she was in.
"Pet, don't cry. We didn't drown after all."
"_Well_! Miss Sadie," Mr. Hammond said, as he met them in the hall.
"What have you been up to now?"
"Why, Mr. Hammond, there's been another deluge; this time of
dish-water, and Birdie and I are escaping for our lives."
"If there is one class of people in this world more disagreeable than
all the rest, it is people who call themselves Christians."
This remark Mr. Harry Arnett made that same Saturday evening, as he
stood on the piazza waiting for Mrs. Holland's letters. And he made it
to Sadie Ried.
"Why, Harry!" she answered, in a shocked tone.
"It's a _fact_, Sadie. You just think a bit, and you'll see it is.
They're no better nor pleasanter than other people, and all the while
they think they're about right."
"What has put you into that state of mind, Harry?"
"O, some things which happened at the store to-day suggested this
matter to me. Never mind that part. Isn't it so?"
"There's my mother," Sadie said thoughtfully. "She is good."
"Not because she's a Christian though; it's because she's your mother.
You'd have to look till you were gray to find a better mother than
I've got, and she isn't a Christian either."
"Well, I'm sure Mr. Hammond is a good man."
"Not a whit better or pleasanter than Mr. Holland, as far as I can
see. _I_ don't like him half so well. And Holland don't pretend to be
any better than the rest of us."
"Well," said Sadie, gleefully, "_I_ dont know many good people.
Miss Molton is a Christian, but I guess she is no better than Mrs.
Brookley, and _she_ isn't. There's Ester; she's a member of the
church."
"And do you see as she gets on any better with her religion, than you
do without it? For _my_ part, I think you are considerably pleasanter
to deal with."
Sadie laughed. "We're no more alike than a bee and a butterfly, or any
other useless little thing," she said, brightly. "But you're very much
mistaken if you think I'm the best. Mother would lie down in despair
and die, and this house would come to naught at once, if it were not
for Ester."
Mr. Arnett shrugged his shoulders. "I _always_ liked butterflies
better than bees," he said. "Bees _sting_."
"Harry," said Sadie, speaking more gravely, "I'm afraid you're almost
an infidel."
"If I'm not, I can tell you one thing - it's not the fault of
Christians."
Mrs. Holland tossed her letters down to him from the piazza above, and
Mr. Arnett went away.
Florence Vane came over from the cottage across the way - came with
slow, feeble steps, and sat down in the door beside her friend.
Presently Ester came out to them:
"Sadie, can't you go to the office for me? I forgot to send this
letter with the rest."
"Yes," said Sadie. "That is if you think you can go that little bit,
Florence."
"I shall think for her," Dr. Van Anden said, coming down the stairs.
"Florence out here to-night, with the dew falling, and not even any
thing to protect your head. I am surprised!"
"Oh, Doctor, do let me enjoy this soft air for a few minutes."
"_Positively_, no. Either come in the house, or go home _directly_.
You are very imprudent. Miss Ester, _I'll_ mail your letters for you."
"What does Dr. Van Anden want to act like a simpleton about Florence
Vane for?" Ester asked this question late in the evening, when the
sisters were alone in their room.
Sadie paused in her merry chatter. "Why, Ester, what do you mean?
About her being out to-night? Why, you know, she ought to be very
careful; and I'm afraid she isn't. The doctor told her father this
morning he was afraid she would not live through the season, unless
she was more careful."
"Fudge!" said Ester. "He thinks he is a wise man; he wants to make her
out very sick, so that he may have the honor of helping her. I don't
see as she looks any worse than she did a year ago."
Sadie turned slowly around toward her sister. "Ester, I don't know
what is the matter with you to-night. You know that Florence Vane has
the consumption, and you know that she is my _dear_ friend."
Ester did not know what was the matter with herself, save that this
had been the hardest day, from first to last, that she had ever known,
and she was rasped until there was no good feeling left in her heart
to touch. Little Minnie had given her the last hardening touch of the
day, by exclaiming, as she was being hugged and kissed with eager,
passionate kisses:
"Oh, Auntie Essie! You've cried tears on my white apron, and put out
all the starch."
Ester set her down hastily, and went away.
Certainly Ester was cross and miserable. Dr. Van Anden was one of her
thorns. He crossed her path quite often, either with close, searching
words about self-control, or grave silence. She disliked him.
Sadie, as from her pillow she watched her sister in the moonlight
kneel down hastily, and knew that she was repeating a few words of
prayer, thought of Mr. Arnett's words spoken that evening, and, with
her heart throbbing still under the sharp tones concerning Florence,
sighed a little, and said within herself:
"I should not wonder if Harry were right." And Ester was so much
asleep, that she did not know, at least did not realize, that she had
dishonored her Master all that day.
CHAPTER III.
FLORENCE VANE.
Of the same opinion concerning Florence was Ester, a few weeks later,
when, one evening as she was hurrying past him, Dr. Van Anden detained
her:
"I want to see you a moment, Miss Ester."
During these weeks Ester had been roused. Sadie was sick; had been
sick enough to awaken many anxious fears; sick enough for Ester to
discover what a desolate house theirs would have been, supposing her
merry music had been hushed forever. She discovered, too, how very
much she loved her bright young sister.
She had been very kind and attentive; but the fever was gone now, and
Sadie was well enough to rove around the house again; and Ester
began to think that it couldn't be so very hard to have loving hands
ministering to one's simplest want, to be cared for, and watched over,
and petted every hour in the day. She was returning to her impatient,
irritable life. She forgot how high the fever had been at night, and
how the young head had ached; and only remembered how thoroughly tired
she was, watching and ministering day and night. So, when she followed
Dr. Van Anden to the sitting-room, in answer to his "I want to see
you, Miss Ester," it was a very sober, not altogether pleasant face
which listened to his words.
"Florence Vane is very sick to-night. Some one should be with her
besides the housekeeper. I thought of you. Will you watch with her?"
If any reasonable excuse could have been found, Ester would surely
have said "No," so foolish did this seem to her. Why, only yesterday
she had seen Florence sitting beside the open window, looking very
well; but then, she was Sadie's friend, and it had been more than two
weeks since Sadie had needed watching with at night. So Ester could
not plead fatigue.
"I suppose so," she answered, slowly, to the waiting doctor, hearing
which, he wheeled and left her, turning back, though, to say:
"Do not mention this to Sadie in her present state of body. I don't
care to have her excited."
"Very careful you are of everybody," muttered Ester, as he hastened
away. "Tell her what, I wonder? That you are making much ado about
nothing, for the sake of showing your astonishing skill?"
In precisely this state of mind she went, a few hours later, over to
the cottage, into the quiet room where Florence lay asleep - and, for
aught she could see, sleeping as quietly as young, fresh life ever
did.
"What do you think of her?" whispered the old lady who acted as
housekeeper, nurse and mother to the orphaned Florence.
"I think I haven't seen her look better this great while," Ester
answered, abruptly.
"Well, I can't say as she looks any worse to _me_ either; but Dr. Van
Anden is in a fidget, and I suppose he knows what he's about."
The doctor came in at eleven o'clock, stood for a moment by the
bedside, glanced at the old lady, who was dozing in her rocking-chair,
then came over to Ester and spoke low:
"I can't trust the nurse. She has been broken of her rest, and is
weary. I want _you_ to keep awake. If she" (nodding toward Florence)
"stirs, give her a spoonful from that tumbler on the stand. I shall be
back at twelve. If she wakens, you may call her father, and send
John for me; he's in the kitchen. I shall be around the corner at
Vinton's."
Then he went away, softly, as he had come.
The lamp burned low over by the window, the nurse slept on in her
arm-chair, and Ester sat with wide-open eyes fixed on Florence. And
all this time she thought that the doctor was engaged in getting up
a scene, the story of which should go forth next day in honor of his
skill and faithfulness; yet, having come to watch, she would not sleep
at her post, even though she believed in her heart that, were she
sleeping by Sadie's side, and the doctor quiet in his own room, all
would go on well until the morning.
But the doctor's evident anxiety had driven sleep from the eyes of the
gray-haired old man whose one darling lay quiet on the bed. He came in
very soon after the doctor had departed.
"I can't sleep," he said, in explanation, to Ester. "Some way I feel
worried. Does she seem worse to you?"
"Not a bit," Ester said, promptly. "I think she looks better than
usual."
"Yes," Mr. Vane answered, in an encouraged tone; "and she has been
quite bright all day; but the doctor is all down about her. He won't
say a single cheering word."
Ester's indignation grew upon her. "He might, at least, have let this
old man sleep in peace," she said, sharply, in her heart.
At twelve, precisely, the doctor returned. He went directly to the
bedside.
"How has she been?" he asked of Ester, in passing.
"Just as she is now." Ester's voice was not only dry, but sarcastic.
Mr. Vane scanned the doctor's face eagerly, but it was grave and sad.
Quiet reigned in the room. The two men at Florence's side neither
spoke nor stirred. Ester kept her seat across from them, and grew
every moment more sure that she was right, and more provoked. Suddenly
the silence was broken. Dr. Van Anden bent low over the sleeper, and
spoke in a gentle, anxious tone: "Florence." But she neither stirred
nor heeded. He spoke again: "Florence;" and the blue eyes unclosed
slowly and wearily. The doctor drew back quickly, and motioned her
father forward.
"Speak to her, Mr. Vane."
"Florence, my darling," the old man said, with inexpressible love and
tenderness sounding in his voice. His fair young daughter turned her
eyes on him; but the words she spoke were not of him, or of aught
around her. So clear and sweet they sounded, that Ester, sitting quite
across the room from her, heard them distinctly.
"I saw mother, and I saw my Savior."
Dr. Van Anden sank upon his knees, as the drooping lids closed again,
and his voice was low and tremulous:
"Father, into thy hands we commit this spirit. Thy will be done."
In a moment more all was bustle and confusion. The nurse was
thoroughly awakened; the doctor cared for the poor childless father
with the tenderness of a son; then came back to send John for help,
and to give directions concerning what was to be done.
Through it all Ester sat motionless, petrified with solemn
astonishment. Then the angel of death had _really_ been there in that
very room, and she had been "so wise in her own conceit," that she did
not know it until he had departed with the freed spirit!
Florence really _was_ sick, then - dangerously sick. The doctor had not
deceived them, had not magnified the trouble as she supposed; but it
could not be that she was dead! Dead! Why, only a few minutes ago she
was sleeping so quietly! Well, she was very quiet now. Could the heart
have ceased its beating?
Sadie's Florence dead! Poor Sadie! What would they say to her? How
_could_ they tell her?
Sitting there, Ester had some of the most solemn, self-reproachful
thoughts that she had ever known. God's angel had been present in that
room, and in what a spirit had he found this watcher?
Dr. Van Anden went quietly, promptly, from room to room, until every
thing in the suddenly stricken household was as it should be; then he
came to Ester:
"I will go over home with you now," he said, speaking low and kindly.
He seemed to under stand just how shocked she felt.
They went, in the night and darkness, across the street, saying
nothing. As the doctor applied his key to the door, Ester spoke in
low, distressed tones:
"Doctor Van Anden, I did not think - I did not dream - ." Then she
stopped.
"I know," he said, kindly. "It was unexpected. _I_ thought she would
linger until morning, perhaps through the day. Indeed, I was so sure,
that I ventured to keep my worst fears from Mr. Vane. I wanted him to
rest to-night. I am sorry - it would have been better to have prepared
him; but 'At even, or at midnight, or at the cock-crowing, or in the
morning' - you see we know not which. I thank God that to Florence it
did not matter."
Those days which followed were days of great opportunity to Ester, if
she had but known how to use them. Sadie's sad, softened heart,
into which grief had entered, might have been turned by a few kind,
skillful words, from thoughts of Florence to Florence's Savior. Ester
_did_ try; she was kinder, more gentle with the young sister than
was her wont to be; and once, when Sadie was lingering fondly over
memories of her friend, she said, in an awkward, blundering way,
something about Florence having been prepared to die, and hoping that
Sadie would follow her example. Sadie looked surprised, but answered,
gravely:
"I never expect to be like Florence. She was perfect, or, at least,
I'm sure I could never see any thing about her that wasn't perfection.
You know, Ester, she never did any thing wrong."
And Ester, unused to it, and confused with her own attempt, kept
silence, and let poor Sadie rest upon the thought that it was
Florence's goodness which made her ready to die, instead of the blood
of Jesus.
So the time passed; the grass grew green over Florence's grave, and
Sadie missed her indeed. Yet the serious thoughts grew daily fainter,
and Ester's golden opportunity for leading her to Christ was lost.
CHAPTER IV.
THE SUNDAY LESSON.
Alfred and Julia Ried were in the sitting-room, studying their
Sabbath-school lessons. Those two were generally to be found together;
being twins, they had commenced _life_ together, and had thus far gone
side by side. It was a quiet October Sabbath afternoon. The twins
had a great deal of business on hand during the week, and the
Sabbath-school lesson used to stand a fair chance of being forgotten;
so Mrs. Ried had made a law that half an hour of every Sabbath
afternoon should be spent in studying the lesson for the coming
Sabbath. Ester sat in the same room, by the window; she had been
reading, but her book had fallen idly in her lap, and she seemed lost
in thought Sadie, too, was there, carrying on a whispered conversation
with Minnie, who was snugged close in her arms, and merry bursts of
laughter came every few minutes from the little girl. The idea of
Sadie keeping quiet herself, or of keeping any body else quiet, was
simply absurd.
"But I say unto you that ye resist not evil, but whosoever shall smite
thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also," read Julia,
slowly and thoughtfully. "Alfred, what do you suppose that can mean?"
"Don't know, I'm sure," Alfred said. "The next one is just as queer:
'And if any man will sue thee at the law, and take away thy coat, let
him have thy cloak also.' I'd like to see _me_ doing that. I'd fight
for it, I reckon."
"Oh, Alfred! you wouldn't, if the Bible said you mustn't, would you?"
"I don't suppose this means us at all," said Alfred, using,
unconsciously, the well-known argument of all who have tried to slip
away from gospel teaching since Adam's time.
"I suppose it's talking to those wicked old fellows who lived before
the flood, or some such time."
"Well, _any_how," said Julia, "I should like to know what it all
means. I wish mother would come home. I wonder how Mrs. Vincent is. Do
you suppose she will die, Alfred?"
"Don't know - just hear this, Julia! 'But I say unto you, Love your
enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you and
pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you.' Wouldn't
you like to see anybody who did all that?"
"Sadie," said Julia, rising suddenly, and moving over to where the
frolic was going on, "won't you tell us about our lesson? We don't
understand a bit about it; and I can't learn any thing that I don't
understand."
"Bless your heart, child! I suspect you know more about the Bible this
minute than I do. Mother was too busy taking care of you two, when I
was a little chicken, to teach me as she has you."
"Well, but what _can_ that mean - 'If a man strikes you on one cheek,
let him strike the other too?'"
"Yes," said Alfred, chiming in, "and, 'If anybody takes your coat
away, give him your cloak too.'"
"I suppose it means just that," said Sadie. "If anybody steals your
mittens, as that Bush girl did yours last winter, Julia, you are to
take your hood right off, and give it to her."
"Oh, Sadie! you _don't_ ever mean that."
"And then," continued Sadie, gravely, "if that shouldn't satisfy her,
you had better take off your shoes and stockings, and give her them."
"Sadie," said Ester, "how _can_ you teach those children such
nonsense?"
"She isn't teaching _me_ any thing," interrupted Alfred. "I guess I
ain't such a dunce as to swallow all that stuff."
"Well," said Sadie, meekly, "I'm sure I'm doing the best I can;
and you are all finding fault. I've explained to the best of _my_
abilities Julia, I'll tell you the truth;" and for a moment her
laughing face grew sober. "I don't know the least thing about
it - don't pretend to. Why don't you ask Ester? She can tell you more
about the Bible in a minute, I presume, than I could in a year."
Ester laid her book on the window. "Julia, bring your Bible here," she
said, gravely. "Now what is the matter? I never heard you make such a
commotion over your lesson."
"Mother always explains it," said Alfred, "and she hasn't got back
from Mrs. Vincent's; and I don't believe anyone else in this house
_can_ do it."
"Alfred," said Ester, "don't be impertinent. Julia, what is that you
want to know?"
"About the man being struck on one cheek, how he must let them strike
the other too. What does it mean?"
"It means just _that_, when girls are cross and ugly to you, you must
be good and kind to them; and, when a boy knocks down another, he must
forgive him, instead of getting angry and knocking back."
"Ho!" said Alfred, contemptuously, "_I_ never saw the boy yet who
would do it."
"That only proves that boys are naughty, quarrelsome fellows, who
don't obey what the Bible teaches."
"But, Ester," interrupted Julia, anxiously, "was that true what Sadie
said about me giving my shoes and stockings and my hood to folks who
stole something from me?"
"Of course not. Sadie shouldn't talk such nonsense to you. That is
about men going to law. Mother will explain it when she goes over the
lesson with you."
Julia was only half satisfied. "What does that verse mean about doing
good to them that - "
"Here, I'll read it," said Alfred - "'But I say unto you, Love your
enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and
pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you.'"
"Why, that is plain enough. It means just what it says. When people
are ugly to you, and act as though they hated you, you must be very
good and kind to them, and pray for them, and love them."
"Ester, does God really mean for us to love people who are ugly to us,
and to be good to them?"
"Of course."
"Well, then, why don't we, if God says so? Ester, why don't you?"
"That's the point!" exclaimed Sadie, in her most roguish tone. "I'm
glad you've made the application, Julia."
Now Ester's heart had been softening under the influence of these
peaceful Bible words. She believed them; and in her heart was a real,
earnest desire to teach her brother and sister Bible truths. Left
alone, she would have explained that those who loved Jesus _were_
struggling, in a weak feeble way, to obey these directions; that she
herself was trying, trying _hard_ sometimes; that _they_ ought to. But
there was this against Ester - her whole life was so at variance with
those plain, searching Bible rules, that the youngest child could not
but see it; and Sadie's mischievous tones and evident relish of
her embarrassment at Julia's question, destroyed the self-searching
thoughts. She answered, with severe dignity:
"Sadie, if I were you, I wouldn't try to make the children as
irreverent as I was myself." Then she went dignifiedly from the room.
Dr. Van Anden paused for a moment before Sadie, as she sat alone in
the sitting-room that same Sabbath-evening.
"Sadie," said he, "is there one verse in the Bible which you have
never read?"
"Plenty of them, Doctor. I commenced reading the Bible through once;
but I stopped at some chapter in Numbers - the thirtieth, I think it
is, isn't it? or somewhere along there where all those hard names are,
you know. But why do you ask?"
The doctor opened a large Bible which lay on the stand before them,
and read aloud: "Ye have perverted the words of the living God."
Sadie looked puzzled. "Now, Doctor, what ever possessed you to think
that I had never read that verse?"
"God counts that a solemn thing, Sadie."
"Very likely; what then?"
"I was reading on the piazza when the children came to you for an
explanation of their lesson."
Sadie laughed. "Did you hear that conversation, Doctor? I hope you
were benefited." Then, more gravely: "Dr. Van Anden, do you really
mean me to think that I was perverting Scripture?"
"_I_ certainly think so, Sadie. Were you not giving the children wrong
ideas concerning the teachings of our Savior?"
Sadie was quite sober now. "I told the truth at last, Doctor. I
don't know any thing about these matters. People who profess to be
Christians do not live according to our Savior's teaching. At least
_I_ don't see any who do; and it sometimes seems to me that those
verses which the children were studying, _can not_ mean what they say,
or Christian people would surely _try_ to follow them."
For an answer, Dr. Van Anden turned the Bible leaves again, and
pointed with his finger to this verse, which Sadie read:
"But as he which has called you is holy, so be ye holy in all manner
of conversation."
After that he went out of the room.
And Sadie, reading the verse over again, could not but understand that
she _might_ have a perfect pattern, if she would.
CHAPTER V.
THE POOR LITTLE FISH.
"Mother," said Sadie, appearing in the dining-room one morning,
holding Julia by the hand, "did you ever hear of the fish who fell out
of the frying-pan into the fire?" Which question her mother answered
by asking, without turning her eyes from the great batch of bread