THE STONE THROWN IN THE WATERS
Neighbour Bessie had got a new thought!
Not that this was an unusual occurrence, her brain being pretty prolific, but this was of special importance and gave her special delight.
She was a member of a certain young woman's Bible class which happened just then to be without a teacher. The inspiring thought was, "Why should not Mrs. Waring become the teacher?" Hurrah! And she should become the teacher, too, if Bessie could by any possible manœuvres bring it about.
That her own personal invitation was not sufficient she knew well enough, and was quite sure Mrs. Waring would never offer her services, though "coaxed like anything." "I know what I'll do!" she exclaimed to herself. "I'll get up a petition. See if I don't;" and she did, for when once Bessie willed she did, and there was "an end on't," as the Lancashire women say.
She drew up the heading herself, one sentence being, "And we shall ever be grateful," which she thought would be especially "fetching." "None of your 'Kathleen Mavourneen' style about that: 'may be for years or may be for ever.'" Truth to tell, there was never much of the "Kathleen Mavourneen style" about any of Bessie's doings, her character being cast in too decided a mould for that.
The following Sunday twelve out of twenty members were present, and all willingly signed the petition, somewhat tickled with the fun of it and Bessie's tragic manner. The other eight she visited at their homes, and thus the full number of signatures was obtained.
Then came the formidable task of presenting the petition. "When a subject presents a petition to the Queen"—that was how she began her speech on the very first opportunity—"I suppose the proper thing is to drop down on the knees something like this," straightway kneeling down in front of Phebe.
"Are you thinking of interviewing the Queen yourself, then? Is that your next adventure?"
"I am already interviewing the queen of my heart, and would beseech her gracious majesty to carefully read this petition," spreading the paper out on Phebe's knee.
"What nonsense are you up to now, Bessie?" asked Nanna, coming into the room just at that minute.
"No nonsense at all, but real serious business, such as you would delight in yourself. Come and help me to persuade Mrs. Waring to say 'Yes.'"
"But ought she to say 'Yes'?"
"I am sure you will say so when you know all about it."
Phebe at once, with a smile, handed Nanna the paper, and Nanna, with spectacles on nose, began to read with a face as solemn as the countenances of two judges photographed on to one negative. But sunshine soon conquered solemnity.
"Well done, Bessie! It does you credit," was the instantaneous verdict. "I can see it's you that's been at the top and bottom of it all. Of course you'll say 'Yes'?" turning to Phebe.
"It's very good of the girls, and it is just what I should like to do; but there is one thing they have forgotten to do."
"What is that?" quickly questioned Bessie.
"You have never asked the permission of the superintendent."
"Never thought of that," exclaimed Bessie; "but there will be no difficulty in that quarter. Why should there be? Then you do really say 'Yes'?"
"I will certainly try what I can do, but understand, the invitation must also come from the superintendent."
"You are a dear," and impulsive Bessie flung her arms round her neck and kissed her. "Do you know I feel so good and virtuous I don't think I shall sleep to-night."
Certainly Phebe did not go to sleep quickly that night, the idea of partly mothering twenty girls quite taking possession of her. If only she could get them to rise up to the full dignity of Christian womanhood what a splendid piece of work that would be! And there and then she began shaping her introductory talk to them. She looked upon Bessie's scheme as another means sent by God to fill the void left in her heart and life.
The following Sunday afternoon she quite expected that Bessie would come in to tea, bringing with her the more formal invitation. The meal was even kept waiting, but no Bessie came.
"She will come in after tea," said Phebe—still no Bessie.
"She will be here at supper-time, sure enough," said Mrs. Colston. Supper-time came, but no Bessie.
"She must be unwell, surely," thought Phebe; but Bessie's high voice overheard on Monday morning proved that to be quite a mistake.
All Monday passed, but no Bessie came. On Tuesday morning Mrs. Colston sent her a message: "Why do you not come in? Have you forgotten what we are expecting?" To Phebe she said: "No doubt the superintendent was not present on Sunday, but at least she ought to have come in and told us so. I don't hold with girls being so thoughtless."
Bessie's answer was: "I'll come in this evening."
Poor Bessie! When she did come—and she made it as late as ever she could—she looked as if she had just made the acquaintance of the ducking-stool.
"I know you wanted to hear what that superintendent said, and that's just why I didn't want to come in," she blurted out.
"Poor old Bessie!" said Phebe, quite pained to see the change in her, "but don't fret about it, whatever it was."
"But I can't help it! It is a downright big shame."
"What dreadful thing did he say?"
"He's going to take the class himself, but I can't stay any longer, mother will want me."
"Bessie," said Phebe, laying her hand firmly on her arm, "there is something else troubling you."
"The girls don't want a man to teach them—but I really must be going."
"Bessie," Phebe forced her into a chair, and stood over her, "you are to tell me right out what is troubling you. Surely there are to be no secrets between us! Tell me just what the superintendent said."
