PHRASES TO SUPPLY THE BLANKS.
A broken jackknife.
A flock of crows.
A carpenter’s chest.
A pinch of snuff.
A humbug.
A new idea.
This, that, and the other.
A bureau drawer.
A dancing-master.
A cake saloon.
A gander.
A good character.
Something green.
An old bandanna.
A streak of lightning.
A quarter of beef.
A charcoal-wagon.
A bad cold.
A vast oyster stew.
A bird.
Somebody.
A mowing machine.
A dishcloth.
A pair of old pantaloons.
A yellow dog.
A bucket of soft soap.
A contented mind.
A house afire.
Daddy Longlegs.
A thousand flowers.
A three-legged stool.
A few old clothes.
Two lame legs.
A white cat.
An immense pan-dowdy.
A grand palaver.
A great toe.
A great fool.
A load of hay.
The elephant.
A crust of bread.
A sick calf.
A tin kitchen.
A red moustache.
A fiddler.
A stiff knee.
A cornfield.
Two-and-three-pence.
A one-eyed man.
A cocked hat.
A liberty pole.
Some valuable experience.
A stack of fat lobsters.
A great sorrow.
A cup of coffee.
A quiet conscience.
A gridiron railroad.
An Irishman.
A drove of cattle.
Such a pretty kettle of fish.
A pair of cotton socks.
A dark shadow.
A quart of caterpillars.
A great hole.
An old brass key.
Yankee Doodle.
A dreadful pain.
A pair of green spectacles.
A cucumber.
A string of onions.
A clap of thunder.
Half a pair of scissors.
A soldier.
Half a peck of dried beans.
A telegraph despatch.
A velvet sofa.
A yoke of steers.
A bad scrape.
A basket of chips.
Half a dozen doughnuts.
An old owl.
A flood of tears.
Balaam’s ass.
An old coat.
A tub of butter.
A small boy.
A bad matter.
The milk of human kindness.
A heap of pancakes.
A boarding-house.
A little fiddle.
A Frenchman.
A peeled onion.
Half a dozen bundles.
A stick of candy.
A young earthquake.
A mint of gold.
A salt fish.
A mouse.
Just nothing at all.
A couple of lightning bugs.
A piece of putty.
A dose of salts.
A lightning express.
A handful of pea-nuts.
A Dutch farmer.
A set of false teeth.
A roast ox.
A liver complaint.
A long-legged fellow.
Something else.
A big meeting house.
A heavy weed.
A pumpkin-vine trumpet.
A tear.
The middle of next week.
A small waiter.
A blackbird fricasee.
A brass button.
A unicorn.
A pair of tongs.
A pair of old brogans.
Nine rats in a stocking.
A swarm of bees.
A litter of pups.
A patent boot-jack.
A one-horse saw-mill.
Potatoes and cabbages.
A dilapidated straw hat.
A big chimney.
A stuffed pig.
The American eagle.
A rusty horse-shoe.
A pocket full of rocks.
An Indian squaw.
A smoked herring.
Sally’s baby.
A blue cotton umbrella.
A sheet of fancy gingerbread.
A hickory sapling.
A spare seat.
A thousand of bricks.
A sloop load of clams.
A big iron pot.
Something or other.
A goose.
A bob-tailed donkey.
A sheet of last year’s buns.
A friend sincere.
A three-cent piece.
Fourteen bandboxes.
A city missionary.
A starving bear.
A hot sun.
A bunch of posies.
A gentleman from the country.
Two buckets of swill.
An old handcart.
A great curiosity.
Some serious reflections.
A snapping turtle.
A policeman.
A pocket handkerchief.
A pound of wooden nutmegs.
Twenty-three dollars.
A sweet potato.
A new comer.
A cup of green tea.
A crying baby.
A sea of turtle soup.
A tow-headed boy.
An unfortunate accident.
Old dog Tray.
A dozen bull-frogs.
A mammoth cooking-stove.
Polly’s old bonnet.
A bramble bush.
Some good advice.
A fishing pole.
Widow Buck’s cow.
A glass of ginger beer.
General confusion.
A punch.
A needle and thread.
A blind alley.
A chipmuck.
The old homestead.
A bad liver.
An ivory-headed cane.
A parting blessing.
A handful of crackers.
Three heavy trunks.
A tall steeple.
A strange sensation.
A cock turkey.
Twelve dozen eggs.
A hippopotamus.
An old newspaper.
An old linen sack.
A sore head.
A chaw of tobacco.
A procession of cockroaches.
A Patagonian chief.
Two old cronies.
An Egyptian mummy.
A big stone.
An old setting hen.
Something strange.
St. George and the dragon.
A butcher’s wagon.
These new trousers.
A little spilt milk.
Two shirts and a dickey.
A meat-axe.
Two leather shoe-strings.
A stiff leg.
CHAPTER XIV.
JUST OUT OF JAIL.
Four months in the county jail, was the sentence passed upon Sam Hapley, Jessie’s oldest brother, for a robbery which he committed in a neighboring town. Sam entered upon his imprisonment during the last week of the year, and his sentence had now expired. Those were four very long and weary months to the boy-prisoner, but he could scarcely realize the change they had brought about in his once happy home. Since the key first turned upon him in his little cell, his youngest brother, the flower and pet of the household, had been carried to his long home, and was soon followed by his father, who met with an awful fate one winter’s night, while he was stupefied with liquor. The rest of the family had been scattered, strangers gathered around the fireside where they used to meet, and not one of them could now claim a home.
A few days before Sam’s release from jail, Jessie wrote to him an affectionate letter, inviting him, in behalf of Mrs. Page and Marcus, to come and see them, before going elsewhere, and promising him a kind reception. His mother had also written to him, informing him that she had the promise of a good situation for him on a farm, in the town where she was living, and urging him to come to her at once, on his discharge from jail. Sam did not reply to either of these letters; but the day after the expiration of his sentence, just as the academy bell was ringing for the afternoon session, a little boy put into the hands of Jessie a note, which he said a strange young man, whom he met in the woods, had asked him to deliver. It was faintly written with a lead pencil, and was dirty and crumpled; but she soon ascertained that it was from Sam, and that it contained a request for her to meet him, that afternoon, at a certain retired spot on the banks of Round Hill Pond. It also apprised her that she must come alone, if she wished to see him.
Jessie at once got excused from her afternoon duties, and proceeded to the spot indicated in the note. She seated herself on a certain large, flattish stone, near the pond, as directed, and in a few minutes her brother emerged from a thicket close by. She embraced him with the warm affection of a sister, but his greeting was rather cool, and he kept glancing about with suspicious eye, as if expecting to see some unwelcome face peering out from behind a tree or rock. Sam had changed but little in appearance, since Jessie last saw him. He was a trifle taller, and seemed less bold and frank than formerly; and the coarse, sensual and vulgar expression which his countenance had for several years been assuming, was more painfully apparent than ever. He looked well and hearty, however, and was evidently the same Sam Hapley that he had always been.
Jessie made it her first business to endeavor to persuade her brother to go with her to Mrs. Page’s. But though she used all her powers of persuasion, he resolutely refused, from first to last, to show himself in town. He said he slept the night previous in an old, unoccupied barn, near the pond, and had a little food, which he had bought with money given to him by the sheriff. He had seen no one who knew him since he came to Highburg, and he intended to leave the town that afternoon, or early the next morning, “to seek his fortune,” as he expressed it. But Jessie could gain no information as to what his purposes really were. The most he divulged was, that he should not accept of his mother’s proposition, nor even go to see her; and he wound up by saying, that he should not have come to see Jessie, only he thought she might be able to let him have a few dollars.
Notwithstanding this cutting remark, and the unfeeling manner in which it was uttered, Jessie would probably have offered her brother assistance, had it been in her power to do so. But she had not a dollar in the world, and she told him so. He then proposed that she should borrow a small sum from Mrs. Page; but Jessie firmly declined to do this, saying that nothing would tempt her to borrow, so long as she had no means for repaying the debt. When Sam found that there was no prospect of his accomplishing his selfish purpose, he seemed in haste to close the interview, that he might at once resume his travels. But Jessie still clung to him, with tears, beseeching him to reconsider his resolution.
“There is poor Henry,” she said; “what will he think, when he finds that you have been here, and gone off, without seeing him?”
“I can’t help it,” replied Sam. “I should like to see him well enough, but I’ve determined I wont show myself in Highburg again, and I wont—so that’s an end of it.”
“And the graves of father and Benny—can you go away without making them one visit?” inquired Jessie, her tears bursting forth afresh.
“I can’t do them any good,” he replied, after a moment’s pause. “Come, it’s of no use to tease so, for I’ve made up my mind to go off this afternoon, and I shall go, whether or no.”
But Jessie did continue to “tease,” and her importunities were at length rewarded by a promise that he would remain there another night, and that he would meet Jessie and Henry at an early hour the next morning, in the burial-ground, which was in a secluded spot.
On her way home, Jessie called at Mr. Allen’s, to get permission for her brother to accompany her in the morning. Henry was at home, for he did not now go to school, Mr. Allen having need of his services on the farm. Jessie did not think it best to say anything about Sam, but merely requested that Henry might be allowed to make an early visit to the graveyard, with her, the next morning. She had been thinking, ever since the snow began to disappear, of planting some young trees or shrubs over the spot where her father and brother were laid; and as the time to transplant trees had now arrived, she determined to perform this act of filial and sisterly affection, in connection with her interview with Sam. Mrs. Allen readily consented to Jessie’s request, and added that her husband would probably furnish them with some young trees suitable for their purpose.
Jessie reached home a little before the rest of the young folks returned from school. Some curiosity was manifested about her sudden disappearance, but she let no one into her confidence except Mrs. Page, to whom she related the adventures of the afternoon. Early the next morning, Jessie departed as quietly as possible, to keep her appointment. She took with her a small package, which Mrs. Page, in the kindness of her heart, had hastily made up for the erring boy. It contained several articles of underclothing, which Marcus had outgrown, and some cold meat, bread, and other substantial provisions for the body.
On arriving at Mr. Allen’s, Jessie found her brother ready for her. Mr. Allen had given him two tall and straight beeches, and Mrs. A. had allowed him to take up a rose-bush and an althea from the front yard. With these on his shoulder, and a shovel, hoe and rake in his hand, he had about as much as he could carry.
“Mr. Allen and his wife are very kind, to give us these,” said Jessie, after they had left the yard.
“I know it,” said Henry; “and I didn’t ask them, either—they did it of their own accord.”
“You seem to like your new home rather better than you did at first,” continued Jessie.
“I like Mrs. Allen a good deal better than I used to—she isn’t cross to me, now,” replied Henry.
“I suppose that is because you try harder to please her than you used to, isn’t it?” inquired Jessie.
“Yes, I suppose it’s partly that,” said Henry; “but I’m sure I haven’t changed any more than she has. She used to scold me, whether I did right or wrong. Now she hardly ever scolds, even when I deserve it.”
“Still, I think you deserve most of the credit for the change,” said Jessie. “If Mrs. Allen was ever cross or unkind to you, I’m satisfied it was because she thought you did not try to please her. I knew it was out of pure kindness to you that she consented to take you, in the first place; and I think she would always have treated you as kindly as she does now, if——but we wont rake over past errors. I’m very glad they’re dead and buried, and I hope they’ll never rise again. And now, whom do you suppose we’re going to see?”
“I didn’t know we were going to see anybody,” replied Henry.
“What should you say, if you should meet Samuel?” inquired Jessie.
“What, our Sam! is he here?” exclaimed Henry, stopping short, and resting his burden upon the ground.
Jessie then related to him the occurrences of the previous afternoon, as they walked on towards the burial-ground. Henry seemed much pleased with the idea of seeing his brother, and hurried along so fast, with his burden, that Jessie could hardly keep up with him.
On reaching the graveyard, as they saw nothing of Sam, they proceeded to the lot where their father and brother were laid, and prepared to set out the trees and shrubs. There was no stone to mark the spot, but Jessie remembered too well the two little gravelly mounds, to need anything to guide her to the locality. Henry threw off his jacket, and went to work in good earnest with his shovel, pausing, every few minutes, to look around in quest of Sam. Jessie, meanwhile, was busy with the hoe and rake, cleaning out and levelling the lot. The holes for the trees required to be large, and as the digging was rather hard, Henry found he had undertaken no trifling task. But he kept steadily at work, hoping, however, that the stronger arm of his brother would soon come, to “spell” him.
The two beeches were at length planted, each near the head of a grave; but Sam had not appeared, though it was half an hour later than the time he had appointed for the interview. Jessie and Henry, though disappointed and dejected, still hoped their brother would appear, thinking that his failure to keep the appointment might be owing to his having no means of telling the exact time of day, where he was. They kept on with their labor, and the shrubs were soon in their places at the foot of the graves, and the whole lot was put in as good order as the time would allow.
But they looked and waited in vain for Sam. He did not appear. After lingering around the burial-ground until it was nearly time for the academy bell to ring, they departed, sadly disappointed, and wondering whether Sam had taken alarm, and left town sooner than he intended, or whether he had agreed to the appointment merely to get rid of the importunities of his sister, and without any idea of keeping his promise. Jessie and Henry felt, however, that they had done a good work, though they had not accomplished the thing for which mainly they set out on their early morning errand.
CHAPTER XV.
SHOW AND SUBSTANCE.
“Mother,” said Ronald, one evening, as the family were sitting together in the twilight, “I wish we had a sugar-orchard. Only think—Charlie Doane and his little brother Tom have made three hundred and ten pounds of sugar, this year, without anybody’s help, and they’re going to have all the money for it. All their father did was to cut a part of the wood. Charlie isn’t fourteen years old, yet, and he’s got lots of money laid up. Why, he says they’ll get all of twenty-five dollars for their maple sugar, this year.”
“What does he intend to do with his money?” inquired Mrs. Page.
“Oh, he saves it up,” replied Ronald; “he doesn’t spend a cent of it; and when he gets a lot together, he puts it in the bank. He’s earning money all the time—I never see such a fellow. Why, he’s round by day-break, every morning, now, after greens—he sells them over to the village, and picks up lots of change, that way. There, I never thought of it before—I mean to pick some greens, and see if I can’t sell them, and get some money to pay my note. Will you buy them, mother?”
“I’ll buy as many as we can use,” replied Mrs. Page; “but if you are as industrious as Charlie is, I can’t promise to take all you bring.”
“Oh, I never shall be as industrious as he is,” said Ronald; “or at any rate, I never shall pick up money as fast as he does.”
“I shouldn’t like to have you do just as Charlie Doane is doing, if you could,” added Mrs. Page. “I like to see children industrious, and it is well enough for them to earn a little money for themselves, occasionally; but when I see them very eager to get money to hoard up, and never spending a cent, if they can help it, I’m afraid they are training themselves to be selfish, close-fisted worshippers of money. I should tremble for Charlie, if he were my boy.”
“His father praises him up to a great rate, for earning so much money, and saving it up so close,” said Otis. “I was in Mr. Todd’s store, the other day, when he was telling about it. He said Charlie would be a rich man, yet.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Doane, himself, thinks too much of his money,” continued Mrs. Page.
“Mr. Doane?” said Marcus, apparently awakening from a reverie; “he’s a complete miser. When old Mrs. Lane lost her cow, and the people were making up a subscription to buy her another, everybody thought that as Mr. Doane sold the cow to her only a little while before, and made a good profit on it, he would put his name down for five dollars, at least; but he refused to give a single cent towards it. And yet he’s worth fifteen thousand dollars, at the least calculation. He’s an old miser, and it’s my opinion Charlie will be another, if he lives.”
“You’re rather free in your remarks,” said Mrs. Page, smiling. “Do you remember the article in the ‘Wreath,’ a month or two ago, about speaking evil of our neighbors?”
“Yes, ma’am, I remember it,” replied Marcus, “and I believe I’ve only carried out its doctrine. If I recollect right, it took the ground that we ought not to speak of the faults of another, except for a good object. Now I had a good object in saying what I did about Mr. Doane. Charlie’s miserly example had evidently made quite an impression on Ronald, and it was necessary to hold up Mr. Doane’s character in its true light, to counteract that impression. That’s all I did.”
“Well, mother,” said Ronald, “you buy my greens, and I wont hoard up my money. I’ll pay my note, first, and then I’ll buy one of those new-fashioned caps that Ed Baldwin has got. I wish I could have one of those caps, before examination day.”
“There, Ronald,” said Oscar, “don’t begin to talk a fortnight beforehand about what you will wear to the examination—that sounds a little too much like the girls. I overheard some of the girls, to-day, talking about the exhibition; and they didn’t have a word to say about the lessons, or performances, or anything of that sort—it was all dress, dress, dress. One was going to wear white muslin, and another pink, and one was going to do her hair up in this way, and another in that way, and so on to the end of the chapter. I wonder if the girls ever talk about anything besides dress, and looks, and such things.”
“I think they do,” replied Jessie. “I suppose I’ve been among the girls at least as much as you have, to-day, and I don’t remember hearing a word about dress or personal looks.”
“Then you were very fortunate,” said Oscar. “I heard enough about those subjects, at any rate. One girl said she’d give anything in the world, if her hair would only curl; another had got some beautiful new lace to trim her dress; and another didn’t intend to wear any jewelry, at the examination, but was going to trim herself up with buds and flowers, instead. One might have supposed, from the way they talked, that we were to have a grand examination of dresses, and nothing else.”
“And Mr. Paul Pry was sneaking around, listening to it all, was he?” inquired Kate.
“No, I didn’t have to listen, for I couldn’t help hearing,” replied Oscar. “But I didn’t say who they were, and if you wont expose them, Kate, I wont.”
“Oh, I care nothing about your exposing us,” retorted Kate; “I was only thinking how you had exposed yourself. I suppose I was one of the party he refers to. Abby Leonard happened to come along, and you know she’s always talking about dress, and she began to tell what she was going to wear exhibition day. So the others joined in for a few minutes, and that was the origin of all this fuss about ‘dress, dress, dress.’”
This retort, which was uttered in a somewhat bitter tone, surprised Oscar very much, for Kate was one of the best-natured of girls, and he had never before heard her speak in this way. He had evidently touched her in a tender spot, and he began to think he had committed a serious offence. So he stammered out the best apology he could think of, saying that he only spoke of the matter good-naturedly, and meant no offence to any one. Ronald and Otis, seeing how the battle was going, now came gallantly to the rescue of Oscar, and volunteered their testimony to his side of the case. The girls, they said, were all the time talking about dress—they noticed it every day.
“Well, supposing we do talk rather more about dress than we ought to,” said Kate, “I think you are a pretty set of folks to rebuke us for it. There’s Oscar—there isn’t a boy or young man in the academy that is so particular about dress as he is; and Otis can never go within forty feet of a looking-glass, without stopping to smooth his hair; and as to Ronald, if he hadn’t just showed what’s running in his head, nobody would have thought of talking about dress.”
Ronald and Otis both attempted to reply to this speech at once, but Mrs. Page stopped them, and then said:
“This debate is getting to be a little too spicy, and I think it had better be brought to a close. In my opinion, both sides are partly right, and both are partly wrong. I have no doubt that many of the girls think and talk a great deal too much of what they shall wear, and how they shall look. It is a great fault, look at it in what light you will. There is nothing so becoming in woman or girl as simplicity and neatness in dress. It is a barbarous taste that is fond of extravagant and gaudy apparel, or showy jewelry. And then, this taste is not only bad in itself, but it leads to a great many evils. A woman who has it soon becomes frivolous and vain; she overlooks honest merit, in plain attire; she is jealous and envious of those who make more show than she does; she becomes extravagant and reckless, and perhaps drives her father or husband into bankruptcy, that she may have the means to gratify her selfish taste. It is all wrong, from beginning to end. But then it was hardly fair in Oscar to intimate that all the girls are given to this folly. I believe there are some who think and talk of other things besides dress.”
“I suppose I was a little too sweeping in saying that,” said Oscar. “But I do think it is a great fault in many girls, that they think and say so much about dress. I’ve thought of it a great many times.”
“Now you’re talking sensibly,” said Aunt Fanny. “I think we all, ladies as well as gentlemen, will agree with you there. We are all acquainted with women and girls who seem to think more of dressing well and looking pretty than of anything else. I have known women whose whole souls seemed to be bound up in dress; but their souls were very small, you may depend upon that.”
“I think there is something very belittling and dwarfing to the mind, in a love of dress and finery,” said Mrs. Page. “I knew a woman who was a great lover of dress, who, at the age of forty, had no more judgment, or stability, or strength of mind, than a child ten years old; and yet she was naturally a person of good capacities. She devoted her mind to such petty trifles, that instead of expanding as she grew older, it shrivelled up.”
“I have heard,” said Oscar, “that intelligent foreigners are astonished by the parade of silks, and satins, and jewelry, which American ladies make in the streets, and in the hotels and watering places. They say our merchants’ and mechanics’ wives and daughters often dress more extravagantly than the nobility of Europe.”
“Mother used to say,” said Jessie, “that the best rule is, to dress so that people will not notice what you have on. I think if I had ever so much money, I should not want to dress so as to attract attention, and occasion remark; neither do I want to dress so poorly, or be so far out of fashion, that people cannot help noticing me.”
“That is a safe and excellent rule,” said Mrs. Page, “to dress so that people will not recollect what you had on. There is a command in the Bible, particularly addressed to women, which we should do well to remember: ‘Whose adorning, let it not be that outward adorning of plaiting the hair, and of wearing of gold, or of putting on of apparel; but let it be the hidden man of the heart, in that which is not corruptible, even the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight of God of great price.’”
“What is the name of the firm that Abby’s father is the head of?” inquired Marcus, who had brought in a lamp, and was reading the morning newspaper.
“Leonard, Vandenberg & Co.,” replied Ronald; “I thought everybody in town knew that by heart, she’s told of it so many times.”
“They have failed,” said Marcus, his eye still upon the paper; and then he read the telegraph despatch which announced the fact. It was as follows:
“Leonard, Vandenberg & Co., one of our largest commission houses, suspended to-day. Mr. Vandenberg mysteriously disappeared last week, and it is rumored that he has embezzled a large portion of the firm’s assets. The other partners have surrendered everything, but the failure is believed to be a very bad one.”
“What will poor Abby do, now?” exclaimed Jessie, with unaffected sympathy.
“I don’t pity her one mite—she’d no business to be stuck up so,” said Kate, who had not yet fully recovered her usual good nature.
“Her pride will have a fall now, wont it?” added Otis.
“I shouldn’t wonder if it proved the best thing that ever happened to her,” said Oscar.
“I wonder if she has heard of it, yet,” said Ronald. “I’ve a good mind to go and tell her—would you?”
“She’s heard of it, before this time—bad news travels fast,” said Mrs. Page.
“Well, I’m sorry for the poor girl—it must be a terrible blow to her,” said Marcus.
And so one and another commented on the news, most of the little company expressing sympathy for Abby, though she was by no means a favorite with any of them. Even Kate so far relented, before the matter was dropped, as to express the hope that none of the scholars would “twit” Abby about the sudden change in her position.
Abby appeared at school, the next morning, holding her head as high as ever, and apparently as calm and happy as though nothing out of the usual course had occurred. She must have been conscious, it would seem, that she was the centre of many sidelong glances, and that there was an unusual amount of whispering going on among the girls; but she did not appear to notice these significant signs. So it began to be believed that she had not heard of her father’s failure. After a while, however, one miss who had had many a sharp encounter with Abby, unable to stand the painful suspense any longer, bluntly put the question to her old enemy, in the presence of several of her school-mates—
“Did you see the Boston papers, yesterday?”
“It’s nothing to you whether I did or not,” instantly replied Abby, her face white with passion, and her frame trembling with excitement.
“Well, you needn’t be so touchy about it,” replied the other girl. “I only asked, because I thought it would be doing you a favor to tell you your father had failed, if you didn’t know it.”
“I wish folks would mind their own business, and let me alone,” said Abby in the same angry tone, and she turned away from the group, who had listened to this conversation.
“I declare, she has a queer way of expressing her sorrow,” said the other girl, before Abby had got out of hearing.
Abby heard of her father’s failure, almost as soon as she reached her boarding-place, after school, the previous day. The intelligence fell upon her like a thunderbolt. She retired to her room, and cried for several hours, and finally, nature becoming exhausted, she sobbed herself to sleep. The next morning, the question arose in her mind, whether she should stay at home, and thus avoid meeting her school-mates, whose taunts she was perhaps conscious she had reason to expect; or whether she should go boldly and mingle with them, exhibiting before them a total unconcern in regard to the failure. She finally adopted the latter course, and we have seen how far she succeeded. There were some among her associates who longed to whisper a word of sympathy or encouragement in her ear; but the bravado air she assumed forbade, and the poor girl found she had doomed herself to hug the crushing burden secretly to her heart, without a loving word of pity from any of her young associates.
The academy was dismissed in the afternoon, and Abby was hurrying away from her school-mates, when an arm was softly laid upon her shoulder, and, turning, she found Jessie by her side. In the kindest and most delicate way, Jessie alluded to the misfortune that had overtaken Abby, and expressed her sympathy for her. And then she went on to tell her how this very loss might prove, in the end, a great blessing to her family, and especially to herself. It might lead her to depend upon herself, instead of others; to think less of fashion, and show, and position, and wealth, and more of a well-cultivated mind, an amiable spirit, and a useful life. It might, in fact, be the making of her, if, instead of sitting down and repining, she would now begin to live for some good purpose. And then Jessie argued that the misfortune was not half so bad as it might have been. Mr. Leonard was not an embezzler, like his partner, but had honorably surrendered his property. The loss of money, she said, was nothing compared with the loss of integrity and character.
Abby at first received Jessie’s condolence rather cavalierly. She said her family always had lived in style, and she did not believe they would come down now. Her father was a great merchant, she said, and if he had lost some of his money, he knew how to make plenty more. In fact, she didn’t consider it any great thing if he had failed. But this assumed indifference to her trouble soon melted away under the kind and sympathizing words of Jessie, and Abby at length fully opened her heart, and found some degree of relief in pouring out her griefs in the ear of her friend.
CHAPTER XVI.
GETTING UP IN THE WORLD.
The academy term was now about to close, and the students were quite earnestly engaged in reviewing studies, preparatory to the approaching examination. Nothing else was talked much about, even by the boys. Ronald came marching into the house one afternoon, fresh from school, repeating the words:
“Step by step—step by step—step by step;” adding, “that’s our countersign, mother—the scholar’s countersign; Mr. Upton gave it to us to-day.”
“I thought a countersign was something to be kept private in the camp; but you seem to take considerable pains to make yours public,” said Mrs. Page.
“Well, it wont make any difference,” said Ronald; “Mr. Upton called it a countersign, but he didn’t tell us to keep it secret.”
“What did he give you such a countersign, for?” inquired Mrs. Page.
“O, he was telling us how we might get so as to know more than common folks,” replied Ronald. “He said that when he was a boy, all great and learned people seemed to be perched on the top of a high pinnacle, and he used to envy them; but he said he had no idea, then, how they got up there, only he thought there was some sort of a miraculous good luck about it. But he said he had since discovered that there was no royal road to learning, and that if any man wanted to get to the top of the pinnacle, he had got to go up step by step. He couldn’t fly up, nor leap up, nor sail up in a balloon, nor go up in a railroad train, nor ride up on somebody’s back, nor pull himself up by the waistband of his trousers, nor—”
“Why, Ronald Page, he said no such thing!” interposed Kate, who had just entered the room, with Jessie.
“Well, it amounted to the same thing,—I’ve got the idea, at any rate,” replied Ronald. “What he meant was, that everybody had to work to get up there—they went step by step, step by step; he kept bringing that in, every minute. Was there ever such a person as Porson, mother?”
“Yes, there was a very learned Englishman named Porson; he was a celebrated Greek scholar and a critic,” replied Mrs. Page.
“He was the man, then,” said Ronald; “for Mr. Upton told us he used to say any one might become as good a critic as he was, if he would only take trouble to make himself so; and Mr. Upton said that sometimes when Porson wanted to be sure and learn a thing, he would read it a dozen times, and then copy it off six times. That was the way he got to be so learned and famous, I suppose.”
“It seems to me you paid unusual attention to Mr. Upton’s remarks,” said Jessie; “you’ve repeated them very well.”
“I don’t believe I shall forget that ‘step by step’ very soon; why, I should think he said that over more than twenty times.”
“I thought, while he was making the remarks, of that French engraving of the top of the pyramid, in your portfolio,” said Jessie, addressing Aunt Fanny.
“What, that soldier on the top of a pyramid? Let me find it, will you, Aunt Fanny?” said Ronald.
Permission was given, and Ronald soon found the picture, a copy of which is given on the opposite page. It represents a French grenadier at the top of an Egyptian pyramid. You perceive he is a little elevated—about four hundred and eighty feet above the surface of the earth—and may well be pardoned for exhibiting a slight degree of enthusiasm.
“The engraving is a pretty good illustration of Mr. Upton’s remarks,” said Jessie. “You know the pyramids, a little way off, look as if their sides were smooth; at least they look so in pictures. Now, if we should see a man on top of one of them, we should wonder how he got there. We should think there was some miracle about it, or else that he had got faculties that common people don’t possess,—just as some people think when they see a learned man. But if we go up to the pyramid, we shall find that its sides are composed of steps, all the way up, and that the way to reach the top is to climb those steps, one by one.”
“I always thought the sides of the pyramids were smoothed off even, till I saw that picture,” said Ronald.
“When I went to school,” said Mrs. Page, “our teacher used to encourage us, if we got disheartened, by telling us that ‘what man has done, man may do.’ I heard that saying so often, that I got perfectly sick of it; but, after all, there is a good deal of meaning in it. It isn’t literally true that what one man has done, any other man can do. I might study as hard and as long as Milton did, and yet I never should be able to write such a poem as Paradise Lost. Some men are more highly endowed by God than others. But, by patient effort, and perseverance, and quietly going along step by step, as Mr. Upton says, we can do wonders. We can accomplish anything, in fact, that does not require a very rare and peculiar endowment from God. This is the way most people become eminent, and it is the way all become learned. They toil up the steep mountain, one step at a time, and if they get far above the crowd, you may know that they have worked hard, and have a right to swing their hats a little, with honest pride, as the soldier in the picture is doing.”
“O, mother!” exclaimed Ronald, “did you know Kate was admitted to the Grade of Honor, to-day?”
“No, I’ve heard nothing about it,” said Mrs. Page.
“Well, she was,” added Ronald; “and it was lucky for her, for it was the last chance—there wont be any more promotions before examination.”
“I’m glad to hear she succeeded; but didn’t you get in, too?” inquired Mrs. Page.
“No, ma’am,” replied Ronald, looking a little ashamed; “I didn’t expect to. But Marcus said I should have got in, if I hadn’t whispered so much.”
“Don’t you think it would have been better if you had denied yourself the gratification of whispering, and got admitted to the Grade of Honor?” inquired Mrs. Page.
“Yes, ma’am,” replied Ronald, “I wish I had; but it’s too late now. But, after all, I shouldn’t care about going in at the eleventh hour, just for a fortnight; I should feel as if I didn’t hardly belong there.”
“O, yes, you don’t think much of sour grapes, do you?” said Kate, who thought this was a reflection upon herself.
“Better late than never: better get in at the eleventh hour than not at all,” said Mrs. Page.
“Well, mother, I’ll get into the Grade of Honor at the very beginning of the next term,—you see if I don’t,” added Ronald.
“I hope you will,” said Mrs. Page; “and if you resolve to do so, I’ve no doubt you will.”
This Grade of Honor, which they were talking about, had been established in the academy, at the commencement of that term, as a substitute for prizes. It had been customary to award prizes, at the end of each term, for good behavior and successful scholarship. But there were always many disappointed faces when the awards were made; and, as the prizes were few, and the attainments and merits of the best scholars were often so nearly equal that it was difficult to discriminate between them, it not seldom happened that some who failed to get a prize were as deserving as some who competed successfully for that honor. So, at the beginning of the present term, Mr. Upton said he was going to try a new system, as an experiment, which would allow every scholar to reach the highest honor, if he chose to. The system was as follows:
Two grades or classes were established, the first and lower being known as the Grade of Fidelity, and the higher as the Grade of Honor. Excellence of deportment, and diligent effort and general faithfulness in studies, were the passport to the first grade. It was not necessary to be a very bright scholar, to get into the Grade of Fidelity. It was open to all who made faithful endeavors, and who paid a decent respect to the rules of the school. Those who, after at least a month’s probation in the Grade of Fidelity, distinguished themselves by their fidelity to all the duties of the school-room, and by the general excellence of their moral characters (mere intellectual superiority, you will observe, was not taken into the account), were admitted to the Grade of Honor. The preceptor kept a credit and demerit account with each scholar, and by this, principally, his or her standing was determined. Every alternate week candidates were admitted to each grade.
The ceremony of admission to the grades was quite interesting. These who were to enter the Grade of Fidelity, were called out by the preceptor, and arranged themselves in a line before his desk. He then addressed to them a few words of congratulation and advice, after which he said:
“I now present these candidates for admission to the Grade of Fidelity. If it be your will that they be accepted, you will please to signify it.”
The members of the grade having previously been seated together, in the front desks, now voted on the question, by putting into a box that was passed round a slip of paper on which was usually inscribed, “Yes—all.” If a member objected to any candidate, he wrote, “Yes—all except——,” naming the person he objected to. Unless a candidate was objected to by at least one-fourth of the members, he was admitted. When it was ascertained that the vote was affirmative, the preceptor hung a blue silk ribbon around the neck of each candidate. The members then filed out from their seats, and after giving the hand of fellowship to their new comrades, the whole company joined hands, and sung one verse of a song, commencing:
“We’re a band of faithful friends.”
The blue ribbon was the badge of the Grade of Fidelity, and was worn at the reception of candidates, at the examination of the academy, and on other special occasions. The scholars in this grade enjoyed no privileges over their fellows; but it was considered quite important to gain admittance to it, unless one was content to be rated very low, morally if not mentally. Before the term ended, about three-fourths of the students had been admitted to the ranks of the “Fidels,” as they sometimes abbreviated their name. Some, however, were afterwards degraded; for if a member fell below the standard, or was guilty of any serious offence, he was dismissed from the grade.
It was not so easy to get into the Grade of Honor. One had to be very exemplary in conduct, and very pure in character, to gain admittance there. Less than one in six of the scholars passed this searching ordeal. The names of candidates to this grade were posted up in the school-room, three days before the ceremony of admission. Any member of the academy had a right to object to a candidate, and could privately inform the preceptor of his reasons. If a candidate was known to be profane, or untruthful, or dishonest, or chewed or smoked tobacco, or was addicted to any other bad habit, he was rejected, no matter how exemplary his conduct in school might be.
When the hour came to admit candidates to the Grade of Honor, those to whom no valid objection had been made, presented themselves, in front of the preceptor’s desk, the members of the grade being seated upon the platform. A separate ballot was taken for each candidate, and if one-fourth voted nay, he was rejected. The preceptor then affixed the badge of the grade, a pink silk rosette, to the left breast of the accepted candidate; and then, taking him by the hand, he addressed to him a few affectionate words of welcome. When all had gone through this ceremony, the members of the grade formed a ring, inside of which the candidates were admitted, one at a time. After making the circuit, and receiving the hand of fellowship from each one, the new member fell into the ranks, and another candidate passed through the same ceremony, and so on to the end. The whole school then arose and sang a song beginning:
“Who are these, with honors decked;”
the members of the grade, meanwhile, standing in a circle, with clasped hands. When the singing was over, they returned to their desks, the school remaining standing until they had taken their seats. So ended the ceremony of the initiation.
Those who belonged to the Grade of Honor enjoyed sundry privileges that were denied to other students. They could leave their seats without permission, and could even leave the room during study hours, without being called to account. They had access at all times to the library, while the other students enjoyed its privileges under some restrictions. They were also clothed with a sort of monitorial power, and as their testimony was received by the teachers with unwavering faith, it was counted a poor time to brew mischief when one of this class was around. It was of course expected that they would never take improper advantage of their privileges, and, like the other grade, they were liable to lose their position if found unworthy.
Jessie was among the first who were admitted to the Grade of Honor. Ronald and Otis, after some delay, worked their way into the Grade of Fidelity, but did not rise higher. Kate, as has been already stated, rose to the higher grade on the last day when promotions were made, for that term.
Abby Leonard did not remain long in Highburg, after her father’s failure. After the first day, it was evident to all that she was troubled and humbled, and those who had been inclined to exult over her downfall, now began to pity her. But a message calling her home soon came, and she was apparently not sorry to get away from a place which had become so unpleasant to her. Only a few of her associates knew of her intention to go, until she had left town.
CHAPTER XVII.
TIDINGS.
Jessie heard nothing from her brother Sam, until about a fortnight after her interview with him at Round Hill Pond, when Marcus called her attention to the following paragraph in a Boston newspaper:
“A Fight.—The police were called last night to quell a fight in a notorious dance cellar in North Street, which for a time threatened serious consequences. There were several bloody heads in the crowd, but the only person seriously injured was a Vermont youth, sixteen or seventeen years old, who, it is said, being crazed with liquor, joined in the melee, attacking both parties with equal vigor. His name is said to be Hapley. His injuries are so serious that he was sent to the hospital.”
There could be scarcely a doubt as to who this youth was, and Jessie proposed to hasten at once to the relief of her wayward brother. Her friends, however, prevailed upon her to abandon this purpose, Marcus promising to write forthwith to Mr. Preston, Oscar’s father, who lived in Boston, and ask him to make inquiries in regard to the injured boy. Marcus accordingly wrote to his uncle, and in a few days received the following reply:
“Boston, May 17, 185–.
“My dear Nephew:—Your favor of the 15th came to hand, and it afforded me much pleasure to comply with your request. I called at the hospital this morning, and saw the young man who was injured in the fight. He acknowledged he was the brother of the young lady who lives with you, and said if he had followed her advice he never should have been in this scrape. He was not hurt so badly as was at first supposed, and is getting along very well. The doctor says he will be discharged in a few days. He did not seem inclined to say much, but he wished me to inform his sister that he was not intoxicated at the time of the assault, and that he took no part in the fight, but was only looking on. He says he drank nothing that night but a glass of lager beer. I advised him to leave the city, as soon as he was able, and to go back to Vermont; but he said he had no home there, and no friends to look to for assistance. I then tried to persuade him to avoid bad associates, and to seek steady and respectable employment, if he remained in the city. I also gave him my card, and told him that if he would call on me, after he was discharged, I would try to help him procure employment. You may assure his sister that if I can do anything to save him from ruin, it shall be most gladly done.
“I am glad to hear so favorable a report from Oscar. I can never repay you and your mother and aunt for the obligation you have laid me under, in doing what you have done for that boy. He has persevered so long, that I think his reform will be permanent. We have concluded to let him spend a week or two of his vacation with us, if you can spare him as well as not. If he comes, send him as soon as you please after the term closes. We should be very glad to have you and your mother or Aunt Fanny come with him, if you can leave home.
“Please tell Oscar that Jerry, his runaway cousin, has got home. He was wrecked at sea, and given up for lost, and has experienced any amount of startling adventures and hair-breadth escapes. His story is quite an interesting one, but it is so long that I will not attempt to give it here. Oscar will learn all the particulars when he comes home. Jerry says he has had enough of going to sea, and means to settle down on the land, now. He arrived here last week, after an absence of about fifteen months, and started for his home the same night.
“Our family are all well, and send love to all the folks. Oscar’s old friend, Willie Davenport, or ‘Whistler,’ as he is still called, is spending the evening with Ralph, and wishes to be remembered to Oscar. Ralph has teased me to forward the little toy you will find enclosed, as a present to Ronald. It is designed to be twirled round by the strings,—I suppose he will understand it. Ralph has taken quite a fancy to Ronald, although he has never seen him. Hoping to see you soon, I remain
“Your affectionate uncle,
“Henry Preston.”
This letter greatly relieved Jessie’s anxiety. Before going to bed, she wrote an affectionate letter to her brother, assuring him of her continued love and interest, and entreating him to go to his mother, and accept the situation she had procured for him.
Oscar was delighted to hear of the safe arrival of his cousin Jerry. The two boys had at one time been very intimate. Jerry’s parents lived in a small backwoods village in Maine, named Brookdale. His father was engaged in the logging business, and also carried on a farm. When Oscar was about fourteen years old, he was so unmanageable at home, and was so rapidly forming bad acquaintances, that his father sent him down to Brookdale, where he spent several months, and would have remained longer, had he not got into a serious “scrape,” which compelled him to leave town. Oscar’s influence upon Jerry, who was about a year younger than himself, was very unfavorable. Indeed, it was mainly owing to this bad influence that Jerry ran away from home, a few weeks after Oscar left the village, and started on the long voyage from which he had just returned.[[11]] The vessel in which Jerry shipped was wrecked on the homeward passage, and he was supposed to have been lost, until his unexpected appearance in Boston, as mentioned in Mr. Preston’s letter. Oscar, since he had tried to reform, had regretted very much the evil influence he had exerted upon Jerry; and, though he never said anything about it, he felt that he was, to some extent, responsible for his cousin’s ruin. It is not strange, therefore, that he was rejoiced to hear that his old comrade and pupil in mischief was not dead, but alive, and had still a chance to mend his ways, and become an honest and respectable man.
[11]. The career of Jerry is more fully related in the first two volumes of this series, “Oscar” and “Clinton.”
“Who knows but that father will come home, yet?” said Marcus, who had sat musing, while the others were talking about Jerry.
“I gave up all hope of that long ago,” replied his mother. “It is over ten years since your father sailed, and it is idle to expect ever to see him again in this world.”
“I don’t think so, mother,” replied Marcus. “You know the whalers pass in the neighborhood of a good many islands in the Pacific that are inhabited only by savages. Now isn’t it possible that father was wrecked on one of these islands, and is still there, and unable to get away? We know such things have happened. I have read of sailors being wrecked on some of these islands, and living with the savages a good many years, before they could communicate with any vessel. I sha’n’t give up all hopes of seeing father yet, for five years, at least.”
“I cherished that hope, until it seemed like hoping against hope,” replied Mrs. Page, sadly.
While this conversation was going on, Ronald and Otis had been deeply engaged with the toy sent by Oscar’s brother. It consisted of a circular card, on one side of which was painted a bird-cage, and on the other a bird. There were strings on each side of the card, by which it could be rapidly twirled round, which operation made the bird look as if he were actually in the cage. The engraving which we give of this little toy necessarily represents it as composed of two cards, but there is only one. Do you know why the bird is represented upside down? Did you ever notice that the top of one side of a coin is always the bottom of the other side? Both of these facts are to be explained on the same principle. We do not turn over a coin as we do the leaf of a book, but we reverse the top and bottom. As the card revolves, the bird will of course show himself right side up.
“Ronald, can you explain why it is that the bird looks as if he were in the cage?” asked Marcus, after he had examined the toy.
“I suppose it’s because the card revolves so fast that we see both sides at once,” replied Ronald.
“That is hardly a philosophical explanation,” said Marcus. “The true reason is, the image of the bird is brought to the retina of the eye before the image of the cage has passed away, and so both unite, and produce the image of a bird and cage. The image of an object on the retina does not vanish the instant the object is withdrawn, but is retained a brief period afterward. This is the reason that two objects may be seen in the same place at once, while each of them is presented to the retina but half the time.”
Aunt Fanny said she had seen a mouse and a trap represented in this way. She also suggested that the body and legs of a man might be painted on one side, and his arms and head on the other; or a horse on one side and his rider on the other; or a portrait, and a frame; or a cell, and a prisoner; and several other devices were named.
It was settled that Oscar should avail himself of his father’s invitation, and spend his vacation in Boston. He promised Jessie that he would try to find Sam, and persuade him to return to Vermont. He also promised Ronald that he would take charge of sundry cakes of maple sugar which the latter desired to send to Ralph, in return for his present.
This invitation home was as unexpected as it was agreeable to Oscar. He had not anticipated visiting Boston until the next autumn. It was judged, however, that he had become so fixed in his good purposes and habits, there would be no risk in allowing him to return for a week or two to the scene of his former temptations and misdeeds.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE SURPRISE PARTY.
The twentieth of May at length came, and the academic term closed with a searching examination of the several classes. It went a little deeper than faces or dresses, and revealed to the assembled magnates of the town something of the daily habits, the intellectual standing and the private character of each pupil. The result, as a whole, was quite favorable to the institution, and there were very few of the scholars who positively reflected no credit upon it. It was evident enough where the blame lay, in these cases—the school register told the story.
Mr. Upton invited his assistants, Marcus and Jessie, to take tea with him, at the close of the examination. They accepted the invitation, and after an hour or two, passed very pleasantly with their friend, Marcus proposed to return home, as he had business to attend to. Mr. Upton said that, as he had been closely confined through the day, he thought the fresh air would do him good, so he proposed to walk home with them. As soon as they came in sight of Mrs. Page’s house, an unusual display of lights attracted attention, and set them to conjecturing what it could mean. On entering the house, however, the mystery was quickly explained. All the scholars of the academy were there, and, with smiling faces and words of welcome, pressed forward to greet the new comers. The trustees, too, were soon discovered in the background, quietly enjoying the scene.
“Why, how secret they have kept this!” whispered Jessie to Marcus, as soon as she found an opportunity. “They didn’t even let me know anything about it—I’m as much surprised as you are.”
“They are pretty good for keeping a secret,” replied Marcus, smiling.
“And who would have thought of seeing the trustees here, too? Why, I think it is quite a compliment to you,” continued Jessie.
“Do you suppose there is to be any presentation?” whispered Marcus, with a look of concern.
“I don’t know,” replied Jessie; “but I shouldn’t wonder if there was—you’d better prepare yourself for a speech.”
After a season passed in games, and conversation, and pleasant social intercourse, the party were invited to the tables, which had been bountifully spread with good cheer by the scholars. The feast was despatched without any speeches or other formalities, but not without a merry interchange of good feeling, and a little of that “flow of soul” which, according to the newspaper reporters, is seldom wanting when a company of hungry people gather around a well-filled table, on any public or special occasion. After the collation, the company adjourned to the front rooms, and seemed unusually quiet, as if waiting for some expected performance. Pretty soon Marcus arose, and, with a roguish twinkle in his eye, said:
“Soon after I came in here, this evening, our friend, Miss Hapley, whispered to me that there would probably be a presentation, and advised me to be thinking of my speech. She was right, in her prediction. Here is a beautiful paper box which has just been put into my hand—though, I am happy to say, without any speech-making. If agreeable to the company, I will examine its contents.”
No one objecting, Marcus, before opening the box, proceeded to describe it. It was covered with exquisitely tinted blue paper, ornamented with a rich pattern in gold. On the cover was a beautiful colored engraving, represented on the opposite page. The picture bore an inscription selected from the last chapter of the book of Proverbs, as follows:
“WHO CAN FIND A VIRTUOUS WOMAN? FOR HER PRICE IS FAR ABOVE RUBIES.”
Marcus then opened the box, and found within it another box, similar to the first, which bore this inscription, from the same book and chapter, with an appropriate illustration, similar in style to the first:
“SHE SEEKETH WOOL, AND FLAX, AND WORKETH WILLINGLY WITH HER HANDS.”
On opening this, a third box appeared, with a device illustrating this motto:
“SHE RISETH ALSO WHILE IT IS YET NIGHT, AND GIVETH MEAT TO HER HOUSEHOLD.”
This contained a fourth box, corresponding with the others, and bearing this motto:
“SHE GIRDETH HER LOINS WITH STRENGTH, AND STRENGTHENETH HER ARMS.”
Within this Marcus found another box, which bore an engraving illustrating this verse:
“SHE LAYETH HER HANDS TO THE SPINDLE, AND HER HANDS HOLD THE DISTAFF.”
Opening this, a sixth box disclosed itself, with this verse illustrated:
“SHE STRETCHETH OUT HER HAND TO THE POOR; YEA, SHE REACHETH FORTH HER HANDS TO THE NEEDY.”
There was still another box, within this, with its engraving, thus inscribed:
“STRENGTH AND HONOR ARE HER CLOTHING; AND SHE SHALL REJOICE IN TIME TO COME.”
And within this another box appeared, with this for its motto:
“SHE OPENETH HER MOUTH WITH WISDOM; AND IN HER TONGUE IS THE LAW OF KINDNESS.”
Marcus opened this box, and found within it yet another, with a vignette illustrating this verse:
“MANY DAUGHTERS HAVE DONE VIRTUOUSLY, BUT THOU EXCELLEST THEM ALL.”
Within this, a tenth box was found, on the cover of which was inscribed:
“GIVE HER OF THE FRUIT OF HER HANDS; AND LET HER OWN WORKS PRAISE HER IN THE GATES.”
As Marcus opened these boxes, and read the inscriptions to the company, he freely gave expression to exclamations of surprise, mingled with running comments on the pictures. All present watched the proceedings with much interest, but none more than Jessie, to whom the whole affair was an enigma. She even asked a young lady at her side what Marcus could do with all those little boxes. She could imagine that a lady might find them useful, but the gift did not strike her as particularly appropriate for a young gentleman. It was not until the opening of the tenth box, that Jessie began to understand the matter. On opening this box, Marcus took from it a piece of paper, and read aloud the following:
“The trustees, teachers and pupils of Highburg Academy beg Miss Jessie Hapley to accept of this trifle, as a slight token of their appreciation of her many virtues, and of her faithful labors as a student and assistant teacher in the institution. ‘Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all.’”
“The box contains a porte-monnaie,” continued Marcus, “which, from the weight, I should judge contained something more substantial than promises to pay. Here, Jessie, step this way.”
On hearing her name read, in the note of presentation, Jessie suddenly darted towards the entry, but was arrested by several of her school-mates, who led her back, covered with blushes, to Marcus. She whispered a few words to the latter, who immediately arose, and said to the company:
“Miss Hapley requests me to say that she is too much overcome by this unexpected token of your kindness, to make a suitable acknowledgment in person; but she desires me to express to the company her grateful thanks for the gift and the compliment bestowed upon her.”
As soon as Marcus had finished, there was a general clapping of hands, after which Mr. Upton started the Grade of Honor song, and the whole assembly joined, singing:
“Who are these, with honors decked?
The faithful, good and true;
They are spirits choice, select,
A brave but noble few.
Scorn they whatsoe’er is base,
They act no double part;
Honor’s written on their face,
And Duty in their heart.”
Those who lived at a distance began to depart, soon after these ceremonies, but the festivities were kept up by others for an hour longer. Jessie, on examining her porte-monnaie, found within it ten bright golden dollars,—a gift as timely, appropriate and acceptable to her, in her straitened circumstances, as it was well deserved on her part, and honorable to those who bestowed it.
Tears of gratitude and joy moistened Jessie’s eyes, long after every other eye under the roof was closed in slumber; and as her sleepless and busy thoughts lingered around the exciting scenes of the day and evening, ever and anon darting back over the eventful months that were past, or flitting forward into the unknown future, she felt that she had reached a point where it was meet that she should “thank God and take courage.”
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
- Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.