"Get rid of Mary! I think I see myself turning upon my good Mary that loves me as she does her life, and scheming to get her out of my house because she's in trouble. No, indeed; Mary has been true and faithful to me, and I will be a true and faithful friend to her. What could I do with one of the Willises' servants, with their airs and their graces? Would they come to a little house like mine, and take all departments in turn, and do for me as if they were doing for themselves, as Mary does?"
"Just so," said Mrs. Van Arsdel. "That's just what I told Maria. I told her that you never would consent. But you know how it is with her when she gets an idea in her head, there's no turning her. You might as well talk to a steam engine. She walked off down stairs straight as a ramrod, and took the omnibus for the Willises, in spite of all I could say; and, sure as the world, she'll be up to talk with you about it. She insisted that it was my duty to interfere; and I told her you had a right to manage your matters in your own way. Then she said if I didn't do my duty by you, she should."
"Well, you have done your duty, Mamma dear," said Eva, kissing her mother. "I'll bear witness to that, and it isn't your fault if I am not warned. But you, dear little mother, have sense to let your children sail their own boat their own way, without interfering."
"Well, I think your ways generally turn out the best ways, Eva," said her mother. "And I think Aunt Maria herself comes into them finally. She is proud as a peacock of your receptions, and takes every occasion to tell people what charming, delightful evenings you have; and she praises your house and your housekeeping and you to everybody, so you may put up with a little bother now and then."
"Oh, I'll manage Aunt Maria, never you fear," said Eva, as she rose confidently and took her husband from a discussion with Mr. Van Arsdel.
"Come, Harry, it's nine o'clock, and we have a long walk yet to get home."
It was brisk, clear winter moonlight in the streets as Harry and Eva took their way homeward—she the while relieving her mind by reciting her mother's conversation.
"Don't it seem strange," she said, "how the minute one actually tries to do some real Christian work everything goes against one?"
"Yes," said Harry; "the world isn't made for the unfortunate or unsuccessful. In general, the instinct of society is the same among men as among animals—anything sickly or maimed is to be fought off and got rid of. If there is a sick bird, all the rest fly at it and peck it to death. So in the world, when man or woman doesn't keep step with respectable people, the first idea is to get them out of the way. We can't exactly kill them, but we can wash our hands of them. Saving souls is no part of the world's work—it interferes with its steady business; it takes unworldly people to do that."
"And when one begins," said Eva, "shrewd, sensible folks, like Aunt Maria, blame us; and little, tender-hearted folks, like mamma, think it's almost a pity we should try, and that we had better leave it to somebody else; and then the very people we are trying to do for are really troublesome and hard to manage—like poor Maggie. She is truly a very hard person to get along with, and her mother is injudicious, and makes it harder; but yet, it really does seem to be our work to help take care of her. Now, isn't it?"