Not Like Other Girls

by Rosa Nouchette Carey

They were going out without her; and on Grace’s first day, too. Archie was going to show her the church, and the schools, and the model cottages where his favorite old women lived,—all those places that Mattie had visited and learned to love during the eight months she had lived with her brother. In a few weeks she must say good-bye to them all, and go back to the dull old house at Leeds, to be scolded by her mother for her awkward ways, and to be laughed at and teased by her brothers and sisters. Archie was bad enough sometimes, but then he was Archie, and had a right to his bad humors; but with the boys and girls it was less endurable. It was, “Oh, you stupid old Matt! Of course it was all your fault;” or, “Mattie, you goose!” from Fred; or, “You silly child, Mattie” from her father, who found her a less amusing companion than Grace; and even Dottie would say, “Oh, it is only Mattie: I never care if she scolds me.”

The home atmosphere was a little depressing, Mattie thought, with a sigh, dearly as she loved her young torments. She knew she would find it somewhat trying after these eight months of comparative freedom. True, Archie had snubbed her and kept her in order; but one tyrant is preferable to many. At home the thirty-years-old Mattie was only one of the many daughters,—the old maid of the family,—the unattractive little wall-flower who was condemned to wither unnoticed on its stalk. Here, in her brother’s vicarage, she had been a person of consequence, whom only the master of the house presumed to snub.

The maids liked their good-natured mistress, who never found fault with them, and who was so bustling and clever a little housekeeper. The poor people and the school-children liked Mattie too. “Our Miss Drummond” they called her for a long time, rather to Grace’s discomfiture. “Ah, she is a rare one, when a body is low!” as old Goody Saunders once said.

And Archie’s friends respected the little woman, in spite of 311 her crudities and decidedly odd ways. Miss Middleton and the Challoners were quite fond of her. So no wonder Mattie grew low at the thought of leaving her friends.

Grace had come to take her place. Nevertheless, she had welcomed her on the previous evening with the utmost cheerfulness and unselfishness. She had shown her the house; she had introduced her to the Challoners; she had overwhelmed her with a thousand little attentions; and Grace had not been ungrateful.

“I am afraid this is hard for you, Mattie,” Grace had said to her, as the sisters were unpacking late the previous night. “I ought not be so happy to come, when I know I am turning you out.” And Mattie had winked away a tear, and answered, quite cheerily,—

“Oh, no, Grace; you must not feel that. I have had a nice time, and enjoyed myself so much with dear Archie, and now it is your turn; and, you know, he has always wanted you from the first.”

“Poor dear fellow!” murmured Grace; “but he looks thin, Mattie. Perhaps I ought to be here, as he wants me; but I shall never keep his house as beautifully as you have done. Mother would be astonished if she saw it.” And this piece of well-deserved praise went far to console Mattie that night.

But she began to feel just a little sore at breakfast-time. Once or twice, Archie decidedly ignored her, and turned to Grace; he even brought her his gloves to mend, though Mattie had been his faithful mender all these months.

“Come into the study, and we will have a talk, Grace,” he had said, and as Grace had involuntarily waited for her sister to accompany them, he had-added, hastily: “Oh, Mattie is always busy at this time with butchers and bakers! Come along, Grace:” and, though Mattie had no such business on her hands, she dared not join them.