The Flower Of The Family

Contents

COMFORTABLE TROUBLES © TROUBLE BEARING FRUIT HOMELY DISCIPLINE ° ARTHUR . . . ° BABY NUMBER TWO °

SORROW AT NIGHT, JOY IN THE MORNING

THE UNCLE’S VISIT c

Chapter I

COMFORTABLE TROUBLES, and take him a few minutes ?” said a voice from the foot of the stairs.

Lucy sighed heavily, and threw down upon the table before her, with a gesture of impatience, a book on which she had been intent.

‘* He’s always crying, I do believe,” she said to herself, as, casting a farewell glance at books and papers, she went slowly down to soothe the cries, from which her sensitive ear shrank as from the sound of a trumpet.

‘‘!’m sorry to interrupt you, dear,” said her mother, “‘but baby will not be still any longer, and here are my hands in the bread. Just take him up a minute, and I will soon be ready for him.”

Lucy took the child, and as his cries of discontent gave place to a smile of delight, she put down the ungracious feeling that struggled for the victory, and kissed his round, rosy cheek more than once.

“‘T can’t help loving you, though you ave such a little torment,” she said. ‘‘ People call children troublesome comforts ; I don’t wonder, I’m sure.”

‘“‘[T call them comfortable troubles,” returned her mother, glancing fondly upon them both. ‘‘One must have trouble in some shape, and this is the best of all.”’

‘Yes, I suppose so,” said Lucy ; ‘‘ but we have a great many other troubles besides.”

‘“What, for instance?” asked the mother, whose energies were not all concentrated upon the bread.

‘‘O dear! there are plenty of them, if it comes to that,” replied Lucy. ‘‘In the first place, you and father have to work so hard.”

“Well?”

os 1s baby is crying, Lucy ; won’t you come down

‘And we are so poor; and the boys are so noisy ; and I can’t go to school; and it tires me when I think it will always be so.” :

The mother sighed, and kneaded the dough with a wearied hand. :

‘Yes, it is all true,” said she. ‘It is all true. I wish I could shield you from these troubles, my child; but I cannot. By and by, as the children get older—then— but I don’t know, I can’t see far ahead myself. I hope, however, you will have more time to study than you’ve had lately. Rebecca shall stay at home and help me.”

‘‘ That won't do,” returned Lucy. She walked to the window, and stood looking out, in gloomy silence. ;

Her mother finished her work in silence equally profound, took off the clean checked apron in which it had been performed, and approaching the window, offered to take the child.

‘* Now, dear,” said she.

But the child, pleased with its new position, hung back smiling, and clasping its little arms closer around Lucy’s neck.

‘‘ How the little fellow loves you!” cried her mother. ‘* It’s such a pity he isn’t fond of Rebecca. I wonder, by the way, where the child is, and Hatty too! It’s high time they were all here.”

‘It’s half-past five,” said Lucy, ‘‘and they ought to be home, I’m sure. But this is always the way! Just because I want to study.”

‘You can study now,” said her mother gently, and taking the baby from her.

‘*No, I can’t; it’s time to get tea,” returned Lucy. ‘*And it’s Rebecca’s week to get tea. But she’s taken herself off, nobody knows where.”

Ungracious in word, but not in deed, Lucy went now and filled the tea-kettle, and arranged the fire.

‘*T wouldn’t do that, dear,” said her mother. ‘If Rebecca finds she can depend on you to do her work for her, there’ll be no end to the trouble.”

‘* But father wiil be in, next news, wanting his supper. Besides, I see the boys coming up the road, and they’ll be hungry too.”

She hurried about, cutting bread, skimming milk, and arranging plates and knives with neatness and precision.

‘‘She’s worth a dozen of Rebecca,” thought her mother.

COMFORTABLE TROUBLES. 7

‘*Where can that child be? It’s too bad! Now, baby, you must sit in the cradle awhile, and let mother help sister Lucy.”

She seated the child snugly amid pillows, gave him a tin plate and pewter spoon for his amusement, and hastened to relieve Lucy. Baby began forthwith to raise a noise suited to his peculiar taste, by means of a series of irregular thumps of the spoon upon the plate. While he pursued this pastime with great energy, the boys rushed in from school.

“There you go!” shouted John to his books, as he threw them down ; ‘‘and good enough for you, you old plagues! Is supper ready? I hope so, for I’m as hungry as three bears.”

“One bear will do,” said his mother, smiling, and patting his shoulders. ‘‘ But where are the girls?”

‘““Why, Rebecca is creeping along on the road somewhere. She'll get here by midnight, I daresay. And Hatty had to stay in. She blotted her writing-book, and then went and got angry about it, and so she’s got to Stay in till she’s learned a chapter in the Bible.”

‘““Why, Rebecca!” said her mother, as this young lady came leisurely in, ‘‘ where have you been?”

‘Why, nowhere, mother; I came straight home from school.”

‘‘But you should have been home in time to get tea. Here’s Lucy has had to do it for you.”

‘‘T came as fast as I could, mother,” said Rebecca. ‘*Susan Turner and I, we came along together. I couldn’t come running up the hill as the boys did. And Lucy needn’t have went and got tea. She knew I was coming.”

‘‘Needn’t have went/” said John; ‘‘let’s hear you parse that, do!”

‘¢T wish I could shake you and Lucy up together,” said her mother, as she contrasted Lucy’s hurried, rather excited step, with Rebecca’s slow pace. ‘‘It would improve you both. But run now, and call father. Tell him tea is on the table.—And come here, all of you, and wash your faces,” she added, as the boys prepared themselves for an onset upon the table. But at this auspicious moment, the baby’s energetic spoon flew up with great force upon his fair, high forehead, instead of the plate at which the blow was aimed.

Down fell spoon and plate, and up went shout after shout of baby-terror and pain. Everybody ran to see what was the matter; everybody tried to catch up and appease the poor little victim; yet somehow it was in Lucy’s arm that he was borne off; and it was Lucy’s hand that bathed the aching head, and Lucy’s voice that, now melted into the tones of tenderest love and pity, finally soothed and hushed those grievous cries.

‘‘Oh, what a bump there is on his forehead!” said Rebecca, who, as usual, arrived at the scene too late to offer anything more than an exclamation of horror.

‘‘T’ll keep him while you are at supper, mother,” said Lucy, now quite lost to further thought of self, in sympathy for the child. ‘‘He’ll soon get over it. I'll take him out-of-doors.”

She went out, kissing him as she went along, and as soon as they reached the open air, found herself repaid by the brilliant smile that lighted up the tears with which the blue eyes were brimful.

‘There ought to be a rainbow somewhere,” said she, holding the baby up to the window, where he could be seen, and pointing out his tears and smiles; ‘‘ for it rains and shines at the same time.”

‘*You’re the rainbow yourself,” said her father, giving her one of his own rare, precious smiles. Lucy turned quickly away, with a blush of shame upon her cheek that no reproof could have burned there.

‘He didn’t hear me fretting when mother called me,” thought she. ‘‘He doesn’t know how cross and selfish I was. If he had, he wouldn’t have called me a rainbow. He’d have called me a thunder-cloud !”’

And the ‘‘ thunder-cloud ” relieved itself of a few large, heavy drops, and grew lighter. She went in to supper, giving the baby to her mother. They had all risen from the table; and as she seated herself, she perceived that not a morsel of bread remained for her.

‘*T should think somebody might have cut a slice of bread for me,” thought she. ‘‘ But it’s always the way. Nobody cares whether I eat or not.”

At this moment her brother Arthur came running up to her, bearing a huge loaf of bread in his arms.

‘It’s for you,” said he. ‘‘I got it all myself. And I picked a few strawberries for you, on the way to school.”

‘* Why didn’t you give them to mother?” asked she.

COMFORTABLE TROUBLES. 9

‘*Oh, I did give her half,” said he.

““But why did not you give her all?” she asked, knowing well the reason, yet wanting to hear it still,

He only looked up, however, and smiled. Yet the smile and answer cheered her, and again she felt humbled and reproved.

‘Oh, I do wish I was good!” thought she.

She finished her supper in silence, and then helped her mother to get the little ones off to bed.

In the midst of their labours, Hatty came running in, tired, flushed, and out of breath.

“‘O dear!” cried she, ‘‘ have you all done supper! It’s too bad! I hate to eat all by myself! I should think somebody might have waited for me. Where’s the milk ? —oh, here it is. Where’s mother? Mother, mother! I

“need a new pair of shoes. There’s a hole in the side of one of mine, and the heels are all worn out, so that little stones get in and half kill me.”

‘“©You’ve only had them a month,” said Rebecca reproachfully.

‘Well, what of that?” retorted Hatty.

‘* Nothing ; only, if we are all going to have a new pair of shoes every month, I wonder where the money is to come from.”

‘““Who said you were all to have a new pair?” asked Hatty, laughing, and pouring down milk as fast as possible. ‘‘If I went creeping along like a snail, as you do, maybe my shoes would last longer: but I’d as lief die as go crawling about in that style. How cross Miss Wheeler was this afternoon! Well, I don’t care! I feel as well as ever, now that I’ve had my supper; and I had the comfort of keeping her in, at anyrate. And now I’m going down to Mary Johnson’s.”

She caught up her bonnet, and was hurrying away, when her mother detained her.

‘‘ Have you finished those stockings, dear?” she asked.

‘‘No, mother, not quite; I’ll finish them to-morrow. I’m going to Mary Johnson’s now.”

‘‘’m afraid Arthur won’t fare very well in your hands,” said her mother.

Hatty wavered a little between Mary Johnson and Arthur. ‘‘To-morrow is Saturday,” said she, ‘‘and I shall have time to see to all his things then.” And, satisfied with her mother’s half consent, away she flew.

‘Lucy, dear, hadn’t you better go too?” asked her mother.

‘‘T thought I would study a little now,” she answered.

‘‘Oh, run out and get rested, first; you have had no rest to-day.”

“Tt rests me to. study,” said Lucy.

‘Just to please me!” urged her mother.

Lucy took down her bonnet, and stood holding it in her hand a moment, irresolutely ; then slowly left the house, and turned her steps towards a {neighbouring grove, among whose shadows she was soon lost to her mother’s anxious eye.

‘‘She has not gone with Hatty, after all,” thought she. Her hopeful heart was heavy with care this night, and she looked down with a troubled face upon the baby who lay half asleep in her arms. He opened his eyes, and seemed to catch the shadow from hers, for he curled up his lip with a pitiful, grieved expression, very touching to behold. She reassured him with a smile, and began to sing—

‘ There is a land of pure delight.”

The baby lay quietly, and soon fell asleep, and the heavy heart lay quiet too, for there was comfort for it in that good old hymn.

Chapter II. Trouble Bearing Fruit

herself down upon the ground, at the foot of a

tree. It was a lovely, quiet evening: the crickets hummed cheerfully around her, and the fresh, pure air was as full of life and cheer as they.

‘‘T wish I was good!” said she. ‘‘I wish I was a Christian! I wish I could help being fretful and selfish. Oh, I do wish I could be a Christian! But it’s no use. The more I try to be good, the worse I am. I do hate so to sew and to work; and I do love so to read and to study! Mother says the children are growing older; but so am I growing older, and not learning anything hardly, But it is wicked to fret about it, I know. Oh, I do wish I was a Christian !”

[see sauntered listlessly along, and at last threw

TROUBLE BEARING FRUIT. II

Silent as was the energetic desire, Lucy started as she heard an approaching footstep, as if detected in some guilty act.

It was her father. He sat down by her side, and for a little time both were silent. At last he said—

‘* Your mother has been telling me that you are greatly interrupted and hindered in your studies. She feels troubled about it, and so do I. But we must try to keep up our courage, and hope for brighter days.”

“If mother could spare me, I should like to go away somewhere to school,” returned Lucy. ‘‘ There is a good school at H , and it would not cost much.”

‘* Mother would spare you,” he answered kindly ; ‘‘ but, my dear child, why not go to school here? Why leave home? Is it already distasteful to you?”

‘*No, indeed, father; but Miss Wheeler says there’s no use in my coming to her any longer. She says,’ she added, colouring, ‘‘I’ve learned all she can teach in a village school.”

‘© You should have told me that,” he answered.

‘‘There was no need, at first: mother thought she could manage it so as to give me time to study at home, and I thought it was going to be so nice! But she has to interrupt me. She cannot help it. And so I don’t learn anything at all.”

‘© Rebecca will soon leave school,” said her father. ‘‘Let me see! She’s two years older than you, isn’t she?”

‘* She’s nearly that ; but you know she got behindhand by her long sickness. That’s the reason I know more than she does.”

‘‘ That’s one reason,” he answered, smiling.

‘“Well, father, when she leaves school, if you and mother could spare me to go to H , I would be very industrious, and I would wear very simple clothes, and very soon I could keep school myself.”

‘““Dear child,” said he, ‘‘I certainly will not refuse to consider the question, at least.” He rose and walked slowly homeward. Lucy sat still, with a beating heart. She was full of that hunger and thirst after knowledge that would not be appeased, and for the moment it almost consumed her. She did not see the big drops on her father’s brow, as he revolved her proposal in his mind, nor hear the sighs that had forced them there.

“‘ Mother,” said he, as he entered the house, ‘‘ Lucy says she has learned all Miss Wheeler can teach her.”

‘“Yes,” she answered quietly, ‘(I know it. Miss Wheeler told me so herself.”

‘But you did not tell me.”

‘¢ You had cares enough already.”

‘* Could we possibly send her to H , do you think ?”

The mother cast her eye about the room.

‘Ts there anything we could se//?” thought she.

‘“‘You can’t spare us,” said the old chairs, as her eye fell upon them. ‘‘ There are too few of us now.”

‘“‘Where will you eat your dinner; how will you do your ironing, if I go?” asked the pine-table.

‘Tl must stay and rock the baby!” cried the cradle, now appealed to. ‘‘I’ve rocked all your babies for you patiently; yes, I rocked you when you were a baby yourself. And now, would you turn me away?”

She sighed a little; then her patient heart took courage, and her imagination ran into her bedroom, and looked in all her drawers to see what was there.

‘‘Dear me!” it said, ‘‘ what is there worth looking at here? Old, patched shirts; baby-frocks and aprons, faded and worn; that collar you’ve had ever since the flood ;—nobody would take the gift of them. And for pity’s sake, what would you do without them ?”

‘You don’t think of any way in which it could be done?” said the father, at last.

‘*No, not just yet. But perhaps I shall in time,” she said, determined to look at the bright side of the case.

‘‘ Tf it were not for that debt, there’d be something to hope for,” said he.

‘Yes, that debt! But one must have trouble. If we had not that, we should have something else.”

‘*A pleasant view of life!” he said bitterly.

‘*You are not well to-night,” she said.

‘*T should be well enough if I could see that child satisfied,” he returned.

Unobserved by her parents, for it was now quite dark, Lucy had entered the room, and heard the last few sentences.

‘“A debt!” thought she. ‘‘How dreadful! No wonder father looks so care-worn, and works so hard! And I have been worrying him about school!” She crept noiselessly away to her own room, until her father

TROUBLE BEARING FRUIT. 13 assembled the family for evening worship. As she knelt with the rest, and listened to his prayer, she understood the secret care and sorrow veiled amid its petitions. As she bid him good-night, she whispered—

‘* Father, I think I won’t go away to school. I can get a good deal of time to study if I am careful; and it’s just as well.” ;

He kissed her more than once, not deceived by these generous words, but willing to gratify her for the time by seeming so.

‘Well, we will let it rest for the present,” he said; ‘and oh, my precious child, remember it matters little how wise he is who has not learned Christ!”

“‘T know it, I know it!” she cried bitterly to herself. She lingered near him after the other children had retired.

‘I do not mean to depreciate human wisdom,” he said ; ‘‘only I would place so far above earthly, all heavenly good.”

‘*I do not remember the time when I did not place goodness first,” she answered timidly.

‘And isn’t it time this feeling should bear fruit?” he asked, very tenderly.

‘*O father, hasn’t it borne any fruit?” she asked, now bursting into tears.

‘Do not misunderstand me, darling,” he said; ‘‘I was only trying to lead you to say just what you have said. We have watched you too long, and with too much solicitude, not to perceive that old things were passing away, and all things becoming new, and I thought you would feel better to open your heart to us.”

‘*Yes, father, I wish I could. But it was only a few hours ago, when mother called me from my books, I felt irritated ; and after that, I said to myself, ‘There’s no use! Jam nota Christian! Christians don’t feel so!’”

‘‘T wish that were true, my dear Lucy. But it is not. Christians do feel so. But they do not allow themselves in sin. They watch and pray, and struggle against it.”

‘“‘But it does not do any good for me to do that,” said Lucy sadly. ‘‘I go right away and do wrong the moment I have resolved never to yield to temptation again.”

‘‘Then go right back to your Saviour and tell Him all about it, and beg Him to give you true and hearty sorrow for, and abhorrence of it.”

‘‘T have, a great many times; but it’s no use.”

‘‘And yet you have been growing, meanwhile, more patient, more gentle, every day. Your mother has observed it, and so have I. You may depend upon it, God never hears a prayer, however poor and imperfect, without answering it.”

Lucy felt cheered and encouraged by this assurance. She had long been groping about in the dark, wrapped in a reserve painful to both her parents and herself; and now the ice was broken. She would gladly have opened her heart more fully, but this was needless. One glance had sufficed to show to her father that the struggle against sin and the pursuit after God had begun; and he felt that he could safely leave her in His hands who giveth the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. He made her kneel once more by his side, while, in a few solemn words, he gave himself and her to God, to be His and only His, for ever, and then retired for the night. Lucy returned to her room, greatly cheered and comforted. Many months ago she had begun to hope that God had made her His child ; but she had found little satisfaction in serving Him so long as she felt doubtful as to her acceptance with Him. The tendency to despond, to which, in other respects, she was prone, assailed her here disastrously. And as yet she lacked that clear, distinct view of Christ as a/Z in all, without which, even if there is religious life, there can be neither peace nor progress.

‘* Now I will go on, with God’s help,” she thought ; and from that hour she never faltered.

CHAPTER IIL HOMELY DISCIPLINE.

[" Lucy’s infancy, her mother used often to say, ‘‘ This child will make something, either good or bad; I don’t know which.” For even when a very little girl, she gave evidence of a proud, sensitive, and moody temper, hard to understand and hard to control. Great strength and tenderness of the affections adorned the

wayward childhood, which else would have been all root

and branch, and no flower. Her delight was to wander by herself in lonely places, to sit musing and dreaming

HOMELY DISCIPLINE. 15 away the hours other children spend in play, and to venture into and court danger and mystery. No stranger could have met the child in her wanderings, or seen her sitting thoughtfully by the fireside, or watched the grave face she wore at church on Sundays, without marking and holding her in long remembrance. Oftentimes, when the serious face was lifted to her mother’s, she saw in it a depth and intensity that made her tremble. ‘‘ Will she grow up a good child?” used to be the question ; but as years advanced, it oftener was, ‘‘ Will she be a happy one?” One cannot say what she would have become, had the solitary childhood passed into the solitary girlhood, wherein the busy mind could have revelled on and consumed itself.

But, as years passed, other children were added to the family. The inner life of this sensitive being received many a shock, and the delicate taste was wounded at a thousand points. The mother had not now time to ask, ‘* How shall I train her?’ Domestic care took her in hand, set her down to hard, homely tasks, forced her from the unreal into the actual, and tampered with every morbid fancy and poetic longing. For many years she brooded over and repined at this lot, and strove to disentangle herself from the cares and duties in which she was involved. But in time this discipline accomplished for her that which prosperity never has wrought, and the morbid soil on which it was exercised bore fruit both rich and rare. The sunshine lies upon the mountain-top all day, and lingers there latest and longest at eventide. Yet is the valley green and fertile, and the mountain-top barren and unfruitful.

On the morning after the conversation with her father, Lucy rose early, and opening her window, enjoyed for a few minutes the pure fresh air. The stillness of this early hour, broken only by the songs of cheerful birds, went down into her very heart. She would gladly have dreamed away hours in contemplation of the scene before her ; but life called her to something besides dreams. It called with a shrill, boyish voice, ‘‘ Lucy! Lucy Grant! Mother says, won’t you come down and wash my face, and Tom’s face, and all our faces?”

She ran down and performed those necessary acts with so much more than ordinary gentleness and patience that the children were quite docile under the operation.

‘¢T wish you’d always wash me,” said Tom. ‘‘ Rebecca is so slow, and she does bear on so! And Hatty doesn’t half wash me; she’s always in such a hurry.”

‘¢ Shall I take the baby, mother?” she asked pleasantly.

‘““You may, dear, a few minutes; and I’ll see about breakfast. Baby’s getting more teeth, I think. He was very restless all night.”

‘‘T mean to have him to-night, then,” said Lucy.

‘“‘Oh no; that won’t do. I can’t have you deprived of sleep.”

Teay took the baby, smoothed down his little rumpled night-gown, and went to the doorstep, where she seated herself, and tried to read from a book drawn hastily from her pocket. The baby hailed the appearance of the book with a cry of pleasure, and made a sudden descent upon it with a speed that well-nigh threw him from Lucy’s arms.

She held her book at arms-length, still trying to read, till baby, tired of reaching forth his hands in pursuit of it, began to cry. Lucy felt irritated. ‘‘Why couldn’t you let me have a little peace?” she said, returning the book to her pocket, and beginning to walk up and down with the child.

It was a warm, damp morning ; the baby was a great, heavy fellow, and full of that incessant motion young people of his age see fit to keep up. Now he twisted himself this way, and now that; at this moment he bent backward, and she saved him from a fall by a desperate grasp at his feet; the next, he threw himself half over her shoulder, climbing over her face as if its features were made for his special benefit and pleasure. Lucy felt weary, and out of sympathy with his life and spirits, and was afraid, besides, that she had been very impatient, if not angry, about her book. ‘‘O God! help me to be patient,” she whispered ; and again, and again, and yet again, as she continued her walk, she repeated the words, till patience came.

At that moment, Rebecca came out to look for them.

‘Give him to me now,” said she; ‘‘ your arms must ache, | am sure. Besides, mother wants you.”

Lucy went in, and found breakfast nearly ready.

‘‘Hatty has not come down, though I’ve called her twice,” said her mother. ‘‘Just run up and tell her to come directly ; will you, dear?”

HOMELY DISCIPLINE. 17

Lucy went, and found Hatty standing in her night-dress before the little glass, arranging her hair.

‘*Mother says she has called you twice, Hatty,” said she.

‘Well, I can’t help it. I’m hurrying as fast as I can. What does she want, do you know?”

“ Breakfast is nearly ready, and the table isn’t set.”

“‘Oh, is that all? Well, you set it for me just this once. I'll do as much for you some time.”

She curled and re-curled her hair at her leisure, until she was startled by her mother’s voice.

‘‘Hatty, do you know Lucy is setting the table?” she asked.

“‘Yes, mother; she said she would just this once. Setting a table is no great hardship; is it?” she asked, fancying her mother looked displeased.

‘“No, dear; that in itself is no hardship. But all our happiness depends on regularity and method ; and I wish very much you would attend to your own share of the work, and not so often throw it off on Lucy.”

“Well, I will next time, mother,” said Hatty; ‘‘and I’ll hurry down now.”

Not until breakfast was on the table, however, did she make her appearance; and then she came in, looking so fresh, so smiling, so pretty, that not one of the family felt like frowning on her.

‘‘We must take her as we find her,” thought her mother ; and found her very beautiful and charming.

This day, being Saturday, was as full of care and labour as it could hold. The baby would have one at least devoted solely to his pleasure, and would not have thought the united attentions of the whole family out of place under the circumstances. The children had a half-holiday, and were playing about the house with all conceivable clamour. There were Sunday garments to be got in order; there was the usual Saturday baking. Lucy had not one moment of leisure. Never in her life had she so longed for a few hours for reflection. Once or twice, in the course of the day, she caught a kind, sympathising glance from her father’s eye: more than once or twice a loving word, warm from her mother’s heart, had put life into her own. So the day wore on, as days will, till it had worn itself into twilight, and its heat and labour were past and gone. Her father stood in the open door and she went to him.