"Did you," asked Emma, coloring a little, "then I think they must have been from a hymn by James Montgomery, of which I am very fond, and sometimes repeat unconsciously."

"Of course," said f.a.n.n.y, looking suddenly at Emma, "you think Miss Sliver equal to Montgomery."

"This is not the place for me to say whether I do or not," replied Emma, quietly.

"I know," said f.a.n.n.y, "that there are some people who think that the truth is not to be spoken at all times; but I have never yet been afraid to say what I think."

"There are things," said Henry, "of which we may not think rightly, and, understanding this, some are slow to speak."

"And who is to be the judge of our thoughts," asked f.a.n.n.y, "whether they be right or wrong?"

All were silent now; not because they had no answer for f.a.n.n.y's question, but because they were not willing to give the _right_ answer.

At last, Mary, in a low voice, replied: "The Bible should be our rule, both for thought and word, and conscience must judge between that and us."

"And does the Bible teach you to flatter people with your tongue, while you are laughing at them in your sleeves?" asked f.a.n.n.y.

"No," replied Mary; "but it teaches us to love our neighbor as ourselves, to be courteous, and pitiful."

"Then I keep one requirement," said f.a.n.n.y, jumping over the log, seated upon which she had eaten her dinner; "for I do pity people who are too mealy-mouthed to be honest--pity, or _despise_ them, I cannot tell which."

All now had withdrawn from the table, except Emma, Mary, Joshua Cheever, and little Edwin. "Your milk is very nice, Mary," said Eddy, "but it does not cure my thirst; O I do want some cold water."

"There is none nearer than the pond," said Joshua, "unless you go to Graffam's; but they are so piggish, I would choke before I would ask water of them. The last time I went there, the old woman sent one of the young ones to tell me that the village folks were an unmannerly set, and she wanted them to keep their distance. I told the girl to give my love to her mother, and tell her that she was the sweetest poppy upon the plain. So you see that it wouldn't do for me to go there again; I might get my head cracked with one of Graffam's rum-jugs."

"I am not afraid to go," said Mary. "I have no doubt but that the blueberry parties are a trouble to Mrs. Graffam."

"_Mrs_. Graffam!" exclaimed Joshua, laughing. "n.o.body else calls her anything but Moll, and her husband, Pete."

Emma now lifted Edwin from his seat upon the rock, and taking his hand, while Mary brought the bright dipper, they started for the log-house, which looked in the distance like a black stump.

"It is loving your neighbor _better_ than yourself,"--said the little boy, looking smilingly up into Emma's face,--"I am sure it is, to come all this way with me."

"Well, we ought to love our neighbor better than ourselves," replied Mary, who was walking behind. "We shall, Eddy, if we are like----"

"Like Jesus?" asked Eddy.

"Yes," said Mary. "He didn't love himself at all; but he loved us, even unto death."

"How wonderful!" said Emma. "Talk some more about him, Mary dear, if you please."

But they were now at the poor door, which swung upon its wooden hinges: they were about to knock, when they saw a forlorn-looking woman come from a dark closet, with a sick child in her arms.

"Poor little thing!" said Mary, going toward her.[*] "What is the matter with him, Mrs. Graffam?"

[Footnote *: See Frontispiece.]

"He is very sick," she replied, glancing from her to the door, when Emma courtesied politely, and Edwin pulled off his hat. "Walk in," said Mrs. Graffam; "my children are all out upon the plain, but you can help yourselves to seats." Then turning to Mary she said again, "He is very sick, and I cannot tell what is the matter with him, unless it is want of----." Here she paused, and after a time added, "He is losing all his flesh, poor thing!"

"Yes," said Mary, "he looks as my dear little sister did just before she died!"

"When did she die?" asked Mrs. Graffam.

"Just as the gra.s.s was getting green," said Mary. "It was a fit time for her to die, Mrs. Graffam; for she was born in the spring, and it seemed exactly as though the sweet bud had to go back to the summer-land before it could bloom."

"And if your little baby dies, Mrs. Graffam," said Eddy, "he will be a flower in G.o.d's garden; won't he, Mary?"

"Yes," whispered Mary, while the poor woman's face flushed, and her lip quivered. Mary glanced at Edwin, and remembered her errand.

"Mrs. Graffam," said she, "I know that the blue-berry parties must be a great trouble to you, and we would not have come here for water, only Eddy is not very well."

"You are welcome to as much water as you want," interrupted Mrs.

Graffam, "and so is any one who can treat us with civility. We are very poor, it is true, and that is not our greatest misfortune either; but it is hard to be despised."

While Mary was gone for the water, Emma sat looking at the sick baby, and noticed, that though the weather was warm, its skeleton limbs looked blue and cold. She was going to advise the mother to wrap it in flannel, when the thought that perhaps the poor woman had none, prevented her speaking: for Christian courtesy never says to the poor "Be ye warmed and clothed," while it provides not the things which are necessary; and fortunately Emma thought it time enough to speak of what the poor child needed, when she had _supplied_ that need. Edwin was greatly refreshed by his drink of cold water, and kissing the sick child, he thanked Mrs. Graffam, and was ready to go.

"There is a good old lady living with my mother," said Emma, "who is used to sickness, and might know what to do for your babe, Mrs.

Graffam; shall I ask her to come with me, and see you?"

"I shall be glad to see anybody," was the reply, "who is like you or your little friends;" and bidding the poor woman a good-by, they went back to the plain.

Henry Boyd remembered his promise to Mrs. Lindsay, and before the sun was down the company were on their way home. The talk and clatter of the morning were now hushed. Joshua whistled, while his horse plodded lazily along, until f.a.n.n.y peevishly bade him "hold his tongue."

"Anybody does that," said Joshua, "when he whistles!" but he good-naturedly stopped.

Margaret Sliver undertook to repeat some poetry composed by Susan, upon the setting sun:--

The setting sun is going down Behind the western hills; It glitters like a golden crown,----

"What is the last line, Susan?" asked Margaret; but Susan was not flattered by the way her poetry had been handled at the dinner-table, and now she refused to supply the missing rhyme.

The setting sun is going down Behind the western hills,

pursued Margaret;

It glitters like a golden crown, "_On top of Motley's Mills!_"

added Alice; while f.a.n.n.y, calling out to Henry Boyd, repeated the whole verse as Susan's poetry, bidding him ask Miss Lindsay if Montgomery could beat that. Susan was highly offended, saying that she considered herself insulted, and chose to walk the remainder of the way.

"O no, Miss Sliver," said Joshua; "never mind f.a.n.n.y Brighton--she is only one of the blunt sort, saying right to your face what other folks would say behind your back."

This explanation from Joshua was rather more favorable than f.a.n.n.y deserved; for she had not the faithful Christian charity, which, while it unflinchingly speaks truth to those whom it concerns, is careful to speak no evil anywhere. It was well known, that though f.a.n.n.y boasted of not being afraid to tell to people's faces what she thought of them, she was not less fearless in talking of the same things in their absence; so that she differed from common backbiters only in having more--shall we call it impudence?

It is a harsh name, but let us a.n.a.lyze the principle. What spirit possesses the human heart, when it shows a disposition to make others uncomfortable? Is it frankness--we know that it is sometimes dignified with that name; though it is little akin to the true Christian faithfulness, which, always at peace with truth, never offends against true courtesy. Charity regards the little foibles incident to fallen human nature with a lenient eye, never pointing them out to the scornful gaze of another, but remembering that they are to be touched tenderly, if touched at all; _secretly_, too, apart from the scrutiny of another, and by disinterested friendship alone.

"The Sliver girls make fools of themselves, and of each other," said f.a.n.n.y, when Margaret and Susan, arrived at their own house, coldly took leave of the company.

"I know it," replied Alice. "To think that they will a.s.sociate with us girls, pretending to be young, when everybody knows that they are not: dressing, prinking, reading novels, and making poetry; while their poor old slave of a mother is making b.u.t.ter and cheese."