"Charity is always giving," replied Dora, "while it exacts nothing. It is never jealous of its own dignity. It never behaveth itself unseemly; but beareth, hopeth, and endureth all things, even from those who know nothing of its own sweet expression--courtesy."

"I must see f.a.n.n.y Brighton again," thought Emma, "and ask Charity to lend me her eyes, that I may see if there is nothing good in her; or if I can manage to put out the eyes of self, by seeing nothing through this medium, perhaps charity will become eyes to the blind."

It was by the blessing of G.o.d upon the humble efforts of that pious old lady called Dora, that Emma had become what she was. Mrs. Lindsay was a worldly woman, and the time had been when she had no higher hopes for her children than to see them richly gifted with worldly accomplishments. Her two eldest daughters, Helen and Amanda, had been models in this respect; and for a season the mother rejoiced in this pride of her eyes. But there is a strange intruder often found where he is least desired, and never retiring simply because his presence is deprecated--that is death. Who has not entertained this uninvited guest?

When Helen and Amanda began to droop, as Emma now did, Dora was the oldest servant in Mrs. Lindsay's family, and highly esteemed, both on account of her fidelity and her pleasing manners. "There is something peculiar about Dora," Mrs. Lindsay would say, "she is never untruthful and never impolite; two ideas which, in the eyes of fashionable etiquette, seem antagonistic. It was not, however, until her daughters began to show symptoms of decline, that Mrs. Lindsay understood this peculiarity in Dora.

"You must turn that religious woman out of your house," said the physician, "or I cannot save your daughters." And Dora was severely reprimanded by her mistress for the extreme discourtesy of offering to read to the young ladies from the Bible.

"What can she think?" asked Helen, with concern. "The doctor says that I shall be well in a few days; but Dora looks serious, and offers to read to me from the Bible. You will not have me deceived, mamma?"

"No, love," said her mother, trying to persuade her own heart that there was no cause for alarm. "Dora is religious, and such people always have fits of being disobliging."

"She is extremely kind to me in everything else," said the poor girl; "it is only in this thing that she makes me unhappy."

"She shall make you unhappy no more; I will forbid her to approach your room." And so she did. Dora was accused of impertinence, and felt most keenly that truth and the world's etiquette were at war.

Days pa.s.sed on, and there were serious faces, more than one, in that house where it was impertinent to speak of death and eternity. It is true, that for a time gay visitors were admitted to Helen's chamber, and there was hollow laughter there, as they talked of b.a.l.l.s, parties, and new fashions, and told the poor girl that she was looking better every day: but Dora saw them whisper, and shake their heads to each other as they pa.s.sed out; and she saw that every day the mother grew more fearful as it regarded the daughter, and kinder toward herself.

At last she was told that Helen wanted her; but she was charged to be careful, as the poor girl was extremely weak.

"Dora, Dora," said Helen, "_you_ will tell me the truth. Mother said that I should not be deceived; but I have been, O, I have been cruelly deceived."

Dora talked soothingly of Him who is the resurrection and the life: but the poor girl had opened her eyes all too suddenly upon the startling picture of death; and now shrinking from his cold embrace, she could not hear of hope and comfort. Her dying words were to the mother fraught with keenest anguish, for she spoke of this cruel deceit unto the last. Amanda soon followed her young sister to the tomb; but the mother was spared the self-accusation and bitter sorrow attendant upon Helen's death. Early in her sickness Amanda was consigned to the care of Dora. It was in vain that the physician expostulated; Mrs. Lindsay feared nothing so much as again to hear words of reproof from a dying child for having deceived her. Dora kept her post with Christian fidelity, and Amanda entered the dark valley and shadow of death fearing no evil.

Emma was at that time five years of age, and Martha ten. "My dear madam," said Dora, "fashion has robbed you of a great treasure. Your daughters, predisposed to consumption, cannot safely obey its whimsical demands."

"Nonsense, Dora!" replied Mrs. Lindsay. But when alone, she thought seriously upon what the good woman had said. Memory brought before her mind pictures from which she could not turn. The thin-soled shoes, and silken hose, in which fashion had required her delicate daughters to promenade the damp walks of the city; the flimsy ball-dress, the prolonged dance, and joined with these, the sudden exposure to a wintry air, were shades upon the bright picture of pleasures past,--dark shades indeed, but awfully true.

"Perhaps Martha and Emma may be spared to me," said the mother to her fashionable friends; "but how can I think of the conditions!" and her friends talked over the matter among themselves, and concluded that, after all, a person's life was of but little value, if they must live secluded from the world; and they gave Mrs. Lindsay a remote hint, that it was best to let her daughters live _while_ they lived.

Mrs. Lindsay, however, had more than once stood upon the threshold of another life, having followed a husband and two daughters to the silent tomb: and in her secret heart she suspected the small value of what she had purchased at so great a cost. It seemed hard indeed to deprive her beautiful children of a fashionable education, and the struggle was very severe; but the mother triumphed over worldly vanity, and Monsieur de la Beaumont was told that his services in the family as dancing-master were no longer desired.

"One strange ting!" said monsieur; and the world at large thought the same.

Mrs. Lindsay considered herself as having made a great sacrifice to affection, and sometimes feared that she might live to see the day when she should wish her little novices out of sight, somewhere. One thing she determined on, however; and that was to take as much of the world as she could get herself, and thus solace herself for what she was to lose in her daughters. It cannot be supposed, that with this resolution the mother would reserve time for the care and culture of these little ones, who were given over to Dora with but one hope--the forlorn one--that she would save them alive. This the old lady could not promise to do; for she understood that having the sentence of death in ourselves, we are not to trust human means and precautions, but only Him who raiseth the dead. She, however, cheerfully undertook the precious charge committed to her trust; glad from her heart that the poor lambs had been saved from the slaughter, and praying most earnestly that they might be claimed by the Great Shepherd, and gathered to his fold.

Martha was a very quiet, thoughtful child, with speech and manner much beyond her years; she was not, therefore, strictly confined to the nursery, but allowed to mingle freely with her mother's guests. Emma, on the contrary, was much younger, and full of wayward humors. She greatly needed a mother; but the sacred writer has declared, "She that liveth in pleasure is dead while she liveth." How many little hearts have proved the bitterness of that truth! G.o.d in mercy saved little Emma from this sad experience, by raising up for her infancy and childhood such a friend as was the pious, faithful Dora.

"It is a promising bud," thought the good woman, "but it may wither even without the blight of fashion; so I will try to secure for it an immortal bloom."

Thus in the morning Dora sowed her seed, the "good seed" for an immortal harvest; and soon the tender blade began to appear--a most ungainly thing in the eyes of her mother; for the first fruit of Dora's good seed, as shown by little Emma, was a great love of truth--a love which as yet she knew not how to regulate or apply. She was a beautiful child; and for a time her mother's vanity was gratified by having her brought from the nursery to her drawing-rooms, to be caressed, admired, and praised for her smart speeches; but after a time her truth-telling propensity became too evident. The polite occupants of the drawing-room began to whisper among themselves that Miss Emma was a spoiled child, and had better be kept in the nursery.

Mrs. Lindsay was soon of the same opinion; for scarcely a day pa.s.sed when Emma's truthfulness did not prove a nettle to her own vanity.

"The child is rude," she would say to Dora,--"insufferably so. She told Madame A. that she looked like an apple-tree; which might have been taken for a compliment, had not the saucy little sprite explained herself by pointing to that old tree in the garden which the flowering shrubbery has decked with every variety of blossom: Mrs. A. is extremely fond of fancy colors. And when I took her to Bowker's the other day, that sick Miss Ellenwood was examining his new French goods, and called my attention to a splendid piece of muslin, and asked if it was not of beautiful texture. 'Dear Miss Ellen-wood,' interposed Emma; 'you will not want a _figured_ muslin for a _coffin_ dress.' Think of that, Dora."

"Well, my dear madam," replied Dora; "the child heard some of your friends say that this vain sick girl, who is spending all her slender income in dress, would want money soon to pay for a shroud."

"Certainly, Dora, that has frequently been said; but the child should know better than give such a hint to the young lady herself! Several ladies were in the store, and I felt extremely mortified and shocked."

Such complaints were frequent; and at last the good Dora answered all, by begging the mother to have patience both with herself and with the child. "This truthfulness," said she, "is of excellent quality, but it is now rough from the quarry. By-and-by charity will make its rough places smooth; for love not only refines and purifies, but it _polishes_ the hewn stone after the similitude of a palace."

Mrs. Lindsay did not understand these words, and derived but little comfort therefrom. She could not see how Emma's bluntness was to be refined, save by putting her into fashion's crucible; and this she more than once resolved to do, at any risk. With this resolution, however, there always came a fearfulness, which seemed a warning voice from the tomb, bidding her "beware;" and to this voice of warning she took reluctant heed.

Pursuing a quiet course of study under private tutors, Emma was still left morally and physically to the care of her pious friend. Dora planted in hope, and now the precious shoot was caused to spring forth by Him who giveth the increase. This precious shoot of moral strength, ungainly, and without form or comeliness to the world, she watered, tended, and watched, with earnest faith for the Husbandman, whose pruning knife should convert it into a goodly tree. Emma sometimes came to her friend with puzzling questions; among those most frequently asked were the following:--

"How mamma could be 'not at home,' when she was in her chamber?"

"How she could be extremely glad to see people who, she said, were 'bores, and not to be endured?'"

"Why it was more impolite to tell people what was foolish in their appearance, than to laugh about this appearance in their absence?"

It was difficult to answer these questions, without casting a shade over those whom Dora wished the child to love and respect. Sometimes she told the little girl that it would often hurt people's feelings and make them very miserable, to know just what others thought of them. And yet the child would reply: "You say that if we would listen to G.o.d's little voice in our hearts, it would tell us all that is wrong. Why does he want to hurt folks' feelings? You had me read in the Bible about the truth, how, if we come to love it, it would make us free; but mamma says it is often impolite to speak the truth."

Dora felt, as many under similar circ.u.mstances have felt, the earnest question pressing upon her heart: "Who is sufficient for these things?"

and with greater trembling was it asked, as Emma grew in stature and increased in knowledge; for she saw that with the good seeds thorns had sprung up. Emma began to pride herself upon independent thought and action, and to show symptoms of haughty disdain toward those who stooped to the deceit of fashionable etiquette. Dora was often pained to hear her speak of things done and said, not for truth's sake, but because it _plagued_ others. It was evident that she was beginning to exult in the embarra.s.sment which she often occasioned, but saw not the wicked self hiding beneath her garb of truth. Dora tried hard to point out this inward foe, but, with the blindness of a natural heart, Emma, having eyes, saw not; and the good woman knew well, that the child could not see, unless He that openeth the eyes of the blind should say unto her, "Receive thy sight." She told her of that charity which hopeth, believeth, and endureth all things; which, giving no place to falsehood, still never behaveth itself unseemly. She warned Emma of the heart's Ishmaelite--that truth which, incased in the armor of human pride, ever turns its hand against its fellow: but Emma did not fear this "strong man armed;" so she was led captive by him at his will.

Thus she was growing up like a beautiful flower thickly set with thorns. There were, however, some among her mother's fashionable friends who professed themselves charmed with her wit and originality.

Martha had pa.s.sed the age at which her young sisters began to decline, and gave evidence of established health. She was now allowed to attend evening parties, and was found very tolerably, though not what the world calls "highly accomplished." There were those, however, who thought that Martha's solid education, good judgment, good sense, and good taste, were accomplishments enough. Mrs. Lindsay could not help feeling very well satisfied with her discreet, amiable daughter, though she was not eligible to a place in the ball-room, having never learned to dance.

But it was not until people began to call Emma a comical little beauty, and beg her mother to fetch her to their select evening parties, that Mrs. Lindsay ceased to feel chagrined at the sacrifice made to affection. Emma was not long in learning by what pretty names she was called; and with this knowledge came the strong desire to sustain a reputation for wit and beauty. Dora saw the canker-worm at the root of that precious plant for whose perfection she had waited with long patience.

Emma sometimes came home and repeated her triumphs and comicalities to this faithful friend, but receiving no answering smile, but, on the contrary, a solemn word of reproof or warning, she would often burst into a flood of peevish tears, saying that Dora was getting cross, and did not love her as formerly. In this the good woman saw signs less fearful than those of moral disease, but no less true; saw that this exposure and excitement were rapidly wearing away the frail foundations of health; and all that she feared was frankly expressed to the mother: but Mrs. Lindsay having once more allowed the film of vanity to blind the maternal eye, saw not the danger. The question, however, came to a speedy issue; for, attending a party one evening where the rooms were newly papered, and where, notwithstanding she felt chilly, her mother would not allow of her being wrapped in a shawl, Emma took a violent cold, which was immediately followed by a cough, and many other symptoms of rapid decline. Greatly alarmed, Mrs. Lindsay consulted her former physicians, and was again flattered with the hope that change of air, change of scene, and other changes, would speedily produce a change of health.

Emma knew the history of her family, and understood well why she was hurried from land to sea, and from thence to other places remote from her home. Dora was not allowed to accompany her, because the physician said that her "long face" would be an incalculable injury; but that face, always beaming with the soul's deep interest and affection, was ever present to the sick girl. Through many a night-watch of suffering and feverish anxiety, those loving, earnest eyes seemed looking into her own; and Emma would say to her sister Martha, "Dear Dora! how I long to see her! she loves me, and prays for me; it seems to me that with Dora near I should not be afraid to die."

Thus Emma talked; and the sensible, affectionate Martha saw that change of air and change of scene could not benefit her young sister, while her mind was so fevered and tossed; she therefore entreated her mother to return home, and after a time succeeded in making her understand this to be the best course.

"O my dear Dora," said the poor weary child, as she found herself once more in her own room at home, with the good woman at her side, "I am so glad--_so_ glad to see you. And now I want you to stay with me, and talk as you used to when I was a little child. O, it makes me miserable to think how my heart wandered away from you, and from the Saviour, Dora; for I used to feel when a little girl that he loved me."

"And he loves you still, dearest," replied the old lady, her heart swelling with grat.i.tude to G.o.d. "He loves you, Emma, and will receive you freely, dear, without one word of reproach, if you will only come back."

"I think so," said Emma, while the tears ran freely down her pale cheeks. "I did not spend those long dreadful nights, Dora, without thinking of him; and though ashamed of myself, I ventured to ask him, over and over again, to pity my wretchedness, and love me still. One night--it was not long ago--he seemed to come to me, and say the very same things which you have just said,--that he would not cast me off; that he loved me, even then."

What a moment of joy to the faithful Christian, who had sowed in hope, but whose faith had been so severely tried.

The tranquillity of mind which followed Emma's return home, operated favorably upon her health, and in a few weeks she was able to mingle with the family as formerly. Her mother did not propose her going abroad for company; but Emma seemed to take pleasure in being one of their small parties at home. Very different, however, was this pleasure from that which she had formerly sought and experienced.

"What a change in Emma Lindsay!" was an exclamation frequent among her mother's friends. "Her pertness, repartee, and saucy witticisms are all gone. What have they been doing for her? This winning softness and grace of manner seems foreign to her nature."

"I never thought," said another, "that I should come to love Emma Lindsay; but I do, and cannot help it--she is so lovely, so polite, and yet so _sincere_." A mystery, indeed, to the worldly wise, how politeness and sincerity could be made to embrace each other.

The solemn subjects of death and eternity were matters of frequent and free conversation between Emma and her pious friend; and now, though there seemed some respite from the speedy execution of the sentence, "Thou shalt die, and not live," neither thought of the matter in any other light than that of a _little_ time given for work important to be done. Happy for Emma that she took this view of the subject, since it saved her from that remissness too common among the followers of Christ.

"The Lord seems to have need of me," Emma would say to the good Dora; while she would answer, "Yes, dear, but be ready for him at his coming; be sure that you are able to say, 'I have _finished_ the work thou gavest me to do.'"

Notwithstanding these favorable indications, as it regarded the health of her daughter, Mrs. Lindsay was sometimes roused from her security by symptoms less favorable, and at last resolved to follow the advice of Emma's physician, and take up a permanent residence in the country.