"No! Of course not," said the girl, blushing. "But things are getting flat. I want something new; you know I always did."

"Yes," said her brother; "we all know, Etta. But, seriously, I trust my little sister will never be tired of the blessed service and fellowship into which she has been so recently admitted. You know what is written about those who put their hands to the plow and look back."

"Oh, I don't mean to look back; I don't want to. I'd rather belong to the church and work for Christ than anything else in the world. What I want is work. Don't you see?"

"Well, dear, if you think you can manage the work I'll find the money, though I don't suppose it will cost a great deal."

So it came to pa.s.s that those bright autumn Sat.u.r.day afternoons were spent by Etta and her girls in the woods, where, with the aid of such boys as could get away from their work, a store of scarlet, golden, and variegated autumn leaves was laid in, with late ferns and hardy brackens, curious bits of moss, seed-vessels, and dried gra.s.s being added to the store. These were all taken to Mrs. Robertson's, whose large garret was offered for their reception and preservation, and after tea the girls ironed and varnished the leaves which could not be detached from the boughs, and pressed the smaller ones between the leaves of newspapers, which were collected for the purpose from neighbors, the younger Sunday scholars who were not in the mill being thus employed.

Then, on Wednesday evening, at Miss Eunice's "tea-party," which of necessity was held indoors, now that darkness came early and the nights were chill, the girls of the two cla.s.ses covered pasteboard stars, crosses, crowns, and monograms with leaves and mosses neatly st.i.tched on--bound rich yellow wheat stalks into sheaves, and made plumes and ta.s.sels of dried gra.s.ses and seeds.

Merry chatter helped the work forward. Miss Eunice did not wish her girls to look upon religion and the church's service as a thing of gloom. She knew that G.o.d has "given us all things richly to enjoy," and that the way to hallow pleasure and prevent its being hurtful is "in _all_ our ways to acknowledge him."

Moreover, these social, familiar talks, when every one was off her guard, afforded capital opportunities of studying character with a view to affording to the young pilgrims such aid and advice as might be useful to them in their heavenward journey.

Of all the young work-women, Tessa showed the most taste and ingenuity in the grouping of leaves and arranging of ferns, and her beautiful combinations constantly called forth the admiration of both companions and teachers. The little Italian received their commendations very meekly, but did not thereby escape exciting the jealousy of Bertie Sanderson, who, on putting together some very fiery leaves without any attempt at toning down, received from Miss Eunice a few gentle suggestions concerning shadow, high lights, etc. "It's too mean," she whispered to her nearest neighbor, as she took her seat, "that beggar from the poor-house gets more notice than all the rest of us put together."

Her companion stared, for she was one of those girls who had almost made up her mind to become a Christian, but had remained undecided till too late, because she had an idea that a person could not dare to join the church till she was as holy as an angel.

"There's Katie Robertson, too," continued Bertie; "she'll be sure to be praised, if her work's hideous. That's what it is to be a favorite."

"Why, Bertie," said the other, "you're real spiteful. I think Katie's just the nicest girl. Anyway, I couldn't talk as you do if I had joined the church."

"But you ought to have joined the church because it was your duty," said Bertie, who could very clearly see the mote in her sister's eye, in spite of the beam in her own. "You will be a Christian soon, won't you?

It's so nice."

"Not I. If religion don't make people better than you are, I don't want anything to do with it; I'd rather stay as I am," was the sincere, if not very polite, answer. And then Bertie's conscience awoke, and she began to see what harm she was doing. She was very uneasy all the rest of the evening, and still more so when, at its close, Miss Eunice asked her to stop a few moments, as she had something to say to her.

Miss Eunice had overheard the conversation we have recorded, and had noted the cross, spiteful expression of the girl's face, and had grieved much as she saw her Saviour thus "wounded in the house of his friends."

She spoke seriously to Bertie so soon as they were alone, and found the latter already repentant and quite willing to acknowledge her fault.

"But what am I to do, Miss Eunice? I _am_ jealous, and I _do_ feel hateful sometimes. I don't want to feel so, but I can't help it. If I didn't speak, I should feel it all the same."

"But, my dear, you have promised, in the most solemn way, to renounce 'the devil and all his works.' Pride, malice, envy, jealousy are emphatically works of the devil."

"I know, Miss Eunice; and I thought it would be all taken away. The minister in the city told us that Jesus is 'the Lamb of G.o.d, who taketh away the sins of the world.' I thought if I came to him he would take mine away."

"So he has, so he will. Try to understand me. When he hung upon the cross he bore the penalty due to the sins of the whole world, and of course to yours. In that sense he has already taken them away. But in another sense, that of your daily life, your _character_, he will take the evil of that away just as fast as you will let him."

"Let him? How do you mean? I am sure I want to be good."

"Yes, in a lump, altogether, you want to be good, very good; but without any trouble or self-denial. You didn't want to keep from saying those spiteful things about Tessa and Katie a little while ago, or he would have helped you do it. You didn't want the jealous, envious feelings taken out of your heart _just then_, or he would have taken them."

"How, Miss Eunice?"

"_Whatsoever_ you ask in prayer, believing, ye _shall_ receive," said she.

"But do you mean I ought to have kneeled down to pray then, just that moment, before all the girls?"

"It is not necessary always to kneel down when we pray; though it is best to do so when we can. There are often times when our work would suffer, or when we are so surrounded by others that it would be impossible. But a few earnest words spoken in the silence of our own hearts will always bring our strong, loving Saviour to our help; and we may, _every time_, no matter what our temptations are, be 'more than conquerors through him who hath loved us.'"

"Every time? Oh, Miss Eunice!"

"Yes, every time. You know we constantly ask the Lord 'to keep us each day _without_ sin.' How can we utter such a prayer in faith if we don't believe that it can be granted?"

"Yes; but temptations are so sudden, and take you just where you're the weakest."

"I know. And therefore we should be fully armed beforehand. Bertie, did you read your Bible and pray this morning?"

"No!" said the girl, flushing. "I always mean to; but it's so dark in the mornings now, and mill-time comes so soon. It's just as much as I can do to get there in time, any way."

"Yet you find time for your breakfast?"

"I couldn't live without eating."

"Nor can you live spiritually without feeding daily upon Christ, through the study of his Word and prayer. I would sooner go without my breakfast than without my early communion with him. Bertie, there are 'no gains without pains.' If you are really desirous, as I believe you are, to overcome your own evil habits and tendencies, and grow to be like Christ, you _must_ begin every day with prayer for his help; you must watch yourself and your surroundings, and in the moment of temptation you must turn instantly to him who says that he is 'a very present help in trouble,' and who has promised to 'supply all our need according to his riches in glory.'"

Poor Bertie! A hard fight was before her. Fourteen years of unresisted pride, jealousy, and ill-will had formed habits that were hard to break--fourteen years of caring for no one's pleasure but her own. In brief, fourteen years of worshiping herself had helped to form a character which would need a good deal of chiseling before it should grow into an image of Christ. But he had undertaken the work. Miss Eunice had shown her how to avail herself of his offered help, and as she took her teacher's advice, we may be sure that in the end she gained the victory.

CHAPTER XX.

A WARNING.

So the short, bright autumn days and the long, chill evenings pa.s.sed quickly and pleasantly away. All were busy and happy, and were beginning to find that in spite of conflicts and self-denials "wisdom's ways are pleasantness and all her paths are peace." The preparations for the Thanksgiving festival progressed rapidly, but before the time came to put the plans in execution a very terrible thing happened in Squantown.

Faces turned white, voices were hushed, work was suspended at the mill, in the stores, and even upon farms. One home, where a loving mother bowed in deepest agony, was shrouded in gloom, while others were filled with the sympathy of mourning.

The Mountjoys first heard the news at Sunday-school, where Etta found her cla.s.s so full of the horror that they could attend to nothing else.

The stories of the girls were confused, and differed as to details, but their teacher elicited from them the facts, which were as follows:--

Harry Pemberton, one of the best hands in the mill, one of the pleasantest young fellows in Squantown, so the grown-up girls thought, the very idol of the widowed mother who had only him, had gone out with some companions on a Sat.u.r.day night "spree" to a high cliff in the neighborhood. They carried with them a barrel of beer and some bottles of whiskey, of which, however, the others drank but little. A foolish bet was made between him and one of the elder men, as to which could drink the most "lager," and the others, soon tiring of the contest, left the two with the bet still undecided. The sequel was involved in mystery, for the other man, who was a stranger in the place, had disappeared, and when the bright autumn sun shone out on Sunday morning, it showed to the early pa.s.sers-by the dead body of poor Harry, bruised, broken, and disfigured, at the foot of the cliff. Whether the beer they had taken made him and his companion quarrelsome and he was pushed over in a fight, or whether Harry, stupefied, fell asleep on the edge and rolled over in his unconsciousness, was never known. The boon companion never came back to testify, and the coroner's jury brought in a verdict of "accidentally killed."[2]

On Wednesday the mills were closed, that all might have an opportunity of attending the funeral services, which were intensely solemn and impressive. Harry had at one time been a member of Mr. James's Bible-cla.s.s, and during the recent religious interest his former teacher and employer had more than once urged upon him to break away from the evil companions and bad influences by which he had allowed himself to be surrounded, and take his stand on the Lord's side, finding in the church and its a.s.sociations help to become a n.o.ble and good man. At one time he had seemed to be almost persuaded, and his friend had great hopes of him, but his companions and their influence had proved to be too strong.

He had gone back to his evil ways, trusting, perhaps, to "a more convenient season," which, alas! never came to him.

The clergyman detailed these facts to his hearers, among whom were, of course, all the young men of the place; and while delicately avoiding hazarding any suggestions as to the present or future condition of their unfortunate companion, pressed upon all present the importance of calling upon the Lord "while he may be found," and the awful risk of delay.

"No one could have supposed," said Mr. Morven, "when poor Harry trifled with the most important of all questions, his soul's salvation, and put off his final decision till some 'more convenient season,' that that season would never come to him."

Of all the young men of Squantown he had seemed the least likely to be suddenly called into eternity. Yet he had been, in a condition, too, in which any one would least like to be found when called suddenly to stand before G.o.d and answer for the deeds done in the body. Who would be called next? Was that one all ready? Therefore, he once more urged upon his hearers, "Prepare to meet thy G.o.d." Nor did the earnest pastor fail to draw attention to the lessons concerning the use of intoxicating liquors, in any form or degree, which the occasion so plainly afforded.

It was not as an habitual drunkard that Harry Pemberton met his fate, nor was it from the use of what is usually denominated "strong drink."

Lager beer, considered and spoken of by many as "a temperance beverage,"

was responsible for the mischief, and the thoughtless joke of careless young men had hurried one of them, known to all present as a boy of great promise, uncalled into the immediate presence of G.o.d. Perhaps a better object-lesson for total abstinence could not have been found, since it is the occasional drinkers, who are not as yet bound by the chains of almost irresistible habit, to whom alone such an appeal can be made with any prospect of success. Poor Harry had been precisely one of these, and probably no young man in Squantown had considered himself farther from meeting death as the result of intemperance.

This sad and sudden death made a great impression upon James Mountjoy.