"I didn't know, mamma; but I thought I was almost old enough to set my _own_ examples! I'm the oldest of the family."

Susy said no more about becoming a home-missionary to Annie; for, although she could not quite see the force of her mother's reasoning, she believed her mother was always right.

"But what does she mean by calling me _timid_? She has blamed me a great deal for being _bold_."

Yes, bold Susy certainly was, when there was a fence to climb, a pony to ride, or a storm to be faced; but she was, nevertheless, a little faint-hearted when people laughed at her. But Susy was learning every day, and this time it had been a lesson in moral courage. She did not fully understand her mother, however, as you will see by and by.

CHAPTER X.

RUTHIE TURNER.

"The darkest day, Wait till to-morrow, will have pa.s.sed away."

The next morning, Susy woke with a faint recollection that something unpleasant had occurred, though she could not at first remember what it was.

"But I didn't do anything wrong," was her second thought. "Now, after I say my prayers, the next thing I'll feed--O, Dandy is dead!"

"See here, Susy," said Percy, coming into the dining-room, just after breakfast; "did you ever see this cage before?"

"Now, Percy! When you know I want it out of my sight!"

Then, in the next breath, "Why, Percy Eastman, if here isn't your beautiful mocking-bird in the cage!"

"Yes, Susy; and if you'll keep him, and be good to him, you'll do me a great favor."

It was a long while before Susy could be persuaded that this rare bird was to be her "ownest own." It was a wonderfully gifted little creature.

Susy could but own that he was just as good as a canary, only a great deal better. "The greater included the less." He had as sweet a voice, and a vast deal more compa.s.s. His powers of mimicry were very amusing to poor little Prudy, who was never tired of hearing him mew like a kitten, quack like a duck, or whistle like a schoolboy.

Susy was still more delighted than Prudy. It was so comforting, too, to know that she was doing Percy "a great favor," by accepting his beautiful present. She wondered in her own mind how he _could_ be tired of such an interesting pet, and asked her to take it, just to get rid of it!

About this time, Mr. Parlin bought for Prudy a little armed-chair, which rolled about the floor on wheels. This Prudy herself could propel with only the outlay of a very little strength; but there were days when she did not care to sit in it at all. Prudy seemed to grow worse. The doctor was hopeful, very hopeful; but Mrs. Parlin was not.

Prudy's dimpled hands had grown so thin, that you could trace the winding path of every blue vein quite distinctly. Her eyes were large and mournful, and seemed to be always asking for pity. She grew quiet and patient--"painfully patient," her father said. Indeed, Mr. Parlin, as well as his wife, feared the little sufferer was ripening for heaven.

"Mamma," said she, one day, "mamma, you never snip my fingers any nowadays do you? When I'm just as naughty, you never snip my fingers!"

Mrs. Parlin turned her face away. There were tears in her eyes, and she did not like to look at those little white fingers, which she was almost afraid would never have the natural, childish naughtiness in them any more.

"I think sick and patient little girls don't need punishing," said she, after a while. "Do you remember how you used to think I snipped your hands to 'get the naughty out?' You thought the naughty was all in your little hands!"

"But it wasn't, mamma," said Prudy, slowly and solemnly. "I know where it was: it was in my _heart_."

"Who can take the naughty out of our hearts, dear? Do you ever think?"

"Our Father in heaven. No one else can. _He_ knows how to snip our hearts, and get the naughty out. Sometimes he sends the earache and the toothache to Susy, and the--the--lameness to me. O, he has a great many ways of snipping!"

Prudy was showing the angel-side of her nature now. Suffering was "making her perfect." She had a firm belief that G.o.d knew all about it, and that somehow or other it was "all right." Her mother took a great deal of pains to teach her this. She knew that no one can bear affliction with real cheerfulness who does not trust in G.o.d.

But there was now and then a bright day when Prudy felt quite buoyant, and wanted to play. Susy left everything then, and tried to amuse her.

If this lameness was refining little Prudy, it was also making Susy more patient. She could not look at her little sister's pale face, and not be touched with pity.

One afternoon, Flossy Eastman and Ruthie Turner came to see Susy; and, as it was one of Prudy's best days, Mrs. Parlin said they might play in Prudy's sitting-room. Ruthie was what Susy called an "old-fashioned little girl." She lived with a widowed mother, and had no brothers and sisters, so that she appeared much older than she really was. She liked to talk with grown people upon wise subjects, as if she were at least twenty-five years old. Susy knew that this was not good manners, and she longed to say so to Ruthie.

Aunt Madge was in Prudy's sitting-room when Ruthie entered. Ruthie went up to her and shook hands at once.

"I suppose it is Susy's aunt Madge," said she. "I am delighted to see you, for Susy says you love little girls, and know lots of games."

There was such a quiet composure in Ruth's manner, and she seemed to feel so perfectly at home in addressing a young lady she had never seen before, that Miss Parlin was quite astonished, as well as a little inclined to smile.

Then Ruthie went on to talk about the war. Susy listened in mute despair, for she did not know anything about politics. Aunt Madge looked at Susy's face, and felt amused, for _Ruthie_ knew nothing about politics either: she was as ignorant as Susy. She had only heard her mother and other ladies talking together. Ruthie answered all the purpose of a parrot hung up in a cage, for she caught and echoed everything that was said, not having much idea what it meant.

When aunt Madge heard Ruth laboring away at long sentences, with hard words in them, she thought of little Dotty, as she had seen her, that morning, trying to tug Percy's huge dog up stairs in her arms.

"It is too much for her," thought aunt Madge: "the dog got the upper-hand of Dotty, and I think the big words are more than a match for Ruth."

But Ruth did not seem to know it, for she persevered. She gravely asked aunt Madge if she approved of the "_Mancimation_ of _Proclapation_."

Then she said she and her mamma were very much "_perplexed"_ when news came of the last defeat. She would have said "_surprised_" only _surprised_ was an every-day word, and not up to standard of elegant English.

Ruth was not so very silly, after all. It was only when she tried to talk of matters too old for her that she made herself ridiculous. She was very quiet and industrious, and had knit several pairs of socks for the soldiers.

As soon as Miss Parlin could disentangle herself from her conversation with Ruthie, she left the children to themselves.

"Let's keep school," said Prudy. "I'll be teacher, if you want me to."

"Very well," replied Susy, "we'll let her; won't we, girls? she is such a darling."

"Well," said Prudy, with a look of immense satisfaction, "please go, Susy, and ask grandma if I may have one of those shiny, white handkerchiefs she wears on her neck, and a cap, and play Quaker."

Grandma was very glad that Prudy felt well enough to play Quaker, and lent her as much "costume" as she needed, as well as a pair of spectacles without eyes, which the children often borrowed for their plays, fancying that they added to the dignity of the wearer.

When Prudy was fairly equipped, she was a droll little Quakeress, surely, and grandma had to be called up from the kitchen to behold her with her own eyes. The little soft face, almost lost in the folds of the expansive cap, was every bit as solemn as if she had been, as aunt Madge said, "a hundred years old, and very old for her age."

She was really a sweet little likeness of grandma Read in miniature.

"And their names are alike, too," said Susy: "grandma's name is Prudence, and so is Prudy's."

"Used to be," said Prudy, gravely.

"Rosy Frances" was now lifted most carefully into her little wheeled chair and no queen ever held a court with more dignity than she a.s.sumed as she smoothed into place the folds of her grandma's snowy kerchief, which she wore about her neck.

"What shall we do first?" said Flossy and Susy.

"Thee? thee?" Prudy considered "thee" the most important word of all.

"Why, _thee_ may behave; I mean, behave _thyselves_."