"Do they know any thing about sewing?" asked Mrs. Forcythe.

"Not a thing. They made dreadful st.i.tches. Kathleen cried because the needle p.r.i.c.ked her, and Rachel wanted to wear the thimble on the wrong finger. Amy did the best. When they went away they all wanted to kiss me, and Norah said she guessed I was the best teacher in the school.

Wasn't that cunning? Mrs. Wallis is real kind. She brought ever so much gingerbread, and gave each of the children a piece."

"I'm glad it begins so well--"

"Yes. There's just one thing, though. The children's faces! You can't think how dirty they are. I should like to give them a good scrub all round."

"Well, why don't you?"

"How can I? There isn't any wash-bowl down at the school-room."

"If you liked you might have them all come here at ten o'clock, and walk down with you. Then you could take them up to your room, wash their faces and hands, and brush their hair smooth before you start. I really think you would enjoy your teaching more if the scholars were clean."

"May I really do that?"

"Yes. I'll buy you a fresh cake of soap and a brush, and you can take two clean towels from the drawer every Sat.u.r.day morning. Make it a rule, but be very gentle and pleasant about it or the children may refuse."

"O mother, what a good plan! Thank you so much," said Mary with sparkling eyes. "Now I shall have real comfort with them."

There was great excitement in the sewing-cla.s.s when they were told that in future they were to go to "Teacher's" house every Sat.u.r.day, and walk down to school with her. They were a droll little procession enough when they appeared the next week at the appointed time. Norah's toes were out of her shoes. Her tangled curls were as rough as a bird's-nest, and the hat on top of them looked as if it had sailed across every mud-puddle in town. Little Kathleen's scanty garments were rather rags than clothes.

And Gretchen, tidiest of all, had smears of sausage on her rosy face, and did not seem to have been brought into contact with soap and water for weeks.

Mary led them up into her own room, which, plain as it was, looked like a palace to the little ones after the dirt and discomfort of their crowded homes. There were the nice clean towels, the new hair-brush, and the big cake of honey-soap, mother's contributions to the undertaking.

The washing was quite a frolic. Norah cried a little at having her hair pulled, but Mary was gentle and pleasant, and made the affair so amusing that the children thought it pleasant to be clean, instead of disliking it. She rewarded their patience by a kiss all round. Kathleen threw her arms about Mary's neck and gave her a great hug. "You're iver so nice,"

she said, and Mary kissed her again.

So every Sat.u.r.day from that time forward, Mary went to school followed by a crowd of clean little faces, which looked all the brighter and happier for their cleanliness. She was proud of her cla.s.s, but their ragged clothes distressed her greatly.

"It is such a pity," she told her mother. "They are so pretty, and they look like beggars."

Mrs. Forcythe had only been waiting for this. She was not a woman to give much advice, even to her own child. "Drop in a seed and let it grow," was her motto.

"There's that old gingham of yours," she suggested. "You could spare that for one of them, if there were anybody to make it over."

"_I'll_ make it!" cried Mary, "only--" her, face falling, "I don't know how to cut dresses."

"I'll cut it for you if you like," said Mrs. Forcythe quietly.

"Will you, mother dear? How splendid. I'll make it for Norah. She's the raggedest of all."

The gingham was measured, and proved enough to make frocks for Norah and Kathleen too. Mary had double work to undertake, but her heart was in her fingers, and they flew fast. It took every spare moment for a fortnight to make the frocks, but when they were done and tried on to the delighted children, they looked so nicely that Mary was rewarded for her trouble and for the many needle-p.r.i.c.ks in her forefinger.

"Only it's such a pity about the others," she told her mother. "They'll think I'm partial, and I'm not, though I _do_ love Norah a little bit the best, she's so affectionate. I wish we were rich. Then I could buy frocks for them all."

"If you were rich, perhaps you wouldn't care about it," said her mother.

"A little here and a little there, a st.i.tch, a kind word, a small self-denial, these are in the power of all of us, and in course of time they mount up and make a great deal. And, Mary dear, I've always found if you once start in a path and are determined to keep on, somebody's sure to come along and lend a helping hand, when you think you have got to the end of every thing, and must stop or turn back."

"Well, I've got to the end of every thing now," said Mary. "There aren't any more old frocks to make over, and we can't afford to buy new ones."

"Don't be discouraged," said her mother. "The way is sure to open somehow."

"How wise mother is," thought Mary, when the very next week on their way back from school Mrs. Wallis said, "I noticed that two of your scholars had respectable frocks on to-day. I wonder if their mothers made them?

If they did, I've an old chintz dress which I could spare, and perhaps Gretchen's mother and Amadine's could take it and fit them out too."

"I made the dresses," cried Mary joyfully. "And if you'll let me have the old chintz, I'll make some more for the others, Mrs. Wallis. Oh, I'm so glad."

"Did you make them," said Mrs. Wallis in a pleased tone. "Well, that's first-rate. I'll send the chintz round to-night; and any other old things I can find to help along."

So that night came a great bundle, which, on opening, revealed not only the chintz, but a nice calico, some plaid ribbon, a large black alpaca ap.r.o.n, and an old shirt of Mr. Wallis's. Such a busy time as Mary had in planning how to make the most of these gifts. The chintz was long and full. It had a cape, and made two beautiful frocks. The calico made another frock and two nice pinafores, the black alpaca some small ap.r.o.ns. Mary trimmed the two worst hats with the ribbon. Last of all, she cut and st.i.tched five narrow bands of the linen, which mother washed and starched, and behold, the cla.s.s had collars! I don't know which was most pleased at this last decoration, Mary or the children.

"They are just as good as dolls to you, aren't they," said her father.

"O Papa! much better than _that_. Dolls can't laugh and talk, and they don't really care any thing about you, you only just make believe that they do. It's horrid to fit a doll's clothes; she sticks her arm out stiff and won't bend it a bit. I'd rather have my cla.s.s than all the dolls in the world."

"Teaching those children is having a capital effect on Mary herself,"

said Mrs. Forcythe to her husband after Mary had gone away. "She gains all the time in patience and industry, and is twice as careful of her things as she used to be. I found her crying the other day because she had torn her oldest frock, and the darn was sure to come in a bad place when the frock was made over for Gretchen! Think of Mary's crying because of having torn any thing!"

Time flies rapidly when people are busy and happy. Days crept into weeks, weeks into months; before any one knew it two years were pa.s.sed and another Conference day was at hand. It met this time at Redding.

Mary, a tall girl of fifteen now, went with her mother to hear the appointments read. The Redding people had applied to keep Mr. Forcythe for another term, but the request was denied; and, when his name was reached on the list, it appeared that he was to go back to Valley Hill.

"There's one person I know will be pleased," said the Bishop, pausing on his way out of church to speak to Mrs. Forcythe. "Mistress Mary here!

She'll be glad to go back to Valley Hill again. But, hey-day! she doesn't look glad. What! tears in her eyes. How is this?"

"I--don't--know--" sighed Mary. "I thought--I thought we should stay here. Of course I feel sorry just at first."

"Sorry! Not want to leave Redding! Why, what a contrary little maid you are! Don't you recollect how you cried, and said Redding was horrid."

"Yes," said Mary, on the verge of a sob. "But I like it now, Bishop. I don't mind the fish a bit, and the funny old streets and the posy-beds with c.o.c.kle-sh.e.l.l edges are so nice, and the bells sound so sweet on Sunday morning!--I like Redding ever so much."

"But your garden,--I remember how badly you felt to leave that. You can't have a garden in Redding."

"No, but I have my little girls. I'd rather have them than a garden, a great deal!"

"What does she mean?" asked the Bishop, turning to Mrs. Forcythe.

"Her sewing-cla.s.s," replied Mrs. Forcythe, smiling.

"There they are!" cried Mary eagerly. "They're waiting for me. Do look at them, Bishop; it's those five little girls in a row behind the second pillar from the door. That big one is Norah, and the one in blue is Rachel, and the littlest is named Kathleen. Isn't she pretty? They're the sweetest little things, oh, I shall miss them so. I shan't ever have such good times again as I've had with them." Her voice faltered; a lump came in her throat. To hide it she slipped away, and went across the church to where the little ones sat.

"That's a dear child of yours," said the good Bishop, looking after her.

"I guess she'll _do_ wherever she goes."

And I think Mary will.

[Ill.u.s.tration]