There is always work for every willing hand."

Then Mrs. Crook drew herself up and said she did not feel inclined to take in sewing. She had her own to do, and did it without requiring a.s.sistance, and she thought it was better to teach the lower cla.s.ses to depend upon themselves than to go about pampering poor people and encouraging idleness, as many persons were so fond of doing now-a-days. No doubt they thought they were doing good, but, for her part, she believed that in many cases they did harm.

The visitor could have told tales of worn-out toilers, laboring almost night and day to win bread for their children, but unable to find either material for a garment or time to make it. She could have pleaded for the widow and the orphan, if there had seemed any feelings to touch, any heart to stir. But Mrs. Crook's hard words and looks repelled her, and she went her way, after a mere "Good-morning. I am sorry you cannot see your way to help us."

No chance of widows weeping for the loss of Mrs. Crook, or telling of her almsdeeds and good works, or showing the coats and garments made for them by her active fingers!

It was the same when some adventurous collector called upon Mrs. Crook to solicit a subscription. She had always something to say against the object for which money was asked. If it were for the sufferers by an accident in a coal mine or for the unemployed at a time of trade depression:

"Why don't they insure their lives like their betters? Why don't they save something, when they are getting good wages? I am not going to encourage the thriftless, or help those who might help themselves, if they would think beforehand."

At length every one gave up trying to enlist her services, or to obtain contributions from her, for the support of any good cause. And Mrs. Crook bestowed all her thoughts, her affections, her time and her means, on the only person she thought worthy of them all--namely Mrs.

Crook herself.

AN EVENING SONG.

BY COUSIN ANNIE.

Twilight dews are gath'ring, The bright day's done; Upon thy downy couch Rest, little one.

Each tiny bird's hieing Home to its nest; Each flower-head's nodding Upon its breast.

Be still now, little heart, Until the morrow Brings again its share Of joy and sorrow.

May angels round thy couch Be ever nigh, And over thy slumbers chant Their lullaby.

[Ill.u.s.tration: {A LITTLE GIRL IN THOUGHTFUL POSE.}]

"BUT THEN."

It was a queer name for a little girl, and it was not her real name--that was Lizzie--but everybody called her "But Then."

"My real name is prettier, _but then_, I like the other pretty well,"

she said, nodding her short, brown curls merrily. And that sentence shows just how she came by her name.

If Willie complained that it was a miserable, rainy day, and they couldn't play out of doors, Lizzie a.s.sented brightly,--

"Yes; _but then_, it is a real nice day to fix our sc.r.a.pbooks."

When Kate fretted because they had so far to walk to school, her little sister reminded her,--

"_But then, it's all the way through the woods, you know_, and that's ever so much nicer than walking on pavements in a town."

When even patient Aunt Barbara pined a little because the rooms in the new house were so few and small compared with their old home, a rosy face was quietly lifted to hers with the suggestion,--

"_But then_, little rooms are the best to cuddle all up together in, don't you think, Auntie?"

"Better call her 'Little But Then,' and have done with it," declared Bob, half-vexed, half-laughing. "No matter how bad any thing is, she is always ready with her 'but then,' and some kind of consolation on the end of it."

And so, though no one really intended it, the new name began. There were a good many things that the children missed in their new home.

Money could have bought them even there; but if the money had not gone first, their father would scarcely have thought it necessary to leave his old home. They had done what was best under the circ.u.mstances; still the boys felt rather inclined to grumble about it one winter morning when they were starting off to the village on an errand.

"Just look at all the snow going to waste, without our having a chance to enjoy it," said Will; "and the ice too--all because we couldn't bring our sleds with us when we moved."

"_But then_, you might make one yourself, you know. It wouldn't be quite so pretty, but it would be just as good," suggested Little But Then.

"Exactly what I mean to do as soon as I get money enough to buy two or three boards; but I haven't even that yet, and the winter is nearly half gone."

"If we only had a sled to-day, Sis could ride, and we could go on the river," said Bob. "It's just as near that way, and we could go faster."

"It is a pity," admitted the little girl. "_But then_, I've thought of something--that old chair in the shed! If we turned it down, its back would be almost like runners, and so--"

"Hurrah! that's the very thing!" interrupted the boys; and the old chair was dragged out in a twinkling, and carried down to the river.

Then away went the merry party, laughing and shouting, on the smooth road between the snowy hills, while Gyp followed, frisking and barking, and seeming to enjoy the fun as much as any of them.

"Now we'll draw our sled up here, close under the bank, where n.o.body will see it, and leave it while we go up to the store," said Bob, when they had reached the village.

Their errand was soon done, and the children ready to return; but as they set forth Will pointed to a dark spot a little way out on the ice.

"What is that? It looks like a great bundle of clothes."

It was a bundle that moved and moaned as they drew near, and proved to be a girl, a little bigger than Lizzie. She looked up when they questioned her, though her face was pale with pain.

"I slipped and fell on the ice," she explained, "and I'm afraid I've broken my leg, for it is all twisted under me, and I can't move it or get up. I live in the village. That's my father's carpenter shop where you see the sign. I could see it all the time, and yet I was afraid I'd freeze here before any one saw me. Oh dear! it doesn't seem as if I could lie here while you go for my father."

"Why, you needn't," began Bob; but the girl shook her head.

"I can't walk a step, and you two are not strong enough to carry me all the way. You'd let me fall, or you'd have to keep stopping to rest; and putting me down and taking me up again would almost kill me."

"Oh, but we'll only lift you into the chair, just as carefully as we can, then we can carry you easy enough," said Will.

And in that way the poor girl was borne safely home; and the children lingered long enough to bring the surgeon and hear his verdict that "Young bones don't mind much being broken, and she will soon be about again, as well as ever."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "BUT THEN, IT'S ALL THE WAY THROUGH THE WOODS, YOU KNOW."]

"But I don't see how you happened to have a chair so handy," said her father to the boys. And when they explained that they were using it for a sled, he said, with a significant nod of his head,--"Your sled, was it? Well, I shall be surprised if my shop does not turn you out a better sled than that, just by way of thanks for your kindness."

"_But then_, wasn't it good that it was only the old chair that we had to-day?" asked Little But Then, as she told the story to Aunt Barbara at home. "Oh Auntie, I had the nicest kind of a time!"

"I believe you had," answered Aunt Barbara, smiling; "for a brave, sunny spirit, that never frets over what it has not, but always makes the best of what it has where it is, is sure to have a good time. It does not need to wait for it to come--it has a factory for making it."