"Why, don't you know that only great writers, and great fighters, and very good men, and very bad men, are noticed that way! If your papa was not good as well as great, he would not be fixed in our house, unless in the servant's room, with Jemmy and Sandy, and the Storm, and Auld Robin Grey. Whatever you may think, it is a very great honour to be noticed by somebody that I could name."

"I have not any thing to do with honour," cried Isabella, "and talking of things I don't know."

"Hush! don't speak! Can't you see that I am busy. I wish I knew what people do when they have great books to write. My thoughts jumble so together, I can't tell what to make of them; it is sad teasing work."

"If Caroline was here, she could tell you what to write."

"And do you think that I should ask a dunce? If I could but begin, I know I could go on." Here Miss Bruce considered a little. "I must think of my thoughts: no, I must write them down."

"O, Miss Bruce, Miss Bruce!" cried Isabella, eagerly, "do look through the window; there is a balloon flying, and a paper boy tied to it!"

"I wish you were flying too: don't you see that I want to write my fable. Let me see: a.s.s, 1; Farmer Killwell, 2; somebody's papa, but not mine. Turkey, 3; Barn-fowls, 4; Little schoolgirl, 5. O, how shall I put all these words together to make any thing of them! O, that I could but begin! There it is!" said Miss Bruce joyfully; and she wrote several words upon her slate. "Well, there is nothing like a good beginning! I will finish to-night; so now let us go to the ladies," and Miss Bruce skipped out of the room, with her slate and Isabella.

CHAPTER XII.

With some surprise, Miss Damer, in looking over the themes, read the following fable:

"One bleak, cold winter morning, an a.s.s and her foals were loitering upon the edge of a wild common; not a tree was to be seen, and scarcely a bit of herbage for their breakfast to be found. 'This is a comfortless life!' said the a.s.s; 'the winds are chilly, the snow will soon fall, and we have not a shed to cover us! What shall we do? for I fear we shall be lost.' The a.s.s turned her head, for she heard the tinkling of bells, and saw a shepherd driving sheep from the common. 'Ah! a happy thought!

we will go to Farmer Killwell, and tell our sorrows unto him.' No sooner said than done; they plodded through miry lanes, waded through shallow brooks, and at length arrived at the farmer's gate. The tale was soon told. The farmer pitied their piteous case; 'but,' said he, 'idleness bringeth want. Exert yourselves, and you will find friends. Begin a school at once; here are my poultry, my birds, and my young cattle to teach: not a moment is to be lost.'--'It is a good thing to have a good friend!' said the a.s.s, as she stalked into the farm-yard. Here she brayed with a most audible voice: 'Hearken to me, parents and little ones!' she cried; 'I am come hither to inspire you all with wisdom.'

"The goose, as wise as a goose can be, stared at the speaker; tossed her head on one side, gave a loud quack, and returned to comfort her goslings, who were fluttering in every direction.

"'You little ducklings,' continued the a.s.s, 'don't spread your feet so vulgarly. Mrs. Turkey, I have long sighed for the honour of your patronage: the charming little poults, I hope, will gain new beauties from our exertions. Mrs. Barn-fowl, your chickens are too timid; we shall soon teach them to hop with grace. As for these awkward maudlin rabbits, I fear we cannot do any thing with them; and these ill-bred creatures, Mrs. Sow's progeny, we cannot attempt to teach.' A st.u.r.dy mastiff, who had followed the group of gazers, now barked furiously; dispersed the poultry, pushed Mrs. Sow and her family into the mud; and, spite of Farmer Killwell, drove the a.s.s and her foals out of the farm-yard. A little girl, who was witness to the hubbub, exclaimed, 'Ah!

this is excellent! Mrs. Adair has borrowed a garment from the a.s.s, to teach simple ones wisdom; but she will never teach little girls to love new rules.'"

"Where is the moral to your fable?" asked Miss Damer, with some degree of anger.

"I never thought of the moral; of what use would it be to my theme?"

returned Miss Bruce.

"And of what use is any theme or fable without a moral? But I wish to know your motive for writing this ridiculous piece."

"To vex Mrs. Adair, certainly, because she won't let me go to my Aunt's on Thursday."

"And do you really think that it is in your power to vex Mrs. Adair with this trifling nonsense? You may be a.s.sured of this, Miss Bruce, the only notice she will take of this childish, insignificant fable, will be to make you read it to the ladies."

"I won't be talked to in this way, though you are my monitress. I will write what I please;" so saying, she s.n.a.t.c.hed the slate from Miss Damer, and in haste rubbed off the words.

"The wisest thing you could do," said Miss Damer. "Now sit down, and reflect seriously upon your conduct, and then tell me whether you feel quite satisfied with yourself, or whether you are grateful to Mrs. Adair for her care of you, and attention to you. You are the only little girl who has not a mamma: who would be so indulgent, so tender to you, as Mrs. Adair?"

At these words Miss Bruce sobbed violently; but her sorrow was of short duration: "You would vex any thing, Miss Damer, with talking so quietly. I like people to be angry with me, and then I can be angry myself."

"My dear, I shall not listen to you, so I advise you to cease talking: it is my plan never to argue with unruly little girls. Come, Miss Grey, and Isabella; we will go into the play-ground."

Isabella whispered to Miss Bruce as she pa.s.sed her; "do, dear Miss Bruce, be good. Why should you vex Miss Damer when she is so kind to you?" Miss Bruce pushed her companion's hand from her shoulder, and turned her face to the wall, and there they found her on their return.

When the bell rang for prayers, Miss Bruce sprang across the room to Miss Damer, who was seated, talking to Miss Arden, and throwing her arms round her neck, she exclaimed, "You must indeed forgive me; I cannot sleep unless you say, 'good night.'"

Miss Damer turned round, and kissed her: "Now, my dear, I hope you will never offend me again."

"Oh, Miss Damer! I will love you for ever, for forgiving me so soon."

The bell rang, and she hastened out of the room.

"Should you not have been a little more stern?" said Miss Arden.

"My dear friend, ask yourself whether you could be so to a little girl who has no mother."

Tears started into Miss Arden's eyes. "I did not think of that."

CHAPTER XIII.

One evening after school-hours, Mrs. Adair went into Jane's apartment, who at this time was chiefly confined to her chamber, and found her busily employed sealing small parcels. One was directed, "For my friend Miss Damer;" another, "For my dear little Isabella Vincent;" and a third, "For my amiable young friend Miss Arden." Mrs. Adair seated herself with the work in which she was engaged: and as her eyes glanced to the sealed parcels, tears stole down her cheeks.

"My dear mother," said Jane with tenderness, "I am only making a little preparation before my journey. You must have been aware, some time, that the days of my life were numbered; and they will now be very few. But do not grieve on my account: it is the appointment of One, who is unerring in his ways. Excepting the separation from you and my sister, I feel that I have no regret at leaving this world.

"Death is a subject that I have often contemplated. The grave, and the last perishable garment in which I shall be clothed, have now lost all their terrors. The evening I first arrived at school, when my mind was filled with grief at our separation, I remember being greatly shocked at the slow, solemn, deep tones of the village church-bell. I cannot describe my feelings at the time. Sorrow at leaving home rendered the awful m.u.f.fled peal more dismal to my ears: but from that night I may date my first serious thoughts of another world. I have never troubled my friends with my reflections, but that bell was as a monitor, to warn me that I was not for this world."

Miss Arden now entered the room; and Mrs. Adair gladly escaped, to indulge her tears in secret. With a calm collected countenance she then re-joined her pupils; but at the same time experienced the sorrow of a parent, who knows she is soon to be deprived of a beloved child. For Jane's appearance too plainly denoted, that the period was at hand "when the keepers of the house would tremble." At this time her uneasiness was increased by a melancholy, distressing letter from Mrs.

Vincent, urging her not to delay a moment coming to her; that she was to undergo an operation, that would either close life or restore her to her family. Various feelings agitated Mrs. Adair's mind as she read the letter. After a little reflection, she fixed upon the proper mode of acting, and in an hour a chaise was at the door, to convey her to her old friend.

Jane had now been confined wholly to her chamber a fortnight. Her disease was of a fluctuating nature: sometimes she appeared almost in perfect health; at others, as one dropping into the grave. She was seated in an arm-chair, supported with pillows. When Mrs. Adair entered the chamber, one hand rested upon a book that lay open upon a small table, and near the book was her watch; her head was thrown back, and her face was covered with a muslin handkerchief. Mrs. Adair, who had slowly opened the door, now as cautiously advanced; listened to hear her daughter breathe; and then gently raised the handkerchief. Jane started.

Afraid of disturbing her, Mrs. Adair remained some time with fixed attention, holding the handkerchief from her face. A hectic flush was upon her cheeks; but her countenance was placid and happy. When she returned into her own chamber, Elizabeth was there, who anxiously inquired if she had seen her sister. "But have you taken leave of her?"

she cried.

Mrs. Adair drew the veil of her bonnet over her face, as she said, "taking leave is a trial of all others--" and here she paused; "this is not of any consequence to you."

"O, my dear mother, we have no earthly hope, no support but yourself; let my sister's eyes rest for the last time upon the mother she has so tenderly loved; she will not die in peace unless you are with her."

"My feelings are as irritable as your own," said Mrs. Adair; "leave me to act according to my own judgment: not another word. Bring Isabella to me, for the chaise is at the door."

While the ladies were walking with Miss Wilkins, the teacher, Elizabeth went into her sister's chamber; and at the door met Mrs. Lloyd, the housekeeper, who had been ordered by Mrs. Adair to explain the motive of the journey to Jane.

"O, sister," cried Elizabeth, "how could my mother, so considerate and good as she is, leave you in this state!"

"We cannot tell all her motives," said Jane; "only consider what were my mother's feelings, when she fixed her eyes upon this poor emaciated frame, as she supposed, for the last time."

"It was cruelty in the extreme," cried Elizabeth.

"Do no speak rashly, my dear Elizabeth; we will hope--" and her eyes brightened with an expression of joy, "that all will yet be well; that, through the mercy of Providence, Mrs. Vincent will be restored to health, and that I shall be permitted to remain a little longer with you."