The Project Gutenberg eBook of A little town mouse, by Eleanora H. Stooke
Title: A little town mouse
Author: Eleanora H. Stooke
Release Date: June 6, 2023 [eBook #70922]
Language: English
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
BOOKS IN THE
SAME SERIES
"ROAST POTATOES!"
ONLY A GIRL!
DICK AND HIS DONKEY
RED DAVE
THE LITTLE WOODMAN
A LITTLE TOWN MOUSE
THE ISLAND HOUSE
THE CHILDREN OF THE MARSHES
A DOUBLE VICTORY
LEFT IN CHARGE
A SUNDAY TRIP
"IN A MINUTE!"
FARTHING DIPS
TIMFY SYKES
LONDON
S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO., LTD.
E.C.4
CHAP
I. DR. KNIGHT IS SUMMONED TO LONDON
III. STELLA'S ARRIVAL AMONG HER COUNTRY COUSINS
IV. STELLA BECOMES BETTER ACQUAINTED WITH THE DOCTOR'S FAMILY
VII. HAPPINESS IN THE DOCTOR'S HOME
IT was eight o'clock on a fine October morning. There was a touch of frost in the air that made the sunshine which gilded the steadily falling leaves from the beech trees bordering the road outside Dr. Knight's house feel genial and comforting.
In the pleasant sitting-room facing the high road sat the doctor, his children, and their governess at breakfast. The head of the family was a tall, muscular man, with a bronzed face, and kind, grey eyes. There was about him a look of perfect health, that made his patients in the country town of Raymouth say his very presence in a sick-room was cheering; and possessing great skill as a surgeon, added to one of the most sympathetic hearts in the world, it was no wonder he had an increasing practice. Indeed, he needed it, for his wife was an invalid, and he had four children, and no private means.
As the doctor read his letters, which had been placed by his plate, the children chatted merrily.
"I wish it was a holiday!" cried Nellie, aged six, glancing out at the sunshine, and pouting. "Miss Clarke, cannot we have a holiday? Do say yes!"
"Why no, Nellie, certainly not," the governess answered promptly. "It is not to be thought of for a moment."
She was a pretty, bright woman, young enough to be in sympathy with her little pupils, and she looked at them smilingly as she spoke. Dora, who was eight, a quiet, good-tempered child, accepted the governess' verdict without a remonstrance, but the two elder children looked stormy, and whispered to each other.
George and David Knight were twins, fine little fellows of ten years old, mischievous and tiresome in many ways, but, in spite of their loud voices and boisterous manners, really kind-hearted. They were much alike, taking after their father in appearance, as did the two girls, all the children being pictures of health—a family to be proud of, or rather to thank God for.
"It rained last Saturday," David remarked presently. "Miss Clarke, do you remember it rained last Saturday?"
"Quite well. I was as sorry as you children were, I assure you. Nevertheless, you cannot have a holiday to-day. Come, cheer up! Lesson-time will soon pass, and then we'll have a nice long walk in the woods before dinner."
"Yes, I like walking through the dead leaves," said Dora, "only the worst of it is if we go in the woods the boys will throw stones at the squirrels! I cannot think how they can be so cruel!"
"She cannot think how we can be so cruel!" mimicked George, whilst David laughed. "Pooh, Dora! You're so silly!"
"I am not silly at all!" Dora indignantly exclaimed. "And it is cruel!"
"It would be cruel if they maimed the poor little creatures," Dr. Knight agreed, "but," with a sly glance at his sons, "as neither by any chance hits his mark, if I were you, Dora, I would let the boys take shots at the squirrels if it's any amusement to them."
The twins grew very red, and David gave George a kick under the table, which somewhat relieved his feelings; then George returned the favour with interest, no doubt with a like soothing result. After that the breakfast proceeded tranquilly, till Miss Clarke noticed the doctor's face grow grave as he opened the last of his letters. He read the epistle through twice, then rising hastily, and with an apology to the governess, went upstairs to his wife.
Three years before, Mrs. Knight had met with a carriage accident which had nearly cost her her life. For weeks she had lain hovering between life and death, and that time had been accountable for the few grey hairs that streaked the doctor's brown head. She had recovered, that is to say, her life had been spared, but to the end of her days she would in all probability be an invalid, unable to walk, unable even to dress herself, dependent upon the services of others.
In those first days, after the knowledge that she would live had come to her, she had thought life so good and desirable; and then very tenderly her husband had told her the truth. In the first agony of the thought of her helplessness she had wept upon his bosom such sad tears as her eyes had never known before. He had said very little, his sorrow for her had been too deep to admit of many words, but when he had left her he had felt that all happiness had fled. It had been awful to think of his beautiful wife an invalid for life. He had visited his patients as usual, and had repaired again to his wife's bedside. The nurse had slipped from the room, and he had silently taken her place, dreading an outburst of the violent grief he could do so little to comfort. His wife's feeble fingers had closed softly round his strong brown palm as he had tenderly bent over her.
"John," she had whispered, "how I must have grieved you! What a weak, selfish creature you must have thought me! After the anxiety and trouble I have been, to think I should have distressed you with my wicked repinings! Do you know, after you had gone I lay crying for hours, and then after a while my selfishness came home to me. I thought that because God means me to live, He must still have some work for me to do. Don't you think so?"
"Assuredly I do, my dear wife."
"Oh, John, I did not remember this morning that I was railing against the cross God had sent me to bear! It seemed to me that God had deserted me! Do you remember how I always said, looking on some beautiful scene—the sea, or a wide expanse of moor—that I could feel God's presence? Well, to-day, shut up in this room, I had the same sensation. I knew God was near me, a real sustaining presence, and I think He will be near me in the years to come, and with His help I may be able to do my duty to you and the children!"
From that day Mrs. Knight had never complained of her sad condition, and tied to the narrow limits of two rooms though she was, she somehow managed the household, and continued to be a real helpmate to her husband. People said she was a wonderful woman, and marvelled how she contrived to get such good servants; but it must have been a hard heart that would not render faithful service to the doctor's invalid wife.
On this bright October morning Mrs. Knight sat, or rather reclined, in her invalid's chair; the tray holding her breakfast things on a small table close by. Anna, an elderly woman who had nursed all the children in turn, and who, since the day of her mistress's accident, had been her chief attendant, had placed a small bunch of autumn violets in a vase near at hand, but hearing her master's footsteps on the stairs she went into the bedroom that led out of the sitting-room, closing the door after her.
"How soon you have finished breakfast!" Mrs. Knight exclaimed. "I hope you have made a good meal, John."
The invalid was a pretty woman still, with fair hair and blue eyes. Her husband seated himself by her side and answered her cheerfully, but she was quick to note a shadow on his brow.
"What is it?" she asked anxiously.
"I have had news of my dead brother's wife. She is very ill—dying she herself thinks—and she wants to see me."
"Oh, John, you will go to her at once, will you not? But where is she?"
"In London. I have the address here. Yes, I shall go to her at once, as you say. Gray must manage by himself to-day."
Mr. Gray was Dr. Knight's assistant. He did not live in the house, but his lodgings were only a few doors away.
"I shall catch the fast train to town, and will telegraph to you after I have seen my sister-in-law. It is strange she should send for me, seeing we were never friends. It will be a painful meeting. I cannot forget that when my poor brother was lying in his last illness she was going to balls and entertainments, begrudging even the few minutes she spent by his bedside. She was ever the worldliest of women, and what poor Leonard saw in her to love I never could imagine!"
The doctor spoke bitterly. His wife pressed his hand gently, and the gloom left his face as he bent over her and kissed her.
"Well, little woman, I must not stay up here with you. I must rush off and see Gray, and somehow manage to catch the fast train. I hear the children trooping up the stairs! There's no need to tell them the purport of my journey."
The doctor bustled away as the children came laughing and talking into their mother's room. It was her custom, unless she was too unwell, to have them with her every morning for half-an-hour before they joined their governess in the school-room. First they read the psalms for the day, verse by verse in turn, then they hung around her, talking of all the matters of interest pertaining to their young lives. Nellie, the baby of the family, nestled in her mother's arms. She had no remembrance of her mother but as an invalid; but Dora and the twins recollected the time when Mrs. Knight had been the soul of activity, joining with them in their games, full of life and gaiety.
"What is father in such a hurry for this morning?" Dora inquired. "He finished his breakfast so quickly, and yet nobody sent for him."
"He is going to London this morning by the fast train on important business," Mrs. Knight briefly explained.
"Oh!"
Four pairs of eyes looked curious and interested, but no questions were asked. It was soon time for the children to go to the school-room, and when they had gone Mrs. Knight had not long to wait before her husband returned. He had seen Mr. Gray, and was quite ready for his journey.
"Take care of yourself, John," Mrs. Knight implored nervously.
She had never been nervous in the old days, but now it was different, though she strove hard to conquer her fears.
"My dear wife, I am always most careful!" and indeed he spoke truly. "It is not in the least likely I shall be away long."
"No, I suppose not. By the way, John, I've been thinking your sister-in-law may want to make you guardian to her little girl."
"It is not very probable, Mary. Let me see, the child is about the age of the twins, is she not?"
"Yes, her birthday is within a month of theirs. I remember your brother's letter in which he told us of his little daughter's birth! How pleased he was! How he would have loved her if he had lived!"
"Ab, poor fellow! They named the baby Stella. Why, Mary, if anything happens to the mother the child will be quite a little heiress; you know my sister-in-law inherited a lot of money from a distant relation. Well, I must really be off!"
One long kiss, a tender embrace, and Mrs. Knight was listening to her husband's footsteps descending the stairs.
IN a handsomely furnished bedroom in a large house in a London square, her face pressed disconsolately against the window-pane, stood a little girl of about ten years old. It was nearly four o'clock, and the October day that had dawned with brilliant sunshine had clouded in, and the rain fell heavily, drenching the few pedestrians whose business obliged them to face the stormy elements.
The child was a pretty little creature, beautifully formed, with dainty hands and feet, and a pale oval face, out of which two soft brown eyes shone like stars. She was dressed in a showy, fantastic style, her scarlet skirt just reaching to her knees, a scarlet ribbon confining her rich dark hair, and scarlet shoes with high heels ornamented with large paste buckles encased her little feet. Half-a-dozen silver bangles jingled on each slender wrist, and the delicate laces at her throat were fastened by a brooch far too valuable for a child to wear. Presently she began to sing softly to herself, till a sudden memory crossing her mind she paused, and sighed: "Oh, how dull it is, to be sure! I wish mother would make haste and get well; she's been ill so long. I cannot think why she doesn't get better."
At that moment a hansom cab appeared in sight and drew up in front of the house. A tall gentleman alighted, and, having paid the driver, entered the house. The child sighed again. "Another doctor, I suppose!"
Then, nothing more of interest to be seen, she left the window, and going to a chest-of-drawers began turning over the contents with evident enjoyment. She took out frock after frock, some of silk, others woollen, and surveyed them one by one with critical eyes. She smoothed ribbons, she pulled out laces, she folded and refolded; and then seated on the floor drew a glove-case towards her and began trying on her stock of gloves. It was wonderful the interest the child took in her fine clothes; it was evident she was accustomed to give them much consideration.
Whilst she was thus employed the door was softly opened and a hospital nurse peeped in; then without a word shut the door again and went downstairs. She was a gentle-faced woman, known as "Sister Ellen" in the sick-room. Her kind face was thoughtful and sad as she turned into the house-keeper's room. Mrs. Mudford, the house-keeper, was seated by the fire. She rose as the nurse entered and drew an easy-chair forward.
"There, my dear," she said kindly, "rest yourself a bit; you must be nearly fit to drop. We'll have a cup of tea together, and that will refresh you, will it not?"
"Oh, yes! I should like that better than anything. Mrs. Knight is a trifle easier now, and her brother-in-law is with her. I have left them alone by her desire; she has something of importance to say to him."
"What does he think of her? He is a doctor, is he not?"
"Yes. He says the same as the others. She will not be alive in twenty-four hours. Poor woman!"
The house-keeper busied herself with the tea-things, and whilst the nurse sipped the refreshing beverage they discussed the patient in low tones.
All her life Mrs. Knight had lived for herself alone. Neither husband nor child had been so dear to her as herself. She was one of those whose portion, as the psalmist says, was in this life, and it could not be expected that she would be much regretted by her acquaintances, much less by her servants, whom she had never considered in the least. Sister Ellen, who had nursed all sorts and conditions of sick people, acknowledged to herself that she had never had to do with one so utterly selfish as the woman who lay dying upstairs.
"I liked Dr. Knight's face," Mrs. Mudford remarked; "he is like the photographs I've seen of his brother."
"Is he? Yes, I like his face too. I wonder if he will be the child's guardian."
"Very likely. Why, Miss Stella will be an heiress, for her mother is very rich, as every one knows."
"Indeed. Poor little girl!"
"Not many would pity her for being an heiress, nurse!"
"I suppose not; but I was thinking of the responsibilities wealth brings. I went up to see the little one, but she was quite happy turning over her finery, and was much too engrossed to notice me. I thought it a pity to disturb her, so I slipped away without a word."
Mrs. Mudford threw up her hands with a gesture expressive of disapproval, exclaiming: "And her mother on her death-bed! The idea of being taken up with all that frippery now! She hasn't a scrap of natural affection, the heartless little thing! Well, well, I suppose it's not to be wondered at! She's her mother's own child!"
Sister Ellen sighed.
"I think it is one of the saddest cases I have ever nursed," she said.
At that moment there was a call for the nurse, and putting down her empty cup she hastily left the room and ran upstairs.
Meanwhile little Stella Knight, having looked over the contents of the chest-of-drawers, returned to her old post by the window. She had not been peering out long into the gathering darkness when the house-keeper entered and seized her by the hand.
"Your mother wants you, Miss Stella," she said. Her manner was somewhat flurried, and the child gazed at her in surprise.
"Mother wants me!" in amazed accents. "Wants me!"
"Yes, my dear. Come!"
"Had I not better brush my hair first? Mother will be angry if I do not look nice."
"No! no! Come at once! She will not notice! She is too ill!"
Impressed by the woman's manner, Stella followed her obediently, and in another moment entered her mother's room.
The autumn day was waning now. There was no light in the apartment save from the flames in the grate that flickered fitfully. Mrs. Knight lay breathing quietly, her eyes closed. Her brother-in-law stood on one side of the bed, whilst Sister Ellen, who was at the foot went forward and taking Stella by the hand led her to her mother's side.
The doctor was conscious of a brilliant little figure in scarlet, and a pair of very bright eyes that met his curiously.
"How are you, mother?" asked a gentle, sedate voice. "I hope you are better."
Stella was looking at her mother now—at the poor pinched face, void of all paint and powder, so different from the brilliant countenance that was familiar to her. The dying woman opened her eyes and looked at her child. She had never been an affectionate mother, but she had always been proud of her little girl's beauty. Now a new feeling arose in her heart for the first time.
"Stella," she whispered, "you must be a good girl when I am gone, and do everything your uncle tells you. He loved your father, and he will love you."
She turned her dim eyes to her brother-in-law, and he answered the look.
"She shall be as one of my own children. God helping me, I will take good care of her."
A look of satisfaction crossed the dying face, almost a look of content.
"Kiss me, my dear," she said to Stella, "and then go, for I am very tired."
Stella bent over her mother and their lips met; then the child obediently stole away.
"How she has altered!" she exclaimed to Mrs. Mudford, who was waiting for her outside. "Do you think she is very, very ill?"
"Yes, my dear, I do."
"Who is the strange doctor, Mrs. Mudford? I liked the look of him."
"He is your uncle, Miss Stella."
"My uncle! Oh!"
The rest of the day passed uneventfully, and at eight o'clock as usual Stella went to bed. She lay awake thinking of her mother, wondering if she would get better, and remembering how she had told her she must be a good girl and obey her uncle.
"I believe she must be going to die," thought Stella, a feeling of awe creeping over her, and she was quite relieved when she heard footsteps pause outside her bedroom door.
"Who is there?" she called.
It was Sarah, the plain-faced girl of eighteen who did the sewing for the family. She came into the room bearing a lighted candle in her hand.
Stella jumped up in bed and cried, "Oh, Sarah, do stay with me for a little while, do! I feel so lonely and frightened."
"Poor little dear!" said the kind-hearted maid, as she set the candle on the dressing-table and sat down on the edge of the bed. "But don't be lonely, Miss Stella, you mustn't be ever that, you know."
"Oh, Sarah! how can I help it? I know what you're going to say—that the Lord Jesus is here; but it's so difficult, so very difficult to believe!"
"It's true, nevertheless, darling, whether you believe it or no!"
"Yes, yes, I suppose so. Do you know that mother is very ill?"
"Yes, Miss Stella."
"Do you think she is going to die?"
Sarah hesitated. Her plain honest face was red, her eyelids were swollen with weeping. The child repeated her question.
"I think Jesus is going to take her home," Sarah answered simply.
"Home! To heaven, do you mean? But I don't believe mother loves Jesus!"
"Oh, my dear, perhaps the dear Lord's teaching her now; it's never too late with Him, Miss Stella. His love is from everlasting to everlasting. I begged leave to see her just now, and she looks—oh! I can't explain—but she looks as though she was at peace. Dr. Knight's with her still, and so is Sister Ellen. There, there, darling, don't cry!" for Stella was weeping quietly. "When my mother died I felt it dreadfully, so, my dear, I know what you feel!"
"Did you love your mother very much?" Stella asked.
"Better than any one in the world. She was very poor, and she slaved from morning to night to bring us up properly. Father—well, he drank, and she had everything on her shoulders, poor dear!"
"But, Sarah, supposing your mother hadn't been always kind to you— supposing she had not cared for you much?" Then, as the maid was silent, "I think in some ways it must be nicer to be poor. When people are rich I don't think they have time to love each other!"
"Oh, Miss Stella, that's a mistake! Rich or poor it's the same if one's heart is in the right place. Now, go to sleep like a good girl, and I'll sit with you for a while."
Stella closed her eyes obediently, and was soon fast asleep. Sarah, who loved her dearly, watched by her for some time, and then, feeling assured that her slumber was deep and untroubled, softly left the room.
When the morning dawned the blinds of the house were closely drawn, the inmates moved with hushed footsteps and spoke in whispered accents, for the mistress lay with the majesty of death upon her, and Stella was motherless.
A WEEK later excitement reigned in Dr. Knight's usually quiet household. The children had a holiday in honour of the stranger expected that day—their cousin Stella, who for the future was to make her home with them.
Singularly enough, Dr. Knight had been left Stella's guardian by the woman who in the days of her prosperity and health had always regarded him with dislike. When upon her sick-bed she had been told she must face death, she had thought over the list of her so-called friends, and because they had been of the world worldly, she had hesitated to entrust one of them with her little daughter, and the fortune that would be hers. Then her thoughts had reverted to her dead husband's brother. He had never approved of her; nevertheless she had trusted him. With the world slipping away from her she had instinctively turned to the only man of her acquaintance with whom she knew the world was of little account; and to him she had confided her child's future, conscious that she was acting as her dead husband would have desired. And so it was that the one who had stood by Stella's father in death, had ministered to her mother also when her turn had come to enter the valley of shadows.
It had been arranged when the funeral was over, and business matters satisfactorily settled, that Stella should return home with her uncle. This plan pleased Stella greatly, for she had taken a great liking to Dr. Knight, and was curious and eager to know the aunt and cousins she had never seen.
It must be confessed that Stella's grief for her mother's death was not very great; it could hardly have been otherwise, for the dead woman had paid little attention, lavished little tenderness on her daughter. Stella had always been gaily dressed, and encouraged to think a great deal of the luxuries money can buy. She had been brought up with the one idea that she must look pretty, and be very quiet in her mother's presence, the consequence being that she had a rather reserved manner, and a little air of artificiality about her.
As the time drew near for the arrival of the travellers, the doctor's children stationed themselves inside the window of their mother's room, which commanded a view of the road, and talked expectantly of their cousin.
"She is ten years old," Dora remarked. "I am only eight. I expect she will be ever so tall."
"She's sure to bully you," George assured his sister; "she'll look down on you as a kid, see if she doesn't!"
"My dear George," his mother interposed, "what nonsense you talk! I have no doubt Stella will be a shy, timid little girl; and I shall expect you all to be very considerate and kind to her, and treat her gently. I am afraid your boisterous ways may alarm her. And remember, she has just lost her mother. I fear she will be very sad and sorrowful!"
The four young faces at the window looked sympathetic, and the merry voices were hushed for a while.
"I shall be glad when father is home again," David said at length. "It is so dull when he's away. Mr. Gray will be glad too; he has not had a minute to call his own this last week."
"Oh, Stella's room does look pretty!" Dora broke in. "I helped Miss Clarke arrange it this morning, and we put a bunch of chrysanthemums on the little table in front of the window, and—"
"Dora kept on going in and altering first one thing and then another," George interposed; "I believe she'd be there now if Miss Clarke had not forbidden her to touch anything again."
"Dora is naturally anxious her cousin's first impressions should be pleasant ones," Mrs. Knight said with a smile; "but listen, children, surely I hear the wheels of the dogcart!"
"Yes! yes! They're coming! They're coming!"
The children flew downstairs, whilst the mother waited patiently, a little flush of excitement on her usually pale face, a look of glad expectancy in her eyes. Presently her husband entered the room, and in a minute his arms were around her, and his tender voice asking how she was.
"Oh, John, what a trying time you have had, dear! We have all missed you so much! It has seemed a year since you went away! Where is Stella? I am anxious to see the little town mouse."
"I have delivered her over to the tender mercies of Miss Clarke and the children. They will see to her, and after she has had some tea she shall come upstairs and make your acquaintance."
"Yes, I daresay after the long journey she will want her tea at once. But are you sure, John, that she will not be shy or nervous with strangers?"
"My dear Mary, when you have seen the child you will understand that it is not in her nature to be shy or nervous in the way you mean. Nothing discomposes her. Our young ones are much more likely to be shy with her than she with them."
"Really? How strange!"
"I should say she is rather a strange child, from what I learnt from the nurse who attended her mother. It seems my sister-in-law brought her up in what we should think an odd manner. For instance, Stella thinks a deal of fine clothes, and jewellery, and the appearances of things generally. I assure you, the first time I saw her I felt she was looking me through and through!"
"Surely she must be a disagreeable child, John!"
"No, on the contrary, she is charming. She is very pretty, with dark bright eyes, and gentle courteous manners. She did not feel her mother's death—cried hardly at all."
"Oh, John!"
"It is not to be wondered at. I believe she thought of her mother as a sort of superior being, very wealthy, very beautiful, queening it over others, and exacting implicit obedience. When she came in to take her last look at her mother it was as though she looked on a strange face."
"Oh, how dreadful! How sad! And your poor sister-in-law herself?"
"I will tell you about her another time, dear Mary. She had a splendid woman for a nurse, a true Christian, who was, I have no doubt, a great help to her. And I do not think she faced Death alone, for the last articulate words she uttered were, 'Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me!'"
There was a silence, broken only by the entrance of Anna with a tray.
"Anna is going to allow me to have tea up here with you to-night, Mary, as a treat," the doctor said, smiling. "How is the little stranger getting on downstairs, Anna?"
"Very well, I fancy, sir."
"Ah! I thought she would. Is she not a pretty child, Anna?"
"Handsome is as handsome does, sir. If Miss Stella is as good as she is pretty, why then she'll be very good indeed." And having given her opinion with the freedom of an old and valued servant, Anna left the doctor and his wife to themselves again.
Meanwhile downstairs matters were progressing happily enough. Stella sat at Miss Clarke's right hand sipping her tea, but eating little. She was too excited to have much appetite; and was fully occupied in watching her cousins, whom she considered good-looking but dowdily dressed children. Her observant eyes took in everything, from the shabbiness of the worn Brussels carpet to the texture of the table-cloth, which was far coarser than she had been accustomed to. She answered politely when addressed, and was most certainly not shy; but it was evident that she meant to make friends with her cousins at her own discretion.
"If you have finished tea, my dear," Miss Clarke said at length, "I think your aunt would like to see you. Dora, take your cousin upstairs to your mother."
Dora came forward obediently, and taking her cousin's hand the two children left the room together. On the landing upstairs Stella paused and drew back, for the first time since her arrival showing signs of nervousness.
"Am I tidy?" she asked anxiously. "Do I look nice?"
"Oh, yes!" in accents of surprise.
"Will she be cross?"
"Cross! Mother cross! Oh, no! Why do you ask?" in amazement.
"I thought she might be. She is ill, is she not? When mother was ill, or tired, I hated to go near her!"
"Come in, Stella!" called Dr. Knight's voice. "What are you two whispering about outside the door? You can't have any secrets to tell already, I'm sure," laughing. "Bring your cousin in, Dora! Don't you know your mother is all expectation, longing to see her?"
Turning her eyes eagerly towards the door, Mrs. Knight saw a slight little figure clad in a black frock. Stella advanced towards her aunt with outstretched hand, the faint artificial smile on her lips with which she had been in the habit of greeting her mother's visitors, her eyes full of doubts.
"So this is Stella," Mrs. Knight said. "This is my new little daughter!" Her voice was so tender and kind that it sent the tears to Stella's eyes. "Sit down here by my side, little one, and tell me how my big romping children have been behaving."
"Oh," said Stella, "they have been very polite."
The doctor laughed, and he and Dora went downstairs to join the others, leaving Stella alone with her aunt. Mrs. Knight continued to talk about her children, hoping Stella would make friends with them, and have a happy home in their midst. The little girl listened quietly and attentively. She watched her aunt with her large, starlike eyes, and presently a pleased smile flickered around her lips. When the time came for her to say good-night, and go to bed, she was genuinely sorry.
"Good-night," she said softly, "good-night. And thank you for being so kind to me."
It was with a feeling of pleasurable excitement that Stella lay down to rest that night, and she fell asleep to dream she was living the events of the day over again, and in her dreams she was quite content.
Such was the advent of the little town mouse, as her aunt had named her, among her country cousins.
IN a few weeks Stella began to feel really at home in the doctor's household. She grew accustomed to the plain but comfortable furniture, and became very fond of her aunt and uncle, and two girl cousins. But she failed to get on with the twins. The boys, romping, mischievous little fellows, soon found that Stella could not bear to be teased, and they consequently devised many ways of provoking her. They laughed at her methodical ways, pulled her hair, hid behind doors and startled her by springing suddenly upon her.
They discovered that she was afraid of animals, doubtless because she had never been accustomed to them as pets. Hector, the big black retriever, made her shriek with alarm when he came prancing towards her, on the first day she had gone for a walk with her cousins, and she had fled to Miss Clarke's side in dire distress, whilst the twins had stood by in fits of laughter, heedless of their governess's reproving looks. It was long before Stella grew accustomed to Hector, or was brought to understand that he was only playful and not savage.
Another time Stella had run away from half-a-dozen harmless cows, and in her fright had fallen on the kerbstone and received a black eye. Mr. Gray, Dr. Knight's assistant, had come to the rescue, and had carried her into the surgery fainting more from fright than from the injury she had received. On this occasion the twins had not taunted her with her cowardice as she had anticipated, having been sent about their business by the kind-hearted young assistant, who was looked upon ever afterwards as Stella's especial friend and protector.
Stella got on capitally with Dora. Dora admired her cousin, and being two years her junior was rather impressed by her superior abilities. Stella never tired of telling Dora about London, and the grand people her mother had known, their fine dresses, and beautiful homes. All this seemed very wonderful to the little country girl, and when one day Stella turned out the contents of her boxes, and exhibited all her gay frocks, Dora's admiration knew no bounds.
"Oh, Stella," she cried, "how nice to be rich! Oh, how I wish I had a lot of money!"
"I'll give you some when I'm grown up, Dora. Do you know that I shall be very rich some day? I shall really. And then, Dora, I'll give you some money."
"Oh, thank you, Stella, that will be kind of you. I shall buy some nice presents for mother."
"What?" asked Stella curiously.
"Oh! lots of things. To begin with, she shall have a new set of furniture for her room, and a new carpet."
"But, Dora, why doesn't your father get those things for her? Mother had everything the very best about the house."
"Yes, I daresay; your mother was rich, I know. Father is not well off at all."
"That's a pity. Mother had everything she wanted. If she thought she'd like anything, she used to go and buy it at once, and yet she was as cross as two sticks. The servants hated her."
"Oh, Stella!"
"Well, they did—that is, all except Sarah. Poor Sarah! You should have heard how mother used to scold her, and she never used to answer back. Sarah was sorry when mother died; she cried dreadfully. Mrs. Mudford was always saying she wondered Sarah put up with the place, because she was for ever hard at work stitching about mother's gowns, and never had any thanks. I miss Sarah. She used to come and talk with me after I was in bed, and tell me not to be afraid, but to remember Jesus was there. We used to have such nice talks. I was afraid of the dark, because one of my nurses had frightened me."
"How?" Dora inquired, much interested.
"Oh, about ghosts! Such nonsense! It seems silly, doesn't it? But I believed her because I was so young, you know, and there was no one to tell me it wasn't true. She used to tell me the ghosts would carry me off if I cried, or was naughty, and I quite thought it was true. I have been in bed shaking with fright for hours sometimes, expecting something awful to happen."
"Oh, Stella, how dreadful! Didn't your mother know?"
"No, I suppose not—of course not, she was always out somewhere evenings. Then I grew too big for a nurse, and mother sent me to a day-school, and Sarah came to do the sewing. I remember Sarah finding me crying in bed one night, and asking me what was amiss. I told her, and then she said if I trusted in Jesus He would not let any harm come to me. Ever afterwards when I was very frightened I used to repeat a verse out of the Bible that Sarah told me, and then I used to feel that Jesus was with me."
"What was the verse?" Dora asked.
"'I will trust and not be afraid.'"
"Stella," said her cousin in an awed whisper, "didn't your mother teach you about Jesus?"
"No, she hadn't time, or perhaps she didn't think—" Stella looked red, and distressed. "Mother was not religious," she explained; "she used to go to church, of course, but—oh, I don't know how it was, but she didn't care to talk about God, she said it made her melancholy."
"Well, our mother is not melancholy, and she often talks about God."
"Oh, yes, I know! But your mother's different. I thought, when I heard she was an invalid, she would be a sad sort of person, always grumbling and cross; but she is much brighter than most people."
That evening Stella knocked at her aunt's door and inquired if she was alone.
"Yes, Stella, quite alone, and I shall be delighted if you will bear me company for a while. Come in, and let us have a chat."
The child crept softly to Mrs. Knight's side, and asked how she was feeling.
"Pretty well, my dear. I have had a bad headache, but it is better."
"You are sure I shall not worry you, aunt?" anxiously.
"Quite sure, Stella. You are such a quiet little mouse, the very sound of your voice is soothing."
Stella looked gratified, and pressed her aunt's hand affectionately.
"I cannot think how you can be so patient," she said, "for I know you suffer a great deal sometimes. Uncle told me so. I wish I could help you."
"Thank you, my dear. All the love and sympathy I get from my dear ones is a great help to me. And then, you know, I have God's help too."
"Yes. But don't you want very much to get well?"
"Dear child, do you think if it were good for me to get well God would permit me to lie here? 'They that seek the Lord shall not want any good thing.'"
"I cannot understand," with a deep sigh and a puzzled expression.
"No, we cannot understand, but we can believe. 'We walk by faith, not by sight,' Saint Paul tells us. That is the first lesson God's children have to learn, little Stella. You know He told His disciples, 'What I do thou knowest not now, but thou shalt know hereafter.' That is what we must have faith to believe."
"It is very difficult!"
"No, not really. You believe my husband would do his best for the good of our children, do you not?"
"Oh, yes, of course!"
"Why of course, little one?"
"Because he loves them, aunt."
"And for that reason, because He loves us, our Heavenly Father gives us, His children, what is good for us. If you can believe in the love of God you can trust your life to Him, and pray the perfect prayer, 'Thy will be done.'"
There was a short impressive silence after Mrs. Knight had ceased speaking, broken at length by Stella.
"I want to ask you something very particular, please, aunt—at least I want you to ask uncle for something for me."
"What is that something?" with an encouraging smile.
"Money. I want some money."
"Have you not everything you require?" in accents of surprise.
"Oh, yes! I have plenty of pocket-money for myself; it is for some one else."
"You are going to make a present? Will you not tell me about it?"
"Will you promise not to tell any one except uncle?" Stella asked cautiously.
"Yes, I will promise that!"
"Well, I want some money for Dora," and Stella repeated the conversation she had had with her cousin that morning.
Mrs. Knight listened in silence, but when Stella had finished her tale she drew the child towards her, and kissed her affectionately.
"How kind of you!" she exclaimed. "But, my dear little girl, you must not give any of your money to Dora. Indeed, my husband would not allow it; you must put such a thought out of your mind altogether. Your uncle is your guardian and the guardian of your money; only a certain amount will be spent for you every year, and the rest will accumulate till you are of age. When you are twenty-one you will be able to do as you like."
"When I am twenty-one! Not for eleven years!"
"Not for eleven years," Mrs. Knight answered, smiling.
"Dora would so like some money. There are so many things she wants to buy."
"What things?—Never mind if you would rather not say. I daresay it is a secret."
Stella looked very crestfallen and disappointed. She glanced around the somewhat shabby room, and sighed; then the shadow passed from her face, and she smiled brightly.
"Never mind!" she cried. "I don't suppose you would be happier in a grand room with new furniture, would you? I think Sarah must have been right, for she said it did not matter if one was rich or poor so long as one's heart was in the right place!"
"What did she mean?" Mrs. Knight asked.
"I think she meant nothing mattered so long as people loved each other. Aunt Mary, I do love you."
"I hope you will love us all, Stella."
"Yes, but I don't know about the twins!"
IT was Saturday, and, alas! a wet Saturday. The rain fell incessantly, and there was no break anywhere in the leaden sky. The twins were alone in the school-room, grumbling and squabbling by turns. They were not usually ill-tempered boys, but the dull November day was depressing, and they were at their wits' end for amusement.
"What shall we do?" asked George at length, looking disconsolately around the room. "Where are the girls, I wonder?"
"Looking over Stella's treasures, I expect," David replied. "What a vain little thing she is! She cannot bear to be untidy!"
"Who?—Stella? Yes."
"What a wax she was in with you, George, last night, when you pulled the ribbon out of her hair," David continued. "To be sure, she did not say much, but did you notice how her eyes flashed? I thought she was going to box your ears!"
"Not likely, she wouldn't attempt that! She's too big a coward. Oh, what a coward she is!"
"Rather! She hasn't an ounce of pluck! How she shrieked when the cat let the mouse go in the dining-room! One would have thought the house was on fire. A town mouse ought not to be afraid of a country mouse."
"And how white she went! Dora's not so easily frightened."
"No, nor Nellie either, and she's only six, and Stella's ten!"
"Mother says if Stella had had brothers and sisters of her own she would understand us better. You see, she's been brought up alone, and that makes a difference."
"I suppose so. Anyway, mother takes her part, and is very fond of her; and father says we are not to tease her. Isn't it nonsense? It does girls lots of good to tease them. Dora never minds; but then it's no fun teasing her!"
A short silence; then George glanced doubtfully at his brother, and said hesitatingly, "I say David, wouldn't it be fun to play a joke on Stella, eh?"
"A joke! What sort of a joke?" cautiously.
"Why, I might dress up as a guy and give her a bit of a fright; or, better still, do you remember Dora told us that Stella used to be afraid of ghosts?"
"Yes, I remember."
"Well, I'll put a sheet over my head, stand in the dark corner on the landing, and when the girls come out of Stella's room begin to groan. Won't that be a lark?"
"Oh, George, I don't think you must do that! I'm sure father would not like it if he knew; he hates practical jokes, he says they're so cowardly."
"Nonsense! There's no harm in it, because I shall drop the sheet immediately they began to scream, and they'll feel such little sillies when they see who it really is!"
"I'm sure father would not like it," David repeated, "or mother either."
"Rubbish! Mother won't know anything about it—she'll only think we're having a game; and father's out. Don't be stupid, David. What harm can there possibly be in a joke?"
"Stella will be frightened! Don't do it, George!"
"I shall, and you won't stop me!"
"I shall tell Miss Clarke; she's in her room writing letters, and she—"
"If you go near her I'll—" George paused irresolutely, and looked at his brother with scornful eyes. The twins were generally together in mischief, but George was usually the leader, being by far the more daring spirit of the two. On this occasion David resisted his brother's will because he knew his father would be angry at a practical joke, and also because he thought it was a shame to frighten Stella, though he did not mind teasing her.
"It's not as though she was like our Dora and Nellie," he remonstrated. "They won't mind a bit, they'll know in a minute it isn't really a ghost, but Stella—"
"Oh, look here, David, if you mean to side against me when I'm only going to have a little joke with the girls, you can stay here by yourself, and not interfere. Only, no sneaking, you know!" and George bounded angrily out of the school-room, slamming the door after him.
David sat down by the fire irresolutely, not knowing what to do. If he told Miss Clarke, and thus prevented George from carrying out his plan, he knew his brother would be revenged on him later on.
It was almost five o'clock, and the dull November day was drawing to a close. David, looking nervously around, saw it was nearly dark. He heard the clear merry voices of the little girls upstairs, and presently a door opened, and he knew they had come out on the landing. There was silence for a moment, then a little scuffling sound, a slight scream, and Nellie's voice exclaimed, "Oh, George, don't!" followed by a loud, hearty laugh of enjoyment from George.
David drew a breath of relief. No harm had come of the practical joke, but even as the thought was crossing his mind the door was thrown hastily open, and Dora rushed in with a countenance expressive of the greatest alarm.
"Oh, David!" she cried, half sobbing, "Stella's dead!"
"Dead!" David echoed, his face turning pale.
"Yes, yes! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!"
"She can't be dead, Dora! Was she very frightened?"
"I don't know, yes, I suppose so. She never said anything, but just dropped down on the floor; and when I told her it was only George she never spoke a word. She looks dreadful, her face is as white as a sheet, and her eyes are wide-open, and staring dreadfully."
"You had better call Miss Clarke, Dora—she's in her bedroom; and I'll see if father is in the surgery, but I'm almost sure he's out."
As David thought, Dr. Knight was away, but Mr. Gray happened to come in at that moment, and the boy rushed to him excitedly, and clutched him by the arm.
"Oh, Mr. Gray, do come! We're afraid Stella's dead!"
The assistant gave one look at the boy's face, and then silently followed him upstairs. Miss Clarke had come upon the scene, and had carried Stella into her room, and laid her on her bed. The governess was bathing the poor child's face and hands with cold water, whilst the children stood around crying, excepting George, who seemed perfectly dazed at the result of his joke.
"What has happened?" Mr. Gray asked as he bent over Stella, and looked into her wide-open, horror-stricken eyes. Miss Clarke briefly explained, and the assistant listened in silence. Then he turned the children out of the room, bidding them go into the school-room and wait there. They obeyed silently, whilst Anna, who had come from her mistress's room to find out the meaning of the commotion, went back to try and reassure Mrs. Knight by telling her that Master George had been dressing up for fun, and had frightened Miss Stella. Poor Mrs. Knight, feeling nervous and alarmed, lay back on her pillows to wait as patiently as she could for further news; whilst down in the school-room the children, with the exception of George, who kept in a dark corner, clustered around the fire weeping bitterly.
"I know she is dead!" Dora sobbed. "Oh, George, how could you do it! Poor, poor Stella!"
"Poor, poor Stella!" echoed Nellie, whilst David looked at his brother reproachfully. But George remained silent, uttering no word, the fact being that he was too shocked and frightened to speak.
Presently the children heard their father come in, and his voice inquiring where they all were. Some one answered, and he went straight upstairs. They listened breathlessly, but half-an-hour passed —an hour—and still no one came to them. At length, when their anxiety was becoming actual agony, the door opened, and Dr. Knight entered. Never had they seen him look so angry before. It was Nellie who ran to him, and asked the question the others were afraid to put.
"Oh, father! is Stella dead?"
"No, Nellie, but she is very ill. George, come to me!"
The boy came slowly towards his father, and lifted his eyes to the usually kind face, which was now stern and severe.
"George, I am ashamed of you! I can hardly believe that a son of mine could be guilty of such a cruel, cowardly trick! Go to your room at once, and do not let me see you again to-night!"
"Father, won't you please forgive me?"
"Forgive you! Unhappy boy! Think of the poor little soul you have nearly killed, my only brother's child, entrusted to my care. Did I not bid you to be loving and kind to her? You are not to be trusted, George. It is only a coward who would try to terrify a timid girl. Go, sir, go!"
George shrank from his father's just wrath, and slunk out of the room, his heart brimful of shame and sorrow. He who prided himself on his pluck and bravery had been called a coward, and had been told he was not to be trusted; and worse than all, his innocent victim was very ill—perhaps she might die after all.
Shut up in the room he shared with his brother, George gave vent to a storm of passionate tears that left him exhausted and worn out. He tried to pray, but could not collect his thoughts, and no words came; only his heart was lifted up in agonized petition to Him who is always ready to hear and answer even the voiceless petition that has never found utterance from the lips.
There was anxiety in the doctor's household that night, for the child who had endeared herself to all by her gentle ways lay unconscious; Mrs. Knight was ill from anxiety and suspense; and the little girls sobbed themselves to sleep.
When David was sent to bed he found his brother crouched on the floor, and essayed to comfort him. But George refused to be comforted, or to touch the supper that his father had sent up to him.
"She will die!" he moaned, "and I shall have killed her!"
His anxiety was heart-felt and deep, and his repentance sincere; but sorrow for evil doing cannot wipe out the consequences of the sin; and the suffering he endured that night was a life-long lesson to the thoughtless boy.
SILENCE reigned in the room where Stella lay perfectly still, with distended eyes and rigid limbs. The doctor and his assistant watched by her side, and Miss Clarke sat in an easy-chair close by.
It was nearly midnight, and still the child showed no signs of consciousness, when Anna came to the door and asked if Dr. Knight would come and see his wife for a few minutes, a request with which he immediately complied.
Mr. Gray was holding Stella's hand in his when he felt her fingers twitch, the strained look died out of her eyes, her face relaxed, and he saw she was regaining consciousness. A look brought Miss Clarke to the bedside, and she bent anxiously over the child.
"Stella!" she whispered, "Stella, darling!"
With returning consciousness came memory, and in a few minutes Stella was sobbing hysterically.
"Let her cry as much as she will," Mr. Gray whispered, as Miss Clarke tried in vain to soothe her.
"Where is it? What was it?" gasped Stella.
"It was only that naughty boy George, who dressed up to frighten you, my dear," Miss Clarke answered, understanding the questions. "He did not mean to hurt you, or do you any harm."
Stella sobbed louder than before. The stories that had been told her years ago, the fears and terrors she had suffered came back to her mind, and it was not till Dr. Knight returned, and lifting her in his arms, carried her into his wife's room, and placed her in bed by the invalid's side, that the poor child could be quieted.
An hour later Stella was asleep with her head pillowed on her aunt's breast, and Dr. Knight, coming in to see the meaning of the lull after the storm, found that his wife, worn out with anxiety, was sleeping too.
The next day, Sunday, was beautifully fine. When Stella awoke she found her aunt already dressed, and was surprised to find it was so late. Anna brought in her breakfast, and told her Miss Clarke had gone to church with the children, excepting George, who was with his mother in the next room.
Though Stella felt weak and dizzy she insisted upon getting up, so Anna fetched her clothes, and assisted her in dressing, exclaiming at her pale face—
"You do look poorly, Miss Stella! Why, what a silly little girl you were to be frightened by Master George!"
Stella blushed, and hung her head; now, in the daylight, it did seem silly, but, last night!—she shuddered, and Anna hastened to add reassuringly—
"But there, he'll never do it again, I can promise you! Such a state he's been in, poor boy; and I never saw the doctor so angry with one of his children before. It'll be long before he'll forgive the boy!"
Anna brushed out Stella's beautiful hair, and watched the little troubled face reflected in the glass in front of her. She saw the sensitive lips quiver, and the dark eyes fill with tears.
"I am sorry uncle is so angry with George," Stella said gently. "I am sure he did not mean to frighten me—at least so much."
"You're a kind-hearted little soul," Anna answered, as she bent down and kissed the child's pale face. "Now run into the next room to your aunt; she wants you, I daresay, and will be glad to see you're well enough to be up."
Stella obeyed, and found George seated by his mother's side. He was in the midst of reading the fifty-first psalm aloud—
"Wash me throughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin."
"For I acknowledge my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me."
At this point he looked up, and saw his cousin standing hesitatingly on the threshold of the room. His face, which was already swollen and red with weeping, grew redder still. He had meant to ask her forgiveness, but when he saw her pale cheeks and the tell-tale dark rims of suffering around her eyes, words failed him.
"Oh, Stella!" he gasped, and then paused in confusion.
But she ran to him, and putting her arms around his neck, kissed him affectionately.
"Oh, George!" she cried, "don't, don't be sorry any more. I was very, very silly to mind!"
"No, no," blubbered the boy. "It was wicked and cowardly of me to frighten you; but I never thought you would care so much. You will forgive me, Stella, won't you?"
"Oh, yes, yes."
"I'll never do it again, and I'll always stick up for you. You're a brick—a regular brick!"
Stella flushed with pleasure, and turned to kiss her aunt. Mrs. Knight looked pale and tired, and Stella saw she had been weeping too.
"I have made a great fuss, and given every one a lot of trouble," the little girl remarked sadly.
"Father will hardly speak to me, he's so angry," George said. "I wish you would ask him to forgive me, Stella."
"I will."
She went downstairs to the surgery where her uncle was preparing to go out. He caught her in his arms, and asked her how she felt.
"Oh, I'm quite well, thank you, uncle."
"Are you, little mouse? Why, you're as white as a snow-flake, and no wonder. We must take better care of you, Stella."
"Oh, uncle, I was very silly; of course I ought to have known it was only George. Won't you forgive him, please? He's ever so sorry, and he'll never do it again."
"I should hope not!"
"You will forgive him, won't you?"
"If I find he is thoroughly repentant I will, certainly."
"Shall I tell him to come down and see you now before you go out?" Stella asked coaxingly.
"I suppose he sent you to me," Dr. Knight said, laughing, "I know his way. Yes, tell him I want a few words with him, my dear."
So peace reigned once more in the doctor's household, and from that time Stella got on better with the twins. She learned to laugh when they teased her, and not to be vexed and cross, so that they soon found there was no fun in worrying her at all, and let her alone.
She grew to love her aunt more and more, taking all her childish troubles to her like the other children, listening to her gentle counsel, and receiving from her lips the teaching that she no longer found difficult to understand.
Another knowledge was coming to Stella—the knowledge of the real worth of the money that she had been early tutored to think of first importance. She began to see that riches alone could not bring happiness, and to understand that there is a greater blessing in life than money and the power it brings. "The blessing of the Lord it maketh rich, and He addeth no sorrow with it."
The little heiress was seeking that blessing, and unconsciously fitting herself for the responsibilities wealth brings in its train, choosing that good part which, as the Saviour said of her who meekly sat at His feet, "shall not be taken away from her."
And so the winter months slipped peacefully away, and spring was come with a wealth of golden daffodils in the meadows, and clumps of shy primroses in the hedgerows. With the advent of the flowers and the sunshine a change took place in the doctor's household. Mr. Gray purchased a share of a practice in London, and the children learnt, to their great astonishment, that their governess was shortly to be married to their father's assistant.
"But what shall we do without Miss Clarke?" Nellie asked her mother in bewilderment.
"Your father thinks of sending you all to school," Mrs. Knight answered, smiling at the little girl's rueful face.
"To school! Not to boarding-school?" cried the children in chorus.
"No, no, certainly not. He never thought of such a thing, I'm sure."
"I shall not mind going to school every day if I come home to sleep," Nellie remarked. "Shall you, Dora?"
"No, I think it will be rather fun!"
"School is nice in some ways," Stella said; "you know I used to go to a day-school in London. There were a lot of girls, and a few of them used to be friendly with me, but most of them were too big to notice me at all—except one, and she used to borrow all my money, and never return it!"
"Oh, Stella!" Dora exclaimed in horror. "How dishonest of her!"
"It was very dishonest," Mrs. Knight said gravely; "I don't like the idea of one child borrowing from another. I should be very angry if either of the twins did such a thing! If children want money they should go to their parents, not to strangers; you are all allowed so much a week pocket-money, and you must each learn to live within your income, whatever it is. I think you will like school on the whole, and I believe it will be much better for the boys."
"Oh, yes," Dora agreed, "for George especially; he's so conceited."
"Oh, indeed, miss!" cried George wrathfully, making a rush at his sister, who fled from the room shrieking with merriment, her brother after her.
George, a great tease always, could, never bear to have the laugh turned against himself, and he and Dora were perpetually sparring with each other, and making it up again.
At Easter Miss Clarke went home to be married, and the short vacation over, the children were sent to school: the boys to the grammar school of the town, where they soon settled down quietly enough, and the girls to a private school about ten minutes' walk from their home.
"A YEAR ago to-day!" said Stella to her aunt, lifting her head from the exercise she was preparing for her French teacher. "A year ago to-day, Aunt Mary!"
"So the little town mouse has been with us so long as that, has she?"
"Such a silly, frivolous little town mouse as I was a year ago!" with a merry laugh. "Do you know, aunt, I can hardly realize I am the same girl I was then!"
"Why not, my dear?"
"I don't know if I can quite explain what I mean, but I'll try." Stella smiled, her eyes shone brightly and her cheeks flushed. "I don't seem to care for the same things now that I did then. I used to love fine clothes and grand houses and being thought pretty," with a deep blush. "It seems such a vain thing to say, but it's true. All mother's visitors used to say I was a lovely child, and they used to praise the way mother dressed me, till I grew conceited and proud. Then when poor mother died and I came here, I thought—forgive me, Aunt Mary—I thought the house and furniture looked so shabby and old-fashioned, and Dora and Nellie so plainly dressed. You are not angry, you are sure you are not angry, Aunt Mary?"
"Not in the least; I have often guessed what your thoughts must have been," Mrs. Knight answered, smiling encouragingly. "Go on—the house and the furniture are the same now as they were a year ago!"
"Yes, but I'm different, that's what I mean. And I think it's mostly owing to you, Aunt Mary; you've been so good to me, so patient, never laughing at my silly ways, or scolding me for my faults. Oh, I wish I was your own little girl! I don't want to be rich, I'd rather have no money at all than—"
"My dear Stella," her aunt interposed gravely, "do not make the mistake of thinking that riches and happiness cannot go together. All good gifts come from God, and surely wealth may be a good gift. It is a great blessing in competent hands. In itself it is nothing, but it works good or evil according to the character of its owner. It is my hope and prayer, Stella, that with God's help your money may be a good gift to you. The world will perhaps honour you because you possess wealth, but you know, my little adopted daughter, the world's standard is not yours. Remember how our Lord prayed for those who had received His teaching: 'I pray not that Thou shouldest take them out of the world, but that Thou shouldest keep them from the evil. They are not of the world, even as I am not of the world.'"
"Oh, Aunt Mary, I know; but I would so much rather be poor!"
"What, Stella! Rather be without the great gift God has given you to use for Him! Do you shrink from the responsibility of wealth? God has said, 'I will instruct thee in the way which thou shalt go: I will guide thee with Mine eye.' You cannot tell what blessings He may mean to work by your weak hands!"
The child sighed and looked thoughtful. In a few minutes she spoke again.
"At home when mother was alive the servants used to speak of me as an heiress, and I thought it so grand, but they did not love me— nobody loved me really but Sarah, and she did not think much of money."
"She loved you for yourself, Stella."
"As you and uncle do, Aunt Mary!"
"Even so. You are as one of our own children; we could not love you better if we had known you all your life. But had you not better go on with your exercise, or you will not get it done to-night!"
Stella dipped her pen into the ink and started her work afresh, whilst her aunt watched her thoughtfully, praying for strength from above to aid her to bring up the child fittingly for the responsibilities that would be hers in the years to come. Presently Dora came in, and when Stella had concluded her work she went downstairs into the sitting-room where Nellie and the boys, having finished their lessons, were enjoying a boisterous, romping game. Soon Stella was proving herself as noisy as the others, when the doctor came in, and they paused. Nellie flew to her father and clung to his neck, whilst the rest drew around him as he sank into an easy-chair, laughing.
"Don't throttle me, Nell! Where's Dora?"
"Upstairs with mother. Oh! here she comes," as the door opened. "Dora, father wants you!"
"Not particularly. I was going to tell you you must all dine at school to-morrow, because I wish the house to be quiet, as a doctor from London is coming to see your mother."
"She is not worse?" the children cried apprehensively.
"No, thank God. I am beginning to hope she is better," and the doctor's face was bright and hopeful as he spoke.
For a minute the children were too astonished to utter a word; then Nellie clapped her hands gleefully, and Dora exclaimed, "She will get well!"
"Not in the sense you mean, Dora, but it may be she will be able in time to move about from room to room by herself, and not be quite so helpless as she is now. I shall be able to tell you more to-morrow, and meanwhile, not a word to your mother. It would be nothing short of cruelty to raise a hope that may not be realized."
After the children had gone to bed that night one little black-gowned figure stole noiselessly downstairs again in search of the doctor. It was Stella. She found her uncle reading the newspaper, which he laid aside as she entered the room.
"Well, Stella," he said with a smile.
The child stood in front of him with clasped hands, her face serious, her grave dark eyes shining like stars.
"I want to ask you—that is—" she began incoherently. "Oh, uncle, if you want money to pay the great London doctor, or anything, anything for Aunt Mary, to make her well, you will take mine, will you not? Do, do!"
"Dear little Stella!" Dr. Knight answered, "I shall not require money. The great London doctor, as you call him, will not wish to be paid. He will come because he is a great friend of mine, and I know he will not take any money."
"It seems to me no one wants my money," Stella said regretfully, "and I do so want it to do some good."
Dr. Knight was silent for a few minutes, then he drew Stella down on his knee and kissed her affectionately.
"You dear little mouse!" he exclaimed.
"Oh!" she cried, pouting. "A mouse is such a silly useless thing!"
"Oh! is it indeed? Perhaps you never heard of the mouse that liberated the lion?" Stella laughed, for she knew the fable well. "Seriously, my dear, your money has done good already, and I will tell you how. Your mother made a provision in her will that if I consented to become your guardian, and you made your home with us, a certain sum was to be paid to me every year. Now this money has been a great help to us, because, you know, I am not rich, and it has considerably lightened the burden on my shoulders, and eased your aunt's mind of a great deal of anxiety and worry. I believe that it is because she has had fewer cares this last year that her condition is improving, as I have little doubt it is. So you see, Stella, your money has begun to do good already. The little town mouse brought a blessing with her."
"Oh, uncle, really?"
"Really and truly! Bear in mind you are not such an insignificant little animal after all."
Stella laughed merrily, and after kissing her uncle good-night went to bed one of the happiest children in the world; and when on the morrow the London doctor agreed with Dr. Knight that his wife was certainly better, her joy knew no bounds.
To the invalid the knowledge that it was possible she might some day be able to stand and even walk a few steps came as a shock of joyful surprise. Her husband broke the news to her before the children returned from school, and when they came trooping in her glad tears of thankfulness had been shed, and she was ready to greet them with her own bright smile.
But it was many months before Mrs. Knight could stand, and then many weeks before she could move a few steps across the room. At length the day came when, with her husband's strong arm to support her, she walked downstairs once more, and had tea with the family in the sitting-room. The children had decked the apartment with autumn flowers, for it was October again, and two years since Stella had come to them.
Mrs. Knight sat at the head of the table, looking very frail and white, but pretty and smiling. Her blue eyes shone with glad tears as she listened to the merry chatter of the young people. The doctor was content to sit at his wife's right hand, and watch her dear face as it turned from one to the other of the little group.
"Children," Mrs. Knight said presently, "do you know that I have had a letter from Mrs. Gray this morning, and she has a little baby boy! She and Mr. Gray are going to have a holiday soon, and they hope to come and see us."
"Oh, I am glad!" cried Nellie, whilst the others looked delighted. "Will they bring the baby, do you think, mother?"
"I think it is very likely they will."
"Stella had a letter just now," Dora announced.
"Yes," said Stella, "from Sarah. You remember my telling you about Sarah, Aunt Mary?"
"Yes, certainly."
"She is in a situation at Margate as maid to an old lady, who is very kind to her. She says she is perfectly happy, and she sent me a present. I will run upstairs after tea and bring it down to show you."
"It is so pretty," said Nellie; "a shell-box with 'A present from Margate' on it, and a little looking-glass fastened in the lid inside."
"I was so glad to hear from Sarah," Stella said softly; "she was the first real friend I ever had. She asks," with a vivid blush, and lowering her voice so that the words only reached her aunt's ear, "if I am still nervous at night and afraid of ghosts. I shall be able to tell her I have overcome my old fears."
"See what a bright colour Stella has!" Dr. Knight exclaimed. "I am sure, Mary, it's time to stop calling her a town mouse; I don't believe those roses could ever have grown in London!"
"But she's so gentle and quiet," Dora interposed, "and she has such bright, dark eyes and sleek brown hair."
"Just like a mouse, I suppose you mean," the doctor conducted, laughing; and they all joined in the merriment.
So Stella was happy and contented with her cousins, and grew up with them, sharing their interests, loved by all, and returning their affection with the warmth of a naturally loving and grateful heart. In that quiet household we will leave her to pass from childhood to womanhood, in the fear of the Lord and in the wisdom that cometh from above, in readiness for the future, with its responsibilities of wealth, to be employed, by the help of God, for good.
THE END
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED.
BUNGAY. SUFFOLK.
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