Front Cover
 Title Page
 Table of Contents
 The Soft Answer
 The Lesson at the Cottage
 The Holidays
 Edith's Trials
 Emilie's Trials
 Better Things
 Good for Evil
 Fred a Peacemaker
 Edith's Visit to Joe
 Joe's Christmas
 The Christmas Tree
 The New Home
 Back Cover

Title: Emilie the peacemaker
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00001806/00001
 Material Information
Title: Emilie the peacemaker
Physical Description: iv, 172, 16 p., <1> leaf of plates : ill. ; 18 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Geldart, Thomas, 1819 or 20-1861
Dickes, William, 1815-1892 ( Illustrator )
Fletcher, Josiah ( Publisher, Printer )
Hall, Virtue, and Co ( Publisher )
T. R. Eeles & Son ( Binder )
Publisher: A. Hall, Virtue, & Co.
Josiah Fletcher
Place of Publication: London
Publication Date: 1851
Subject: Girls -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Governesses -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Boys -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Temper -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Selfishness -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Young women -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Publishers' catalogues -- 1851   ( rbgenr )
T.R. Eeles & Son -- Embossed cloth bindings (Binding) -- 1851   ( rbbin )
T.R. Eeles & Son -- Binders' tickets (Binding) -- 1851   ( rbbin )
Bldn -- 1851
Genre: Publishers' catalogues   ( rbgenr )
Embossed cloth bindings (Binding)   ( rbbin )
Binders' tickets (Binding)   ( rbbin )
novel   ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage: England -- London
England -- Norwich
Statement of Responsibility: by Mrs. Thomas Geldart.
General Note: Engraved frontispiece signed: W. Dickes.
General Note: Publisher's catalogue: 16 p. at end.
Funding: Brittle Books Program
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00001806
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
Resource Identifier: aleph - 002230191
oclc - 45686659
notis - ALH0539
 Related Items
Other version: Alternate version (PALMM)
PALMM Version

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Front page 1
        Front page 2
        Front page 3
        Front page 4
    Title Page
        Page i
        Page ii
    Table of Contents
        Page iii
        Page iv
        Page 1
        Page 2
        Page 3
        Page 4
        Page 5
        Page 6
        Page 7
        Page 8
        Page 9
    The Soft Answer
        Page 10
        Page 11
        Page 12
        Page 13
        Page 14
        Page 15
        Page 16
        Page 17
        Page 18
    The Lesson at the Cottage
        Page 19
        Page 20
        Page 21
        Page 22
        Page 23
        Page 24
        Page 25
        Page 26
        Page 27
        Page 28
        Page 29
        Page 30
        Page 31
        Page 32
    The Holidays
        Page 33
        Page 34
        Page 35
        Page 36
        Page 37
        Page 38
        Page 39
        Page 40
        Page 41
        Page 42
        Page 43
        Page 44
        Page 45
        Page 46
    Edith's Trials
        Page 47
        Page 48
        Page 49
        Page 50
        Page 51
        Page 52
    Emilie's Trials
        Page 53
        Page 54
        Page 55
        Page 56
        Page 57
        Page 58
        Page 59
        Page 60
        Page 61
        Page 62
        Page 63
        Page 64
        Page 65
        Page 66
        Page 67
    Better Things
        Page 68
        Page 69
        Page 70
        Page 71
        Page 72
        Page 73
        Page 74
        Page 75
        Page 76
        Page 77
        Page 78
        Page 79
        Page 80
        Page 81
        Page 82
        Page 83
        Page 84
        Page 85
        Page 86
        Page 87
        Page 88
        Page 89
        Page 90
        Page 91
    Good for Evil
        Page 92
        Page 93
        Page 94
        Page 95
        Page 96
        Page 97
        Page 98
        Page 99
        Page 100
        Page 101
        Page 102
        Page 103
    Fred a Peacemaker
        Page 104
        Page 105
        Page 106
        Page 107
        Page 108
        Page 109
        Page 110
        Page 111
        Page 112
        Page 113
        Page 114
        Page 115
        Page 116
        Page 117
        Page 118
        Page 119
        Page 120
        Page 121
        Page 122
        Page 123
        Page 124
        Page 125
        Page 126
        Page 127
    Edith's Visit to Joe
        Page 128
        Page 129
        Page 130
        Page 131
        Page 132
        Page 133
        Page 134
        Page 135
    Joe's Christmas
        Page 136
        Page 137
        Page 138
        Page 139
        Page 140
        Page 141
        Page 142
        Page 143
        Page 144
        Page 145
        Page 146
        Page 147
        Page 148
        Page 149
        Page 150
        Page 151
        Page 152
    The Christmas Tree
        Page 153
        Page 154
        Page 155
        Page 156
        Page 157
        Page 158
        Page 159
        Page 160
        Page 161
        Page 162
    The New Home
        Page 163
        Page 164
        Page 165
        Page 166
        Page 167
        Page 168
        Page 169
        Page 170
        Page 171
        Page 172
        Page 173
        Page 174
        Page 175
        Page 176
        Page 177
        Page 178
        Page 179
        Page 180
        Page 181
        Page 182
        Page 183
        Page 184
        Page 185
        Page 186
        Page 187
        Page 188
        Page 189
    Back Cover
        Page 190
        Page 191
Full Text

The Baldwin Library
1~mI d:


Edith's Firs- Visit to Joe Murray's Cottage.

P. 26.





" Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the
children of God." ... MATT. v, 9.




















IE COTTAGE ... ... 19

.. .. .. 33

o ... 47

so 0 0. 53

... ... .. 68

















.. ... 104

S 128

.. ... 136

fe .. 153

... 163

... ... 170


Ct(irter At.


ONE bright afternoon, or rather evening, in
May, two girls, with basket in hand, were
seen leaving the little seaport town in which
they resided, for the professed purpose of prim-
rose gathering, but in reality to enjoy the
pure air of the first summer-like evening of
a season, which had been unusually cold and
backward. Their way lay through bowery
lanes scented with sweet brier and hawthorn,
and every now and then glorious were the
views of the beautiful ocean, which lay calmly
reposing and smiling beneath the setting sun.1
"How unlike that stormy, dark, and noisy sea
of but a week ago!" so said the friends to each


other, as they listened to its distant musical
murmur, and heard the waves break gently on
the shingly beach.
Although we have called them friends, there
was a considerable difference in their ages. That
tall and pleasing, though plain, girl in black, was
the governess of the younger. Her name was
Emilie Schomberg. The little rosy, dark-eyed,
and merry girl, her pupil, we shall call Edith
Parker. She had scarcely numbered twelve
Mays, and was at the age when primrosing and
violating have not lost their charms, and when
spring is the most welcome, and the dearest of
all the four seasons. Emilie Schomberg, as her
name may lead you to infer, was a German. She
spoke English, however, so well, that you would
scarcely have supposed her to be a foreigner,
and having resided in England for some years,
had been accustomed to the frequent use of that
language. Emilie Schomberg was the daily
governess of little Edith. Little she was always
called, for she was the youngest of the family,
and at eleven years of age, if the truth must be
told of her, was a good deal of a baby.
Several schemes of education had been tried
for this same little Edith,-schools and gover-


nesses and masters,-but Emilie Schomberg,
who now came to her for a few hours every
other day, had obtained greater influence over
her than any former instructor; and in addition
to the German, French, and music, which she
undertook to teach, she instructed Edith in a
few things not really within her province, but
nevertheless of some importance; of these you
shall judge. The search for primroses was not
a silent search-Edith is the first speaker.
Yes, Emilie, but it was very provoking, after
I had finished my lessons so nicely, and got done
in time to walk out with you, to have mamma
fancy I had a cold, when I had nothing of
the kind. I almost wish some one would turn
really ill, and then she would not fancy I was
so, quite so often."
"Oh, hush, Edith dear! you are talking non-
sense, and you are saying what you cannot
mean. I don't like to hear you so pert to that
kind mamma of yours, whenever she thinks it
right to contradict you."
Emilie, I cannot help saying, and you know
yourself, though you call her kind, that mamma
is cross, very cross sometimes. Yes, I know
she is very fond of me and all that, but still she


is cross, and it is no use denying it. Oh, dear,
I wish I was you. You never seem to have
anything to put you out. I never see you look
as if you had been crying or vexed, but I have
so many many things to vex me at home."
Emilie smiled. "As to my having nothing
to put me out, you may be right, and you may
be wrong, dear. There is never any excuse
for being what you call put out, by which I
understand cross and pettish, but I am rather
amused, too, at your fixing on a daily governess,
as a person the least likely in the world to have
trials of temper and patience." "Yes, I dare say
I vex you sometimes, but"-"Well, not to speak
of you, dear, whom I love very much, though
you are not perfect, I have other pupils, and do
you suppose, that amongst so many as I have to
teach at Miss Humphrey's school, for instance,
there is not one self-willed, not one impertinent,
not one idle, not one dull scholar? My dear,
there never was a person, you may be sure of that,
who had nothing to be tried, or, as you say, put
out with. But not to talk of my troubles, and I
have not many I will confess, except that great
one, Edith, which, may you be many years be-
fore you know, (the loss of a father;) not to talk


of that, what are your troubles? Your mamma
is cross sometimes, that is to say, she does not
always give you all you ask for, crosses you
now and then, is that all?"
Oh no Emilie, there are Mary and Ellinor,
they never seem to like me to be with them,
they are so full of their own plans and secrets.
Whenever I go into the room, there is such a
hush and mystery. The fact is, they treat me
like a baby. Oh, it is a great misfortune to be
the youngest child! but of all my troubles, Fred
is the greatest. John teases me sometimes, but
he is nothing to Fred. Emilie, you don't know
what that boy is; but you will see, when you
come to stay with me in the holidays, and you
shall say then if you think I have nothing to
put me out."
The very recollection of her wrongs appeared
to irritate the little lady, and she put on a pout,
which made her look anything but kind and
The primroses which she had so much desired,
were not quite to her mind, they were not nearly
so fine as those that John and Fred had brought
home. Now she was tired of the dusty road,
and she would go home by the beach.


So saying, Edith turned resolutely towards a
stile, which led across some fields to the sea shore,
and not all Emilie's entreaties could divert her
from her purpose.
"Edith, dear! we shall be late, very late! as
it is we have been out too long, come back, pray
do;" but Edith was resolute, and ran on. Emilie,
who knew her pupil's self-will over a Ger-
man lesson, although she had little experience
of her temper in other matters, was beginning
to despair of persuading her, and spoke yet
more earnestly and firmly, though still kindly
and gently, but in vain. Edith had jumped
over the stile, and was on her way to the cliff,
when her course was arrested by an old sailor,
who was sitting on a bench near the gangway
leading to the shore. He had heard the con-
versation between the governess and her head-
strong pupil, as he smoked his pipe on this
favourite seat, and playfully caught hold of the
skirt of the young lady's frock, as she passed, to
Edith's great indignation.
Now, Miss, I could not, no, that I could'nt,
refuse any one who asked me so pretty as that
lady did you. If she had been angry, and com-
manded you back, why bad begets bad, and tit


for tat you know, and I should not so much
have wondered: but, Miss, you should not vex
her. No, don't be angry with an old-man, I
have seen so much of the evils of young folks
taking their own way. Look here, young lady,"
said the weather beaten sailor, as he pointed
to a piece of crape round his hat; this comes
of being fond of one's own way."
Edith was arrested, and approached the stile,
on the other side of which Emilie Schomberg
still leant, listening to the fisherman's talk with
her pupil.
You see, Miss," said he, "I have brought
her round, she were a little contrary at first,
but the squall is over, and she is going home
your way. Oh, a capital good rule, that of
your's, Miss!" "What," said Emilie smiling,
Why, that 'soft answer,' that kind way. I see
a good deal of the ways of nurses with children,
ah, and of governesses, and mothers, and fathers
too, as I sit about on the sea shore, mending my
nets. I ain't fit for much else now, you see,
Miss, though I have seen a deal of service, and
as I sit sometimes watching the little ones play-
ing on the sand, and with the shingle, I keep my
ears open, for I can't bear to see children grieved,


and sometimes I put in a word to the nurse
maids. Bless me! to see how some of 'em whip
up the children in the midst of their play.
Neither with your leave, nor by your leave;
'here, come along, you dirty, naughty boy,
here's a wet frock! Come, this minute, you
tiresome child, it's dinner time.' Now that
ain't what I call fair play, Miss. I say you
ought to speak civil, even to a child; and then,
the crying, and the shaking, and the pulling up
the gangway. Many and many is the little
squaller I go and pacify, and carry as well as I
can up the cliff: but I beg pardon, Miss, hope
I don't offend. Only I was afraid, Miss there
was a little awkward, and would give you
"' Indeed," said Emilie, "I am much obliged to
you; where do you live ?"
"I live," said the old man, I may say, a
great part of my life, under the sky, in sum-
mer time, but I lodge with my son, and he
lives between this and Brooke. In winter
time, since the rheumatics has got hold of me,
I am drawn to the fire side, but my son's
wife, she don't take after him, bless him. She's
a bit of a spirit, and when she talks more than


I like, why I wish myself at sea again, for
an angry woman's tongue is worse than a storm
at sea, any day; if it was'nt for the children,
bless 'em, I should not live with 'em, but I am
very partial to them."
"Well, we must say good night, now," said
Emilie, "or we shall be late home; I dare say we'
shall see you on the shore some day; good night."
" Good night to you, ma'am; good night, young
lady; be friends, won't you ?"
Edith's hand was given, but it was not plea-
sant to be conquered, and she was a little sullen
on the way home. They parted at the door of
Edith's house. Edith went in, to join a cheerful
family in a comfortable and commodious room;
Emilie, to a scantily furnished, and shabbily
genteel apartment, let to her and a maiden aunt
by a straw bonnet maker in the town.
We will peep at her supper table, and see if
Miss Edith were quite right in supposing that
Emilie Schomberg had nothing to put her out



lr~nptrr f nll.


AN old lady was seated by a little ricketty round
table, knitting; knitting very fast. Surely she
did not always knit so fast, Germans are great
knitters it is true, but the needles made quite
a noise-click, click, click-against one another.
The table was covered with a snow-white cloth.
By her side was a loaf called by bakers and
housekeepers, crusty; the term might apply
either to the loaf or the old lady's temper.
A little piece of cheese stood on a clean plate,
and a crab on another, a little pat of butter on
a third, and this, with a jug of water, formed
the preparation for the evening meal of the
aunt and niece. Emilie went up to her aunt,
gaily, with her bunch of primroses in her hand,
and addressing her in the German language,
begged her pardon for keeping supper waiting.
"~d~ ~'L~'~ '0 0" "r~


The old lady knitted faster than ever, dropped
a stitch, picked it up, looked out of the window,
and cleared up, not her temper, but her throat;
click, click went the needles, and Emilie looked
Aunt, dear," she said, shall we sit down to
supper?" My appetite is gone, Emilie, I thank
you." "I am really sorry, aunt, but you know
you are so kind, you wish me to take plenty of
exercise, and I was detained to-night. Miss
Parker and I stayed chattering to an old sailor.
It was very thoughtless, pray excuse me. But
now aunt, dear, see this fine crab, you like
crabs; old Peter Varley sent it to you, the old
man you knitted the guernsey for in the
No,-old Miss Schomberg was not to be
brought round. Crabs were very heavy things
at night, very indigestible things, she wondered
at Emilie thinking she could eat them, so sub-
ject as she was to spasms, too. Indeed she
could eat no supper. She was very dull and
not well, so Emilie sat down to her solitary
meal. She did not go on worrying her aunt to
eat, but she watched for a suitable opening, for
the first indication indeed, of the clearing up



for which she hoped, and though it must be
confessed some such thoughts as "how cross and
unreasonable aunt is," did pass through her
mind, she gave them no utterance. Emilie's
mind was under good discipline, she had learned
to forbear in love, and for the exercise of this
virtue, she had abundant opportunity.
Poor Emilie! she had not always been a
governess, subject to the trials of tuition;
she had not always lived in a little lodging
without the comforts and joys of family and
social intercourse.
Her father had failed in business, in Frank-
fort, and when Emilie was about ten years of age,
he had come over to England, and had gained
his living there by teaching his native language.
He had been dead about a twelve-month, and
Emilie, at the age of twenty-one, found herself
alone in the world, in England at least, with the
exception of the old German aunt, to whom I
have introduced you, and who had come over
with her brother, from love to him and his
motherless child. She had a very small inde-
pendence, and when left an orphan, the kind
old aunt, for kind she was, in spite of some
little infirmities of temper, persisted in sharing



with her her board and lodging, till Emilie, who
was too active and right minded to desire to
depend on her for support, sought employment
as a teacher.
The seaport town of L- in the south of
England, whither Emilie and her father had
gone in the vain hope of restoring his broken
health, offered many advantages to our young
German mistress. She had had a good solid
education. Her father, who was a scholar, had
taught her, and had taught her well, so that
besides her own language, she was able to teach
Latin and French, and to instruct, as the
advertisements say, "in the usual branches of
English education." She was musical, had a
fine ear and correct taste, and accordingly
met with pupils without much difficulty. In
the summer months especially she was fully
employed. Families who came for relaxation
were, nevertheless, glad to have their daughters
taught for a few hours in the week; and you
may suppose that Emilie Schomberg did not lead
an idle life. For remuneration she fared, as
alas teachers do fare, but ill. The sum which
many a gentleman freely gives to his butler or
valet, is thought exorbitant, nay, is rarely given



to a governess, and Emilie, as a daily governess,
was but poorly paid.
The expenses of her father's long illness and
funeral were heavy, and she was only just
out of debt; therefore, with the honesty and
independence of spirit that marked her, she
lived carefully and frugally at the little rooms
of Miss Webster, the straw bonnet maker, in
High Street.
From what I have told you already, you will
easily perceive that Emilie was accustomed to
command her temper; she had been trained to
do this early in life. Her father, who foresaw
for his child a life dependent on her character
and exertion, a life of labour in teaching and
governing others, taught Emilie to govern her-
self. Never was an only child less spoiled than
she; but she was ruled in love. She knew
but one law, that of kindness, and it made
her a good subject.
Many were the sensible lessons that the
good man gave her, as leaning on her strong
arm he used to pace up and down the grassy
slopes which bordered the sea shore. Look,
Emilie," he would say, "look at that governess
marshalling her scholars out. Do they look



happy? think you that they obey that stern
mistress out of love ? Listen, she calls to them
to keep their ranks and not to talk so loud.
What unhappy faces among them! Emilie,
my child, you may keep school some day; oh,
take care and gain the love of the young
ones, I don't believe there is any other success-
ful government, so I have found it." With
me, ah yes, papa !" "With you, my child, and
with all my scholars; I had little experience
as a teacher, when first it pleased God to make
me dependent on my own exertions as such,
but I found out the secret. Gain your pupils'
love, Emilie, and a silken thread will draw
them; without that love, cords will not drag,
scourges will scarcely drive them."
Emilie found this advice of her father's
rather hard to follow now and then. Her first
essay in teaching was in Mrs. Parker's family.
Edith was to "be finished." And now poor
Emilie found that there was more to teach
Edith than German and French, and that there
was more difficulty in teaching her to keep her
temper than her voice in tune. Edith was affec-
tionate, but self-willed and irritable. Her
mamma's treatment had not tended to improve



her in this respect. Mrs. Parker had bad health,
and said she had bad spirits. She was a kind,
generous, and affectionate woman, but was
always in trouble. In trouble with her chim-
neys because they smoked; in trouble with her
maids who did not obey her; and worst of all in
trouble with herself; for she had good sense
and good principle, but she had let her temper
go too long undisciplined, and it was apt to
break forth sometimes against those she loved,
and would cause her many bitter tears and self.
She took an interest in the poor German
master, for she was a benevolent woman, and
cheered his dying bed by promising to assist
his daughter. She even offered to take her into
her family; but this could not be thought of.
Good aunt Agnes had left her country for the
sake of Emilie-Emilie would not desert her
aunt now.
The scene at the supper table was not an
uncommon one, but Emilie was frequently more
successful in winning aunt Agnes to a smile
than on this occasion. "Perhaps I tried too
much; perhaps I did not try enough, perhaps I
tried in the wrong way," thought Emilie, as



she received her aunt's cold kiss, and took
up her bed room candle to retire for the night.
When aunt Agnes said good night, it was
so very distantly, so very unkindly, that an
angry demand for explanation almost rose to
Emilie's lips, and though she did not utter it,
she said her good night coldly and stiffly too,
and thus they parted. But when Emilie opened
the Bible that night, her eye rested on the words,
"Be ye kind one to another, tender-hearted,
forgiving one another, as God for Christ's sake
hath forgiven you," then Emilie could not rest.
She did not forgive her aunt; she felt that she
did not; but Emilie was human, and human
nature is proud. "I did nothing to offend her,"
reasoned pride, "it was only because I was out a
little late, and I said I was sorry and I tried to
bring her round. Ah well, it will all be right
tomorrow; it is no use to think of it now," and
she prepared to kneel down to pray. Just then
her eye rested on her father's likeness; she
remembered how he used to say, when she was a
child and lisped her little prayer at his knee,
"Emilie, have you any unkind thoughts to any
one ? Do you feel at peace with all? for God
says, 'When thou bringest thy gift before the



altar, and there rememberest that thy brother
hath aught against thee, leave there thy gift be-
fore the altar, first be reconciled to thy brother,
and then go and offer thy gift."' On one or two
occasions had Emilie arisen, her tender con-
science thus appealed to, and thrown her arms
round her nurse's or her aunt's neck, to beg their
forgiveness for some little offence committed by
her and forgotten perhaps by them, and would
then kneel down and offer up her evening prayer.
So Emilie hushed pride's voice, and opening her
door, crossed the little passage to her aunt's
sleeping room, and putting her arm round her
neck fondly said, :' Dear aunt !" It was enough,
the good old lady hugged her lovingly. "Ah,
Emilie dear, I am a cross old woman, and thou
art a dear good child. Bless thee!" In half an
hour after the inmates of the little lodging in
High Street were sound asleep, at peace with
one another, and at peace with God.




EDITH was very busily searching for corallines
and sea weeds, a few days after the evening
walk recorded in our first chapter. She was
alone, for her two sisters had appeared more
than usually confidential and unwilling for her
company, and her dear teacher was engaged
that afternoon at the Young Ladies' Seminary,
so she tried to make herself happy in her soli-
tary ramble. A boat came in at this moment,
and the pleasant shout of the boatmen's voices,
and the grating of the little craft as it landed
on the pebbly shore, attracted the young lady's
notice, and she stood for a few moments to
watch the proceedings. Amongst those on shore,
who had come to lend a hand in pulling the
boat in, Edith thought that she recognized a face,
and on a little closer inspection she saw it was



old Joe Murray, who had stopped her course
to the beach a few evenings before. She did
not wish to encounter Joe, so slipping behind
the blue jacketed crowd, she walked quickly
forwards, but Joe followed her.
"Young lady," he said, "if you are looking for
corallines, you can't do better than ask your papa
some fine afternoon, to drive you as far as Shel-
don, and you'll find a sight of fine weeds there, as
I know, for my boy, my poor boy I lost, I mean,"
said he, again touching the rusty crape on his
hat, "my boy was very curious in those things,
and had quite a museum of 'em at home."
How could Edith stand against such an at-
tack? It was plain that the old man wanted
to make peace with her, and, cheerfully thank-
ing him, she was moving on, but the old
boots grinding the shingle, were again heard
behind her, and turning round, she saw Joe at
her heels.
"Miss, I don't know as I ought to have
stopped you that night. I am a poor old
fisherman, and you are a young lady, but I
meant no harm, and for the moment only did it
in a joke."
"Oh, dear," said Edith, "don't think any



more about, it, I was very cross that night,
and you were quite right, I should have got
Miss Schomberg into sad trouble if I had gone
that way. As it was, I was out too late.
Have you lost a son lately, said Edith, I heard
you say you had just now? Was he drowned?"
inquired the child, kindly looking up into Joe's
"Yes Miss. he was drowned," said Joe,
"he came by his death very sadly. Will you
please, Miss, to come home with me, and I will
shew you his curiosities, and if you please to
take a fancy to any, I'm sure you are very
welcome. I don't know any good it does me to
turn 'em over, and look at them as I do times
and often, but somehow when we lose them we
love, we hoard up all they loved. He had a
little dog, poor Bob had, a little yapping thing,
and I never took to the animal, 'twas always
getting into mischief, and gnawing the nets,
and stealing my fish, and I used often to say,
'Bob, my boy, I love you but not your dog. No,
that saying won't hold good now. I can't love
that dog of yours. Sell it, boy-give it away
-get rid of it some how.' All in good part,
you know, Miss, for I never had any words with



him about it. And now Bob is gone-do yott
know, Miss, I love that dumb thing with the
sort of love I should love his child, if he had
left me one. If any one huffs Rover, (I ain't a
very huffish man,) but I can tell you I shew
them I don't like it. I let the creature lay at
my feet at night, and I feed him myself and
fondle him for the sake of him who loved him
so. And you may depend Miss, the dog knows
his young master is gone, and the way he is
gone too, for I could not bring him on the
shore for a long while, but he would set up
such a howl as would rend your heart to hear.
And that made me love the poor thing I can
tell you."
"But how did it happen?" softly asked Edith.
"Why Miss it ain't at all an extraordinary
way in which he met his death. It was in
this way. He was very fond of me, poor boy,
but he liked his way better than my way too
often. And may be I humoured him a little too
much. He was my Benjamin, you must know
Miss, for his mother died soon after he was
born. Sure enough I made an idol of the lad,
and we read somewhere in the Bible, Miss, that
'the idols he will utterly abolish.' But I



don't like looking at the sorrow that way
neither. I would rather think that c whom the
Lord loveth he chasteneth.' Well, Miss, like
father like son. My boy loved the sea, as was
natural he should, but he was too venturesome;
I used often to say,' Bob, the oldest sailor living
can't rule the waves and winds, and if you are
such a mad cap as to go out sailing in such
squally weather on this coast, as sure as you
are alive you will repent it.' He and some
yc. ng chaps hereabouts, got such a wonderful
notion of sailing, and though I have sailed many
and many a mile, in large vessels and small, I
always hold to it that it is ticklish work for the
young and. giddy. Why sometimes you are on
the sea, Miss, ah, as calm as it is now-all in
peace and safety-a squall comes, and before
you know what you are about you are capsized.
I had told him this, and he knew it, Miss, but
he got a good many idle acquaintances, as I
told you, and they tempted him often to do bold
reckless things such as boys call brave."
"It was one morning at the end of Sep-
tember, Bob says to me, 'Father, we are going
to keep my birthday; I am sixteen to-day,'
and so he was, bless him, sixteen the very day



he died. 'We are going to keep my birthday,'
says he, 'Newton, and Somers, and Franklin,
and I, we are all going to Witton,' that is the
next town, Miss, as you may know, 'we are
going to have a sail there, and dine at grand-
mother's, and home again at night, eh Father.'
'Bob,' says I, 'I can't give my consent; that tick-
lish sailing boat of young Woods' requires wiser
heads and steadier hands than your's to manage.
You know my opinion of sailing, and you won't
grieve me, I hope, by going.' I might have told
him, but I did not, that I did not like the lads
he was going with, but I knew that would only
make him angry, and do no good just as his
heart was set upon a frolic with them, so I said
nought of that, but I tried to win him, (that's
my way with the young ones,) though I
failed this time; go he would, and he would
have gone, let me have been as angry as you
please. But I have this comfort, that no sharp
words passed my lips that day, and no bitter
ones his. I saw he was set on the frolic, and I
hoped no harm would come of it. How I
watched the sky that day, Miss, no mortal
knows; how I started when I saw a sea gull
skim across the waves I how I listened for the


least sound of a squall Snap was just as fid-
getty seemingly, and we kept stealing down to
the beach, long before it was likely they should
be back. As I stood watching there in the
evening, where I knew they would land, I
saw young Newton's mother; she pulled me by
my sleeve, anxious like, and said, 'What do
you think of the weather Joe?' 'Why, Missis,'
said I,' there is an ugly look about the sky,
but I don't wish to frighten you; please God
they'll soon be home, for Bob promised to be
home early."'
Well, Miss, there we stood, the waves wash-
ing our feet, till it grew dark, and then I could
stand it no longer. I said to the poor mother,
'keep a good heart,' but I had little hope
myself, God knows, and off I made for Witton.
Well, they had not been there, I found the
grandmother had seen nothing of them. They
were picked up a day or so after, all four of
them washed up by the morning tide; their boat
had drifted no one knows where, and no one
knows how it happened; but I suppose they
were driven out by the fresh breeze that sprung
up, and not knowing how to manage the sails,
they were capsized."



There they all lay, Miss, in the churchyard.
It was a solemn sight, I can tell you, to see
those four coffins, side by side, in the church.
They were all strong hearty lads, and all under
seventeen. I go and sit on his grave some-
times, and spell over all I said, and all he said
that day; and glad enough I am, that I can
remember neither cross word nor cross look.
Ah, my lady, I should remember it if it had
been so. We think we are good fathers and
good friends to them we love while they are
alive, but as soon as we lose 'em, all the kind-
ness we ever did them seems little enough, while
all the bad feelings we had, and sharp words we
spoke, come up to condemn us."
By this time they had reached the fisher-
man's cottage; it was prettily situated, as houses
on the south coast often are, under the shadow
of a fine over-hanging cliff. Masses of rock,
clad with emerald green, were scattered here
and there, and the thriving plants in the little
garden, gave evidence of the mildness of the air
in those parts, though close upon the sea. The
cottage was very low, but white and cheerful
looking outside, and as clean and trim within
as a notable and stirring woman could make it,


Joe's daughter-in-law, the same described by
Joe the other evening as the woman of a high
spirit, was to-day absent on an errand to the
town; and Edith, who loved children, stopped
at the threshold to notice two or three little
curly-headed prattlers, who were playing to-
gether at grotto making, an amusement which
cost grandfather many a half-penny. Some
dispute seemed to have arisen at the moment of
their entrance between the young builders, for
a good-humoured, plain-looking girl, of twelve,
the nursemaid of the baby, and the care-taker
of four other little ones, was trying to pacify
the aggrieved. In vain-little Susy was in a
great passion, and with her tiny foot kicked
over the grotto, the result of several hours'
labour; first, in searching on the shore for shells
and pebbles, and secondly, in its erection. Then
arose such a shriek and tumult amongst the chil-
dren, as those only can conceive who know what
a noise disappointed little creatures, from three
to seven years old, can make. They all set
upon Susy, "naughty, mischievous, tiresome,"
were among the words. The quiet looking girl,
who had been trying to settle the dispute, now
interfered again. She led Susy away gently,



but firmly, into another part of the garden, where
spying her grandfather, she took the unwilling
and ashamed little girl for him to deal with,
and ran back to the crying children and ruined
"Oh, hush! dears, pray hush," said Sarah,
beginning to pick up the shells, "we will soon
build it up again." This they all declared im-
possible, and cried afresh, but Sarah persevered,
and quietly went on piling up the shells, till at
last one little mourner took up her coarse pina-
fore and wiping her eyes, said, Sarah does it
very nicely." The grotto rose beautifully, and
at last they were all quiet and happy again;
all but poor Susy, who, seeing herself excluded,
kept up a terrible whine. I wonder if Susan is
sorry," said Sarah. Not she, not she, don't ask
her here again," said they all. Why not," said
the grandfather, who having walked about with
Susy awhile, and talked gravely to her, appeared
to have brought about a change in her temper?
"Why because she will knock it down again
the first time any thing puts her out." Won't
you try her?" said Sarah, pleadingly; but they
still said No! no!" Don't you mind the day,
Dick," said Sarah, "when you pulled grandfather's


new net all into the mud, and tangled his twine,
and spoilt him a whole day's work?" "Yes," said
Dick. Ah, and don't you mind, too, when he
went out in the boat next day, and you asked
to go with him, just as if nothing had happened,
and you had done no harm, he said, 'ah, Dick,
if I were to mind what revenge says, I would
not take you with me; you have injured me
very much, but I'll mind what love says, and
that tells me to return good for evil?'" "Yes,"
says Dick. Do you think you could have hurt
any thing of grandfather's after that?" "No,"
said Dick, "but I did not do it in a rage, as Susy
did." "You did mischief, though," said Sarah;
"but I want Susy to give over going into these
rages. I want to cure her. Beating her does
no good, mother says that herself; wont you all
try and help to cure Susy ?"
These children were not angels. I am
writing of children as they are you know,
and though they yielded, it was rather sullenly,
and little Susan was given to understand that
she was not a very welcome addition. Susy
kept very close to Sarah, sobbing and heaving,
till the children seeing her subdued, made more
room for her, and her smile returned. Now the



law of kindness prevailed, and when the time
came to run down to the shore for some more
shells, to replace those that had been broken,
Susy, at Sarah's hint, ran first and fastest, and
brought her little pinafore fullest of all. Edith
watched all this, and her good old mentor was
willing that she should. I suppose you have
taught them this way of settling disputes," said
Edith to Joe. I, oh no, Miss, I can't take all
the credit. Sarah, there, she has taken to me
very much since my Bob died, and she said to
me the day of his funeral, when her heart was
soft and tender-like, 'Grandfather, tell me what
I can do to comfort you.' Oh, child,' says I,
'my grief is too deep for you to touch, but you
are a kind girl, I'll tell you what to do to-night.
Leave me alone, and, oh, try and make the
children quiet, for my head aches as bad as my
heart, Sally."'
Then Sarah tried that day and the next, but
found it hard work; the boys quarrelled and
fought, and the little ones scratched and cried,
and their mother came and beat one or two of
the worst, but all did no good. There was no
peace till bed time; still I encouraged her
and told her, you know, about 'a soft an-



swer turning away wrath,' and since that time,
she has less often given railing for railing;
and has not huffed and worried them, as elder
sisters are apt to do. She is a good girl, is
Sarah, but here comes the Missis home from
market." "The Missis" certainly did not look
very sweet, and her heavy load had heated her.
She did not welcome Edith pleasantly, which,
the old man observing, led her away to a little
room he occupied at the back of the cottage,
and showed her the corallines.
Edith saw plainly that though the poor father
offered her any of them she liked to take, he
suffered in parting with them, so calling Dick
and Mary, she asked if they would hunt for
some for her, like those in grandfather's stores.
They consented joyfully, and Edith promising
often to come and see the old man, ran down the
cliff briskly, and hastened home. She thought a
good deal as she walked, and asked herself if
she should have had the patience and the gen-
tleness of that poor cottage girl; if she should
have soothed Susy, and comforted Dick and
Mary; if she should have troubled herself to
kneel down in the broiling sun and build up a
few trumpery shells into a grotto, to be upset



and destroyed presently. She came to the
conclusion that for good, pleasant, prettily
behaved children, she might have done so, but
for shrieking, passionate, quarrelsome little
things as they appeared to her then, she cer-
tainly should not. She felt humbled at the
contrast between herself and Sarah; and when
she arrived at home, for the first time, perhaps,
in her life, she patiently bore her mamma's
reproaches for being so late, and for the impro-
priety of walking away from her sisters, no one
knew where. She was not yet quite skilled
enough in the art of peace, to give the "soft
answer;" but her silence and quietness turned
away Mrs. Parker's wrath, and after dinner,
Edith prepared herself for the visit of her dear

32 .


(f4tpftrv Anulrt


MRS. Parker and her two elder daughters were
going to pay a visit to town this summer, and
as Edith was not thought old enough to accom-
pany them, Mrs. Parker resolved to ask Emilie
to take charge of her. The only difficulty was
how to dispose of aunt Agnes; aunt Agnes
wishing them to believe that she did not mind
being alone, but all the while minding it very
much. At last it occurred to Emilie that perhaps
Mrs. Crosse, at the farm in Edenthorpe, a few
miles off, would, if she knew of the difficulty,
ask aunt Agnes there for a few weeks. Mrs.
Crosse and aunt Agnes got on so wonderfully
well together, and as she had often been invited,
the only thing now was to get her in the mind
to go. This was effected in due time, and Mr.
Crosse came up to the lodgings for her and her
little box, in his horse and gig, on the very



evening that Emilie was to go the Parkers', to
be installed as housekeeper and governess in
the lady's absence. Edith had come to see the
dear old aunt off, and now re-entered the lodg-
ings to help Emilie to collect her things, and to
settle with Miss Webster for the lodgings, be-
fore her departure. Miss Webster had met
with a tenant for six weeks, and was in very
good spirits, and very willing to take care of
the Schombergs' goods, which, to tell the truth,
were not likely to oppress her either in number
or value, with the exception of one cherished
article, one relic of former days-a good semi-
grand piano, which M. Schomberg had pur-
chased for his daughter, about a year before
his death. Miss Webster looked very much
confused as Emilie bade her good-bye, and said
-" Miss Schomberg, you have not, I see, left
your piano unlocked."
"No," said Emilie, certainly I have not; I
did not suppose- "
Why," replied Miss Webster, "the lodgers,
seeing a piano, will be sure to ask for the key,
Miss, and to be sure you wo'nt object."
Emilie hesitated. Did she remember the time
when Miss Webster, indignant at Emilie for



being a fortnight behind-hand in her weekly
rent, refused to lend a sofa for her dying father,
without extra pay? Did she recall the ill-made
slops, the wretched attendance to which this
selfish woman treated them during the pressure
of poverty and distress? Emilie was human,
and she remembered all. She knew, moreover,
that Miss Webster would make a gain of her
instrument, and that it might suffer. from six
weeks' rough use. She stood twisting some
straw plait that lay on the counter, in her
fingers, and then coolly saying she would con-
sider of it, walked out of the shop with Edith,
her bosom swelling with conflicting feelings.
The slight had been to her father-to her dear
dead father-she could not love Miss Webster,
nor respect her-she could not oblige her.
She felt so now, however, and despised the
meanness of the lodging-house keeper, in making
the request.
Edith was by her side in good spirits, though
she was to miss the London journey. Not
every young lady would be so content to re-
main all the holiday-time with the governess;
but Edith loved her governess. Happy go-
verness, to be loved by her pupil!



Mrs. Parker received Emilie very kindly:
she was satisfied that her dear child would
be happy in her absence, and she knew enough
of Emilie, she said, to believe that she would
see that Mr. Parker had his meals regularly
and nicely served, and that the servants did
not rob or run away, or the boys put their
dirty feet on the sofa, or bright fender tops, or
lead Edith into mischief; in short, the things
that Emilie was to see to were so numerous,
that it would have required more eyes than
she possessed, and far more vigilance and expe-
rience than she lay claim to, to fulfil all Mrs.
Parker's desires.
Amidst all the talking and novelty of her
new situation, however, Emilie was absent and
thoughtful; she was dispirited, and yet she was
not subject to low spirits either. There was a
cause. She had a tender conscience-a con-
science with which she was in the habit of
conversing, and conscience kept whispering to
her the words-" What things soever ye would
that men should do unto you, do ye also to
them." In vain she tried to silence this moni-
tor, and at last she asked to withdraw for a
few minutes, and scribbled a hasty note to



Miss Webster; the first she wrote was as

"DEAR Miss W.-I enclose jhe key of the pianoforte.
I should have acceded to your request, only I remem-
bered standing on that very spot, by that very counter,
a year ago, petitioning hard for the loan of a sofa for my
dying father, who, in his feverish and restless state,
longed to leave the bed for awhile. I remembered that,
and I could not feel as if I could oblige you; but I have
thought better of it, and beg you will use the piano.
"Yours truly,

She read the note before folding it, however;
and somehow it did not satisfy her. She
crumpled it up, took a turn or two in the
room, and then wrote the following:-

"DEAR MIss WEBSTER-I am sorry that I for a
moment hesitated to lend you my piano. It was selfish,
and I hope you will excuse the incivility. I enclose the
key, and as your lodgers do not come in until to-morrow,
I hope the delay will not have inconvenienced you.
"Believe me, yours truly,

Having sealed her little note, she asked
Mrs. Parker's permission to send it into High
Street, and Emilie Schomberg was herself
again. You will see, by-and-bye, how Emilie
returned Miss Webster's selfishness in a matter

P 37


yet more important than the loan of the piano.
It would have been meeting evil with evil had
she retaliated the mean conduct of her land-
lady. She would undoubtedly have done so,
had she yielded to the impulses of her nature;
but "how then could I have prayed," said
Emilie, "forgive me my trespasses as I forgive
them that trespass against me."
The travellers set off early in the morning,
and now began the holiday of both governess
and pupil. They loved one another so well
that the prospect of six weeks' close companion-
ship was irksome to neither; but Emilie had
not a holiday of it altogether. Miss Edith
was exacting and petulant at times, even with
those she loved, and she loved none better than
Emilie. Fred, the tormenting brother of whom
Edith had spoken in her list of troubles in our
first chapter, was undeniably troublesome; and
the three maid-servants set themselves from
the very first to resist the governess's temporary
authority; so we are wrong in calling these
Emilie's holidays. She had not, indeed, under-
taken the charge very willingly; but Mrs.
Parker had befriended her in extremity, and
she loved Edith dearly, notwithstanding much


in her that was not loveable, so she armed
herself for the conflict, and cheerfully and
humbly commenced her new duties.
Fred and his elder brother John were at
home for the holidays; they were high-spirited
lads of fourteen and fifteen years of age, and
were particularly fond of teasing both their
elder sisters and little Edith; a taste, by-the-
bye, by no means peculiar to the Master
Parkers, but one which we cannot admire,
The two boys, with Emilie and Edith, were
on their way to pay aunt Agnes a little visit,
having received from Mrs. Crosse, at the farm,
a request for the honour of the young lady's
company as well as that of her brothers. John
and Frederick were to walk, and Emily and
Edith were to go in the little pony gig. As
they were leaving the town, Edith caught sight
of John coming out of a shop which was a fa-
vourite resort of most of the young people and
visitors of the town of L- It was pro-
fessedly a stationer's and bookseller's, and was
kept by Mrs. Cox, a widow woman, who sold
balls, fishing tackle, books, boats, miniature
spades, barrows, garden tools, patent medicines,



&c., and who had lately increased her import-
ance, in the eyes of the young gentlemen, by
the announcement that various pyrotechnical
wonders were to be obtained at her shop.
There are few boys who have not at some
time of their boyhood had a mania for pyro-
technics-in plain English, fire-works-and there
are few parents, and parents' neighbours, who
can say that they relish the smell of gunpowder
on their premises.
Mr. Parker had a particular aversion to
amusements of the kind. He was an enemy
to fishing, to cricketing, to boating; he was a
very quiet, gentlemanly, dignified sort of man,
and, although a kind father, had perhaps set
up rather too high a standard of quietness and
order and sedateness for his children. It is a
curious fact, but one which it would be rather
difficult to disprove, that children not unfre-
quently are the very opposites of their parents,
in qualities such as I have described. Possibly
they may not have been inculcated quite in the
right manner; but that is not our business
Edith guessed what her brothers were after,
and told her suspicions to Emilie; but not



until they were within sight of the farm-house.
John and Fred, who had been a short cut
across the fields, were in high glee awaiting their
arrival, and assisted Edith and her friend to
alight more politely than usual. Aunt Agnes
was in ecstasies of delight to see her dear
Emilie, and she caressed Edith most lovingly
also. Edith liked the old lady, who had a fund
of fairy tales, such as the German language is
rich in. Often would Edith go and sit by the
old lady as she knitted, and listen to the story
of the "Flying Trunk," or the "Two Swans,"
with untiring interest; and old ladies of a gar-
rulous turn like good listeners. So aunt Agnes
called Edith a charming girl, and Edith, who
had seldom seen aunt Agnes otherwise than
conversable and pleasant, thought her a very
nice old lady.
Mrs. Crosse was extremely polite; and in the
bustle of greeting, and putting up the pony,
and aunt Agnes' questions, the fire-work affair
was almost forgotten. When they all met at
tea, the farmer, who had almost as great a
horror of gunpowder as Mr. Parker-and in
the vicinity of barns and stacks, with greater
reason-declared he smelt a smell which he



never tolerated in his house, and asked his boys
if they had any about them. They denied it,
but it was evident they knew something of the
matter; and now Emilie's concern was very
After tea she took John by the arm, and
looking into his face, said, "I am going to be
very intrusive, Sir; I am not your governess,
and I have no right to control you, but I wish
to be your friend, and may I advise you?
Don't take those fire-works out on Mr. Crosse's
premises, you have no idea the mischief you
might do. You could not have brought them
to a worse place. Be persuaded, pray do, to
give it up." John, thus appealed to, laughed
heartily at Miss Schomberg's fears, said some-
thing not very complimentary about Miss S.
speaking one word for the farmer's stack, and
two for her own nerves, and made his escape
to join his brother, and the two young farmers,
who were delighted at the prospect of a frolic.
What was to be done? The lads were gone
out, and doubtless would send up their rockets
and let off their squibs somewhere on the farm,
which was a very extensive one. The very
idea of fire-works would put aunt Agnes into a



terrible state of alarm, so Emilie held her peace.
To tell the farmer would, she knew, irritate
him fearfully; and yet no time was to be lost.
She was older than any of the party, and it was
in reliance on her discretion that the visit
had been permitted. She appealed to Edith,
but Edith, who either had a little fancy to see
the fire-works, or, who feared her brothers'
ridicule, or who thought Emilie took too much
upon herself, gave her no help in the matter.
"Well, Edith," said Emilie, when the farmer's
wife left the room to make some preparation
for a sumptuous supper, I have made up my
mind what to do. I will not stay here if your
brothers are to run any foolish risks with those
fire-works. I will go home at once, and tell
your papa, he will be in time to stop it; or I
will apprise Mr. Crosse, and he can take what
steps he pleases."
"Well, you will have a fine life of it, Miss
Schomberg, if you tell any tales, I can tell you,"
said Edith, pettishly, "and it really is no
business of yours. They are not under your
care if I am. Oh, let them be. Fred said he
should let them off on the Langdale hills, far
enough away from the farm."



But Emilie was firm. She tied on her bonnet,
and determined to make one more effort-it
should be with Fred this time. She followed
the track of the lads, having first inquired of a
farm-boy which road they had taken, and as
they had loitered, and she walked very fast,
she soon overtook them. They were seated on
a bank by the road-side, when she got up to
them, and John was just displaying his trea-
sures, squibs to make Miss Edith jump, cathe-
rine wheels, roman candles, sky-rockets, and blue
lights and crackers. The farmer's sons, Jerry
and Tom, grinned delightedly. Emilie stood
for a few moments irresolute; the boys were
rude, and looked so daring-what should she
say ?
"Young gentlemen," she began; they all
took off their hats in mock deference. "A
woman preaching, I declare." Go on, Madam,
hear I hear! hear!" said the young Crosses.
"Young gentlemen," continued Emilie, with
emphasis, it is to you I am speaking. I am
determined that those fire-works shall not be
let off, if I can prevent it, on Mr. Crosse's pre-
mises. If you will not give up your intention,
I shall walk to L--, and inform your father,



and you know very well how displeased he
will be."
"Who says we are going to let them off on
Mr. Crosse's premises?" said Fred, fiercely.
"You are very interfering Miss Schomberg,
will you go back to your our own business, and
to little Edith."
I will go to L-, master Fred," said Emilie,
firmly, but kindly. "I shall be sorry to get
you into trouble, and I would rather not take the
walk, but I shall certainly do what I say if
you persist."
The boys looked doubtfully at one another.
Fred seemed a little disposed to yield, but to be
conquered by his sister's governess was very
humiliating. However, they knew from Edith's
account that Emilie, though kind, was firm;
and, therefore, after a little further alterca-
tion, they agreed not to send up the fire-works
that night, but they promised her at the same
time that she should not hear the last of it.
They returned to the farm much out of humour,
and having hidden them in the box of the pony
gig, came in just in time for supper.
The ride home was a silent one; Edith saw
that her brothers were put out, and began to



think she did not like Emilie Sclomberg to live
with at all. Emilie had done right, but she
had a hard battle to fight; all were against her.
No one likes to be contradicted, or as Fred said,
to be managed. Emilie, however, went steadily
on, speaking the truth, but speaking it in love,
and acting always "as seeing Him who is


fjjnpter Pt4.


" Now, Emilie, what do you think of my life ?"
said Edith, one day after she and Fred had had
one of their usual squabbles. "What do you
think of Fred now ?"
I think, Edith, dear, that I would try and
win him over to love and affection, and not
thwart and irritate him as you do. Have you
forgotten old Joe's maxim, 'a soft answer turneth
away wrath?' but your grievous words too
often stir up strife. You told me the other
day, dear, how much the conduct of Sarah
Murray pleased you; now you may act towards
John and Fred as Sarah did to little Susy."
Edith shook her head. "It is not in me,
Emilie, I am afraid."
No, dear," said Emilie, "you arc right, it
is not in you."



"Well then what is the use of telling me to
do things impossible?"
"I did not say impossible, Edith, did I ?"
No, but you say it is not in me to be gentle
and all that, and I dare say it is not; but you
don't get much the better thought of, gentle as
you are, Miss Schomberg. John and Fred
don't behave better to you than they do to me,
so far as I see."
"Edith, dear, you set out wrong in your
attempts to do right," said Emily, kindly. "It
is not in you; it is not in any one by nature to
be always gentle and kind. It is not in me I
know. I was once a very petulant child, being
an only one, and it was but by very slow pro-
cess that I learned to govern myself, and I am
learning it still."
At this moment Fred came in, bearing in one
hand a quantity of paper, and in another a book
with directions for balloon making. "Now
Edith, you are a clever young lady," he began.
"Oh, yes," said Edith, wrathfully, "When
it suits you, you can flatter."
No, but Edith, don't be cross, come I want
you to do me a service. I want you to cut me
out this tissue paper into the shape of this


pattern. I am going to send up a balloon to-
morrow, and I can't cut it out, will you do it
for me?"
"Yes, yes," said Emilie, "we will do it to.
gether. Oh, come that is a nice job, Edith
dear, I can help you in that," and Emilie cleared
away her own work quick as thought, and asked
Fred for particular directions how it was to be
done, all this time trying to hide Edith's un-
willingness to oblige her brother, and making
it appear that Edith and she were of one mind
to help him.
Fred, who since the fire-work affair had
treated Emilie somewhat rudely, and had on
many occasions annoyed her considerably, looked
in astonishment at Miss Schomberg. She saw
his surprise and understood it. Fred," said
she frankly, "I know what you are thinking of,
but let us be friends. Give me the gratifica-
tion of helping you to this pleasure, since I hin-
dered you of the other. You won't be too
proud, will you, to have my help?"
Fred coloured. "Miss Schomberg," said he,
"I don't deserve it of you, I beg your pardon;"
and thus they were reconciled.
Oh, it is not often in great things that we are
"0 E




called upon to show that we love our neigh-
bour as ourselves. It is in the daily, hourly,
exercise of little domestic virtues, that they
who truly love God may be distinguished from
those who love him not. It was not because
Emilie was naturally amiable or naturally good
that she was thus able to show this loving and
forgiving spirit. She loved God, and love to
him actuated her; she thus adorned the doc-
trine of her Saviour in all things. Young
reader! there is no such thing as a religion of
words and feelings alone, it must be a religion
of acts; a life of warfare against the sins that
most easily beset you; a mortification of self-
ishness and pride, and a humble acknowledg-
ment, when you have done your very best, that
you are only unprofitable servants. Had you
heard Emilie communing with her own heart,
you would have heard no self gratulation. She
was far from perfect even in the sight of man;
in the sight of God she knew that in many
things she offended.
It is not a perfect character that I would
present to you in Emilie Schomberg; but one
who with all the weakness and imperfection of
human nature, made the will of God her rule



and delight. This is not natural, it is the habit
of mind of those only who are created anew,
new creatures in Christ Jesus.
This you may be sure Emilie did not fail to
teach her pupil; but a great many such lessons
may be received into the head without one find-
ing an entrance to the heart, and Edith was in
the not very uncommon habit of looking on her
faults in the light of misfortunes, just as any one
might regard a deformed limb or a painful dis-
order. She was, indeed, too much accustomed
to talk of her faults, and was a great deal too
easy about them.
My dear," Emilie would say after her con-
fessions, "I do not believe you see how sinful
these things are, or surely you would not so
very, very, often commit them." This was the
real state of the case; and it may be said of
all those who are in the habit of mere confes-
sions, that they do not believe things to be so
very bad, because they do not understand how
very good and holysis the God against whom
they sin. Edith had this to learn; books could
not teach her this. She who taught her all
else so well, could not teach her this; it was to
be learned from a higher source still.



Well, you are thinking, some of you, that
this is a prosy chapter, but you must not skip
it. It is just what Emily Schomberg would
have said to you, if you had been pupils of hers.
The end of reading is not, or ought not to be,
mere amusement; so read a grave page now and
then with attention and thoughtfulness.



THE truth must be told of Emilie; she was not
clever with her hands, and she was, nevertheless,
a little too confident in her power of execution,
so willing and anxious was she to serve you.
The directions Fred gave her were far from
clear; and after the paper was all cut and was
to be pasted together, sorrowful to say, it would
not do at all. Fred, in spite of his late apology
was very angry, and seizing the scissors said he
should know better another time than to ask
Miss Schomberg to do what she did not under-
stand. "You have wasted my paper, too," said
the boy, and my time in waiting for what I
could better have done myself."
Emilie was very sorry, and she said so; but
a balloon could not exactly be made out of her
sorrow, and nothing short of a balloon would



pacify Fred, that was plain. "Must it be ready
for to-morrow ?" she asked.
"Yes, it must," he said. Three other boys
were going to send up balloons. It was the
Queen's coronation day, and he had promised
to take a fourth balloon to the party; and the
rehearsal of all this stirred up Fred's ire afresh,
and he looked any thing but kind at Miss
Schomberg. What was to be done? Edith
suggested driving to the next market town to
buy one; but her papa wanted the pony gig,
so they could only sally forth to Mrs. Cox's for
some more tissue paper, and begin the work
again. This was very provoking to Edith.
"To have spent all the morning and now
to be going to spend all the afternoon over a
trumpery balloon, which you can't make after
all, Miss Schomberg, is very tiresome, and I
wanted to go to old Joe Murray's to-day and
see if the children have picked me up any
"I am very sorry, dear, my carelessness
should punish you; but don't disturb me by
grumbling and I will try and get done before
tea, and then we will go together." This time
Emilie was more successful; she took pains to



understand what was to be done, and the gores
of her balloon fitted beautifully.
Now Edith, dear, ring for some paste," said
Emilie, just as the clock struck four; Margaret
answered the bell. Margaret was the house-
maid, and so far from endeavouring in her capa-
city to overcome evil with good, she was perpe-
tually making mischief and increasing any evil
there might be, either in kitchen or parlour, by
her mode of delivering a message. She would
be sure to add her mite to any blame that she
might hear, in her report to the kitchen, and
thus, without being herself a bad or violent
temper, was continually fomenting strife, and
adding fuel to the fire of the cook, who was of
a very choleric turn. The request for paste
was civilly made and received, but Emilie un-
fortunately called Margaret back to say, Oh,
ask cook, please, to make it stiffer than she did
the last that we had for the kite; that did not
prove quite strong."
Margaret took the message down and in-
formed cook that "Miss Schomberg did not-
think she knew how to make paste." Then
let her come and make it herself," said cook.
"She wants to be cook I think; she had



better come. I sha'nt make it. What is it
for ?"
Oh," said Margaret, "she is after some
foreign filagree work of hers, that's all."
Well, I'm busy now and I am not going to
put myself out about it, she must wait."
Emilie did wait the due time, but as the paste
did not come she went down for it. "Is the
paste ready, cook ?" she asked.
No, Miss Schomberg," was the short reply,
and cook went on assiduously washing up her
Will you be so kind as to make it, cook, for
I want it particularly that it may have as much
time as possible to dry."
"Perhaps you will make it yourself then,"
was the gracious rejoinder. Emilie was not
above making a little paste, and as she saw that
something had put cook out, she willingly con-
sented; but she did not know where to get
either flour or saucepan, and cook and Mar-
garet kept making signs and laughing, so that
it was not very pleasant. She grew quite hot,
as she had to ask first for a spoon, then for a
saucepan, then for the flour and water; at last
she modestly turned round and said, "Cook, I



really do not quite know how to make a little
paste. I am ashamed to say it, but I have lived
so long in lodgings that I see nothing of what
is done in the kitchen. Will you tell or show
me? I am very ignorant."
Her kind civil tone quite changed cook's,
and she said, "Oh, Miss, I'll make it, only you
see, you shouldn't have said I didn't know how."
Emilie explained, and the cook was pacified,
and gave Miss Schomberg a good deal of gra-
tuitous information during the process. How
she did not like her place, and should not stay,
and how she disliked her mistress, and plenty
more-to which Emilie listened politely, but
did not make much reply. She plainly per-
ceived that cook wanted a very forbearing mis-
tress, but she could not exactly tell her so.
She merely said in her quaint quiet way, that
every one had something to bear, and the
paste being made, she left the kitchen.
"Well, I must say, Miss Schomberg has a
nice way of speaking, which gets over you
some how," said cook, "I wish I had her
More than one in the kitchen mentally echoed
that wish of cook's.



The balloon went on beautifully, and was
completed by seven o'clock. Fred was de-
lighted when he came in to tea, and John no
less so. All the rude speeches were forgotten,
and Emilie was as sympathetic in her joy as an
elder sister could have been. I don't know
what you will do without Miss Schomberg,"
said Mr. Parker, as he sipped his tea.
She had better come and live with us,"
said Fred, "and keep us all in order. I'm
sure I should have no objection-"
Emilie felt quite paid for the little self-denial
she had exercised, when she found that her
greatest enemy, he who had declared he would
"plague her to death, and pay her off for not
letting them send up their fire-works," was
really conquered by that powerful weapon,
Fred had thought more than he chose to
acknowledge of Emilie's kindness; he could not
forget it. It was so different to the treatment
he had met with from his associates generally.
It made him ask what could be the reason of
Emilie's conduct. She had nothing to get by
it, that was certain, and Fred made up his mind
to have some talk with Miss Schomberg on the



subject the first time they were alone. He had
some trials at school with a boy who was bent
on annoying him, and trying to stir up his
temper; perhaps the peace-maker might tell
him how to deal with this lad. Fred was
an impetuous boy, and now began to like
Miss Schomberg as warmly as he had pre-
viously disliked her.
On their way to old Joe's house that night,
Emilie thought she would call in on Miss Web-
ster, not having parted from her very warmly
on the first night of the holidays. A fortnight
of these holidays had passed away, and Emilie
began to long for her quiet evenings, and to
see dear aunt Agnes again. She looked quite
affectionately up to the little sitting room
window, where her geraniums stood, and even
thought kindly of Miss Webster herself, to
whom it was not quite so easy to feel genial. She
entered the shop. The apprentice sate there
at work, busily trimming a fine rice straw bonnet
for the lodger within. She looked up joyously
at Emilie's approach. She thought how often
that kind German face had been to her
like a sunbeam on a dull path; how often
her musical voice had spoken words of counsel,



and comfort, and sympathy, to her in her hard
life. How she had pressed her hand when she
(the apprentice) came home one night and told
her, "My poor mother is dead," and how she
had said, We are both orphans now, Lucy.
We can feel for one another." How she had
taught her by example, often, and by word
sometimes, not to answer again if any thing
annoyed or irritated her, and in short how
much Lucy had missed the young lady only
Lucy could say.
Emilie inquired for her mistress, but the
words were scarcely out of her lips, than she
said, Oh, Miss, she's so bad! She has scalt
her foot, and is quite laid up, and the lodgers
are very angry. They say they don't get pro-
perly attended to and so they mean to go.
Dear me, there is such a commotion, but her
foot is very bad, poor thing, and I have to mind
the shop, or I would wait upon her more; and
the girl is very inattentive and saucy, so that I
don't see what we are to do. Will you go and
see Miss Webster, Miss?"
Emilie cheerfully consented, leaving Edith
with Lucy to learn straw plaiting, if she liked,
and to listen to her artless talk. Lucy had less


veneration for the name of Queen Victoria
than for that of Schomberg. Emilie was to
her the very perfection of human nature, and
accordingly she sang her praises loud and
On the sofa, the very sofa for which M.
Schomberg had so longed, lay Miss Webster, the
expression of her face manifesting the greatest
pain. The servant girl had just brought up her
mistress's tea, a cold, slopped, miserable looking
mess. A slice of thick bread and butter, half
soaked in the spilled beverage, was on a plate,
and that a dirty one; and the tray which held
the meal was offered to the poor sick woman so
carelessly, that the contents were nearly shot
into her lap. It was easy to see that love formed
no part of Betsey's service of her mistress, and
that she rendered every attention grudgingly
and ill. Emilie went up cordially to Miss
Webster, and was not prepared for the re-
pulsive reception with which she met. She
wondered what she could have said or done,
except, indeed, in the refusal of the instru-
ment, and that was atoned for. Emilie might
have known, however, that nothing makes our
manners so distant and cold to another, as the



knowledge that we have injured or offended
him. Miss Webster, in receiving Emilie's ad-
vances, truly was experiencing the truth of the
scripture saying, that coals of fire should be
heaped on her head.
Poor Miss Webster! There I set down the
tray, you may go, and don't let me see you in
that filthy cap again, not fit to be touched with
a pair of tongs; and don't go up to Mrs. Newson
in that slipshod fashion, don't Betsey; and when
you have taken up tea come here, I have an
errand for you to go. Shut the door gently.
Oh, dear! dear, these servants I"
This was so continually the lament of Miss
Webster, that Emilie would not have noticed it,
but that she appeared so miserable, and she
therefore kindly said, "I am afraid Betsey does
not wait on you nicely, Miss Webster, she is
so very young. I had no idea of this accident,
how did it happen ?"
How it happened took Miss Webster some
time to tell. It happened in no very unusual
manner, and the effect was a scalt foot, which
she forthwith shewed Miss Schomberg. There
was no doubt that it was a very bad foot, and
Emilie saw that it needed a good nurse more



than a good doctor. Mr. Parker was a medical
man, and Emilie knew she should have no diffi-
culty in obtaining that kind of assistance for
her. But the nursing! Miss Webster was
feverish and uneasy, and in such suffering that
something must be done. At the sight of her
pain all was forgotten, but that she was a
fellow-creature, helpless and forsaken, and that
she must be helped.
All this time any one coming in might have
imagined that Emilie had been the cause of the
disaster, so affronted was Miss Webster's man-
ner, and so pettishly did she reject all her
visitor's suggestions as preposterous and impos-
"Will you give up your walk to-night,
Edith," said Emilie on her return to the shop,
"Poor Miss Webster is in such pain I cannot
leave her, and if you would run home and ask
your papa to step in and see her, and say she
has scalt her foot badly, I would thank you
very much."
Emilie spoke earnestly, so earnestly that
Edith asked if she were grown very fond of
that "sour old maid all of a sudden."
Very fond! No Edith; but it does not, or



ought not to require us to be very fond of
people to do our duty to them."
"Well, I don't see what duty you owe to
that mean creature, and I see no reason why I
should lose my walk again to-night. You treat
people you don't love better than those you do
it seems; or else your professions of loving me
mean nothing. All day long you have been
after Fred's balloon, and now I suppose mean
to be all night long after Miss Webster's
Emilie made no reply; she could only have
reproached Edith for selfishness and temper at
least equal to Miss Webster's, but telling Lucy
she should soon return, hastened to Mr. Parker's
house, followed by Edith; he was soon at the
patient's side, and as Emilie foretold, it was a
case more for an attentive nurse than a skilful
doctor. He promised to send her an applica-
tion, but, Miss Schomberg," said he, "sleep is
what she wants; she tells me she has had no rest
since the accident occurred. What is to be
done ?" "Can you not send for a neighbour,
Miss Webster, or some one to attend to your
household, and to nurse you too. If you worry
yourself in this way you will be quite ill."



Poor Miss Webster was ill, she knew it; and
having neither neighbour nor friend within
reach, she did what was very natural in her
case, she took up her handkerchief and began
to cry. Oh, come, Miss Webster," said Emilie,
cheerfully, "I will get you to bed, and Lucy
shall come when the shop is closed, and to-
morrow I will get aunt Agnes to come and
nurse you. Keep up your spirits."
Ah, it is very well to talk of keeping up
spirits, and as to your aunt Agnes, there never
was any love lost between us. No thank you,
Miss Schomberg, no thank you. If I may just
trouble you to help me to the side of my bed, I
can get in, and do very well alone. Good
night." Eaillie stood looking pitifully at her.
" I hope I don't keep you, Miss Schomberg, pray
don't stay, you cannot help me," and here Miss
Webster rose, but the agony of putting her foot
to the ground was so great that she could not
restrain a cry, and Emilie, who saw that the
poor sufferer was like a child in helplessness,
and like a child, moreover, in petulance,
calmly but resolutely declared her intention
of remaining until Lucy could leave the



Having helped her landlady into bed, she ran
down-stairs to try and appease the indignant
lodgers, who protested, and with truth, that
they had rung, rung, rung, and no one answered
the bell; that they wanted tea, that Miss
Webster had undertaken to wait on them, that
they were not waited on, and that accordingly
they would seek other lodgings on the morrow,
they would, &c., &c. "Miss Webster, ma'am,
is very ill to-night. She has a young careless
servant girl, and is, I assure you, very much
distressed that you should be put out thus. I
will bring up your tea, ma'am, in five minutes,
if you will allow me. It is very disagreeable
for you, but I am sure if you could see the poor
woman, ma'am, you would pity her." Mrs.
Harmer did pity her only from Emilie's simple
account of her state, and declared she was very
sorry she had seemed angry, but the girl did not
say her mistress was ill, only that she was lying
down, which appeared very disrespectful and
inattentive, when they had been waiting two
hours for tea.
The shop was by this time cleared up, and
Lucy was able to attend to the lodgers. Whilst
Emilie having applied the rags soaked in the



lotion which had arrived, proceeded to get
Miss Webster a warm and neatly served cup
of tea.
It would have been very cheering to hear
a pleasant "thank you;"' but Miss Webster
received all these attentions with stiff and
almost silent displeasure. Do not blame her
too severely, a hard struggle was going on;
but the law of kindness is at work, and it will
not fail.




Ctqiter tmtJl


"Ah, if Miss Schomberg had asked me to
wait on her, how gladly would I have done it,
night after night, day after day, and should have
thought myself well paid with a smile; but to
sit up all night with a person, who cares no more
for me, than I for her, and that is nothing! and
then to have to get down to-morrow and attend
to the shop, all the same as if I had slept well,
is no joke. Oh, dear me! how sleepy I am,
two o'clock! I was to change those rags at
two; I really scarcely dare attempt it, she
seems so irritable now." So soliloquized Lucy,
who, kindhearted as she was, could not be ex-
pected to take quite so much delight in nursing
her cross mistress, who never befriended her,
as she would have done a kinder, gentler person;
but Lucy read her Bible, and she had been try-


ing, though not so long as Emilie, nor always
so successfully it must be owned, to live as
though she read it.
Miss Webster, ma'am, the doctor said those
rags were to be changed every two hours. May
I do it for you? I can't do it as well as Miss
Schomberg, but I will do my very best not to
hurt you."
"I want sleep child," said Miss Webster, "I
want sleep, leave me alone."
"You can't sleep in such pain, ma'am," said
poor Lucy, quite at her wits ends.
"Don't you think, I must know that as well
as you? There! there's that rush light gone
out, and you never put any water in the tin; a
pretty nurse you make, now I shall have that
smell in my nose all night. You must have set
it in a draught. What business has a rush light
to go out in a couple of hours? I wonder."
Lucy put the obnoxious night shade out of
the room, and went back to the bedside. For
a long time she was unsuccessful, but at last
Miss Webster consented to have her foot dressed,
and even cheered her young nurse by the ac-
knowledgment that she did it very well, con-
sidering; and thus the night wore away.



Quite early Emilie was at her post, and was
grieved to see that Miss Webster still looked
haggard and suffering, and as if she had not
slept. In answer to her inquiries, Lucy said
that she had no rest all night.
"Rest! and how can I rest, Miss Schomberg?
I can't afford to lose my lodgers, and lose them
I shall."
Only try and keep quiet," said Emilie, "and
I will see that they do not suffer from want of
attendance. You cannot help them, do consent to
leave all thought, all management, to those who
can think and manage. May aunt Agnes
come and nurse you, and attend to the house-
keeping ?"
"Yes," was reluctantly, and not very gra-
ciously uttered.
"Well then, Lucy will have time to attend
to you. I would gladly nurse you myself, but
you know I may not neglect Miss Parker; now
take this draught, and try and sleep."
"Miss Schomberg," said the poor woman,
you won't lack friends to nurse you on a sick
bed; I have none."
Miss Webster, if I were to be laid on a sick
bed, and were to lose aunt Agnes, I should be



alone in a country that is not my own country,
without money and without friends; but we
may both of us have a friend who sticketh
closer than a brother, think of him, ma'am,
now, and ask him to make your bed in your
She took the feverish hand of the patient as
she said this, who, bursting into a flood of tears,
replied, "Ah, Miss Schomberg! I don't deserve
it of you, and that is the truth; but keep my
hand, it feels like a friend's, hold it, will you,
and I think I shall sleep a little while;" and
Emilie stood and held her hand, stood till she
was faint and weary, and then withdrawing it
as gently as ever mother unloosed an infant's
hold, she withdrew, shaded the light from the
sleeper's eyes, and stole out of the room, leav-
ing the sufferer at ease, and in one of those
heavy sleeps which exhaustion and illness often
Her visit to the kitchen was most discourag-
ing. Betsey was only just down, and the kettle
did not boil, nor were any preparations made for
the lodgers' breakfast, to which it only wanted
an hour. Emilie could have found it in her
heart to scold the lazy, selfish girl, who had



enjoyed a sound sleep all night, whilst Lucy
had gone unrefreshed to her daily duties, but
she forebore. "Scolding never does answer,"
thought Emilie, "and I won't begin to-day, but
I must try and reform this girl at all events, by
some means, and that shall be done at once."
"Come, Betsey," said Emilie pleasantly,
" now, we shall see what sort of a manager you
will be; you must do all you can to make things
tidy and comfortable for the lodgers. Is their
room swept and dusted?"
Oh, deary me, Miss, what time have I had
for that, I should like to know ?"
"Well now, get every thing ready for their
breakfast, and pray don't bang doors or make a
great clatter with the china, as you set the
table. Every sound is heard in this small
house, and your mistress has had no sleep all
"Well, she'll be doubly cross to day, then,
I'll be bound. Howsoever, I shall only stay
my month, and it don't much matter what I do,
she never gives a servant a good character, and
I don't expect it."
No, and you will not deserve it if you are in-
attentive and unfeeling now. It is not doing as


you would be done by, either. Do now, Betsey,
forget, for a few days, that Miss Webster ever
scolded or found fault with you. If you want
to love any one just do him a kindness, and
you don't know how fast love springs up in
the heart; you would be much happier, Betsey,
I am sure. Come try, you are not a cross girl,
and you don't mean to be unkind now. I shall
expect to hear from Lucy, when I come again,
how well you have managed together."
Fred went to Mr. Crosse's after breakfast,
in the pony gig, for aunt Agnes, who, at a
summons from Emilie, was quite willing to
come and see after Miss Webster's household.
She soon put matters into a better train, both
in kitchen and parlour, so that the pacified
lodgers consented to remain. And though
neither Lucy nor Betsey altogether liked aunt
Agnes, they found her quite an improvement
on Miss Webster.
It is not our object to follow Miss Webster
through her domestic troubles nor through the
tedious process of the convalescence of a scalt
foot. We will rather follow Edith into her
chamber, and see how she is trying to learn
the arts of the Peacemaker there.



Edith's head is bent over a book, a torn book,
and her countenance is flushed and heated.
She is out of breath, too, and her hair is
hanging disordered about her pretty face; not
pretty now, however; it is an angry face-and
an angry face is never pretty.
Has she been quarrelling with Fred again ?
yes, even so. Fred would not give up Hans
Andersen's Tales, which Emilie had just given
Edith, and which she was reading busily,
when some one came to see her about a new
bonnet, so she left the book on the table, and
in the mean time Fred came in, snatched it up,
and was soon deep in the feats of the "Flying
Trunk." Then came the little lady back and
demanded the book, not very pleasantly, if the
truth must be told. Fred meant to give it up,
but he meant to tease his sister first, and Edith,
who had no patience to wait, snatched at the
book. Fred of course resisted, and it was not
until the book had been nearly parted from its
cover, and some damage had ensued to the dress
and hair of both parties that Edith regained
possession; not peaceable possession, however,
for both of the children's spirits were ruffled.
Edith flew to her room almost as fast as if



she had been on the "Flying Trunk," in the
Fairy Tale. When there, she could not read,
and in displeasure with herself and with every
one, dashed the little volume away and cried
long and bitterly. Edith had not been an in-
sensible spectator of the constantly and self-de-
nying gentle conduct of Emilie. Her example,
far more than her precepts, had affected her
powerfully, but she had much to contend with,
and it seemed to her as if at the very times she
meant to be kind and gentle something occurred
to put her out. I will try, oh, I will try," said
Edith again and again, "but it is such hard
work."-Yes, Edith, hard enough, and work
which even Emilie can scarcely help you in.
You wrestle against a powerful and a cruel
enemy, and you need great and powerful aid;
but you have read your Bible Edith, and again
and again has Emilie said to you, "of yourself
you can do nothing."
Edith had had a long conversation on this
very subject only that morning with her friend,
as they were walking on the sea shore, and
under the influence of the calm lovely summer's
sky, and within the sound of Emilie's clear
persuasive voice, it did not seem a hard matter



to Edith to love and to be loving. She could
love Fred, she could even bear a rough pull of
the hair from him, she could stand a little teas-
ing from John, who found fault with a new
muslin fi-ock she wore at dinner, and we all
know it is not pleasant to have our dress found
fault with; but this attack of Fred's about the
book, was not to be borne, not by Edith, at least,
and thus she sobbed and cried in her own room,
thinking herself the most miserable of creatures,
and very indignant that Emilie did not come
to comfort her; but she is gone out after that
tiresome old woman, with her scalt foot, I dare
say," said Edith, and she would only tell me
I was wrong if she were here-oh dear! oh
dear me!" and here she sobbed again.
Solitude is a wonderfully calming, composing
thing; Emilie knew that, and she did quite right
to leave Edith alone. It was time she should
listen seriously to a voice which seldom made
itself heard, but conscience was resolute to-day,
and did not spare Edith. It told her all the
truth, (you may trust conscience for that,) it
told her that the very reason why she failed in
her efforts to do right was because she had a
wrong motive; and that was, love of the appro-



nation of her fellow creatures, and not real
love to God. She would have quarrelled with
any one else who dared to tell her this; but
it was of no use quarrelling with conscience.
Conscience had it all its own way to-day, and
went on answering every objection so quietly,
and to the point, that by degrees Edith grew
quiet and subdued; and what do you think she
did? She took up a little Bible that lay on
her table, and began to read it. She could not
pray as yet. She did not feel kind enough for
that. Emilie had often said to her that she
should be at peace with every one before she
lifted up her heart to the "God of peace."
She turned over the leaves and tried to find the
chapter, which she knew very well, about the
king who took account of his servants, and who
forgave the man the great debt of ten thousand
talents; and then when that man went out and
found his servant who owed him but one hun-
dred pence, he took him by the throat, and said,
"Pay me that thou owest." In vain did the
man beseech for patience, he that had only just
been forgiven ten thousand talents could not
have pity on the man who owed him but one
hundred pence.



Often had Edith read this chapter, and very
just was her indignation against the hard-
hearted servant, who, with his king's lesson of
mercy and forgiveness fresh in his memory,
could not practise the same to one who owed
him infinitely less than he had done his master;
and yet here was little Edith who could not
forgive Fred his injuries, when, nevertheless,
God was willing to forgive hers. Had Fred
injured her as she had injured God? surely not;
and yet she might now kneel down and receive
at once the forgiveness of all her great sins.
Nay, more; she had been receiving mercy and
patience at the hands of her Heavenly Father
many years. She had neglected Him, done
many things contrary to his law, owed him, in-
deed, the ten thousand talents, and yet she was
She had a great deal of revenge in her heart
still, however; and she could not, reason as she
would, try as she would, read as she would, get
it out, so she sunk down on her knees, and lifted
up her heart very sincerely, to ask God to take
it away. She had often said her prayers, and had
found no difficulty in that, but now it seemed
quite different. She could find no words, she



could only feel. Well, that was enough. He
who saw in secret, saw her heart, and knew how
it felt. She felt she needed forgiveness, and that
she could only have it by asking it of Him who
had power to forgive sins. She took her great
debt to Jesus, and he cancelled it; she hoped
she was forgiven, and now, oh! how ready she
felt to forgive Fred. How small a sum seemed
his hundred pence-his little acts of annoyances
compared with her many sins against God.
Now she felt and understood the meaning of
the Saviour's lesson to Peter. She had entered
the same school as Peter, and though a slow
she was a sincere learner.
She is in the right way now to learn the
true law of kindness. None but the Saviour,
who was love itself, could teach her this. If
any earthly teacher could have done so, surely
Emilie would have succeeded.
She went down to tea softened and sad, for
she felt very humble. The consideration of
her great unlikeness to the character of Jesus,
affected her. "When he was reviled he reviled
not again; when he suffered he threatened
not;" and this thought made her feel more
than any sermon or lecture or reproof she ever


had in her life, how she needed to be changed,
her whole self changed; not her old bad nature
patched up, but her whole heart made new. She
did not say much at tea; she did not formally
apologise to Fred for her conduct to him. He
looked very cross, so perhaps it was wiser to
act rather than to speak; but she handed him
the bread and butter, and buttered him a piece
of toast, and in many little quiet ways told him
she wished to be friends with him. John
began at her frock again. She could not laugh,
(she was not in a laughing humour,) but she
said she would not wear it any more, during
his holidays, if he disliked it so very much.
The greatest trial to her temper was the being
told she looked cross. Emilie, who could see the
sun of peace behind the cloud, was half angry
herself at this speech, and said to Mr. Parker,
" If she looks cross she is not cross, Sir, but I
think she is not in very good spirits. Every
one looks a little sad sometimes;" and Mr.
Parker, happily, being called out to a patient
at that moment, gave Edith opportunity to
swallow her grief.
After tea .the boys prepared to accompany
their sister and her governess in the usual



evening walk. Edith did not desire their
company, but she did not say so; and they all
went out very silent for them. On their road
to the beach they met a man who had a cage of
canaries to sell, the very things that Fred had
desired so long, and to purchase which he had
saved his money.
Edith had no taste for noisy canaries; few
great talkers have, for they do interrupt conver-
sation most undeniably, but Fred thought it
would be most delightful to have them, and as
he had a breeding cage which had belonged to
one of his elder sisters years before, he asked
the price and began to make his bargain. The
birds were bought and the man dispatched to
the house with them, with orders to call for
payment at nine o'clock, before Fred remem-
bered that he did not exactly know where he
should keep them. In the sitting room it would
be quite out of the question he knew, for the
noise would distract his mother. Papa was not
likely to admit canaries into his study for con-
sultations; and Fred knew only of one likely
or possible place, but the door to that was
closed, unless he could find a door to Edith's
heart, and he had just quarrelled with Edith;



what a pity! To make it up with her, how-
ever, just to gain his point, he was too proud
to do, and was therefore gloomy and uncivil.
("Where are you going to keep your canaries
Fred?" asked his sister.
"In the cage," said Fred, shortly and
Yes; but in what room?"
"In my bed-room, said Fred."
"Oh, I dare say! will you though?" said
John, who as he shared his brother's apart-
ment had some right to have a voice in the
matter. "I am not going to be woke at daylight
every morning by your canaries. And such an
unwholesome plan; I am sure papa and mamma
won't let you. What a pity you bought the
birds! you can't keep them in our small house.
Get off your bargain, I would if I were you.
Besides, who will take care of them all the week?
they will want feeding other days besides
Saturday, I suppose."
Fred looked annoyed, and dropped behind the
party. Edith whispered to Emilie, "Go you
on with John, I want to talk to Fred."
"Fred, dear," said she, "will you keep your
birds in my little room, where my old toys are?



I will clear a place, and I shan't mind their
singing, do Fred. I have often hindered your
pleasures, now let me have the comfort of
making it up a little to you, and I will feed
them and clean them while you are at school in
the week."
"You may change your mind Edith, and you
know if my birds are in your room, I shall
have to be there a good deal; and they will
make a rare noise sometimes, and some one
must take care of them all the week-I can
only attend to them on Saturdays, you know.
Yes, I have been thinking of all that, and
I expect I shall sometimes wish to change my
mind, but I shall not do it. I am very selfish I
know, but I mean to try to be better, Fred.
Take my little room, do."
Fred was a proud boy, and would rather have
had to thank any one than Edith just then; but
nevertheless he accepted her offer, and thanked
his little sister, though not quite so kindly as he
might have done, and that is the truth. There
is a grace in accepting as well as in giving.
Edith had given up what she had much prized,
the independence of a little room, (it was but a
little one,) a little room all to herself; but she



did so because she felt love springing up in her
heart. She acted in obedience to the dictates
of the law of kindness, and she felt lighter
and happier than she had done for a long
time. Fred was by degrees quite cheered, and
amused his companions by his droll talk for
some way. Spying, however, one of his school-
fellows on the rocks at a distance, he and John,
joined him abruptly, and thus Emilie and Edith
were left alone.
Sincerity is never loquacious, never egotistic.
If you don't understand these words I will tell
you what I mean. A person really in earnest;
and sincere, does not talk much of earnestness
and sincerity, still less of himself. Edith could
not tell Emilie of her new resolutions, of her
mental conflict, but she was so loving and affec-
tionate in her manner to her friend, that I think
Emilie understood; at any rate, she saw that
Edith was very pleasant, and very gentle that
night, and loved her more than ever. She saw
and felt there was a change come over her.
They walked far, and on their return found the
canaries arrived, and Fred very busy in putting
them up in their new abode. He had rather
unceremoniously moved Edith's bookcase and



boxes, to make room for the bird cages. She did
say, "I think you might have asked my leave,"
but she instantly recalled it. Oh, never mind;
what pretty little things, I shall like to have
them with me."
It really was a trial to Edith to see all her
neat arrangements upset, and to find how very
coolly Fred did it, too. She sighed and thought,
" Ah, I shall not be mistress here now I see!"
but Fred was gone down stairs for some water
and seed, and did not hear her laments. He
was very full of his scheme for canary breeding
at supper, and Emilie was quite as full of sym-
pathy in his joy as Fred desired; she took a
real interest in the matter. Her father, she
said, had given much attention to canary breed-
ing, for the Germans were noted for their man-
agement of canaries; she could help him, she
thought, if he would accept her help. So they
were very merry over the affair at supper time,
and Mr. Parker, in his quiet way, enjoyed it too.
Suddenly, however, the merriment received a
check. Margaret, who had been to look at
the birds, came in with the intelligence that
Muff, the pet cat of Miss Edith, was sitting in
the dusk, watching the canaries with no friendly



eye, and that she had even made a dart at the
cage; and she prophesied that the birds would
not be safe long. A bird of ill omen was Mar-
garet always; she thought the worst and feared
the worst of every one, man or animal. Why,
it is easy to keep the door of the cage shut,"
John remarked, but to keep puss out of her old
haunts was not possible.
Muff was not a kitten, but a venerable cat,
who had belonged to Edith's elder sister, and
was given to Edith, the day that sister married,
as a very precious gift; and Edith loved that
grey cat, loved her dearly. She always sat in
the same place in that dear little room. Edith
had only that day made her a new red leather
collar, and Muff looked very smart in it. "Muff
won't hurt the birds, Fred dear," said Edith,
" she is not like a common cat." Whatever
points of dissimilarity there might be between
Muff and the cat race in general, in this par-
ticular she quite resembled them; she loved
birds, and would not be very nice as to the
manner of obtaining them. What was to be
done? Fred had all manner of projects in his
head for teaching the canaries to fly out and in
the cage, to bathe, to perch on his finger, &c.;


but if, whenever any one chanced to leave the
door of the room open, Muff were to bounce in,
why there was an end to all such schemes. In
short, Muff would get the birds by fair means or
foul, there was no doubt of that, and Fred was
desperate. I cannot tell how many times Muff
was called "a nasty cat," a tiresome cat,
" a vicious cat," and little Edith's heart was
full, for she did not believe any evil of her
favourite; and to hear her so maligned, seemed
like a personal insult; but she bore it patiently.
She asked Emilie at bed time what she should
do about Muff; she had so long been accus-
tomed to her seat by the sunny window in
Edith's room, that to try and tempt her from
it she knew would be vain.
Emilie agreed with her, but hoped Muff
would practise self-denial. Before Edith lay
down to rest that night, she again thought over
all that she had done through the day; again
knelt down and asked for help to overcome that
which was sinful within her, and then lay down
to sleep. Edith was but a child, and she could
not forget Muff; she thought, and very truly,
that there was a general wish to displace her
Muff. Not one in the house would be sorry to



sec Muff sent away she knew, and Margaret at
supper time seemed so pleased to report of
Muff's designs. This thought made her love
Muff all the more, but then there were Fred's
birds. It would be very sad if any of them
should be lost through her cat; what should
she do ? She wished to win Fred to love and
gentleness. Should she part with Muff? Miss
Schomberg (aunt Agnes that is) had expressed
a wish for a nice quiet cat, and this, her beauty,
would just suit her. Shall I take Muff to
High-Street to-morrow? I will," were her last
thoughts, but the resolution cost her something,
and Edith's pillow was wet with tears. When
she arose the next morning she felt as we are
all apt to feel after the excitement of new and
sudd n resolves, rather flat; and the sight of
Muff sitting near a laurel bush in the garden,
enjoying the morning sun, quite unnerved her.
"Part with Muff! No, I cannot; and I don't
believe any one would do such a thing for such
a boy as Fred. I cannot part with Muff, that's
certain. Fred had better give up his birds,
and so I shall tell him."
All this is very natural, but what is very
natural is often very wrong, and Edith did



not feel that calm happiness which she had done
the night before. When she received Emilie's
morning kiss, she said, "Well, Miss Schomberg,
I thought last night I had made up my mind to
part with Muff, but I really cannot! I do love
her so!"
It would be a great trial to you, I should
think," said Emilie, "and one that no one could
ask of you, but if she had a good master, do
you think you should mind it so very much ?
You would only have your own sorrow to think
of, and really it would be a kindness if those
poor birds are to be kept. The cat terrifies
them by springing at the wires, and if they
were sitting they would certainly be frightened
off their nests."
Edith looked perplexed; What shall I do
Emilie ? I do wish to please Fred, I do wish
to do as I would be done by; I really want to
get rid of my selfish nature, and yet it will keep
coming back."
"Watch as well as pray, dear," said Emilie
affectionately, "and you will conquer at last."
They went down to breakfast together. "Watch
and pray." That word watch," was a word in



season to Edith, she had prayed but had well
nigh forgotten to watch.
She could not eat her meal, however, her
heart was full with the greatness of the sacrifice
before her. Do not laugh at the word great
sacrifice. It was very great to Edith; she loved
with all her heart; and to part with what we
love, be it a dog, a cat, a bird, or any inanimate
possession, is a great pang. After breakfast she
went into the little room where Muff usually
sat, and taking hold of the favourite, hugged
and kissed her lovingly, then carrying her down
stairs to the kitchen, asked cook for a large bas-
ket, and with a little help from Margaret, tied
her down and safely confined her; then giving
the precious load to her father's errand boy,
trotted into the town, and stopped not till she
reached Miss Webster's door. Her early visit
rather astonished aunt Agnes, who was at
that moment busily engaged in dressing Miss
Webster's foot, and at the announcement of
Betsey-" Please Ma'am little Miss Parker is
called and has brought you a cat," she jumped
so that she spilled Miss Webster's lotion.
"A cat! a cat !" echoed the ladies. "I will



have no cats here Miss Schomberg, if you
please," said the irritable Mistress. "I always
did hate cats, there is no end to the mischief
they do. I never did keep one, and never
mean to do."
Miss Schomberg went down stairs into Miss
Webster's little parlour, and there saw Edith
untying her beloved Muff. "Well aday! my
child, what brings you here? all alone too.
Surely Emilie isn't ill, oh dear me something
must be amiss."
Oh no, Miss Schomberg, no, only I heard
you say you would like a cat, and Fred has got
some new birds and I mayn't keep Muff, and
so will you take her and be kind to her ?"
My dear child," said aunt Agnes in a be-
wilderment, I would take her gladly but Miss
Webster has a bird you know, and is so awfully
neat and particular, oh, it won't do; you must
not bring her here, and I must go back and
finish Miss Webster's foot. She is very poorly
to-day. Oh how glad I shall be when my
Emilie comes back! Good bye, take the cat,
dear, away, pray do;" and, so saying, aunt
Agnes bustled off, leaving poor Edith more
troubled and perplexed with Muff than ever.



fljcpttr (Riglt4.


OLD Joe Murray was seated on the beach,
nearer the town than his house stood, watching
the groups of busy children, digging and play-
ing in the sand, now helping them in their play,
and now giving his hint to the nurses around
him, when Edith tapped him on the shoulder.
There was something so unusually serious, not
cross, in Edith's countenance, that Joe looked
at her inquiringly. There, set down the bas-
ket, Nockells, and run back quick, tell papa I
kept you; I am afraid you will get into dis-
Mayn't I drown Puss ?" said Nockells.
No! you cruel boy, no!" said Edith, vehe-
mently. You shall not have the pleasure, no
one shall do it who would take a pleasure in it."
What is the matter Miss ?" asked Joe, as
soon as Nockells turned away.


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