Arrow in a Sunbeam, and Other Tales Read online

  MISS SYDNEY'S FLOWERS.

  However sensible it may have been considered by other people, itcertainly was a disagreeable piece of news to Miss Sydney, that thecity authorities had decided to open a new street from St. Mary Streetto Jefferson. It seemed a most unwarrantable thing to her that theyhad a right to buy her property against her will. It was so provoking,that, after so much annoyance from the noise of St. Mary Street duringthe last dozen years, she must submit to having another publicthoroughfare at the side of her house also. If it had only been at theother side, she would not have minded it particularly; for she rarelysat in her drawing-room, which was at the left of the hall. On theright was the library, stately, dismal, and apt to be musty in dampweather; and it would take many bright people, and a blazing wood-fire,and a great deal of sunshine, to make it pleasant. Behind this was thedining-room, which was really bright and sunny, and which opened bywide glass doors into a conservatory. The rattle and clatter of St.Mary Street was not at all troublesome here; and by little and littleMiss Sydney had gathered her favourite possessions from other parts ofthe house, and taken one end of it for her sitting-room. The mostcomfortable chairs had found their way here, and a luxurious great sofawhich had once been in the library, as we'll as the bookcase which heldher favourite books.

  The house had been built by Miss Sydney's grandfather, and in his dayit had seemed nearly out of the city: now there was only one otherhouse left near it; for one by one the quiet, aristocratic old streethad seen its residences give place to shops and warehouses, and MissSydney herself had scornfully refused many offers of many thousanddollars for her home. It was so changed! It made her so sad to thinkof the dear old times, and to see the houses torn down, or thesmall-paned windows and old-fashioned front-doors replaced with Frenchplate-glass to display better the wares which were to take the placesof the quaint furniture and well-known faces of her friends! But MissSydney was an old woman, and her friends had diminished sadly. "Itseems to me that my invitations are all for funerals in these days,"said she to her venerable maid Hannah, who had helped her dress for herparties fifty years before. She had given up society little by little.Her friends had died, or she had allowed herself to drift away fromthem, while the acquaintances from whom she might have filled theirplaces were only acquaintances still. She was the last of her ownfamily, and, for years before her father died, he had lived mainly inhis library, avoiding society and caring for nothing but books; andthis, of course, was a check upon his daughter's enjoyment of visitors.Being left to herself, she finally became content with her own society,and since his death, which followed a long illness, she had refused allinvitations; and with the exception of the interchange of occasionalceremonious calls with perhaps a dozen families, and her prettyconstant attendance at church, you rarely were reminded of herexistence. And I must tell the truth: it was not easy to be intimatewith her. She was a good woman in a negative kind of way. One neverheard of any thing wrong she had done; and if she chose to live alone,and have nothing to do with people, why, it was her own affair. Younever seemed to know her any better after a long talk. She had a veryfine, courteous way of receiving her guests,--a way of making you feelat your ease more than you imagined you should when with her,--and astately kind of tact that avoided skilfully much mention ofpersonalities on either side. But mere hospitality is not attractive,for it may be given grudgingly, or, as in her case, from mere habit;for Miss Sydney would never consciously be rude to any one in her ownhouse--or out of it, for that matter. She very rarely came in contactwith children; she was not a person likely to be chosen for aconfidante by a young girl; she was so cold and reserved, the elderladies said. She never asked a question about the winter fashions,except of her dressmaker, and she never met with reverses inhousekeeping affairs, and these two facts rendered her unsympathetic tomany. She was fond of reading, and enjoyed heartily the pleasantpeople she met in books. She appreciated their good qualities, theirthoughtfulness, kindness, wit or sentiment; but the thought neversuggested itself to her mind that there were living people not faraway, who could give her all this, and more.

  If calling were not a regulation of society, if one only went to seethe persons one really cared for, I am afraid Miss Sydney would soonhave been quite forgotten. Her character would puzzle many people.She put no visible hinderance in your way; for I do not think she wasconsciously reserved and cold. She was thoroughly well-bred, rich, andin her way charitable; that is, she gave liberally to publicsubscriptions which came under her notice, and to church contributions.But she got on, somehow, without having friends; and, though the lossof one had always been a real grief, she learned without much troublethe way of living the lonely, comfortable, but very selfish life, andthe way of being the woman I have tried to describe. There wereoccasional days when she was tired of herself, and life seemed anempty, formal, heartless discipline. Her wisest acquaintances pitiedher loneliness; and busy, unselfish people wondered how she could bedeaf to the teachings of her good clergyman, and blind to all thechances of usefulness and happiness which the world afforded her; andothers still envied her, and wondered to whom she meant to leave allher money.

  I began by telling you of the new street. It was suggested that itshould bear the name of Sydney; but the authorities decided finally tocompliment the country's chief magistrate, and call it Grant Place.Miss Sydney, did not like the sound of it. Her family had always beenindifferent to politics, and indeed the kite of the Sydney had flownfor many years high above the winds that affect commonplace people.The new way from Jefferson Street to St. Mary was a great convenience,and it seemed to our friend that all the noisiest vehicles in the cityhad a preference for going back and forth under her windows. You seeshe did not suspect, what afterwards became so evident; that there wasto be a way opened into her own heart also, and that she should confessone day, long after that she might have died a selfish old woman, andnot have left one sorry face behind her, if it had not been for thecutting of Grant Place.

  The side of her conservatory was now close upon the sidewalk, and thiscertainly was not agreeable. She could not think of putting on her biggardening-apron, and going in to work among her dear plants any more,with all the world staring in at her as it went by. John the coachman,who had charge of the greenhouse, was at first very indignant; but,after she found that his flowers were noticed and admired, his angerwas turned into an ardent desire to merit admiration, and he kept hisfinest plants next the street. It was a good thing for the greenhouse,because it had never been so carefully tended; and plant after plantwas forced into luxuriant foliage and blossom. He and Miss Sydney hadplanned at first to have close wire screens made to match those in thedining-room; but now, when she spoke of his hurrying the workmen, whomshe supposed had long since been ordered to make them, John said,"Indeed, mum, it would be the ruin of the plants shutting put thelight; and they would all be rusted with the showerings I gives themevery day." And Miss Sydney smiled, and said no more.

  The street was opened late in October, and, soon after, cold weatherbegan in real earnest. Down in that business part of the city it wasthe strangest, sweetest surprise to come suddenly upon the long line ofblooming plants and tall green lily-leaves under a roof festooned withroses and trailing vines. For the first two or three weeks, almosteverybody stopped, if only for a moment. Few of Miss Sydney's ownfriends even had ever seen her greenhouse; for they were almostinvariably received in the drawing-room. Gentlemen stopped the thoughtof business affairs, and went on down the street with a fresher,happier feeling. And the tired shop-girls lingered longest. Many aman and woman thought of some sick person to whom a little handful ofthe green leaves and bright blossoms, with their coolness andfreshness, would bring so much happiness. And it was found, longmonths afterward, that a young man had been turned back from a plan ofwicked mischief by the sight of a tall green geranium, like one thatbloomed in his mother's sitting-room way up in the country. He had notthought, for a long time before, of the dear old wo
man who supposed herson was turning his wits to good account in the city. But Miss Sydneydid not know how much he wished for a bit to put in his buttonhole whenshe indignantly went back to the dining-room to wait until thatimpertinent fellow stopped staring in.

  II.

  It was just about this time that Mrs. Marley made a change in her placeof business. She had sold candy round the corner in Jefferson Streetfor a great many years; but she had suffered terribly from rheumatismall the winter before. She was nicely sheltered from too much sun inthe summer; but the north winds of winter blew straight toward her; andafter much deliberation, and many fears and questioning as to thepropriety of such an act she had decided to find another stand. You orI would think at first that it could make no possible difference whereshe sat in the street with her goods; but in fact one has regularcustomers in that business, as well as in the largest wholesaleenterprise. There was some uncertainty whether these friends wouldfollow her if she went away. Mrs. Marley's specialty wasmolasses-candy; and I am sure, if you ever chanced to eat any of it,you would look out for the old lady next time you went along thestreet. Times seemed very hard this winter. Not that trade hadseriously diminished; but still the outlook was very dark. Mrs. Marleywas old, and had been so for some years, so she was used to that; butsomehow this fall she seemed to be getting very much older all of asudden. She found herself very tired at night, and she was apt to loseher breath if she moved quickly; besides this, the rheumatism torturedher. She had saved only a few dollars, though she and her sister hadhad a comfortable living,--what they had considered comfortable, atleast, though they sometimes had been hungry, and very often cold.They would surely go to the almshouse sooner or later,--she and herlame old sister Polly.

  It was Polly who made the candy which Mrs. Marley sold. Their twolittle rooms were up three flights of stairs; and Polly, being too lameto go down herself, had not been out of doors in seven years. Therewas nothing but roofs and sky to be seen from the windows; and, asthere was a manufactory near, the sky was apt to be darkened by itssmoke. Some of the neighbours dried their clothes on the roofs, andPolly used to be very familiar with the apparel of the old residents,and exceedingly interested when a strange family came, and she sawsomething new. There was a little bright pink dress that the trigyoung French woman opposite used to hang out to dry; and somehow poorold Polly used always to be brightened and cheered by the sight of it.Once in a while she caught a glimpse of the child who wore it. Shehardly ever thought now of the outside world when left to herself, andon the whole she was not discontented. Sister Becky used to have agreat deal to tell her sometimes of an evening. When Mrs. Marley toldher in the spring twilight that the grass in the square was growinggreen, and that she had heard a robin, it used to make Polly feelhomesick; for she was apt to think much of her childhood, and she hadbeen born in the country. She was very deaf, poor soul, and her worldwas a very forlorn one. It was nearly always quite silent, it was verysmall and smoky out of doors, and very dark and dismal within.Sometimes it was a hopeless world, because the candy burnt; and ifthere had not been her Bible and hymn-book, and a lame pigeon that liton the window-sill to be fed every morning, Miss Polly would have foundher time go heavily.

  One night Mrs. Marley came into the room with a cheerful face, and saidvery loud, "Polly, I've got some news!" Polly knew by her speaking soloud that she was in good-humour. When any thing discouraging hadhappened, Becky spoke low, and then was likely to be irritated whenasked to repeat her remark.

  "Dear heart!" said Mrs. Marley, "now I am glad you had something hotfor supper. I was turning over in my mind what we could cook up, for Ifeel real hollow. It's a kind of chilly day." And she sat down by thestove, while Polly hobbled to the table, with one hand to her ear tocatch the first sound of the good news, and the other holding somebaked potatoes in her apron. That hand was twisted with rheumatism,for the disease ran in the family. She was afraid every day that sheshould have to give up making the candy on the next; for it hurt her soto use it. She was continually being harrowed by the idea of itsbecoming quite useless, and that the candy might not be so good; andthen what would become of them? Becky Marley was often troubled by thesame thought. Yet they were almost always good-natured, poor oldwomen; and, though Polly Sharpe's pleasures and privileges were by farthe fewest of anybody's I ever knew, I think she was as glad in thosedays to know the dandelions were in bloom as if she could see them; andshe got more good from the fragments of the Sunday-morning sermon thatsister Becky brought home than many a listener did from the wholeservice.

  The potatoes were done to a turn, Mrs. Marley shouted; and then Pollysat down close by her to hear the news.

  "You know I have been worrying about the cold weather a-coming, and myrheumatics; and I was afeared to change my stand, on account of losingcustom. Well, to-day it all come over me to once that I might movedown a piece on Grant Place,--that new street that's cut through to St.Mary. I've noticed for some time past that almost all my reg'larcustomers turns down that way, so this morning I thought I'd step downthat way too, and see if there was a chance. And after I gets into thestreet I sees people stopping and looking at something as they wentalong; and so I goes down to see; and it is one of them hothouses, fullof plants a-growing like it was mid-summer. It belongs to the bigSydney house on the corner. There's a good place to sit right at thecorner of it, and I'm going to move over there to-morrow. I thought ashow I wouldn't leave Jefferson Street to-day, for it was too sudden.You see folks stops and looks at the plants, and there wasn't any windthere to-day. There! I wish you could see them flowers."

  Sister Polly was very pleased, and, after the potatoes and bread wereeaten, she brought on an apple pie that had been sent up by Mrs. Welch,the washerwoman who lived on the floor next but one below. She wasgoing away for three or four days, having been offered good pay to dosome cleaning in a new house, and her board besides, near her work. Soyou see that evening was quite a jubilee.

  The next day Mrs. Marley's wildest expectations were realized; for shewas warm as toast the whole morning, and sold all her candy, and wenthome by two o'clock. That had never happened but once or twice before."Why, I shouldn't wonder if we could lay up considerable this winter,"said she to Polly.

  Miss Sydney did not like the idea of the old candy-woman's being there.Children came to buy of her, and the street seemed noisier than ever attimes. Perhaps she might have to leave the house, after all. But onemay get used to almost any thing; and as the days went by she wassurprised to find that she was not half so much annoyed as at first;and one afternoon she found herself standing at one of the dining-roomwindows, and watching the people go by. I do not think she had shownso much interest as this in the world at large for many years. I thinkit must have been from noticing the pleasure her flowers gave thepeople who stopped to look at them that she began to think herselfselfish, and to be aware how completely indifferent she had grown toany claims the world might have upon her. And one morning, when sheheard somebody say, "Why, it's like a glimpse into the tropics! Oh! Iwish I could have such a conservatory!" She thought, "Here I have keptthis all to myself for all these years, when so many others might haveenjoyed it too!" But then the old feeling of independence came overher. The greenhouse was out of people's way; she surely couldn't havelet people in whom she didn't know; however, she was glad, now that thestreet was cut, that some one had more pleasure, if she had not. Afterall it was a satisfaction to our friend; and from this time the seedsof kindness and charity and helpfulness began to show themselves abovethe ground in the almost empty garden of her heart. I will tell youhow they grew and blossomed; and as strangers came to see her realflowers, and to look in at the conservatory windows from the cold citystreet, instead of winter to see a bit of imprisoned summer, so friendafter friend came to find there was another garden in her own heart,and Miss Sydney learned the blessedness there is in loving and givingand helping.

  For it is sure we never shall know what it is to lack
friends, if wekeep our hearts ready to receive them. If we are growing good and kindand helpful, those who wish for help and kindness will surely find usout. A tree covered with good fruit is never unnoticed in the fields.If we bear thorns and briers, we can't expect people to take very greatpains to come and gather them. It is thought by many persons to be notonly a bad plan, but an ill-bred thing, to give out to more than a fewcarefully selected friends. But it came to her more and more thatthere was great selfishness and shortsightedness in this. Onenaturally has a horror of dragging the secrets and treasures of one'sheart and thought out to the light of day. One may be willing to gowithout the good that may come to one's own self through manyfriendships; but, after all, God does not teach us, and train ourlives, only that we may come to something ourselves. He helps men mostthrough other men's lives; and we must take from him, and give outagain, all we can, wherever we can, remembering that the great God isalways trying to be the friend of the least of us. The danger is, thatwe oftenest give our friendship selfishly; we do not think of ourfriends, but of ourselves. One never can find one's self beggared;love is a treasure that does not lessen, but grows, as we spend it.

  The passers-by seemed so delighted with some new plants which she andJohn had arranged one day, that as she was going out in the afternoonto drive, she stopped just as she was going to step into the carriageand said she thought she would go round and look at the conservatoryfrom the outside. So John turned the horses, and followed. It was avery cold day, and there were few people in the street. Every thingwas so cheerless out of doors, and the flowers looked so summer-like!No wonder the people liked to stop, poor souls! For the richer, morecomfortable ones lived farther up town. It was not in the shoppingregion; and, except the business-men who went by morning and evening,almost every one was poor.

  Miss Sydney had never known what the candy-woman sold before, for shecould not see any thing but the top of her rusty black bonnet from thewindow. But now she saw that the candy was exactly like that she andher sister used to buy years upon years ago; and she stopped to speakto the old woman, and to buy some, to the utter amazement of hercoachman. Mrs. Marley was excited by so grand a customer, and was agreat while counting out the drumsticks, and wrapping them up. WhileMiss Sydney stood there a thin, pitiful little girl came along,carrying a clumsy baby. They stopped, and the baby tried to reach downfor a piece. The girl was quite as wistful; but she pulled him back,and walked on to the flowers. "Oh! pitty, pitty!" said the baby, whilethe dirty little hands patted the glass delightedly.

  "Move along there," said John gruffly; for it was his business to keepthat glass clean and bright.

  The girl looked round, frightened, and, seeing that the coachman wasbig and cross-looking, the forlorn little soul went away. "Baby wantto walk? You're so heavy!" said she in a fretful, tired way. But thebaby was half crying, and held her tight. He had meant to stay sometime longer, and look at those pretty, bright things, since he couldnot have the candy.

  Mrs. Marley felt as if her customer might think her stingy, andproceeded to explain that she couldn't think of giving her candy away."Bless you, ma'am, I wouldn't have a stick left by nine o'clock."

  Miss Sydney "never gave money to street-beggars." But these childrenhad not begged, and somehow she pitied them very much, they looked sohungry. And she called them back. There was a queer tone to hervoice; and she nearly cried after she had given the package of candy tothem, and thrown a dollar upon the board in front of Mrs. Marley, andfound herself in the carriage, driving away. Had she been very silly?and what could John have thought? But the children were so glad; andthe old candy-woman had said, "God bless you, mum!"

  After this, Miss Sydney could not keep up her old interest in her ownaffairs. She felt restless and dissatisfied, and wondered how shecould have done the same things over and over so contentedly for somany years. You may be sure, that, if Grant Place had been unthoughtof, she would have lived on in the same fashion to the end of her days.But after this she used to look out of the window; and she sat a greatdeal in the conservatory, when it was not too warm there, behind sometall callas. The servants found her usually standing in thedining-room; for she listened for footsteps, and was half-ashamed tohave them notice that she had changed in the least. We are all givento foolish behaviour of this kind once in a while. We are oftenrestrained: because, we feel bound to conform to people's idea of us.We must be such persons as we imagine our friends think us to be. Theybelieve that we have made up our minds about them, and are apt to showus only that behaviour which they think we expect. They are afraid ofus sometimes. They think we cannot sympathize with them. Our friendfelt almost as if she were yielding to some sin in this strangeinterest in the passers-by. She had lived so monotonous a life, thatany change could not have failed to be somewhat alarming. She toldBessie Thorne afterward, that one day she came upon that verse ofKeble's Hymn for St. Matthew's Day. Do you remember it?--

  "There are, in this loud, stunning tide Of human care and crime, With whom the melodies abide Of the everlasting chime; Who carry music in their heart Through dusky lane and wrangling mart, Plying their daily task with busier feet Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat."

  It seemed as if it were a message to herself, and she could not helpgoing to the window a few minutes afterward. The faces were mostlytired-looking and dissatisfied. Some people looked very eager andhurried, but none very contented. It was the literal daily bread theythought of; and, when two fashionably-dressed ladies chanced to go bythe window, their faces were strangely like their poorer neighbours inexpression. Miss Sydney wondered what the love for one's neighbourcould be; if she could ever feel it herself. She did not even likethese people whom she watched, and yet every day, for years and years,she had acknowledged them her brothers and sisters when she said, "OurFather who art in heaven."

  It seemed as if Miss Sydney, of all people, might have been independentand unfettered. It is so much harder for us who belong to a family,for we are hindered by the thought of people's noticing our attempts atreform. It is like surrendering some opinion ignominiously which wehave fought for. It is kind of "giving in." But when she hadacknowledged to herself that she had been in the wrong, that she was aselfish, thoughtless old woman, that she was alone, without friends,and it had been her own fault, she was puzzled to know how to dobetter. She could not begin to be very charitable all at once. Themore she realized what her own character had become, the more hopelessand necessary seemed reform.

  Such times as this come to many of us, both in knowing ourselves andour friends. An awakening, one might call it,--an opening of the blindeyes of our spiritual selves. And our ears are open to some of thevoices which call us; while others might as well be silent, for all theheed we give them. We go on, from day to day, doing, with more or lessfaithfulness, that part of our work we have wit enough to comprehend;but one day suddenly we are shown a broader field, stretching out intothe distance, and know that from this also we may bring in a harvest byand by, and with God's help.

  Miss Sydney meant to be better,--not alone for the sake of havingfriends, not alone to quiet her conscience, but because she knew shehad been so far from living a Christian life, and she was bitterlyashamed. This was all she needed,--all any of us need,--to know thatwe must be better men and women for God's sake; that we cannot bebetter without his help, and that his help, may be had for the asking.But where should she begin? She had always treated her servantskindly, and they were the people she knew best. She would surely tryto be more interested in the friends she met; but it was nearlyChristmas time, and people rarely came to call. Every one was busy.Becky Marley's cheery face haunted her; and one day after having lookeddown from the window on the top of her bonnet, she remembered that shedid not get any candy, after all, and she would go round to see the oldlady again, she looked poor, and she would give her some money. MissSydney dressed herself for the street, and closed the door behind hervery carefully, as
if she were a mischievous child running away. Itwas very cold, and there were hardly a dozen persons to be seen in thestreets, and Mrs. Marley had evidently been crying.

  "I should like some of your candy," said our friend.

  "You know I didn't take any, after all the other day." And then shefelt very conscious and awkward, fearing that the candy woman thoughtshe wished to remind her of her generosity.

  "Two of the large packages, if you please. But, dear me! aren't youvery cold, sitting here in the wind?" and Miss Sydney shivered, inspite of her warm wrappings.

  It was the look of sympathy that was answered first, for it was morecomforting than even the prospect of money, sorely as Mrs. Marleyneeded that.

  "Yes, mum, I've had the rheumatics this winter awful. But the windhere!--why, it ain't nothing to what it blows round in JeffersonStreet, where I used to sit. I shouldn't be out to-day, but I wascalled upon sudden to pay my molasses bill, when I'd just paid my rent;and I don't know how ever I can. There's sister Polly--she's dead lameand deaf. I s'pose we'll both be in the almshouse afore spring. I'man old woman to be earning a living out 'o doors in winter weather."

  There is no mistaking the fact that Miss Sydney was in earnest when shesaid, "I'm so sorry! Can't I help you?"

  Somehow she did not feel so awkward, and she enjoyed very much hearingthis bit of confidence.

  "But my trade has improved wonderful since I came here. People mostlystops to see them beautiful flowers; and then they sees me, and stopsand buys something. Well, there's some days when I gets down-hearted,and I just looks up there, and sees them flowers blooming so cheerful,and I says, 'There! this world ain't all cold and poor and old, like Ibe; and the Lord he ain't never tired of us, with our worrying aboutwhat He's a-doing with us; and heaven's a-coming before long anyhow!'"And the Widow Marley stopped to dry her eyes with the corner of hershawl.

  Miss Sydney asking her to go round to the kitchen, and warm herself;and, on finding out more of her new acquaintance's difficulties, shesent her home happy, with money enough to pay the dreaded bill, and abasket of good things which furnished such a supper for herself andsister Polly as they had not seen for a long time. And their fortuneswere bettered from that day. "If it hadn't been for the flowers, Ishould ha' been freezing my old bones on Jefferson Street this minute,I s'pose," said the Widow Marley.

  Miss Sydney went back to the dining-room after her _protegee_ had gone,and felt a comfortable sense of satisfaction in what she had done. Ithad all come about in such an easy way too! A little later she wentinto the conservatory, and worked among her plants. She really felt somuch younger and happier and once, as she stood still, looking at somelilies-of-the-valley that John had been forcing into bloom, she did notnotice that a young lady was looking through the window at her veryearnestly.

  III.

  That same evening Mrs. Thorne and Bessie were sitting up late in theirlibrary. It was snowing very fast, and had been since three o'clock;and no one had called. They had begun the evening by reading andwriting, and now were ending with a talk.

  "Mamma," said Bessie, after there had been a pause, "whom do yousuppose I have taken a fancy to? And do you know, I pity her somuch!--Miss Sydney."

  "But I don't know that she is so much to be pitied," said Mrs. Thorne,smiling at the enthusiastic tone. "She must have everything she wants.She lives all alone, and hasn't any intimate friends, but, if a personchooses such a life, why, what can we do? What made you think of her?"

  "I have been trying to think of one real friend she has. Everybody ispolite enough to her, and I never heard that any one disliked her; butshe must be forlorn sometimes. I came through that new street by herhouse to-day: that's how I happened to think of her. Her greenhouse isperfectly beautiful, and I stopped to look in. I always supposed shewas cold as ice (I'm sure she looks so); but she was standing out inone corner, looking down at some flowers with just the sweetest face.Perhaps she is shy. She used to be very good-natured to me when I wasa child, and used to go there with you. I don't think she knows mesince I came home; at any rate, I mean to go to see her some day."

  "I certainly would," said Mrs. Thorne. "She will be perfectly politeto you, at all events. And perhaps she may be lonely, though I ratherdoubt it; not that I wish to discourage you, my dear. I haven't seenher in a long time, for we have missed each other's calls. She neverwent into society much; but she used to be a very elegant woman, and isnow, for that matter."

  "I pity her," said Bessie persistently. "I think I should be very fondof her if she would let me. She looked so kind as she stood among theflowers to-day! I wonder what she was thinking about. Oh! do youthink she would mind if I asked her to give me some flowers for thehospital?"

  Bessie Thorne is a very dear girl. Miss Sydney must have beenhard-hearted if she had received her coldly one afternoon a few daysafterward, she seemed so refreshingly young and girlish a guest as sherose to meet the mistress of that solemn, old-fashioned drawing-room.Miss Sydney had had a re-action from the pleasure her charity had givenher, and was feeling bewildered, unhappy, and old that day. "What canshe wish to see me for, I wonder?" thought she, as she closed her book,and looked at Miss Thorne's card herself, to be sure the servant hadread it right. But, when she saw the girl herself, her pleasure showeditself unmistakably in her face.

  "Are you really glad to see me?" said Bessie in her frankest way, witha very gratified smile. "I was afraid you might think it was very oddin me to come. I used to like so much to call upon you with mamma whenI was a little girl! And the other day I saw you in your conservatory,and I have wished to come and see you ever since."

  "I am very glad to see you, my dear," said Miss Sydney, for the secondtime. "I have been quite forgotten by the young people of late years.I was sorry to miss Mrs. Thorne's call. Is she quite well? I meant toreturn it one day this week, and I thought only last night I would askabout you. You have been abroad, I think?"

  Was not this an auspicious beginning? I cannot tell you all thathappened that afternoon, for I have told so long a story already. Butyou will imagine it was the beginning of an intimacy that gave greatpleasure, and did great good, to both the elder woman and the younger.It is hard to tell the pleasure which the love and friendship of afresh, bright girl like Bessie Thorne, may give an older person. Thereis such a satisfaction in being convinced that one is still interestingand still lovable, though the years that are gone have each kept somegift or grace, and the possibilities of life seem to have been realizedand decided. There are days of our old age when there seems so littleleft in life, that living is a mere formality. This busy world seemsdone with the old, however dear their memories of it, however strongtheir claims upon it. They are old: their life now is only waiting andresting. It may be quite right that we sometimes speak of secondchildhood, because we must be children before we are grown, and thelife to come must find us, ready for service. Our old people havelived in the world so long; they think they know it so well: but theyoung man is master of the trade of living, and the man only hisblundering apprentice.

  Miss Sydney's solemnest and most unprepared servant was startled tofind Bessie Thorne and his mistress sitting cosily together before thedining-room fire. Bessie had a paper full of cut flowers to leave atthe Children's Hospital on her way home. Miss Sydney had givenliberally to the contribution for that object; but she never hadsuspected how interesting it was until Bessie told her, and she saidshe should like to go some day, and see the building and its occupantsfor himself. And the girl told her of other interest that were nearher kind young heart,--not all charitable interests,--and they partedintimate friends.

  "I never felt such a charming certainty of being agreeable," wroteBessie that night to a friend of hers. "She seemed so interesting inevery thing, and, as I told you, so pleased with my coming to see her.I have promised to go there very often. She told me in the saddest waythat she had been feeling so old and useless and friendless, and shewas very confidential. Imagin
e her being confidential with me! Sheseemed to me just like myself as I was last year,--you remember--justbeginning to realize what life ought to be, and trying, in afrightened, blind kind of way to be good and useful. She said she wasjust beginning to understand her selfishness. She told me I had doneher ever so much good; and I couldn't help the tears coming into myeyes. I wished so much you were there, or some one who could help hermore; but I suppose God knew when he sent me. Doesn't it seem strangethat an old woman should talk to me in this way, and come to me forhelp? I am afraid people would laugh at the very idea. And only tothink of her living on and on, year after year, and then being changedso! She kissed me when I came away, and I carried the flowers to thehospital. I shall always be fond of that conservatory, because if Ihadn't stopped to look in that day, I might never have thought of her.

  "There was one strange thing happened, which I must tell you about,though it is so late. She has grown very much interested in an oldcandy-woman, and told me about her; and do you know that this eveninguncle Jack came in, and asked if we knew of anybody who would do forjanitress--at the Natural History Rooms, I think he said. There isgood pay and she would just sell catalogues, and look after things alittle. Of course the candy-woman may not be competent; but, from whatMiss Sydney told me, I think she is just the person."

  The next Sunday the minister read this extract from "Queen's Gardens"in his sermon. Two of his listeners never had half understood itsmeaning before as they did then. Bessie was in church, and Miss Sydneysuddenly turned her head, and smiled at her young friend, to the greatamazement of the people who sat in the pews near by. What could havecome over Miss Sydney?

  "The path of a good woman is strewn with flowers; but they rise_behind_ her steps, not before them. 'Her feet have touched themeadow, and left the daisies rosy.' Flowers flourish in the garden ofone who loves them. A pleasant magic it would be if you could flushflowers into brighter bloom by a kind look upon them; nay, more, if alook had the power not only to cheer, but to guard them. This youwould think a great thing? And do you think it not a greater thingthat all this, and more than this, you can do for fairer flowers thanthese,--flowers that could bless you for having blessed them, and willlove you for having loved them,--flowers that have eyes like yours, andthoughts like yours, and lives like yours?"

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