I had another time the next day between Mrs. Sandford and the mantua-maker. The mantua-maker came to take orders about making my school dress.

“How will you have it trimmed?” she asked. “This sort of stuff will make no sort of an appearance unless it is well trimmed. It wants that. You might have a border of dark green leaves dark green, like the colour of this stripe going round the skirt; that would have a good effect; the leaves set in and edged with a very small red cord, or green if you like it better. We trimmed a dress so last week, and it made a very good appearance.”

“What do you say, Daisy?”

“How much will it cost?” I asked.

“Oh, the cost is not very much,” said the milliner. “I suppose we would do it for you, Mrs. Sandford, for twenty-five dollars.”

“That is too much,” I said.

“You wouldn’t say so, if you knew the work it is to set those leaves round,” said the mantua-maker. “It takes hours and hours; and the cording and all. And the silk you know, Mrs. Sandford, that costs nowadays. It takes a full yard of the silk, and no washy lining silk, but good stiff dress silk. Some has ’em made of velvet, but to be sure, that would not be suitable for a common stuff like this. It will be very common, Mrs. Sandford, without you have it handsomely trimmed.”

“Couldn’t you put some other sort of trimming?”

“Well, there’s no other way that looks distingue on this sort of stuff; that’s the most stylish. We could put a band of rows of black velvet an inch wide, or half an inch; if you have it narrower you must put more of them; and then the sleeves and body to match; but I don’t think you would like it so well as the green leaves. A great many people has ’em trimmed so; you like it a little out of the common, Mrs. Sandford. Or, you could have a green ribbon.”

“How much would that be?” said Mrs. Sandford.

“Oh really, I don’t just know,” the woman answered; “depends on the ribbon; it don’t make much difference to you, Mrs. Sandford; it would be let me see, Oh, I suppose we could do it with velvet for you for fifteen or twenty dollars. You see there must be buttons or rosettes at the joinings of the velvets; and those come very expensive.”

“How much would it be to make the dress plain?” I asked.

“That would be plain,” the mantua-maker answered quickly. “The style is, to trim everything very much. Oh, that would be quite plain with the velvet.”

“But without any trimming at all?” I asked. “How much would that be?” I felt an odd sort of shame at pressing the question: yet I knew I must.

“Without trimming!” said the woman. “Oh, you could not have it without trimming; there is nothing made without trimming; it would have no appearance at all. People would think you had come out of the country. No young ladies have their dresses made without trimming this winter.”

“Mrs. Sandford,” said I, “I should like to know what the dress would be without trimming.”

“What would it be, Melinda?” The woman was only a forewoman at her establishment.

“Oh, well, Mrs. Sandford, the naked dress I have no doubt could be made for you for five dollars.”

“You would not have it so, Daisy, my dear?” said Mrs. Sandford.

But I said I would have it so. It cost me a little difficulty, and a little shrinking, I remember, to choose this and to hold to it in the face of the other two. It was the last battle of that campaign. I had my way; but I wondered privately to myself whether I was going to look very unlike the children of other ladies in my mother’s position: and whether such severity over myself was really needed. I turned the question over again in my own room, and tried to find out why it troubled me. I could not quite tell. Yet I thought, as I was doing what I knew to be duty, I had no right to feel this trouble about it. The trouble wore off before a little thought of my poor friends at Magnolia. But the question came up again at dinner.

“Daisy,” said Mrs. Sandford, “did you ever have anything to do with the Methodists?”

“No, ma’am,” I said, wondering. “What are the Methodists?”

“I don’t know, I am sure,” she said, laughing, “only they are people who sing hymns a great deal, and teach that nobody ought to wear gay dresses.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I can’t say. I believe they hold that the Bible forbids ornamenting ourselves.”

I wondered if it did; and determined I would look. And I thought the Methodists must be nice people.

“What is on the carpet now?” said the doctor. “Singing or dressing? You are attacking Daisy, I see, on some score.”

“She won’t have her dress trimmed,” said Mrs. Sandford.

The doctor turned round to me, with a wonderful genial pleasant expression of his fine face; and his blue eye, that I always liked to meet full, going through me with a sort of soft power. He was not smiling, yet his look made me smile.

“Daisy,” said he, “are you going to make yourself unlike other people?”

“Only my dress, Dr. Sandford,” I said.

“L’habit, c’est l’homme! ” he answered gravely, shaking his head.

I remembered his question and words many times in the course of the next six months.

In a day or two more my dress was done, and Dr. Sandford went with me to introduce me at the school. He had already made the necessary arrangements. It was a large establishment, reckoned the most fashionable, and at the same time one of the most thorough, in the city; the house, or houses, standing in one of the broad clear Avenues, where the streams of human life that went up and down were all of the sort that wore trimmed dresses and rolled about in handsome carriages. Just in the centre and height of the thoroughfare Mme. Ricard’s establishment looked over it. We went in at a stately doorway, and were shown into a very elegant parlour; where at a grand piano a young lady was taking a music lesson. The noise was very disagreeable; but that was the only disagreeable thing in the place. Pictures were on the walls, a soft carpet on the floor; the colours of carpet and furniture were dark and rich; books and trinkets and engravings in profusion gave the look of cultivated life and the ease of plenty. It was not what I had expected; nor was Mme. Ricard, who came in noiselessly and stood before us while I was considering the wonderful moustache of the music teacher. I saw a rather short, grave person, very plainly dressed but indeed I never thought of the dress she wore. The quiet composure of the figure was what attracted me, and the peculiar expression of the face. It was sad, almost severe; so I thought it at first; till a smile once for an instant broke upon the lips, like a flitting sunbeam out of a cloudy sky; then I saw that kindliness was quite at home there, and sympathy and a sense of merriment were not wanting; but the clouds closed again, and the look of care, of sorrow, I could not quite tell what it was, only that it was unrest, retook its place on brow and lip. The eye, I think, never lost it. Yet it was a searching and commanding eye; I was sure it knew how to rule.

The introduction was soon made, and Dr. Sandford bid me good-bye. I felt as if my best friend was leaving me; the only one I had trusted in since my father and mother had gone away. I said nothing, but perhaps my face showed my thought, for he stooped and kissed me.

“Good-bye, Daisy. Remember, I shall expect a letter every fortnight.”

He had ordered me before to write to him as often as that, and give him a minute account of myself; how many studies I was pursuing, how many hours I gave to them each day, what exercise I took, and what amusement; and how I throve withal. Mme. Ricard had offered to show me my room, and we were mounting the long stairs while I thought this over.

“Is Dr. Sandford your cousin, Miss Randolph?” was the question which came in upon my thoughts.

“No, ma’am,” I answered in extreme surprise.

“Is he any relation to you?”

“He is my guardian.”

“I think Dr. Sandford told me that your father and mother are abroad?”

“Yes, ma’am; and Dr. Sandford is my guardian.”

We had climbed two flights of stairs, and I was panting. As we went up, I had noticed a little unusual murmur of noises, which told me I was in a new world. Little indistinguishable noises, the stir and hum of the busy hive into which I had entered. Now and then a door had opened, and a head or a figure came out; but as instantly went back again on seeing Madame, and the door was softly closed. We reached the third floor. There a young lady appeared at the further end of the gallery, and curtseyed to my conductress.

“Miss Bentley,” said Madame, “this is your new companion, Miss Randolph. Will you be so good as to show Miss Randolph her room?”

Madame turned and left us, and the young lady led me into the room she had just quitted. A large room, light and bright, and pleasantly furnished; but the one thing that struck my unaccustomed eyes was the evidence of fulness of occupation. One bed stood opposite the fireplace; another across the head of that, between it and one of the windows; a third was between the doors on the inner side of the room. Moreover, the first and the last of these were furnished with two pillows each. I did not in the moment use my arithmetic; but the feeling which instantly pressed upon me was that of want of breath.

“This is the bed prepared for you, I believe,” said my companion civilly, pointing to the third one before the window. “There isn’t room for anybody to turn round here now.”

I began mechanically to take off my cap and gloves, looking hard at the little bed, and wondering what other rights of possession were to be given me in this place. I saw a washstand in one window and a large mahogany wardrobe on one side of the fireplace; a dressing table or chest of drawers between the windows. Everything was handsome and nice; everything was in the neatest order; but where were my clothes to go? Before I had made up my mind to ask, there came a rush into the room; I supposed, of the other inmates. One was a very large, fat, dull-faced girl; I should have thought her a young woman, only that she was here in a school. Another, bright and pretty, and very good-humoured if there was any truth in her smiling black eyes, was much slighter and somewhat younger; a year or two in advance of myself. The third was a girl about my own age, shorter and smaller than I, with also a pretty face, but an eye that I was not so sure of. She was the last one to come in, and she immediately stopped and looked at me; I thought, with no pleasure.

“This is Miss Randolph, girls,” said Miss Bentley. “Miss Randolph, Miss Macy.”

I curtseyed to the fat girl, who gave me a little nod.

“I am glad she isn’t as big as I am,” was her comment on the introduction. I was glad, too.

“Miss Lansing

This was bright-eyes, who bowed and smiled she always smiled and said, “How do you do?” Then rushed off to a drawer in search of something.

“Miss St. Clair, will you come and be introduced to Miss Randolph?”

The St. Clair walked up demurely and took my hand. Her words were in abrupt contrast. “Where are her things going, Miss Bentley?” I wondered that pretty lips could be so ungracious. It was not temper which appeared on them, but cool rudeness.

“Madame said we must make some room for her,” Miss Bentley answered.

“I don’t know where,” remarked Miss Macy. “I have not two inches.”

“She can’t have a peg nor a drawer of mine,” said the St. Clair. “Don’t you put her there, Bentley.” And the young lady left us with that.

“We must manage it somehow,” said Miss Bentley. “Lansing, look here, can’t you take your things out of this drawer? Miss Randolph has no place to lay anything. She must have a little place, you know.”

Lansing looked up with a perplexed face, and Miss Macy remarked that nobody had a bit of room to lay anything.

“I am very sorry,” I said.

“It is no use being sorry, child,” said Miss Macy; “we have got to fix it, somehow. I know who ought to be sorry. Here I can take this pile of things out of this drawer; that is all I can do. Can’t she manage with this half?”

But Miss Lansing came and made her arrangements, and then it was found that the smallest of the four drawers was cleared and ready for my occupation.

“But if we give you a whole drawer,” said Miss Macy, “you must be content with one peg in the wardrobe will you?”

“Oh, and she can have one or two hooks in the closet,” said bright-eyes. “Come here, Miss Randolph, I will show you.”

And there in the closet I found was another place for washing, with cocks for hot and cold water; and a press and plenty of iron hooks; with dresses and hats hanging on them. Miss Lansing moved and changed several of these, till she had cleared a space for me.

“There,” she said, “now you’ll do, won’t you? I don’t believe you can get a scrape of a corner in the wardrobe; Macy and Bentley and St. Clair take it up so. I haven’t but one dress hanging there, but you’ve got a whole drawer in the bureau.”

I was not very awkward and clumsy in my belongings, but an elephant could scarcely have been more bewildered if he had been requested to lay his proboscis up in a glove box. “I cannot put a dress in the drawer,” I remarked.

“Oh, you can hang one up here under your cap; and that is all any of us do. Our things, all except our everyday things, go down stairs in our trunks. Have you many trunks?”

I told her no, only one. I did not know why it was a little disagreeable to me to say that. The feeling came and passed. I hung up my coat and cap, and brushed my hair; my new companion looking on. Without any remark, however, she presently rushed off, and I was left alone. I began to appreciate that. I sat down on the side of my little bed; to my fancy the very chairs were appropriated; and looked at my new place in the world.

Five of us in that room! I had always had the comfort of great space and ample conveniences about me; was it a luxury I had enjoyed? It had seemed nothing more than a necessity. And now must I dress and undress myself before so many spectators? could I not lock up anything that belonged to me? were all my nice and particular habits to be crushed into one drawer and smothered on one or two clothes-pins? Must everything I did be seen? And, above all, where could I pray? I looked round in a sort of fright. There was but one closet in the room, and that was a washing closet, and held besides a great quantity of other people’s belongings. I could not, even for a moment, shut it against them. In a kind of terror, I looked to make sure that I was alone, and fell on my knees. It seemed to me that all I could do was to pray every minute that I should have to myself. They would surely be none too many. Then, hearing a footstep somewhere, I rose again and took from my bag my dear little book. It was so small I could carry it where I had not room for my Bible. I looked for the page of the day, I remember now, with my eyes full of tears.

“Be watchful,” were the first words that met me. Aye, I was sure I would need it; but how was a watch to be kept up, if I could never be alone to take counsel with myself? I did not see it; this was another matter from Miss Pinshon’s unlocked door. After all, that unlocked door had not greatly troubled me; my room had not been of late often invaded. Now I had no room. What more would my dear little book say to me?

“Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.”

Was the battle to go so hard against me? and what should I do without that old and well-tried weapon of “all-prayer?” Nothing; I should be conquered. I must have and keep that, I resolved; if I lay awake and got up at night to use it. Dr. Sandford would not like such a proceeding; but there were worse dangers than the danger of lessened health. I would pray; but what next?

“Take heed to thyself, and keep thy soul diligently.” “What I say unto you I say unto all, Watch.”

I stood by the side of my bed, dashing the tears from my eyes. Then I heard, as I thought, some one coming, and in haste looked to see what else might be on the page: what further message or warning. And something like a sunbeam of healing flashed into my heart with the next words.

“Fear thou not: for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God; I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.”

“I, the Lord thy God, will hold thy right hand.”

I was healed. I put up my little book in my bag again, feeling whole and sound. It did not matter that I was crowded and hindered and watched; for it was written also, “He preserveth the way of his saints;” and I was safe.

I sat a little while longer alone. Then came a rush and rustle of many feet upon the stairs, many dresses moving, many voices blending in a soft little roar; as ominous as the roar of the sea which one hears in a shell. My four room-mates poured into the room, accompanied by two others; very busy and eager about their affairs that they were discussing. Meanwhile they all began to put themselves in order.

“The bell will ring for tea directly,” said Miss Macy, addressing herself to me; “are you ready?”

“’Tisn’t much trouble to fix her hair,” said my friend with the black eyes.

Six pair of eyes for a moment were turned upon me.

“You are too old to have your hair so,” remarked Miss Bentley. “You ought to let it grow.”

“Why don’t you?” said Miss Lansing.

“She is a Roundhead,” said the St. Clair, brushing her own curls; which were beautiful and crinkled all over her head, while my hair was straight. “I don’t suppose she ever saw a Cavalier before.”

“St. Clair, you are too bad!” said Miss Macy. “Miss Randolph is a stranger.”

St. Clair made no answer, but finished her hair and ran off; and presently the others filed off after her; and a loud clanging bell giving the signal, I thought best to go too. Every room was pouring forth its inmates; the halls and passages were all alive and astir. In the train of the moving crowd, I had no difficulty to find my way to the place of gathering.

This was the school parlour; not the one where I had seen Mme. Ricard. Parlours, rather; there was a suite of them, three deep; for this part of the house had a building added in the rear. The rooms were large and handsome; not like school rooms, I thought; and yet very different from my home; for they were bare. Carpets and curtains, sofas and chairs and tables were in them, to be sure; and even pictures; yet they were bare; for books and matters of art and little social luxuries were wanting, such as I had all my life been accustomed to, and such as filled Mme. Ricard’s own rooms. However, this first evening I could hardly see how the rooms looked, for the lining of humanity which ran round all the walls. There was a shimmer as of every colour in the rainbow; and a buzz that could only come from a hive full. I, who had lived all my life where people spoke softly, and where many never spoke together, was bewildered.

The buzz hushed suddenly, and I saw Mme. Ricard’s figure going slowly down the rooms. She was in the uttermost contrast to all her household. Ladylike always, and always dignified, her style was her own, and I am sure that nobody ever felt that she had not enough. Yet Mme. Ricard had nothing about her that was conformed to the fashions of the day. Her dress was of a soft kind of serge, which fell around her or swept across the rooms in noiseless yielding folds. Hoops were the fashion of the day; but Mme. Ricard wore no hoops; she went with ease and silence where others went with a rustle and a warning to clear the way. The back of her head was covered with a little cap as plain as a nun’s cap; and I never saw an ornament about her. Yet criticism never touched Mme. Ricard. Not even the criticism of a set of school-girls; and I had soon to learn that there is none more relentless.

The tea-table was set in the further room of the three. Mme. Ricard passed down to that. Presently I heard her low voice saying, “Miss Randolph.” Low as it always was, it was always heard. I made my way down through the rooms to her presence; and there I was introduced to the various teachers. Mademoiselle Genevieve, Miss Babbitt, Mme. Jupon, and Miss Dumps. I could not examine them just then. I felt I was on exhibition myself.

“Is Miss Randolph to come to me, Madame?” the first of these ladies asked. She was young, bright, black-eyed, and full of energy; I saw so much.

“I fancy she will come to all of you,” said Madame. “Except Miss Babbitt. You can write and read, I dare say, Miss Randolph?” she went on with a smile. I answered of course.

“What have been your principal studies for the past year?”

I said mathematics, astronomy, and philosophy and history.

“Then she is mine!” exclaimed Mlle. Genevieve.

“She is older than she looks,” said Miss Babbitt.

“Her hair is young, but her eyes are not,” said the former speaker, who was a lively lady.

“French have you studied?” Madame went on.

“Not so much,” I said.

“Mme. Jupon will want you.”

“I am sure she is a good child,” said Mme. Jupon, who was a good-natured, plain-looking Frenchwoman, without a particle of a Frenchwoman’s grace or address. “I will be charmed to have her.”

“You may go back to your place, Miss Randolph,” said my mistress. “We will arrange all the rest to-morrow.”

“Shall I go back with you?” asked Mlle. Genevieve. “Do you mind going alone?”

She spoke very kindly, but I was at a loss for her meaning. I saw the kindness; why it showed itself in such an offer I could not imagine.

“I am very much obliged to you, ma’am,” I began, when a little burst of laughter stopped me. It came from all the teachers; even Mme. Ricard was smiling.

“You are out for once, Genevieve,” she said.

“La charmante!” said Mme. Jupon. “Voyez l’a plomb!”

“No, you don’t want me,” said Mlle. Genevieve, nodding. “Go you’ll do.”

I went back to the upper room and presently tea was served. I sat alone; there was nobody near me who knew me; I had nothing to do while munching my bread and butter but to examine the new scene. There was a great deal to move my curiosity. In the first place, I was surprised to see the rooms gay with fine dresses. I had come from the quiet of Magnolia, and accustomed to the simplicity of my mother’s taste; which if it sometimes adorned me, did it always in subdued fashion, and never flaunted either its wealth or beauty. But on every side of me I beheld startling costumes; dresses that explained my mantua-maker’s eagerness about velvet and green leaves. I saw that she was right; her trimmings would have been “quiet” here. Opposite me was a brown merino, bordered with blocks of blue silk running round the skirt. Near it was a dress of brilliant red picked out with black cord and heavy with large black buttons. Then a black dress caught my eye which had an embattled trimming of black and gold, continued round the waist and completed with a large gold buckle. Then there was a grey cashmere with red stars; and a bronze-coloured silk with black velvet a quarter of a yard wide let into the skirt; the body all of black velvet. I could go on if my memory would serve me. The rooms were full of this sort of thing. Yet more than the dresses the heads surprised me. Just at that time the style of hair dressing was one of those styles which are endurable, and perhaps even very beautiful, in the hands of a first-rate artist and on the heads of those very few women who dress well; but which are more and more hideous the farther you get from that distant pinnacle of the mode, and the lower down they spread among the ranks of society. I thought, as I looked from one to another, I had never seen anything so ill in taste, so outraged in style, so unspeakable in ugliness as well as in pretension. I supposed then it was the fashion principally which was to blame. Since then, I have seen the same fashion on one of those heads that never wear anything but in good style. It gathered a great wealth of rich hair into a mass at the back of the head, yet leaving the top and front of the hair in soft waves; and the bound up mass behind was loose and soft and flowed naturally from the head, it had no hard outline nor regular shape; it was nature’s luxuriance just held in there from bursting down over neck and shoulders; and hardly that, for some locks were almost escaping. The whole was to the utmost simple, natural, graceful, rich. But these caricatures! All that they knew was to mass the hair at the back of the head; and that fact was attained. But some looked as if they had a hard round cannon-ball fastened there; others suggested a stuffed pincushion, ready for pins; others had a mortar-shell in place of a cannon-ball, the size was so enormous; in nearly all, the hair was strained tight over or under something; in not one was there an effect which the originator of the fashion would not have abhorred. Girlish grace was nowhere to be seen, either in heads or persons; girlish simplicity had no place. It was a school: but the company looked fitter for the stiff assemblages of ceremony that should be twenty years later in their lives.

My heart grew very blank. I felt unspeakably alone; not merely because there was nobody there whom I knew, but because there was nobody whom it seemed to me I ever should know. I took my tea and bits of bread and butter, feeling forlorn. A year in that place seemed to me longer than I could bear. I had exchanged my King Log for King Stork.

It was some relief when after tea we were separated into other rooms and sat down to study. But I dreamed over my book. I wondered how heads could study that had so much trouble on the outside. I wandered over the seas to that spot somewhere that was marked by the ship that carried my father and mother. Only now going out towards China; and how long months might pass before China would be done with and the ship be bearing them back again. The lesson given me that night was not difficult enough to bind my attention; and my heart grew very heavy. So heavy, that I felt I must find help somewhere. And when one’s need is so shut in, then it looks in the right quarter the only one left open.

My little book was upstairs in my bag: but my thoughts flew to my page of that day and the “Fear thou not, for I am with thee.” Nobody knows, who has not wanted them, how good those words are. Nobody else can understand how sweet they were to me. I lost for a little all sight of the study table and the faces round it. I just remembered who was WITH ME; in the freedom and joy of that presence both fears and loneliness seemed to fade away. “I, the Lord, will hold thy right hand.” Yes, and I, a weak little child, put my hand in the hand of my great Leader, and felt safe and strong.

I found very soon I had enemies to meet that I had not yet reckoned with. The night passed peacefully enough; and the next day I was put in the schoolroom and found my place in the various classes. The schoolrooms were large and pleasant; large they had need to be, for the number of day scholars who attended in them was very great. They were many as well as spacious; different ages being parted off from each other. Besides the schoolrooms proper, there were rooms for recitation, where the classes met their teachers; so we had the change and variety of moving from one part of the house to another. We met Mlle. Genevieve in one room, for mathematics and Italian; Mme. Jupon in another, for French. Miss Dumps seized us in another, for writing and geography, and made the most of us; she was a severe little person in her teaching and in her discipline; but she was good. We called her Miss Maria, in general. Miss Babbitt had the history; and she did nothing to make it intelligible or interesting. My best historical times thus far, by much, had been over my clay map and my red and black headed pins, studying the changes of England and her people. But Mlle. Genevieve put a new life into mathematics. I could never love the study; but she made it a great deal better than Miss Pinshon made it. Indeed, I believe that to learn anything under Mlle. Genevieve would have been pleasant. She had so much fire and energy; she taught with such a will; her black eyes were so keen both for her pupils and her subject. One never thought of the discipline in Mlle. Genevieve’s room, but only of the study. I was young to be there, in the class where she put me; but my training had fitted me for it. With Mme. Jupon also I had an easy time. She was good-nature itself, and from the first showed a particular favour and liking for me. And as I had no sort of wish to break rules, with Miss Maria too I got on well. It was out of school and out of study hours that my difficulties came upon me.

For a day or two I did not meet them. I was busy with the school routine, and beginning already to take pleasure in it. Knowledge was to be had here; lay waiting to be gathered up; and that gathering I always enjoyed. Miss Pinshon had kept me on short allowance. It was the third or fourth day after my arrival, that going up after dinner to get ready for a walk I missed my chinchilla cap from its peg. I sought for it in vain.

“Come, Daisy,” said Miss Lansing, “make haste. Babbitt will be after you directly if you aren’t ready. Put on your cap.”

“I can’t find it,” I said. “I left it here, in its place, but I can’t find it.”

There was a burst of laughter from three of my room-mates, as Miss St. Clair danced out from the closet with the cap on her own brows; and then with a caper of agility, taking it off, flung it up to the chandelier, where it hung on one of the burners.

“For shame, Faustina, that’s too bad. How can she get it?” said Miss Bentley.

“I don’t want her to get it,” said the St. Clair coolly.

“Then how can she go to walk?”

“I don’t want her to go to walk.”

“Faustina, that isn’t right. Miss Randolph is a stranger; you shouldn’t play tricks on her.”

“Roundheads were always revolutionists,” said the girl recklessly. “A la lanterne! Heads or hats it don’t signify which. That is an example of what our Madame calls ‘symbolism.’”

“Hush sh! Madame would call it something else. Now how are we going to get the cap down?”

For the lamp hung high, having been pushed up out of reach for the day. The St. Clair ran off, and Miss Macy followed; but the two others consulted, and Lansing ran down to waylay the chambermaid and beg a broom. By the help of the broom handle my cap was at length dislodged from its perch, and restored to me. But I was angry. I felt the fiery current running through my veins; and the unspeakable saucy glance of St. Clair’s eye, as I passed her to take my place in the procession, threw fuel on the fire. I think for years I had not been angry in such a fashion. The indignation I had at different times felt against the overseer at Magnolia was a justifiable thing. Now I was angry and piqued. The feeling was new to me. I had been without it very long. I swallowed the ground with my feet during my walk; but before the walk came to an end the question began to come up in my mind, what was the matter? and whether I did well? These sprinklings of water on the flame I think made it leap into new life at first; but as they came and came again, I had more to think about than St. Clair when I got back to the house. Yes, and as we were all taking off our things together I was conscious that I shunned her; that the sight of her was disagreeable; and that I would have liked to visit some gentle punishment upon her careless head. The bustle of business swallowed up the feeling for the rest of the time till we went to bed.

But then it rose very fresh, and I began to question myself about it in the silence and darkness. Finding myself inclined to justify myself, I bethought me to try this new feeling by some of the words I had been studying in my little book for a few days past. “The entrance of thy words giveth light” was the leading text for the day that had just gone; now I thought I would try it in my difficulty. The very next words on the page I remembered were these “God is light, and in him is no darkness at all.”

It came into my mind as soon, that this feeling of anger and resentment which troubled me had to do with darkness, not with the light. In vain I reasoned to prove the contrary; I felt dark. I could not look up to that clear white light where God dwells, and feel at all that I was “walking in the light as he is in the light.” Clearly Daisy Randolph was out of the way. And I went on with bitterness of heart to the next words “Ye were sometime darkness, but now are ye light in the Lord; walk as children of light.”

And what then? was I to pass by quietly the insolence of St. Clair? was I to take it quite quietly, and give no sign even of annoyance? take no means of showing my displeasure, or of putting a stop to the naughtiness that called it forth? My mind put these questions impatiently, and still, as it did so, an answer came from somewhere, “Walk as children of light.” I knew that children of light would reprove darkness only with light; and a struggle began. Other words came into my head then, which made the matter only clearer. “If any man smite thee on the one cheek, turn to him the other.” “Love your enemies.” Ah, but how could I? with what should I put out this fire kindled in my heart, which seemed only to burn the fiercer whatever I threw upon it? And then other words came still sweeping upon me with their sweetness, and I remembered who had said, “I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee.” I softly got out of bed, wrapped the coverlid round me, and knelt down to pray. For I had no time to lose. To-morrow I must meet my little companion, and to-morrow I must be ready to walk as a child of light, and to-night the fires of darkness were burning in my heart. I was long on my knees. I remember, in a kind of despair at last I flung myself on the word of Jesus, and cried to Him as Peter did when he saw the wind boisterous. I remember how the fire died out in my heart, till the very coals were dead; and how the day and the sunlight came stealing in, till it was all sunshine. I gave my thanks, and got into bed, and slept without a break the rest of the night.