NOVEL-READING.

“What makes you so tired to-day, Tessa?” said Katie, one morning when the “rules” allowed the girls to speak.

“I don’t know; I always do feel so in the mornings. It’s awfully hard to get up. Don’t you find it so?”

“I did at first, but I am getting used to it now. By the time I am dressed I am wide-awake and fit for anything. I don’t see why you should feel so; I am afraid you’re sick.”

“Oh, no; only stupid and sleepy; I’ll wake up by-and-by,” and Tessa drew from her pocket a thin, square volume which was tightly rolled up. The noon-whistles sounded just then, and Katie saw her companion curl herself up on a box in the corner and at once lose herself in her book.

She still sat there when her friend returned, rosy and refreshed after her warm dinner and two brisk walks, and, as there were still a few moments before work must be resumed, the latter walked across the room and playfully took the book from the other’s hand.

“Don’t! oh, please, don’t!” said Tessa. “Time’s most up, and I must know what became of Sir Reginald!”

“You must eat your lunch. Look, here it lies untasted beside you. Tessa, you will certainly be sick if you go on in this way.”

But Tessa did not listen; she had again firmly grasped the book, and was greedily devouring its contents quite dead to outside things, till, the bell ringing, Katie jogged her shoulder, and she walked slowly across to the table where both girls worked, her eyes still upon her book. There she set it up, still open, against a pile of packages of paper, and all the afternoon kept casting furtive glances at it, often letting her work drop and her hands hang idle, while she followed the fortunes of the fascinating Sir Reginald.

Katie was in an agony; she loved Tessa, and did not want her to get into trouble, as she would certainly do if her proceedings should be observed by the overseer. Besides, was it honest thus to use time paid for by an employer?

But she had no chance to speak to her companion, for as usual she finished her work and went home, and whether her companion received a reprimand from the overseer for not having completed her daily task she did not know. Probably she did not, for it was an understood thing that Tessa was not so strong as the other girls, and therefore so much must not be expected of her.

The next day it was the same thing. Tessa looked tired out before the day’s work began, and well she might, for she had sat up nearly all night to dispose of Sir Reginald, and now “The Fair Barmaid” had taken his place. Again the girl went without the uninviting lunch she had brought from her boarding-house, and again, as before, the fascinating novel divided her attention with her work. This afternoon she was detected by the overseer, who spoke a few words of reprimand and ordered her to put the book away, which she did unwillingly and with heightened color. It came out again, however, the moment the closing-bell rang; and, to make up for lost time, was assiduously read during the homeward walk, and took the place of both supper and sleep till almost daylight the next morning.

Poor Tessa! she had inherited from her ancestry that love of romance and adventure which, in their own sunny land, makes the Italians rival the Orientals in their love of hearing and telling stories. The more thrilling these stories are, the fuller of passion and crime, the better they seem to suit the tastes of these fervid and excitable natures. And she was alone; there was no one to counsel her, no one to love her, no one even to talk to in the long evenings she must of necessity spend in her bare room at the factory boarding-house, hot and stifling in summer, cold and bare in winter. She had been taught to read at the poor-house school and a stray dime novel happening to fall in her way, her imagination, waiting for something on which to feed itself, seized upon the unhealthful food, and gratified taste quickly ripened into insatiable appetite. The girl read everything she could lay hold of, and there is always plenty of such literature close at hand and ready to be devoured. Novels at five cents apiece are sold by the million at country stores, railway-depots, and news-stations. Ephemeral in their nature, every one who owns them is ready to lend, give, or throw them away, and when books fail there are always quantities of “story-papers,” full of the wildest, most improbable, and often vicious tales.

Tessa bought when she had any spare pennies, borrowed and begged when she had not; read by daylight, and twilight, and lamplight, sitting up as long as the miserable boarding-house lamps would hold out, and became so immersed in her world of romance as to become almost oblivious to outward things.

To do the little girl justice, she was too innocent to understand half the wickedness which in this way was brought before her notice, but none the less was she being gradually demoralized by this evil habit. Her appetite failed, she scarcely took any exercise, she became nervous and excitable to a degree, her work was neglected, and, worse still, she was becoming familiarized with ideas, suggestions, and thoughts that should never come within the comprehension of pure-minded girls. As to her work, she was fast losing all interest in, indeed all capacity for, that, and it was whispered among her superiors that but for her utterly friendless condition it would be expedient to supply her place in the mill with some more profitable work-woman.

“Miss Eunice,” said Katie, at the next Wednesday afternoon meeting, “is it wicked to read novels?”

“What a wholesale question,” said Miss Eunice. “It is not wicked exactly to do a great many things which it would be better on the whole to let alone tipping one’s chair up on two legs, for instance.”

Katie blushed, righted her chair, and said: “I mean wrong; is it wrong to read novels?”

“Not all novels, certainly; that is, not all fiction. The best writers of our day throw their thoughts into that form, and our knowledge of history, philosophy, science, and character comes largely from this source. Our Saviour sanctified fiction by giving his highest and deepest lessons to his disciples in parables. If you mean that kind of novels, read in moderation, I should decidedly say no.”

“She means dime novels,” said one of the girls.

“Oh, ‘Headless Horsemen’ and ‘Midnight Mysteries,’ fascinating maidens carried off by desperate ruffians. I am thankful to say that I have no personal acquaintance with that sort of thing; but, girls, let me ask you a few questions. May I?”

“First, let all who read, or ever have read, what are called ’sensation stories’ raise their hands.”

A great many hands went up more than the questioner liked to see.

“How many find such books help them in their work, make the factory seem pleasanter, and themselves more contented?”

Not a hand was raised, and the girl who had spoken before said:

“I never can work half as well in the morning when I have been reading stories at night. I hate the sight of the factory, and wish I was a princess, or a splendidly dressed young lady with oceans of gold and jewels, like those in the books.”

“Another question: Do books of this kind help you to pray, make the Bible more interesting, and incline you to loving service for the Saviour who has died that you might be saved?”

No one answered. The girls looked both surprised and shocked, and Miss Eunice continued:

“On the contrary, I dare say many of you remember times when the thrilling interest of an exciting story has made you utterly forget your prayers, or at any rate has made church and Sunday-school and the homely duties of a Christian life seem tame and flat by comparison. Is it not so?”

Many bowed assent.

“Now for my last question: Would you be willing that your fathers and brothers or the young men of your acquaintance should read all of these books with you, every passage, and could you, without blushing, read them aloud to your pastor or to me?”

No answer.

“There is another aspect of the question,” continued the teacher. “Your employers pay you a stipulated sum in return for a certain amount of work to be done in a certain amount of time. They have a right to expect you to give your best skill, your closest attention. Do you think it is quite honest either to use a part of that time in reading foolish, useless, or hurtful books, or to come to your work so exhausted and preoccupied by them as to be unfitted for performing your part of the contract?”

“I do not desire to coerce you, or even to bind your consciences by any promise, but I leave you to consider all I have said, and I think if you do so honestly and prayerfully you will come to the conclusion that for you who hope you have found your Saviour, nay, I will say for all, inasmuch as you all ought to be Christians, the reading of this kind of books and stories is among those works of the flesh and the devil which you are called to renounce.”

Katie had got the answer she had asked for, and besides she was well furnished with arguments to bring to bear upon Tessa the first opportunity she should have of talking with her, and that, she determined, should be very soon.

When the girls and their escorts had gone home that evening, the two sisters lingered to talk a little over the question that had so interested their scholars. It was a new thing for them to have any common interest, and Eunice hailed it as a good omen that her sister should consult with her about anything. Etta had not yet confided to her elder sister her new hopes, purposes, and feelings. She was an independent girl, who had always thought and acted for herself, and there had never been anything like sisterly familiarity between the eldest and youngest of the Mountjoys. The distance between them was too great, and perhaps the elder, in filling the position of a mother to her little sister, had at first assumed a little too much of the authority of one. She had grown wiser now, and did not attempt to force the young girl’s confidence; but she could not but be conscious of a change. There was an increased gentleness of manner and sweetness of tone, a thoughtful consideration of others, and deference to her own wishes which she had never seen before. Her continuing to attend the Wednesday meetings, and her serious attention when there, were good signs; so was Etta’s voluntary attendance at the Sunday evening service, a thing that had never happened before, and Eunice began to hope that the solemn, earnest realities of life would yet become precious to her light-hearted, wayward sister.

This evening they talked over the novel grievance, and the temptations to which the mill-girls were exposed, and Etta proposed a plan for their benefit, which, when matured and digested, besides being supported by Mr. Mountjoy’s purse and his son’s executive ability, eventuated in the conversion of an unused loft in the mill into a library and reading-room for the girls and such of their brothers and friends as knew how to appreciate its benefits by behaving like gentlemen.

The books were chosen with great care, and were the best of their kind to be had popular science, history, and biography, with a large, a very large, proportion of such fiction as had a tendency to elevate and instruct, while it interested, its readers. The books were not to be taken from the building, except upon rare occasions and under peculiar circumstances; but the reading-room, which was nicely carpeted, well warmed, and furnished with long tables and comfortable chairs, was open during the noon intermission and for two hours every evening, and good behavior was the only condition demanded for enjoying both its social and literary privileges. The library soon became a very popular institution, and the sale and consumption of sensational literature decreased proportionally.

Before separating for the night, Etta said: “Did you notice the girl who asked the question about novels?”

“Katie Robertson? Yes; I have had my eye on her for a long time. She seems the most promising subject of your class.”

“So I have always thought; but I have had a terrible disappointment in her. No one would suppose it, but I have recently heard that she is a thief, and that to a large amount. The child, innocent as she looks, has actually stolen fifty dollars from our mill.”

“That is absolutely impossible! I will not believe it. Who told you so, Etta?”

“One of the class. Bertie Sanderson. She was not at all willing to tell tales on her companion, but I questioned her and found it is as I say. She assures me that all the girls know about it, and that two of them she did not give their names saw the theft.”

“Why did they not inform about it at once?”

“So I asked her; but she did not seem to know, and also declined giving the names of the two girls. That was a little more honorable than I gave Bertie credit for being.”

“A little more deceitful, possibly,” said Eunice, who had no high opinion of Bertie Sanderson; “yet, if she were herself one of these girls, she would, I suppose, have been glad to say so. Where do you suppose this child found fifty dollars to steal? Money is not kept loose around the mill, and the girls do not have access to the office. There is something we don’t know about this, Etta. The subject ought to be investigated. Have you spoken to James?”

“No, I don’t want to prejudice him against Katie, if she should be innocent; but I fear that is hardly possible, after what Bertie said.”

“I should be more inclined to suspect Bertie herself. Where do you suppose she got that flashy silk dress she wears?”

“Isn’t it horrid! I wonder those girls don’t see how vulgar their cheap finery is.”

“Perhaps they try to copy their teacher,” ventured the elder sister, whose exquisitely neat style of dress was always remarkable for its plainness and simplicity when she came in contact with her Sunday scholars. But Etta was not yet sufficiently humbled to take reproof from that source, and she abruptly left the room. All the same, however, she thought and prayed a great deal upon the subject, and the next Sunday surprised her class by appearing before them without an unnecessary ribbon or ornament.