University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
THE VISIT HOME.

Lucy's joy may be imagined when the most
blessed day of all the week came. One of the
uses of this day is, that it reminds the careless of
their duties; and Mrs. Ardley's conscience being
quickened by its ministry, she told Lucy she might
stay all day, and moreover ordered a basket to be
filled with tea, sugar, and other-luxuries, for Lucy's
“sick father, and,” she added, with a smile, “for
that little Jemmie that Lucy made such a wonderful
fuss about.” Mrs. Ardley was never deficient
in that species of generosity manifested in giving.
Lucy found matters not improved at home. Her
father was still declining, her mother toiling beyond
her strength, and Jemmie as sad as ever at her absence.
“Oh, Lucy!” he said, holding her fast
down to his bosom, “seeing you is just like the
seeing the sun shine into the window—no, no, a
great deal better than anything that only makes
us feel good outside!” Lucy was, indeed, a moral
sunshine to this humble home.

She spread on the stand at her father's bedside
some of the delicacies from her basket. She selected
a book for Martha, and another for Anne, and
set the rest in a row at the foot of Jemmie's cradle.
Never did a fanatical bibliopolist survey his acquisitions
with keener pleasure; and when she saw him,

in spite of her presence, forget her and himself in
that most captivating of all juvenile classics, Robinson
Crusoe, she drew her chair up to her mother,
and they communicated reciprocally their little affairs,
both generously softening or omitting what was
most painful. In answer to Lucy's question, “Are
you ever troubled now, mother, to get the bread
money?” Mrs. Lee answered, “Now and then; but
Charlie Lovett leaves the loaf the same when I
have not as when I have the money. Oh, Lucy, I
have not told you his mother has been to see me.
She was very kind. She looks like Charlie; the
same open, benevolent expression. She brought
cookeys to the children, and told me her husband
would watch with your father. How pleasant it
was to hear a friendly voice once more! She
asked about you, Lucy.”

“About me, mother?”

“Yes. It seems Charlie had told her about
you. She said if she had known you wanted a
place, she would have taken you.”

“Would she! Oh, how I should like to live
with Charlie's mother.”

“On some accounts I should wish to have you
there; but, as she keeps but one domestic, there
might be too heavy work for you—and you really
seem to be very well off with Mrs. Ardley. You
complain of nothing but your disappointment in not
coming home at the promised time?”

“No, mother—no,” said Lucy, persevering in
her resolve not to disturb her mother with her little
grievances, and really feeling them to be very
small while she looked at her, gently submitting to
a tide of troubles, and resisting where she could

overcome by resistance. If we all felt other's burdens
more, we should feel our own less. “Well,
my child,” resumed her mother, “go on where
you are—get and do all the good you can, and always
remember we are sent into the field to be
sowers as well as reapers. If anything serious
occurs, let me know it. I would not have you submit
to anything that should impair your self-respect,
or ever forget that you can only forfeit your independence
by misconduct.” Their conversation
was broken off by the return of the girls from Sunday-school.
Overjoyed they were to find Lucy,
and not a little pleased that they had brought from
their teacher extraordinary commendations of their
well-learned lessons. “I wonder, mother,” said
Lucy, “what Mrs. Ardley would say to your finding
time to see to the girl's lessons, when, with six
of us to do her work, I heard her say to a lady `she
did not know what her children were studying—
she had not time!' Only think, mother!”

“There are many occupations that fritter away
the time of the rich, which those who must be devoted
to necessary labour know nothing about. It
is difficult for them to bring anything to pass.”

“But, mother, could not they if they had a mind
to?” asked little Martha.

“Certainly, my child; and those do who try
hard. But, my children, don't trouble yourselves
about what others do or do not do—our consciences
are given us to watch over our own conduct, not
other people's. Come, girls, set the table. Our
dinner is done.”

“Dinner, mother! Are we to have a real dinner?”

“Yes; I had two shillings over last night, so I
went late to market, that we might have a little
treat to-day, as Lucy was to be with us. You will
see what a nice dinner can be got for two shillings.”

“And shall I sit in your lap just as I used to,
Lucy?” asked little Jemmie.

“Yes, indeed you shall.” The humble meal
was soon served, and most savoury did the joint of
mutton, which had been all day stewing with vegetables,
taste to the hungry little family. “Dear
Jemmie,” said Lucy to her brother, whose hunger
had not the keenness of the other children, “I am
afraid your appetite is failing.”

“Oh, no, Lucy!” he said, clasping his arm
around her neck, “but this is dinner enough for
me.”

“Ah!” muttered Lee, looking half enviously at
the girls devouring a bit of Mrs. Ardley's tart, too
rich for him, “ah, girls, but pie is pie for all—isn't
it?”

“Yes, father,” said Lucy, “pie is pie, and nothing
else; but parents, and sisters, and brothers are
everything.” The poor are not poor while they
can thus raise the minds of their children above
mere animal gratification, to a comprehension of
the true riches of affection—the pure happiness of
home.