1. CHAPTER I.
“But O, th' important budget!
Who can say what are its tidings?”
Cowper.
“There is the bell for prayers, Florry; are you ready?”
said Mary Irving, hastily entering her cousin's room at the
large boarding-school of Madame —.
“Yes; I rose earlier than usual this morning, have
solved two problems, and translated nearly half a page of
Telemaque.”
“I congratulate you on your increased industry and
application, though you were always more studious than
myself. I wish, dear Florry, you could imbue me with
some of your fondness for metaphysics and mathematics,”
Mary replied, with a low sigh.
A momentary flush passed over the face of her companion,
and they descended the stairs in silence. The room
in which the pupils were accustomed to assemble for
devotion was not so spacious as the class-room, yet sufficiently
so to look gloomy enough in the gray light of a
drizzling morn. The floor was covered with a faded carpet,
in which the indistinct vine seemed struggling to
reach the wall, but failed by several feet on either side.
As if to conceal this deficiency, a wide seat was affixed
the entire length of the room, so high
“That the feet hung dangling down,
Anxious in vain to find the distant floor.”
There were no curtains to the windows, and the rain
pattered drearily down the panes.
The teacher who officiated as chaplain was seated
before a large desk, on which lay an open Bible. He
seemed about twenty-four, his countenance noble rather
than handsome, if I may make so delicate a distinction.
Intelligence of the first order was stamped upon it, yet
the characteristic expression was pride which sat enthroned
on his prominent brow; still, hours of care had left
their impress, and the face was very grave, though by no
means stern. His eye was fixed on the door as the pupils
came in, one by one, for prayers, and when Florence and
Mary entered, it sunk upon his book. In a few moments
he rose, and, standing with one arm folded across his bosom,
read in a deep, distinct tone, that beautiful Psalm, “The
Lord is my shepherd.” He had only reached the fourth verse,
when he was interrupted by two girls of twelve or fourteen,
who had been conversing from the moment of their
entrance. The tones grew louder and louder, and now the
words were very audible:
“My father did not send me here to come to prayers,
and Madame has no right to make us get up before day to
hear him read his Bible!”
Many who coincided with them tittered, others stared
in silence, while Florence's lip curled, and Mary looked
sorrowingly, pityingly upon them—hers was the expression
with which the angel multitudes of Heaven regard their
erring brethren here. The chaplain turned toward them,
and said, in a grave yet gentle voice, “My little friends, I am
afraid you did not kneel beside your bed this morning, and
ask God to keep your hearts from sinful thoughts, and enable
you to perform all your duties in a humble, gentle spirit.
In your present temper, were I to read the entire book instead
of one Psalm, I fear you would receive no benefit.”
The girls were awed more by the tone than words, and
sat silent and abashed. The reading was concluded, and
then he offered up a prayer earnest and heart-felt. Instead
of leaving the room immediately, the pupils waited
as for something, and taking a bundle of letters from the
desk, their tutor distributed them as the direction indicated.
“My budget is not so large as usual, and I regret it for
your sakes, as I fear some are disappointed. Miss Hamilton,
here are two for you;” and he handed them to her
without looking up.
“Two for Florry, and none for me?” asked Mary, while
her voice slightly trembled. He was leaving the room,
but turned toward her.
“I am very sorry, Miss Mary, but hope you will find a
comforting message in your cousin's.”
Gently he spoke, yet his eyes rested on Florence the
while, and, with a suppressed sigh, he passed on. “Come
to my room, Mary; it is strange the letters are post-marked
the same day.” And while she solves the mystery, let us
glance at her former history.
