Mr. Dane had closed his office at four o'clock. Nobody cared why he did so, and when he informed his book-keeper that she could go home, she never stopped to wonder why, but wiped her pens, straightened her desk, got into her wrappings and went, with her mind fixed on a certain picture that needed much that these two vacation hours could give.

It was snowing very hard, great blinding flakes that came whirling defiantly into your eyes, nose, and mouth; almost preventing a necessary amount of sight and breath: and they had collected to such depth, that walking was a matter of much labor, and only a few plucky pedestrians were out to enliven the quiet shrouded streets. Olive plunged rapidly along with her head down and seemed more engrossed with her own thoughts, than with any contemplation of the weather, for she whisked the impudent flakes aside and seemed to be looking down at something that was neither of earth, earthy, or of snow, snowy, but quite beyond the realm of either. She was scowling much the same as usual only in something of a puzzled way, that had less of the impatient dissatisfied tinge to it than was customary. In fact she was thinking of that last talk she had had with her mother, before Mr. Congreve went back to Virginia, when she had resolved in a vague hasty way, that she was going to do differently; and really, how little good, or change, had come from the resolution. She didn't think, to begin with, that she was any worse than the rest, or that she needed changing any more, but rather any thing, than be like Mr. Congreve! So she summed up all she knew of him, resolved on what was disagreeable, and began to model herself accordingly. So to begin with she was no longer so hasty or bitter, in speech I mean, for her inner-self was not touched, she only kept it all to herself now, instead of speaking it out as formerly, but if she thought herself changed there, she was the only one deceived, for our inner minds do not always require the aid of language to photograph themselves before the world. Next, instead of staying with the girls out of store hours, and running the risk of losing her temper, she held herself sternly aloof, always in the security of her own room, and at the end of a week was apt to say to herself with some satisfaction:

"There, I surely have done well; haven't been mad with any one this week, which is more than the other girls can say;" and there never came any thought that the sisters were hurt over her manner, for, indeed, she had worked herself up to the bitter belief, that they did not want her, she was so ugly, and so unlike them in all ways.

Now what puzzled her was the girls. Here she had worked (yes, she thought she had worked), she certainly ought to be improved, and yet they seemed to think no more of her than before. Way down in Olive's heart, was a longing,—choked and starved, that was beginning to assert itself. When home held mother and father and everything that could make a girl contented, she had not felt, or rather, listened to it; she compelled herself to be without it; but now, when they were left alone, when their daily life and happiness was so utterly dependent upon each other, she began to realize how she was out of the loving circle that bound her sisters together, and what a gulf of her own make, seemed to lie between them. She stood beside it in frequent contemplation, but never recognized her own handiwork, so she eyed it bitterly, and thought them cruelly unkind.

This was what she was thinking about as she plunged through the storm, looking like an animated snow-figure, so powdered was she; and regarding herself for a moment, Olive went round to the back door, so as to dispose of her ladened garments and brush off her shoes This done, she went into the kitchen, where a warm atmosphere still lingered, and, preferring to be alone, sat down there, with her feet in the oven and her chin in her hands, and once more fell into a brown study. Only a few minutes later, Kittie came into the dining-room for something, and on going back, failed to close the door, so that the murmur of voices came quite distinctly out to the quiet kitchen. A discussion was warmly in progress, and in a minute Olive started out of her reverie at hearing her name spoken.

"What's the use? Olive knows, or ought to know better." It was Ernestine's voice.

"But, mama says," interposed Bea, mildly persuasive, "that we don't try hard enough; we give up too soon."

"Bother," cried Kat, "would she have us always playing the 'gentle sister, meek and mild,' and go whining about Olive as though her company was a great honor. I'm sure we had a season of always begging her to go with us, and didn't she snap us up like a rat-trap?"

"She—well—she's very odd you know," said Bea, wondering if her quiver of defense would outlast the arrows of complaint.

"Yes, odd, as an odd shoe," laughed Kat with a yawn.

"What did mama say to you, Bea?" asked Ernestine.

"She said that Olive's greatest fault was being so nasty and sensitive, and that because she was rather plain and—"

"She isn't," interrupted Kittie, with much energy. "I think she has beautiful eyes, if she just wouldn't scowl so much, and when she laughs her mouth and teeth are just as pretty, only she never laughs more'n once a month, so people don't know it. Not one of us has such lovely thick hair as she has, and if she just would wave or crimp it a little bit in front, I think—well, I think she would be real pretty." And overcome with this valuable earnest defence, Kittie sat down and looked complacent.

"When I see Olive Dering crimping her hair, and laughing instead of scowling, I will look for the end of the world," said Ernestine, with some asperity, as she walked over to the glass and surveyed her own hair, which Kittie had intimated was inferior to Olive's. "She can't do it, she was made to frown and stay by herself and she better do it."

"You don't mean it, Ernestine, you know you don't," said Bea, in a tone of calm conviction, and beginning to feel that the duties of elder sister imposed a warmer defense of this abused one, upon her. "I want to tell you how I feel, though it may be nothing as you all do. I really believe Olive thinks we do not want her, because, for so long time lately, we have just let her alone, and she always goes——" "None of us ever receive a special invitation to join this circle," interrupted Kat, briskly. "Why should she?"

"I don't know, but she is so strange," answered Bea, rather helplessly, but not giving up. "And because she is so, we have sort a' stayed together and let her alone. When we used to try to get her to go with us, I think she always refused, because she thought she was ugly, and we did not try long enough to overcome this feeling, and now she imagines we don't want her."

"Stuff," persisted Kat, "I wouldn't act that way if I was as ugly as a wilted pumpkin and cross-eyed. What's the use?"

"None," promptly responded Beatrice. "But if you were like her, very likely you'd feel as she does."

"Catch me," laughed Kat, jumping up and making a scornful spin on her heel. "What do you say, Kittie?"

"I had my say a minute ago," answered Kittie, who was evidently thinking out something over the flames.

"I wonder what makes her hate Uncle Ridley so?" was Ernestine's query, as she turned from the glass, having satisfied herself that Kittie was certainly wrong about Olive's hair.

"I never could imagine," answered Bea, with evident curiosity.

"She won't call him, uncle, and the dress he sent her is in mama's room, and Olive says, she'll never wear it." "May be she would give it me," suggested Kat. "I think hers was prettier than any of the rest."

"Well, I don't," said Ernestine, taking exceptions to this remark also. "Why hers is black?"

"I'm perfectly aware of that, also, that yours is purple, Bea's brown, mine and Kittie's grey; tell me something I don't know," said Kat flippantly. "I wish ours were black, it's so stylish."

That black was more stylish than purple, was an idea quite beneath Ernestine's notice, so she went back to her former query.

"I would like to know, anyhow, what makes Olive dislike him so." For Mrs. Dering had not thought it necessary that the girls should know of their father's final appeal, and Mr. Congreve's reception thereof; so they were all equally curious, and so, nobody being able to give an answer, Kat ventured an assertion.

"She hates him just because it's a part of her religion to hate everybody, and, to go around with her fist doubled up ready to fight. I believe she'd hate us with a little trying."

"Kat," cried Beatrice, with some severity. "You must not speak so, it is wrong, and you don't mean it Why, if any one else was to say such things about Olive, you'd pretty near fight."

"To be sure I would," said Kat with ready inconsistency. "I truly think Olive is a trump, and I'd cheerfully knock anybody down who said she wasn't. I don't know what we would have done without her in the trouble, and I do wish she wasn't so odd, and stayed away from us so."

"She makes me think of a chestnut burr," said Kittie resorting to figurative comparisons. "There's lots of good in her, but she won't let any one get at it. If we try, she shuts up and gets prickly. I never thought much about it, until here lately, and then she was so splendid, and knew how to do everything; and, I begin to think that there is ever so much more to her than we think, even if she is queer, and don't seem to like us much."

"Well, I wouldn't worry so about her," interposed Ernestine, as though the subject wearied her. "She evidently don't like us excessively, or care about being with us, so leave her alone. Bea, come let's try our duet."

Olive had sat perfectly still, and heard all this, quite unconscious that her feet were getting chilly in the cold oven, or that, perhaps, she should have notified them of her presence. She had a vague feeling, as of one trying hard to solve a problem, and pausing suddenly in her vain efforts, to listen to some one solving it for her. But surely they could not be right! Olive left her seat noiselessly, and went up the back stairs to her room. It was bitterly cold there, but she wrapped her shawl about her, and sat down by the window, where the fast falling snow was almost hidden in a heavy wrap of early twilight. Olive did not often pray. To be sure she said her prayers every night, as properly and methodical as clockwork, and was very particular about always kneeling down, as though position could atone for any lacking earnestness; for she was just as apt to be thinking of her account-book, or Mr. Dane's last order, as of anything, in the hurried words that slid over her lips. Yes, she prayed in this way once in every twenty-four hours, but there never came to her any of those sudden, passionate appeals for help or strength, when the whole heart leaps to the lips, or pleads dumbly, in its great need. Notwithstanding all teachings to the point, it never really occurred to her that God had as quick and sympathetic an ear for a little prayer of few words over some trivial worry, given silently in the busy kitchen, or on the crowded street, as He had for those when she knelt down at night, and absently asked for her daily bread, and to forgive as she was forgiven, and then get properly into bed and refrained from speaking again, lest she spoilt the effect. At any rate, the first prayer that had ever sprung to her lips, with the suddenness of utter helplessness, came from them now, as she sat there, trying to think and battle with hasty conclusions that would spring up:

"Oh God, please don't let me try to think it out alone, because I will get it all wrong if I do. If it is my fault, make me feel it and know how to act, and don't let me be so odd, or whatever it is that makes me feel as I do."

With the earnestness of the request, came a quiet feeling that she felt to be her answer, and all the time she sat there, which was until the supper-bell rang, she felt more contented than ever before with her thoughts. Not that God immediately took away her faults, and left her placid and quiet, with nothing to battle against, because He does not do that way; it can never be said to us: "Well done, good and faithful servant," if we've done nothing; and the battling with our faults and worries is just as much our work, as the successful doing of some great deed that may bring both God's pleasure and an earthly halo.

When Mrs. Dering came home on Friday evening, she was quick to note a change of some kind, not but what every one seemed the same at a quick observation, but, there was a something. Now don't think that any thing so unnatural and improbable had happened, as Olive being bereft of all faults, and suddenly clothed in the guise of a household angel, because there hadn't, there never does; but she had thought much, and Olive had a mind capable of more deep reasoning thought than most girls of fifteen; she stopped fighting herself with weapons solely of her own make, but sent many a little wordless prayer for a different feeling, and then she found that it came more easily, and more completely triumphed over its enemy. To-night she had a little ribbon tied in her hair, only a small thing, but something unusual for Olive, and Mrs. Dering noticed that the bow at her throat was just of the same shade, also something unusual. Now over just this little thing, Olive had stood in silence, while two feelings within her held an argument:

"What's the use," said one; "you're as ugly as fate, and the girls will laugh; besides if you go in the sitting-room after supper, they will say you just did it to make them say something."

"No such thing," retorted the other, "You've no right to think such things, when they've given you no reason. Go on right down stairs, you know they want you, they said they did." And so she had gone down immediately,—perhaps she took a little pleasure in defying herself,—and though the girls saw the ribbons the moment she came in, no one said anything, for there came a feeling to each, that she would not want them spoken of.

Mrs. Dering noticed also that when they were gathered in the sitting-room after supper, that instead of sitting off in the far corner of the lounge as usual, she had joined the circle about the table, and was busy on some worsted work.

Ernestine was rocking idly with her pretty feet displayed on the fender, and her prettier hands clasped above her head, in an attitude both graceful and becoming. She was surveying the group about the table, where all hands were busy, and all tongues going merrily, and more than once her eyes went from Olive's ribbon's to Olive's face, so changed under the effect of a smile. They were talking of father now, with their voices lowered a little, and looking up frequently to the large portrait, as if expecting him to answer, and she wondered a little, what could be the matter with Olive, that she talked so much more than usual.

"A penny for your thoughts Ernestine," said Bea, in a pause that came presently.

"I was just thinking how hard it was to be disappointed," answered Ernestine, as pathetically as though the whole world had grieved her in some way.

"What's your disappointment! tell us," cried Kittie with interest; and everybody looked up expectant at the young lady who "had a disappointment."

"Why, I want to study with great masters and be a splendid wonderful singer, with the whole world at my feet, and sending me elegant presents," said Ernestine, who always liked to tell her little grievances or wants, and receive condolence or help.

"What a modest desire," laughed Kat. "Hasn't some one else got a disappointment, because they can't sit on a gold throne and eat sauce made of pearls with a gold spoon?" "I've got one," said Bea, with her head over her sewing. "I'd like to have mama stay home and be easy, and I'd like to have lots of pretty clothes and some real lace."

"Well, I've got one," announced Kat briskly. "I don't like being poor. I hate pots and kettles worse than mad dogs. I would like a wheel-barrow full of butter-scotch every day and a pair of slippers with blue tops and French heels. I haven't got any talent, so I needn't worry about never being able to bring it out; it would scare me to death if I had one, because talented people are always expected to do something big. That's all, and I don't know really where the disappointment is, but I guess it's the butter-scotch and slippers. What's yours Kittie?"

"I don't know," answered Kittie, with a sigh and a glance at her hands. "I guess mine's having to wash dishes, and not having black eyes, and not being able to travel all over the world."

"Well, I've got one too," said Olive, to every one's intense surprise, as they did not suppose that she was paying any attention to what they were saying, much less to join them. "I'd like to be as beautiful as the loveliest portrait ever seen, and be able to paint the grandest pictures in the world."

Everyone was silent with astonishment. For Olive to express two wishes, and such exaggerated ones, before them all, was something no one could fully appreciate who had not heard her repeatedly ridicule the same when uttered by the others.

Mrs. Dering had been sewing and listening with a smile, but now she glanced up, met Olive's eyes, and the smile brightened warmly, and there was something in it that made Olive's heart feel happy and glad that she had made her little speech, though she had hesitated before doing so.

"I don't suppose anybody cares to hear about my disappointments," said Mrs. Dering, not looking as if she had any.

"Yes, we do; I was just going to ask," exclaimed Kittie, moving closer. "I know you've got heaps, and they're not about clothes and butter-scotch, and eyes, and doing great things either. Now tell us all."

"I don't see why I should have heaps," began Mrs. Dering, with a laugh. "Is it because I am so old, or do I look as though I had been weighted down with them?"

"Why, no indeed; but didn't you ever have any, really?"

"Yes, indeed, my dear girls, many; that at the time, perhaps seemed very hard and bitter; but I came through them, and have seen some happy, happy days where their shadow never fell. I tell you what would be a very bitter disappointment to me now, and that would be to have my girls grow to womanhood, and each be discontented with her lot. I would feel as though all my love and labor had been in vain. It is my constant regret that I cannot give you each a complete and finished education, and supply home with all the comforts we love; but when I look at you now, all working so bravely, and receiving with so little complaint your rigid discipline, it makes me happy indeed, because I see in you, a womanly strength and character, that a life of ease, comfort, and few self-denials, could never have brought out clearly, and I know that God has chosen this way to make our girls the dear noble women we want them. I would that He had seen best to leave father with us, but He did not, so we must just feel that He still loves, and is interested in us, and have just as much thought for His approval as when he was with us. Now, about your disappointments;" and there she paused to glance around, but each young face was warm with interest, so she went on with her cheery smile:

"Here Ernestine, to begin with, wants to conquer the world with song, and receive elegant presents. Dearie, to conquer the world, the great, many-faced world, one's head and heart must be capable and willing to assume any and every guise; to stoop to every form of policy that secures the fickle smile; to bend to all its freaks, until it is subject to yours; and after you had done this, after you had spent your life's sweetest and purest years in studying the art of deceit and triumph, and had brought the beautiful wicked world to your feet, would you be quite happy? Could you ever be again the fresh, untouched, pure hearted creature that you are now? I'm afraid not, dear; and your warmest, greatest longing, would come back to home and girlhood, when you only knew the world's wickedness by hearsay, when you owed it nothing, and never heard its grasping cry for pay for its homage.

"Bea wants pretty clothes, and regrets that mother must work. Quite natural, dear, we all love pretty clothes, and I hope some time we can have all we want, providing it does not become a chief and selfish desire. Mother loves to work for her girls, and only regrets that it must take her from them so much of the time, for the dearest light to a mother's life, the brightest cloud that receives that life's setting sun, is found in the circle of her children's faces. To go back to Bea, she wants some real lace; I hope she may have it some time; it is a beautiful and valuable addition to a lady's wardrobe. But I am quite sure that the face of my Beatrice could never look lovelier over a garb of rarest and most exquisite workmanship than it does to-night, over a pretty linen band, with its womanly thoughtfulness and care."

Bea flushed joyfully, and bent lower over her sewing, while mother went on, with a glance at Kat's expectant face:

"Next comes one of papa's 'boys' with such a hodgepodge of a disappointment, that I can hardly make out which part of it grieves her, or if any does. She don't like pots and kettles, but they often teach us unromantic but necessary lessons that fans and perfumery never could. A wheel-barrow per day of butter-scotch would soon leave her more than she could manage or desire, and slippers with satin tops and high heels, would only prove themselves useless and injurious. She also says she has no talent, but she has a rare and valuable one, that of making the best of all her little trials and grievances, of keeping her daily sunshine free from clouds, and making home happy with her cheerful, happy heart."

Kittie gave her mother's hand a grateful squeeze, for praise given to either of the twins was dear to the other; and Kat sank out of her sight in her chair, quite overcome, and resolved heartily to cultivate her talent to the uttermost.

"Now, our other 'boy,'" continued Mrs. Dering, smiling down into Kittie's upturned face, "wants black eyes, don't like dish-washing, and would like to travel. I wonder if she thinks I would give up these brave, true, trusty blue eyes, for all the black ones in the universe. They show what a warm, faithful heart lies within, a heart that shares its twin's talent for making sunshine out of shadows, and home happy with its laughter. A life without a dish-pan misses a good disciplinarian, and, sometimes, a teacher of patience; it's like pots and kettles—unpleasant but necessary, so the sooner we take hold, when we have it to handle, and the better the grace with which we handle it, just so much have we brought our rebellious likes and dislikes under control, and made the best of our duty. While you are getting ready to travel, dear, read the works of those who have travelled, have your mind fresh and ready to more heartily enjoy what others have seen and made immortal through the power of their pen, and if it is best that that pleasure should be given you, it will come at the right time.

"Our Olive next. I wonder if she thinks that though her face was as exquisitely beautiful as the rarest picture ever painted, that it could be any more precious to our sight, than it is now; or if beauty of the loveliest type would be taken in exchange for the strong, earnest character and brave, true heart that is stamped in it. The most beautiful face may sometimes, by nature's indelible portrayer, reveal itself soulless in heart and mind; and the plainest face possess an irresistible charm, if it is allowed to interpret the emotions of a truly noble heart. I have no ambition that my little girl should paint the grandest pictures in the world, but I hope before long to give her instructions in the art that she loves, and then I want her to use to the uttermost, the beautiful talent God has given her, and though it should fall far short of being the grandest picture, I should be very happy, and quite content."

Mrs. Dering began folding up her sewing as she finished, and the girls did likewise, looking as though they had taken the little talk to heart and were thinking over it. Olive went out for her account-books and her face wore a happier look, than any one could remember seeing there lately. Before they got through examining and comparing accounts, the other girls said good-night and went up stairs, and when the last book was pushed aside, Mrs. Dering put her arm around Olive, who sat on the stool at her feet, and looked down at her with a smile.

"I like this, dear," she said, touching the ribbons. "And you have made me so much happier to-night, by looking more happy, what is it dear?"

"Nothing, mama," answered Olive. "Only I came home early one day, when the girls didn't know it, and I heard them talking about me. They said how queer and odd I was, and how they felt hurt, because I always stayed away from them, and some more things, and mama, I was so amazed. I always thought they didn't want me, and I didn't know which way to believe and I,—I just asked God to help me; and I guess He did. It's terrible hard work, though I've only tried it a few days. I'm so ugly, and I've got such a dreadful temper, and always want to think the wrong way, but I notice that I really have been happier these few days; and mama, to-night, you—" Olive paused and looked up shyly, she did not often say such things and it cost something of a little effort to begin—"you looked so happy and I couldn't help but feel that it was because you were glad, and I really am going to try all the harder now."

Back to contents