“I’m glad they are gone, and yet I’m sorry. Em seemed sorry to go, and she cried when I kissed her good-by. I really think Em loves me after all; and if it wasn’t for that ugly Charlie, she would be a nice girl. But that Charlie! Oh dear! I don’t think there is another such boy anywhere. I don’t wonder my uncle compares him to a burr, a sting-nettle, and a hedgehog. I’m sure he’s been nothing but a plague to everybody, ever since he came here. I’m glad he’s gone, anyhow. And yet, poor fellow, I pity him. He must be miserable himself, or he wouldn’t torment everybody else so—but I must go to work, I s’pose.”

Thus did Jessie talk to herself, after seeing her cousins off. She had returned to the parlor, and seated herself in her small rocking-chair. She now drew the two pieces of cloth for her uncle’s slippers, from her work-basket, and after handling them awhile with a languid air, put them in her lap, sighed, and said—

“Oh dear! I do wish these slippers were done. This is a hard pattern, and it will take me ever so many days to finish it. Heigho! I ’most wish I hadn’t begun them. Let me see if I have worsted enough to finish them.”

Here Jessie leaned over and began to explore the tangled depths of her work-basket. It was a complete olio. Old letters, pieces of silk, velvet, linen, and woollen, scraps of paper, leaves of books, old cords and rusty tassels, spools of cotton, skeins of thread and knots,—in short, almost every thing that could by any sort of chance, or mischance, get into a young lady’s work-basket, was there in rare confusion. Jessie’s love of order was not very large. Her temper was often sorely tried by the trouble which her careless habit caused her when seeking a pair of scissors, or a spool of cotton. It was so to-day. She plunged her hand deep into the basket, in search of the colored worsteds required for her uncle’s slippers. After feeling round awhile, she drew forth a tangled mess, which she placed on her lap.

“Oh dear!” she said, in a complaining tone; “how these worsteds are tangled!”

Nimbly her fingers wrought, however, and very soon the skeins were all laid out on her knee.

“Let me see,” said she, looking at her pattern; “there are one, two, three, four—five—six colors, and I have only one, two, three, four, five. Which is missing? Ah, I see: there is no brown. Must I hunt that basket again? It’s a regular jungle—no, not a jungle—a jungle is a forest, mostly covered with reeds and bushes. This is a, a—a jumble. Uncle, would call it a basket of confusion. Ha! ha!”

Vainly did Jessie explore her “basket of confusion.” In vain did she upset its contents upon the floor, and replace them by handfuls. The missing skein of brown worsted could not be found. At last, with wearied neck, and aching head, she threw herself back in her chair, and said—

“It’s no use, there is no brown worsted there. But what’s that?”

In leaning back, Jessie’s eyes were arrested by a new book which was on the mantle. Starting from her chair, she took down the book. It was a story-book that Guy had borrowed of his friend Richard Duncan. The pictures were beautiful, and Jessie, charmed by the promise of its opening pages, gave herself up to the leadings of her excited curiosity, and soon forgot all about worsted, slippers, cousins, and uncle. Little Impulse the wizard had baited his trap with a choice book, and Jessie was in his power again.

“Why, Guy! what brought you home so early?” asked Jessie, more than two hours later, when her brother’s entrance broke her attention from the book.

“Early!” exclaimed Guy, looking at his watch; “do you call fifteen minutes past twelve early?”

“Fifteen minutes past twelve!” cried Jessie, in great surprise; “it can’t be so late: your watch must be wrong, Guy.”

“Then the village clock is wrong, for I timed my watch by it as I came past,” said Guy. “I guess you have been asleep, Sis, and didn’t notice how time passed.”

“Asleep, indeed! do you think I go to sleep in the morning? not I. But I’ve been reading your book, and was just finishing it when you came in. It’s real interesting,” said Jessie.

“Yes, it’s a nice book,” replied Guy, as he left the room in response to a call from Hugh, who was in the hall.

Jessie replaced the book, and sighed as she picked up the worsteds from the floor, to think that she had done nothing to the slippers that morning. However, as there was yet over half an hour to spare before dinner, and as she could go on with her work for the present, without the brown worsted, she began plying her needle with right good will.

Presently Uncle Morris came in. He had been out all the morning. Seeing his niece so busy, he smiled, and said:

“Busy as the bee, eh, Jessie? Well, it’s the working bee that makes the honey. Guess the little wizard has lost heart now he has found out that my little puss has a strong will to do right, and a strong Friend to help her.”

Jessie blushed and sighed. She was in what young Duncan would call a “tight place.” She knew that her uncle was mistaken; that she did not deserve his praise, that by being silent she should, of her own accord, confirm his mistake and thereby deceive him. And yet, it was hard to confess her fault, under the circumstances. “What could Jessie do?”

At first she was silent. Her uncle perceiving by her manner that something puzzled and pained her, turned to his chair, and without saying another word took up the morning’s newspaper and began reading.

The longer Jessie kept up his false impression, the worse she felt. Very soon, however, the voice of the Good Spirit within her gained the victory, and throwing the slipper into the basket, she rose, saying to herself, “I will tell him all about it.”

Going to her uncle’s side, she threw an arm round his neck, gently drew his head towards her and kissed him. Then she smiled through a mist of tears, and said:

“Uncle, the little wizard hasn’t left Glen Morris, yet.”

“Hasn’t he?” replied her uncle. “Why, I thought you pricked him so sorely with your quilt needle that he had run off to Greenland, or to some other distant land to escape your little ladyship’s anger, or to woo Miss Perseverance to be his bride.”

“I wish he had,” sighed Jessie; “but I fear he never will go. I wish he didn’t like Glen Morris so well.”

Then the little girl told her uncle how Guy’s book had lured her into the wizard’s power.

“Never mind, my child,” said Uncle Morris, patting her head as he spoke, “never mind. Never give up. Attack him again with your tiny spear. Resolve that you will yet conquer him, as little David did big Goliath, in the name of the Lord. A little girl can be what she wills to be, if she only wills in the name of Him who is the teacher and the friend of children.”

“I’ll try, Uncle,” said Jessie, with the fire of resolution kindling in her eyes.

“Heaven bless you, my child!” said the old man solemnly, as he placed his hands softly upon her head. “May you always be as frank and truthful as you have now been in confessing a fault to me which you must have been very strongly tempted to conceal. May Heaven bless you!”

Didn’t Jessie feel glad then! She was glad she had resisted the temptation to receive praise she did not merit; glad she had done right; glad her uncle was pleased with her. Happy Jessie! Had she by silence deceived her uncle, she would have felt guilty and ashamed. Now she was as peaceful and hopeful as love and duty could make her.

After dinner, seeing Guy take his cap as if in great haste, Jessie followed him to the door and said: “What makes you in such a hurry, every day, Guy? You have not stayed to talk to me for ever so long.”

“You have had company, you know, Jessie, and haven’t wanted me,” replied Guy, evasively.

“But I have no company to-day,” said Jessie. “Come, don’t go yet, there’s a dear, good Guy. Come into the parlor and tell me a story.”

“Not now,” replied Guy, opening the door. Then after a moment or two of silent thought, he shut the door and said, “If you will put on your cloak and hood I’ll take you with me.”

“Oh, good, good!” exclaimed the little girl; and after running to her mother for consent, she soon returned fitly equipped for a walk on that breezy November afternoon.

It being Wednesday and no school, Guy had the afternoon before him. He led his sister towards the village, telling her he was going to take her to see a good old lady of whom, he said, he was very fond.

“Who is she? How did you find her out? Does Uncle Morris know her?” were among the many questions which Jessie put to her brother. He did not see fit to satisfy her, however, except to say, “Her name is Mrs. Moneypenny.”

“Mrs. Moneypenny! What a funny name?” exclaimed Jessie, laughing and repeating the name.

“Yes, it is odd; but the lady who bears it, is a noble woman.”

“Is she rich?”

“No, she is very poor, very poor indeed.”

“Very poor, eh? But how came you to know her?”

“That’s my secret.”

“A secret! Please tell me about it, Guy?”

“Can’t do it, Jessie. You know girls can’t keep secrets,” replied Guy, laughing and looking archly at his sister.

“I can, Guy. Do tell me. I won’t tell Hugh, nor Carrie Sherwood, no, nor even Uncle Morris, though I can’t see why you should keep a secret from him.”

Just then Guy and his sister were passing some open lots in the village street. Several rough boys were standing round a small bonfire which they had made out of the dead branches and leaves of trees, which the fall winds had scattered over the streets and open lots. As soon as they saw Guy, one of them cried in a jeering tone:

“There goes Mrs. Moneypenny’s cow-boy!”

“Wonder how much he gets a week,” shouted another boy.

“Perhaps he’s gwine to be the old lady’s heir,” said the first.

“Guess he ’spects young Jack Moneypenny’s gwine to die, down in the Brooklyn hospital, and he wants the old ooman to adopt him. He! he!” said a third speaker.

Loud peals of derisive laughter followed these remarks. Guy made no reply, but grasping his sister’s hand more tightly, he hurried past at a rapid walk, and was soon out of hearing.

“Oh! I am so glad we are past those wicked boys,” said Jessie, slightly shivering with fear. “But what did they call you a cow-boy for, Guy?”

“I suppose I must tell you my secret now,” said Guy. “Those boys have partly let my cat out of the bag.”

Guy then told his sister, that Mrs. Moneypenny was a poor widow, with a son named Jack. She rented a cottage and a little piece of land. A cow, a few hens, and Jack’s labor, were all she had to depend upon. Jack, being a steady boy, earned enough to keep them comfortable in their simple way of living. But a great misfortune had overtaken them. Jack, while in Brooklyn, with a lot of eggs and chickens, which he had taken in to sell, had been knocked down and run over by a horse and wagon. His leg was broken, and he was carried to the hospital.

This sad news was quickly sent to Jack’s mother. Poor old lady! It seemed as if her only stay was broken by this disaster. Being lame, she could not go to her son, neither could she take care of her cow at home. She was in deep distress, and wept many tears over poor Jack’s sufferings, and her own hard fate.

Guy happened to hear her case talked over at the post-office, the very day the news of Jack’s misfortune arrived. He heard a gentleman say, that she must be sent to the alms-house, though, being a woman of spirit, he feared she would break her heart and die, if she was. Full of pity for the old lady, Guy went to her, and offered to take care of her cow and hens, as long as Jack might be sick.

“It would have melted your heart,” said Guy, as he finished his story, “had you seen the old lady cry for joy at my offer. She looked so thankful, and seemed so much relieved, that I felt as happy as an angel, to think that by doing such a little thing as milking and feeding a cow for a few weeks, I could shed so much light in the dwelling of a poor, but noble woman.”

Jessie’s eyes swam with tears. She pressed Guy’s hand, but spoke not. He understood the meaning of that pressure. He knew that in her heart she was saying, “My brother did right, and those boys were very wicked for calling after him. I love my dear brother better than ever.”

While such thoughts as these were passing in Jessie’s mind, and Guy was feeling the gladness which welled up within him like living water, they reached the cottage. Mrs. Moneypenny received them with smiles of welcome. She kissed Jessie, and said:

“You look as if you had a heart as kind as your brother’s. May Heaven bless you both!”

Then the old lady began to talk about her “dear Jack.” After telling them he was “getting along nicely,” she read a letter which he made out to write in pencil, as he lay bolstered up in his bed. Having finished it, the good mother sighed, and said:

“Dear Jack! How I do wish he could be brought home, so that I could take care of him myself! There is no nurse like a mother. The poor fellow says he wants some more shirts sent him, but I haven’t another to send him, nor any thing to make him one with. Ah, my children, poverty is not a pleasant heritage; but never mind; life is short, and I and my poor Jack will have mansions, robes, and riches in the better land. May you, my children, be blessed with such treasures both here and hereafter!”

After Guy had “looked to the cow,” in the hovel which answered for a barn, he and his sister took their leave of the widow.

Jessie walked quietly home, looking very grave, and scarcely speaking a word by the way. Once she turned to Guy and asked:

“How large a boy is Jack?”

“About my size,” replied Guy.

Jessie had a big thought in her head—I mean a big thought for a little girl. If you wish to know what it was, you must consult the next chapter.