Aunt Kitty's Tales

by Madame Guizot

  CHAPTER III.

  ORPHANS.

  Mary, I have already said, had nursed her father through his long,tedious illness. She had seen him grow weaker and weaker, and she wastherefore in some degree prepared to see him die. But with Ellen it wasvery different. Mary always tried to save her pain. She would not lether spend much time in the sick-room; and indeed, though Mr. Leslie wasa very fond father, and was always glad to see Ellen, he never wishedher to remain long,--for, if she thought him very ill, she would weep sopassionately that it agitated him, and if she thought him better, shewould be very noisy in her gladness. Then, if she attempted to do anything for him, she would move in such a hurried manner, that it wasawkwardly done, if she succeeded in doing it at all. All this proceededfrom Ellen's never having learned in any way to control her feelings. Itwas love for her father which made Ellen weep or laugh, and caused herto move in haste when she was told to hand him any thing; but Mary lovedher father quite as well as Ellen, and when she saw him suffering, tearswould often stream down her cheeks, yet she would keep down every soundwhich could call his attention to her sorrows. If he was morecomfortable, you might tell it as soon as you entered the room by thebright smile upon her face, yet she never disturbed his repose by loudtalking and laughing, and though delighted when called on to serve him,she knew, that really to _serve_ him, she must move very quietly. Thiswas what is called self-control, and without it let me tell you, myyoung friends, that however kind your feelings may be, however good yourintentions, you will never make yourselves either useful or agreeable toothers. Poor Ellen! she had it not--she had never learned to controleither her temper or her feelings, and you will see how sadly shesuffered in consequence.

  I have told you that Mary, from being much with her father, was in somedegree prepared for his death, while to Ellen it was quite unexpected. Ineed not tell you that to both of them it was a very sad event,--theyoungest of you can feel how very sorrowful it would be to part with thefather who has played with and patted you, who has nursed you insickness, and taken care of you in health, and been kind and loving toyou always,--to part with him, not for a day, or a week, or a month, ora year,--but for as long as you live,--not to have him go where, thoughyou cannot see him, you may hear from him and know that he is well andhappy, and still cares for you, but to have him lie down in the grave,the still grave, from which no voice of love can come to you. Butperhaps, if you were obliged to part with your father, you would have atender mother left to sooth you and take care of you; but Mary and EllenLeslie had not this comfort, and when they saw their father carried outin his coffin, they might have felt that, except their kind UncleVillars, there was no one who would care very much if they were laidalongside of him. As you grow older you will discover that persons whogrieve together, who sorrow for the same things, love each other farmore dearly than those who are only glad together. I cannot very wellexplain to you why this is, but we all feel it,--and Mary and EllenLeslie felt it, as they lay the night after the funeral folded in eachother's arms, helpless, and but for one kind heart, friendless orphans.

  Yet even then poor Ellen had a grief which was all her own. "Oh, Mary!you were never in a passion with poor papa, and said angry words to himand grieved him. Oh, dear Mary! do you think he remembers them now?"

  Dear children who read this little book, hear me and forget not mywords,--this is the bitterest grief of all, to feel that you have givenpain to that kind heart which is gone from you, which never can comeback to hear your repentance or forgive your injustice. Save yourselffrom such sorrow by kindness and gentleness to your friends, andobedience to your parents while they are with you.

  Mr. Villars soon removed these children from their now sad home to hissmaller and humbler, but more cheerful residence. Mr. Villars had neverbeen engaged in any business. His property was small, and while hiswealthier friend and brother-in-law, Mr. Leslie, had surrounded hisfamily with elegancies and luxuries, he had been obliged to contenthimself with comforts. I say _obliged to content himself_, but I do notknow that Mr. Villars ever desired more. Indeed, I should have thoughthim an unreasonable man if he had,--every thing around him was so neat,so perfectly comfortable, and all was kept in order so quietly by thevery best old housekeeper in the country, who had lived with him eversince his wife's death, and who thoroughly understood his ways. It wasno slight praise to good old Mrs. Merrill, his housekeeper, to say thatshe understood Mr. Villars' ways, for I assure you they were by no meansso easy to understand as those of most people. Mr. Villars had lived solong alone, with nobody's tastes to consult but his own, that he hadacquired all the set habits which people generally suppose to belongonly to an old bachelor. He was thought very whimsical, and certainlyoften did things which to the rest of the world seemed very odd; andthough, when he gave his reasons, every one was compelled to acknowledgethem to be very good, they were often such as would have been thought ofby few but himself. Mrs. Merrill was a very kind woman, and receivedMary and Ellen with great tenderness, but she too had her oddities aswell as Mr. Villars. Like most persons who have had little to do withchildren, she was constantly afraid of their getting into some troubleor mischief, and she watched these girls, the youngest of whom was thentwelve years old, with as much care as if they were only four or five.Even Mary felt this unusual degree of attention to be an unpleasantrestraint, but to poor Ellen, who had all her life done just as shepleased, it was perfectly intolerable, and she could not restrain theexpression of her impatience under it.

  "Be very careful of the light, Miss Mary, and do not put it so near thecurtains, my dear," said Mrs. Merrill, on the second evening that Maryand Ellen Leslie had passed in their new home, as she was giving themtheir night lamp, after they had said good-night to their uncle.

  "I will be very careful, Mrs. Merrill," said Mary with a smile.

  "And Miss Ellen, I am busy just now and cannot go with you to your room,but your sister will untie your clothes, I dare say, if you ask herkindly, and I will come by-and-by, and see that they are nicely foldedand put away."

  "I always fold my clothes myself," was the somewhat ungracious reply tothe good woman's well-meant offer.

  As the sisters entered their room Ellen shot the bolt of her door,exclaiming, "There, we are safe from that teasing Mrs. Merrill!"

  "Oh, Ellen! she is very kind, and we must not forget, my dear sister,that there are not many in the world now, who take interest enough in usto care what we do." Ellen was softened and went tearfully to bed. Marysoon followed her, and they were just comfortably arranged when some onetried to enter, and finding the door bolted, tapped.

  "Who _is_ that?" exclaimed Ellen impatiently.

  "It is only I, Miss Ellen," answered Mrs. Merrill, "I have come to putthe light out and cover you up nicely."

  "The light _is_ out and we _are_ covered," was the peevish reply whicharose above Mary's "Thank you, Mrs. Merrill, we are in bed already."

  "Oh, Ellen! how could you speak so angrily, and hurt the kind oldwoman's feelings." Ellen could not bear to hurt anybody's feelings, andthe next moment she was out of bed, had unbolted the door, and wasrunning barefooted through the hall, calling to Mrs. Merrill. Mrs.Merrill was half way down stairs, but she came back, hurried andalarmed, exclaiming breathlessly, "What is the matter, my dear, what isthe matter?"

  "Nothing, ma'am," said Ellen very respectfully and penitently, "exceptthat Mary said that I had hurt your feelings, and I am very sorry forit. I only meant to say we were in bed already."

  "Hurt my feelings--oh dear, no! poor child! and did she make you get upfor that," putting her hand kindly on Ellen's head as she spoke--"oh no!you did not hurt my feelings--I never mind what children say."

  Ellen flirted off and jumped into bed more angry than ever, that Mrs.Merrill should have thought Mary had made her get up to speak to her,and that she should think her of so little consequence as not to mindwhat she said.