{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_76232/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_76232","id":"gutenberg_76232","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/76232","summary":null,"tags":["Category: American Literature","Category: Children & Young Adult Reading","Category: Novels","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Christian life -- Juvenile fiction","Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction","Household employees -- Juvenile fiction","Laziness -- Juvenile fiction","Teenage girls -- Juvenile fiction","Youth -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction"],"text":"Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.\nNew original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the\npublic domain.\n\n[Illustration: _Abbey; or, Taking it Easy._\n Abbey finds Elvie weeding in the garden.]\n\n\n\n                               ABBEY;\n\n                                 OR,\n\n                           TAKING IT EASY.\n\n\n                                [BY]\n\n                       [LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY.]\n\n\n                           \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n\n\n                            PHILADELPHIA:\n                    AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,\n                      NO. 1122 CHESTNUT STREET.\n                           \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n                       NEW YORK: 599 BROADWAY.\n\n\n\n    \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n\n     Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by the\n\n                    AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,\n\n   in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States\n\n              for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.\n\n    \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n\n\n\n                              CONTENTS.\n\n                               \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n\nCHAPTER\n\n   I.\u2014THE GREEN PAIL\n\n  II.\u2014TRYING AGAIN\n\n III.\u2014CONSULTATIONS\n\n  IV.\u2014A CHANGE\n\n   V.\u2014MRS. POWELL\n\n  VI.\u2014KINDLING A FIRE\n\n\n\n                               ABBEY;\n\n                                 OR,\n\n                          \"TAKING IT EASY.\"\n\n                              \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nTHE GREEN PAIL.\n\n\"TAKE the green pail to carry the water up-stairs, and set the smaller\none on the stove, with water in it, that I may have it hot presently,\"\nsaid Mrs. Ward. \"Do you understand me?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, I know,\" answered Abbey, confidently.\n\nMrs. Ward closed the kitchen-door, and sat down in the shade on the\nback steps for a few minutes, to read the paper before going on with\nher day's work.\n\nShe had certainly earned a little rest. For she had been up since five\no'clock, had prepared her husband's breakfast and sent him off to his\nwork at seven o'clock, had swept and dusted her pretty little parlour\nand dining-room, and was presently to make bread and cakes, and a\nmeat-pie to be eaten cold for next day's dinner. For, while she made it\na rule never to do unnecessary cooking on Sunday, she \"calculated,\" as\nshe would have said, to provide something rather better than common for\nher husband's dinner on that day.\n\nShe was the wife of a hard-working, painstaking printer,\u2014a man who\nnever missed a day's work from idleness or a spree, but who yet had\nhard work enough to maintain his family at home, help support his old\nmother, keep his house and life insured, and make both ends of the\nyear meet. Mrs. Ward had never kept a girl till quite lately. She had\nalways been able to do all her own work, with the help of her daughter,\nwho had been trained to usefulness from the time she could run alone.\nBut Comfort Ward, though a strong and healthy girl up to the age of\nfourteen, had then begun to pine away and fade like a plant. The spring\nafter her fifteenth birthday, she was laid to rest under the trees\nof Mount Faith Cemetery, in the sure and certain hope of a glorious\nimmortality. Her illness was long and trying, and Mrs. Ward found\nherself so worn out after it was over, that her husband insisted on her\nhaving some one to help her in her household work.\n\nSo she hired Abbey Jenkins, a stout girl of fourteen, who had already\nlived in two or three different places, but for some reason (which no\none seemed exactly to understand) had never stayed long in any one of\nthem. Every one told Mrs. Jenkins that her Abbey could not possibly\nhave a better place: Mrs. Ward was an excellent Christian woman, a\ncapital housekeeper, understanding all sorts of work, and one who would\ndo her duty by any girl who lived with her. Old Aunt Ph\u0153be Ray added to\nher congratulations the remark that Mrs. Ward had a heap of patience,\nand could get on with Abbey if any one could; from which we may gather\nthat Abbey was no particular favourite with the old lady.\n\nMrs. Ward was tired, and the shaded back steps made a very pleasant\nresting-place. She looked through the paper, and then sat for a few\nmoments surveying her little garden-ground and considering how she\ncould put in a row of Martinias and some new annual flower-seeds where\nevery inch of room seemed already occupied,\u2014 when she perceived a smell\nas of burning paint.\n\n\"Somebody has got a hot fire,\" was her first thought. \"It comes from\nthe kitchen!\" was her second.\n\nShe jumped up hastily and opened the door. There on the stove was her\nnew, neatly-painted green water-pail, all blackened and blistered with\nthe heat, the paint upon the bottom burned off, and filling the whole\nhouse with a most unsavory odour! She hastened to snatch it off, but\nthe mischief was done. The pail was utterly spoiled.\n\nMrs. Ward was a woman who understood pretty well how to rule her own\nspirit. She did not utter a single hasty exclamation, but there was\nsome sharpness in the tone with which she called \"Abbey!\" at the foot\nof the back stairs.\n\nAbbey did not answer.\n\nAnd Mrs. Ward, listening, heard a sort of rubbing and scrubbing sound,\nas of some one violently rubbing a carpet.\n\n\"What has she been about?\" thought Mrs. Ward.\n\nShe stepped into the parlour, to lay down the paper. The first thing\nwhich caught her eye was a large and rapidly-spreading stain upon the\nnewly whitened ceiling, from which water was falling drop by drop upon\nthe matting below. She hurried up-stairs, and beheld a scene which\nexplained the whole matter. The pail which Abbey had been told to set\nupon the stove lay on the floor, with the handle out, and Abbey was\nbusily swabbing up the water with some large white cloth done up into a\nwad.\n\n\"What 'have' you been about, Abbey?\" asked Mrs. Ward.\n\n\"The handle came out of the pail, and spilt the water,\" replied Abbey,\nwith rather an air of injured innocence. \"I didn't know it was loose.\"\n\n\"Didn't I tell you to set that pail on the stove and take the green one\nto carry up the water?\" asked Mrs. Ward.\n\n\"I didn't understand,\" said Abbey.\n\n\"If you did not understand, it was because you did not pay attention,\"\nreturned Mrs. Ward. \"I told you, in perfectly plain English, to set\nthis pail on the stove and carry the other up-stairs. And you have done\nexactly the contrary, and accomplished more mischief in one half-hour\nthan your wages will be worth for a month to come. I think you had\nbetter go home to your mother. I cannot afford to keep a girl who\ncannot turn round without doing mischief, just because she will not\nattend to what is said to her. What are you rubbing the floor with? Let\nme see.\"\n\nShe took the cloth out of her hands and unfolded it, but the sight it\npresented did not tend to comfort her. It was an old but fine damask\ntable-cloth, bearing the marks of careful preservation and mending, but\nnow worn into two or three great holes by Abbey's rubbing. As Mrs. Ward\nlooked at it, her colour rose, and the tears came into her eyes.\n\n\"My dear mother's cloth!\u2014And the very last I had!\" said she. \"You had\nbetter go to bed, and stay there the rest of the day. There, at least,\nyou will be out of mischief.\"\n\n\"I'm sure I didn't mean any thing\u2014\" and Abbey began her defence.\n\nBut Mrs. Ward interrupted her.\n\n\"Yes: there is exactly the trouble. You never do mean any thing,\neither good or bad. You don't mean any harm, perhaps, but you don't\nmean any good, either. You don't put your mind upon your work in the\nleast degree, nor do you attend to any thing that is said to you. Half\nthe mischief in the world is done by people who don't mean any thing.\nAnother trouble is that you think you know every thing already,\u2014instead\nof which you are a very ignorant little girl, deficient in almost every\nthing that should be known even by a girl of your age. And if you are\never going to be any thing but a real torment to every one about you,\nyou will have to take a great deal of pains for it. Just because you\nwould not attend to perfectly plain directions, you have done more\nmischief since you came into this house, only a month ago, than your\nwork will be worth in six months if you do your very best. I don't\nthink I can afford to keep you any longer. If I saw you improving, or\ntaking pains to improve, I should feel differently; but you don't.\"\n\nMrs. Ward may be excused for feeling irritated. The parlour-ceiling\nhad just been whitened, at considerable expense; the pail was a new\none, and the table-cloth an heirloom which had been in her family for\ntwo or three generations. It was not Abbey's first piece of mischief,\neither. She had broken more cups, loosened more knife-handles and\nspotted more floors than Mrs. Ward had done in all her housekeeping.\nShe had killed two or three valuable plants by throwing her dish-water\nupon them,\u2014though she was expressly told what to do with it,\u2014and broken\ndown a Diana grape-vine, which Mr. Ward was nursing with great care,\nby throwing the coal-ashes upon it, instead of putting them in their\nproper place. In every one of these cases her excuse was that she\ndidn't mean any thing; she didn't understand.\n\n\"What shall I do next?\" asked Abbey, after Mrs. Ward had washed and\nhung up the unlucky table-cloth.\n\n\"You can take those towels and sit down to hem them in the kitchen,\nwhere I can see you while I am mixing my bread,\" replied Mrs. Ward.\n\n\"Can't I sit up in my room?\" asked Abbey.\n\n\"No! Unless you are under my eye, you will hem half of them one way and\nhalf the other. And I cannot trust you to finish the work up-stairs by\nyourself.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Abbey to herself, as she hunted up her thimble (which was\nnever in its place), \"I'm glad I don't worry so about every little\nthing. I believe in taking things easy, for my part.\"\n\nIt is worthy of notice that for every person who prides himself or\nherself on taking things easy, there is always some one else who has\nto take them hard in proportion. This was the case with Abbey and her\nfriends. She had always taken things easy, ever since she was born.\n\nAs a little child, her mother had been proud of her daughter's placid\ndisposition and had boasted that nothing ever put Abbey out. But as the\nchild grew older, and became of an age to be helpful to her mother,\nMrs. Miles did not find that Abbey lightened her cares at all. Somehow,\nshe had a remarkable knack of \"shirking,\"\u2014of slipping out of and away\nfrom every thing that she did not like to do,\u2014of breaking and spoiling\nevery thing she took in hand,\u2014of being so long over her breakfast\ndishes that it was less trouble to her mother to wash them herself,\u2014of\ngetting the baby into scrapes whenever she was set to tend him,\u2014of\nbuying exactly the wrong thing whenever she was sent to market or to\nthe grocer's, and never coming back till the last minute.\n\nAll this time, Abbey was as placid as possible. No scolding disturbed\nher temper or did her any good. She was always singing over her work.\nAnd as she had a sweet voice and sung with a good deal of taste,\nvisitors were apt to remark how pleasant it was to have a child of such\na happy disposition!\n\nWhen Abbey was thirteen years old, her mother married again. Abbey's\nstepfather was a hard-working, energetic, well-principled man, who\nfully intended to do the part of a father by his wife's children. But\nhe was what is called \"short-tempered,\" and being, as I said, very\nhard-working and painstaking himself, he had not very much patience\nwith the opposite qualities. Abbey found herself driven about and\nstirred up more than she had ever been before in her life.\n\nMrs. Jenkins felt sorry for her, but she had lately become awake to\nthe fact that Abbey would have to earn her own living. And that, if\nshe were ever to be good for any thing, it was quite time she began.\nAbbey, however, was more than a match for her stepfather. Her placidity\nof temper gave her a great advantage over his fretful position,\u2014as\ncotton-bags are said to oppose the best resistance to cannon-balls.\n\nBut Mr. Jenkins had the advantage in one way, and at last he used it.\nHe possessed \"the power of the purse;\" and he declared that he would no\nlonger support Abbey in idleness: she should go out to work, and earn\nher own living in some one else's house, if not in her own home.\n\nAbbey had been living out for four months, and she had been in three\ndifferent places already. As I said, her mother was very glad when Mrs.\nWard took her in hand. And Aunt Ph\u0153be Ray, who had interested herself\nvery much in finding places for Abbey, declared that Mrs. Ward could\nget on with the girl if any one could.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nTRYING AGAIN.\n\nABBEY took her work and went down into the kitchen, where Mrs. Ward\nwas mixing her bread. She was not in the least ruffled by the events\nof the morning, and thought it very strange that any one else should\nbe. What was the use? She made various remarks by way of beginning a\nconversation, to which she got very short answers, or none at all.\nPresently she began to sing.\n\n\"Don't sing, Abbey: attend to your work,\" said Mrs. Ward, shortly. \"I\ndo think one reason why you never have your mind upon what you are\nabout is that you are always singing. The sound serves you instead of\nthought.\"\n\nThis was quite true in Abbey's case, and I have no doubt it is true of\nmany others. The poet says of some one that,\u2014\n\n   \"He whistled as he went, for want of thought.\"\n\nAbbey sung for want of thought. Being now, however, reduced to silence,\nshe was obliged to think a little, and her reflections were not\nremarkably pleasant. She could not but confess to herself that it would\nnot be very convenient to lose her place again and have to go home in\ndisgrace for the fourth time in as many months, while her next youngest\nsister, who was only twelve, had been living with one lady for nearly\na year, and had lately had her wages raised. She had spoiled her best\nfrock by washing dishes in it at her last place. Her second-best was\nrapidly becoming shabby; and Mr. Jenkins declared that he would not buy\nher another,\u2014she should earn it herself, and then she would know the\nvalue of it; nor would he allow Elvira to divide her wages with her\nsister.\n\n\"You think I am hard upon the girl,\" he said to his wife, \"and I dare\nsay other people have plenty to say about the matter. But I tell you\nthat she will never be good for any thing till she finds out that she\nis dependent on her own exertions for her living.\"\n\n\"I believe you are right,\" said Mrs. Jenkins, sighing, \"but I begin to\nbe afraid she will never learn any thing. The trouble is, that she does\nnot care. No fault-finding disturbs her in the least.\"\n\n\"Exactly so. But she likes to dress well and to have plenty to eat, and\nshe 'will' care when she finds that she is to have neither food nor\nclothes unless she provides them for herself.\"\n\nAbbey could not but admit to herself as she sat at work that if she\nleft Mrs. Ward in disgrace, the chances of her finding another place\nwere very small. Aunt Ph\u0153be Ray, who got situations for half the girls\nin Milby, declared positively that she would never recommend her again\nif she failed this time. It was, no doubt, unreasonable in Mrs. Ward to\nbe so angry at an accident (so Abbey said to herself), but it was clear\nthat she was very much put out. Indeed, she had as good as told her\nthat she might go home. Certainly, the prospect was not a pleasant one.\n\n\"But there is no use in worrying,\" said Abbey. \"I dare say something\nwill happen.\"\n\nMeantime, Mrs. Ward had in some degree recovered her composure. She did\nnot regret the scolding she had given Abbey,\u2014she knew very well that\nhardly any thing would rouse her from her indifference. But she began\nto think whether she had not better try her a little longer. She knew\nhow poor the family really were, and how hard both father and mother\nworked to keep themselves out of debt and their children comfortable\nand respectable, and to provide comforts and luxuries for the oldest\nboy,\u2014a poor little humpbacked cripple of ten years, who had never been\nable to walk, and probably never would be. She remembered how glad Mrs.\nJenkins had been to procure the place for Abbey. And she finally made\nup her mind to try the girl a little longer.\n\n\"After all, I suppose I may as well have patience with her as any one\nelse,\" said she to herself. \"If Comfort had been obliged to live out, I\nshould have wanted people to have patience with her.\"\n\n\"Now, Abbey, I want you to attend, what I say,\" said Mrs. Ward, as\nshe finally took her sewing and sat down. \"Don't let your mind wander\nto the ends of the earth,\u2014nor out of the window, either,\" she added,\nwith some sharpness, as she saw Abbey beginning in a dreamy manner to\ncontemplate some cows upon the common. \"Listen to me.\"\n\nAbbey had a habit, whenever any one began to reprove her,\u2014or \"lecture\nher,\" as she said,\u2014of at once beginning to think of something else.\nJust at this time she had a perception that such a course would not be\nvery wise: so she brought in her eyes from the common, and her mind\nfrom the day-dream she was just beginning, and prepared to give some\nattention to what was said to her.\n\n\"Do you want to keep your place, Abbey?\" asked Mrs. Ward.\n\n\"If I can suit you,\" said Abbey.\n\n\"Suppose you go away from here: what do you expect to do?\"\n\n\"Go home, I suppose, and stay till I get another place,\" replied Abbey.\n\n\"It may not be so easy for you to find another place,\" said Mrs. Ward.\n\"Which of the ladies you have lived with during the last few months, do\nyou think, would recommend you?\"\n\nAbbey was silent.\n\n\"And, meantime, you will be at home, where you are not wanted, and be a\nburden upon hands which are already more than full.\"\n\n\"I don't see how I can help it,\" said Abbey. \"And I don't think it is\nfair to twit me with it. I am sure you could tell any one that I was\nneat and honest, and\u2014\"\n\n\"Look under that table, Abbey, and see the dust upon the legs,\"\ninterrupted Mrs. Ward. \"Look out of the window, and see those\ncoal-ashes. As for honesty, there are more ways of being dishonest than\nmerely stealing.\"\n\n\"I don't know what you mean, Mrs. Ward,\" said Abbey, now really\ncolouring and showing some signs of feeling.\n\n\"Well, Abbey, I will tell you what I mean. I give you good wages,\u2014very\ngood for a girl of your age,\u2014which I pay you every Saturday out of my\nown and my husband's hard earnings. Do you take pains to earn those\nwages? When I go to a store and lay out five dollars, I expect to get\nthe worth of my money. And if the tradesman gives me short measure or\nan inferior article, I call him a dishonest man. If I pay a girl good\nwages for doing my work, and she neglects it, or does it badly and in\nsuch a manner as to bring loss upon me, I call her a dishonest girl,\nwhether she steals the value of a penny from me or not.\"\n\n\"I don't think I have done any thing so very bad,\" said Abbey. \"Every\none makes mistakes sometimes.\"\n\n\"Listen, Abbey,\" replied Mrs. Ward, taking a paper from her\nwork-basket. \"I have been making a little calculation as to what you\nhave cost me since you came here, a little more than four weeks ago. I\nwill read it to you:\u2014\n\n   \"Two cups broken, at 25c. each..........................$0.50\n    Tin basin forgotten and left on the stove to burn up.... .30\n    Diana grape-vine spoiled................................1.00\n    Fine rose-bushes spoiled................................1.00\n    Towel burned up......................................... .25\n    New water-pail spoiled..................................1.50\n    Parlour-ceiling spoiled.................................2.00\n                                                           \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n                                                           $6.55\n\n\"There are six dollars and fifty-five cents, at the lowest calculation,\na dead loss; and all from the sheerest carelessness and indifference on\nyour part. Not one of these accidents was necessary. I say nothing of\nthe table-cloth, for no money will pay for that. And I have put down\nthe rose-bushes at just what I gave for them,\u2014though I would not have\ntaken ten dollars apiece for them. The very last thing my daughter did\nin the garden was to set out those two rose-bushes, which you destroyed\njust because you would not pay attention and did not care whether you\ndid right or wrong.\"\n\nFor once, Abbey did not seem to have any thing to say for herself. She\nwas not used to be treated in this way. She had often been scolded\nand fretted at, and she had intrenched herself in indifference and\ninattention. But it was something new to have somebody sit down and\ncalmly compel her attention to a straightforward, business-like account\nof her misdeeds.\n\nShe did not know how to meet it. And, for once in her life, she felt\nashamed and irritated. The feelings were not pleasant to her. Abbey\nbegan to cry,\u2014a very unusual thing with her.\n\n\"I am sure, Mrs. Ward, I did not mean any harm!\" she sobbed. \"I think\nit is very hard to lay it all to me.\"\n\n\"Who shall we lay it to?\u2014To me?\" asked Mrs. Ward. \"I don't suppose you\ndid mean to do wrong; but neither did you mean to do right. If you had,\nyou would have done right; for there was nothing to hinder you, but,\non the contrary, every thing to help you. You knew better than to do\nany one of these things,\u2014some of them because you were expressly told\nat the time, and others because any person of common sense would know\nbetter. You have caused me all this loss and discomfort in a perfectly\nneedless manner; you have slipped yourself out of every bit of work\nthat you could get rid of; and yet you expect me to pay you as much as\nif you had done your work faithfully. Is that honest?\"\n\nFor once, Abbey's conscience was touched. She could not get out of the\ncorner in which Mrs. Ward had placed her, and she dared not say \"yes\"\nto the question.\n\n\"But there is another and a still more serious view of the matter,\"\ncontinued Mrs. Ward, after a little silence. \"Abbey, do you ever\nreflect that you are accountable to God for the way in which you spend\nyour time and your strength?\"\n\nAbbey did not answer aloud. But she said to herself, \"Oh, dear! I do\nwish she would not begin on that. A lecture is bad enough, without a\nsermon.\"\n\n\"Do you remember the twenty-fifth chapter of the Gospel by Matthew?\"\nasked Mrs. Ward.\n\nAbbey did not remember it particularly, though it had been read at\nfamily worship only the day before.\n\n\"It contains very interesting and important instructions about the last\njudgment,\" continued Mrs. Ward. \"We have, first, the parable of the ten\nvirgins. How did the five foolish virgins come to be shut out from the\nmarriage supper? Was it because they broke their lamps, or made any bad\nuse of them?\"\n\n\"It was because they took no oil,\" replied Abbey.\n\n\"And in the case of the unfaithful servant who was cast into outer\ndarkness, for what was he condemned? Did he spend his lord's money, or\nwaste it?\"\n\n\"He hid it in the ground,\" replied Abbey.\n\n\"And what ought he to have done?\"\n\n\"He ought to have traded with it, as the others did, I suppose,\" said\nAbbey.\n\n\"Now we come to the account of the last judgment,\" said Mrs. Ward.\n\"Does our Lord say to those on his left hand that they had robbed, or\nmurdered, or done any thing of that sort, for which they were to be\ncondemned?\"\n\nAbbey was silent. She began to see the drift of the sermon, as she\ncalled it.\n\n\"In every one of these instances,\" continued Mrs. Ward, \"we find people\ncondemned for things which they had omitted. I do not suppose the\nfoolish virgins 'meant any harm,'\u2014as you are so fond of saying. They\nmerely forgot to provide themselves with oil.\n\n\"The slothful servant, as I said, did not make any bad use of the\nmoney committed to his charge. He was merely too lazy to use it at\nall. Doubtless he might have doubled his talent, as well as his\nfellow-servants; but that would have required thought and exertion and\nwatchfulness. He would have been obliged to get up early, and go into\nthe market, and keep himself informed as to the state of trade,\u2014all\nof which he thought too much trouble. It was easier to put the talent\nout of sight and indulge his indolence, excusing himself to his own\nconscience with the thought that his master was a hard man and would\nnot be pleased whatever he did, and that, after all, he was not so bad\nas some other people, for he did not spend his talent for fine clothes\nor strong drink.\n\n\"You see, Abbey, what I mean. God has given you more than one talent,\nand of these talents, he will one day demand a strict account. He has\ngiven you health and strength, and people who are willing to teach you.\nAnd if you misuse all these things, or if you do not use them at all,\nit will not excuse you, when he calls you to account, that you did not\nmean any thing in particular, any more than the five foolish virgins\nwere excused.\"\n\n\"I am not a professor of religion,\" said Abbey.\n\n\"So much the worse for you, my child. If you were ten times a professor\nof religion, you would be under no more obligation to serve God\nthan you are now. And you cannot get rid of your obligation by not\nacknowledging it. You are only adding one more sin to all the others.\"\n\n\"I don't see how that is,\" said Abbey. \"I think Christians ought to\nbe a great deal better than other people, for my part though I don't\nsee that they are. I am sure my father isn't. He is always reading the\nBible, and all that. And I don't see that he is any better-tempered for\nthat. And there is Elvie! She joined the church last fall. And what\ngood has it done her?\"\n\n\"Why do you think your father is not a good man?\" asked Mrs. Ward.\n\n\"He is always finding fault with me,\" said Abbey. \"I have not had one\nbit of comfort at home since he came there. Mother never said one word\nabout my living out, till he began to talk about it.\"\n\n\"But, Abbey, you must have known that you would have your own living to\nearn some time. Who did you think was going to support you?\"\n\nAbbey did not know: only, she didn't see why she should have to work\nfor a living, more than other people. She didn't see why some one\nshouldn't leave her a fortune. \"Mrs. Frost's uncle had left one to her.\"\n\n\"Do you reflect, Abbey, that if such an event had taken place, it would\nonly have increased your responsibility? It would be another talent,\nfor the use of which you would have to answer to God. And if you hide\naway and neglect the talents you have already, what reason have you to\nthink that you would do better with ten than with one?\"\n\n\"I don't believe rich people trouble themselves about such things as\nthat,\" said Abbey. \"They just have the money and spend it and take the\ncomfort of it.\"\n\n\"Many rich people do trouble themselves about such things,\" said Mrs.\nWard. \"They consider themselves only as stewards of the wealth God has\ngiven them, and use it for his service. You have heard of Miss Nancy\nWigglesworth, who founded the Old Ladies' Home and the Coloured Orphan\nAsylum?\"\n\n\"Folks say she was an old miser,\" said Abbey, \"and that she used to\ngo looking like a fright, and would not give a beggar a bit of money\nfor any thing. I wouldn't be like that. I would take the comfort of my\nmoney as I went along.\"\n\n\"People were very unjust to call Miss Wigglesworth a miser,\" said Mrs.\nWard. \"She never spent one-quarter of her income upon herself. All the\nrest went for religious and charitable uses. She used to help poor\npeople by lending them money as they needed it. Sometimes they would\nneglect to pay her, when they were perfectly well able to do so; and\nthen, when they were compelled to pay, they railed at their benefactor\nas a hard-hearted miser. Another way in which she got the name of being\nstingy was that she never would give to an object of which she did not\napprove. People used to go to her for all sorts of things, and when she\nrefused them, they abused her.\"\n\n\"That's just what I say,\" persisted Abbey. \"What was the use, after\nall? She might just as well have taken the comfort of her money as she\nwent along, instead of giving it away and getting no thanks for it.\"\n\n\"Miss Wigglesworth has been dead eighteen or twenty years,\" said Mrs.\nWard; \"that is to say, she has been all that time in heaven. Do you\nsuppose she regrets now that she gave away her money and did not spend\nit upon her own pleasures? I remember well going with my mother to see\nher when she was ill with her last sickness. She suffered a long while,\nand very terribly at times; but I shall never forget the peace and joy\nin her face as she spoke of her own death, nor the tone in which she\nrepeated the words,\u2014\n\n   \"'I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept\nthe faith: Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness.'\n\n\"Do you think the rich man in the parable felt like that when God said\nto him, 'Thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of thee'?\n\n\"Yet all he meant to do was to have a good time as he went along.\"\n\nAbbey writhed impatiently in her chair. She never could bear to think\nof dying.\n\n\"Well, I am not rich, and I never shall be,\" said she: \"so that is\nnothing to me.\"\n\n\"You are mistaken, Abbey. It is every thing to you. You are not rich\nin money,\u2014that is true; but you are rich in what is worth far more,\nin what money cannot buy,\u2014in health, and strength, and chances of\nusefulness. You may put aside all these gifts in a napkin; you may\nemploy them for your own selfish ends,\u2014in merely 'having a good time,'\nas you say. You may let them rust in idleness, or wear them out in\nthe service of self and the devil; but rest assured of this, that for\nevery one of them God will as surely bring you into judgment as you sit\nthere.\"\n\n\"Do you wish to stay here, Abbey?\" asked Mrs. Ward, once more.\n\nAbbey did not answer. She did \"not\" wish to stay, if she could help it;\nbut she did not see what else she was to do.\n\n\"You can take till to-night to think over the matter,\" continued\nMrs. Ward, \"but I tell you plainly that, if you 'do' stay, it must\nbe on very different terms than heretofore. You must conduct very\ndifferently. I shall charge you for every article that you break\nor spoil, and I shall make you do over again every thing you leave\nundone or half done. I am willing, for your mother's sake, to try you\na while longer on these terms; that is, if Mr. Ward will give his\nconsent,\u2014for he will be very much vexed when he sees the condition of\nthe parlour-ceiling. As I said, you can take till night to consider\nthe matter. Now put away your sewing, take the dust-pan and brush, and\nbrush under every table in the room, and then rub all the chair-rounds\nand table-legs with the cloth.\"\n\nAbbey obeyed, feeling very ill used indeed. Her conscience, which she\nhad heretofore managed to keep pretty quiet, was at last awakened,\nand it pricked her severely. Abbey did not like the feeling at all.\nIt irritated her, as any discomfort of body or mind always did. And\nshe felt provoked at Mrs. Ward for having given her this new and very\ndisagreeable sensation. She would have liked very much to throw up her\nplace and go home; but home was not likely to be any more agreeable to\nher than her present situation, and she must earn something, or go in\nrags.\n\n\"Dear me!\" she said to herself, impatiently, \"it does seem as if when\nall we wanted was to live in peace and have a good time, one might be\nlet alone and allowed to have it; but it appears as though every thing\nwas dead set against me.\"\n\nEven so, Abbey. The whole course of nature is \"dead set\" against any\none who will not work either with it or against it.\n\n\"I believe I will go and talk it over with Elvie this afternoon,\" said\nAbbey. \"She will think I am to blame, of course; but, then, she won't\nscold and fume, like father, or sigh and look as if I had half-killed\nher, as mother does every time I come home.\"\n\n\"Can I go over to Mrs. Frost's and see my sister?\" asked Abbey, after\ndinner.\n\n\"I have no objection; but you must be at home by five o'clock. And I\nwant you to stop at the butcher's and bring home a veal cutlet for Mr.\nWard's supper. Now remember! What do you mean to buy?\"\n\n\"A quarter\u2014I mean a cutlet of veal,\" said Abbey, recollecting herself.\n\n\"Well, now, mind what you are about. Don't make a mistake, and don't\nforget the time.\"\n\n\"Oh, dear!\" sighed Abbey, as she walked away,\u2014for once remembering to\nlatch the gate after her. \"I do wish folks would not be so cross! I am\nnot 'that,' anyhow, whatever else I am.\"\n\nThis was always Abbey's last refuge when found fault with. She did\nnot reflect that her naturally placid temper was only another talent\ncommitted to her charge, which would prove a curse or a blessing\naccording as she used it.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nCONSULTATIONS.\n\nABBEY found Elvie busily engaged, not in the kitchen or in sewing, but\nin the garden, squatting down on her feet and weeding a flower-bed.\n\n\"Well, I declare! I did not know you were hired to work out-of-doors,\"\nsaid Abbey.\n\n\"Nor I,\" returned Elvie, smiling, as she laid down her trowel and rose\nup to greet Abbey.\n\n\"I am working 'on my own hook,' as father says. Mrs. Frost has given\nme all this long border for my own garden, and I am to have all I\ncan raise from it. I have bought fifty cents' worth of seeds with my\nown money, and Mrs. Frost has given me as many more, and some plants\nbesides.\n\n\"Won't it be nice to have some flowers for poor Harry,\u2014and some fruit,\ntoo? For those two gooseberry-bushes, and that double row of strawberry\nplants, are all mine. Won't it be nice?\"\n\n\"Very nice,\" said Abbey, rather languidly; \"but I should think Mrs.\nFrost might give you all you wanted,\u2014such a large garden as she has.\"\n\n\"But they wouldn't be the same at all,\" said Elvie. \"They would be her\npresents then, and not mine. And it is so much pleasanter to give away\nsomething which you have earned or made yourself.\"\n\n\"I don't see why,\" returned Abbey. \"A present is a present.\"\n\n\"And, besides,\" said Elvie,\u2014who knew by experience that there was no\nuse in trying to make Abbey understand her,\u2014\"I love to work in the\ngarden. The ground smells so good and fresh, and it is so curious and\ninteresting to see things grow. Look at all these little green rings\nof plants. They did not show the least bit yesterday afternoon; but\nthe shower has brought them up nicely. I am going to put some of the\nsweet alyssum, and Tweedia, and some other things, in a cocoanut basket\nI have been making for Harry to hang up in his window. Won't it be\nnice for him? I bought the cocoanut myself, for the children, and Miss\nPriscilla Frost showed me how to make a basket of the shell.\"\n\n\"Well, never mind that now,\" said Abbey, upon whose ears all these\nthings rather grated than otherwise,\u2014she never added a single\npenny's-worth to poor Harry's comforts and pleasures,\u2014\"never mind that\nnow. I want you to listen to me, and tell me whether I shall stay at\nMrs. Ward's or not.\"\n\n\"Stay at Mrs. Ward's!\" exclaimed Elvie, dropping her trowel, and\nforgetting all about seeds, cocoanut basket, and strawberries. \"Oh,\nAbbey, you are not thinking of leaving her? Surely you have not gone\nand lost your place again? Oh, what will mother say?\"\n\n\"Well, well, you need not talk so loud, or make such a fuss, as though\none had committed murder. I was only thinking about it,\u2014that's all. If\nany one treated you as I was treated this morning, I don't believe you\nwould want to stay; but because I don't make a fuss about every little\nthing, as you and mother do, you think I have no feeling.\"\n\n\"Tell me all about it,\" said Elvie, wisely putting aside the reproach.\n\"Let us sit down on the steps here,\u2014so I can see if any one comes in at\nthe gate\u2014and tell me the whole story, from first to last.\"\n\nAbbey told the story according to own idea of the matter, ending with,\n\"And she says if I stay, she shall charge me with every thing that I\nbreak or spoil, and take it out of my wages. I don't see how I am ever\nto earn any thing, at that rate.\"\n\n\"You must take care and not break things, then,\" said Elvie. \"I don't\nwonder ladies get out of patience sometimes, girls are so careless. And\nyou know, Abbey, you were always unlucky about dishes. But what about\nthe water-pail? How can you to make such a mistake?\"\n\n\"I didn't think,\" replied Abbey. \"But I don't see why she need make\nsuch a fuss about that.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't know,\" said Elvie. \"Do you remember what you said\nwhen Totty broke your china cup? That was nobody's fault but your\nown,\u2014leaving it on the stairs, of all places in the world; and the poor\nchild got a sad fall and scratch beside: yet you scolded her smartly.\nYou didn't think that was nothing, did you?\"\n\n\"That was different.\"\n\n\"I don't see the difference, except that one was yours and the other\nwas somebody's else. And, you see, it really is a great loss, for I\ndon't think the Wards are at all rich.\"\n\n\"I hate to live with poor folks!\" said Abbey, pettishly. \"If I could\nhave such a place as yours, I wouldn't mind living out.\"\n\n\"I don't think that rich folks like to have their things spoiled, any\nmore than poor folks,\" replied Elvira. \"I am sure Mrs. Frost does not.\nShe will not let the least thing be wasted. But, Abbey, I do hope you\nwon't think of leaving your place, if you can possibly keep it. There\nis a particular reason just now for our all exerting ourselves, you\nknow, for Harry's sake, because mother is so anxious to take him out in\nthe country this summer.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes! Harry,\u2014always Harry!\"\n\n\"Well, and so it ought to be always Harry,\" said Elvie, with a little\nflash of her eyes. \"Who should it be, if not Harry,\u2014when you know how\ngood and patient he is, sitting there in his chair week in and week\nout, suffering so much, yet never complaining, nor troubling any one\nmore than he can possibly help? I think we might all of us take pattern\nby him, for my part, and be willing to work for him,\u2014dear little\nfellow!\"\n\n\"Now, don't get in a passion, Elvie; because, if you do, you will be\nsorry,\" said Abbey. \"Just as if I did not think as much of Harry as\nyou do; only I am not always talking about it. Some people like to\ntalk about their feelings and what they do for others, and some don't:\nthat's all.\"\n\n\"And some people like to act out their feelings, and some don't,\"\nreturned Elvie. \"If people neither talk about their feelings nor act\nupon them, I don't see, for my part, how any one is to know whether\nthey have them or not.\"\n\n\"Well, there is no particular use in talking about that,\" said Abbey.\n\"I suppose I had better stay at Mrs. Ward's and bear it the best way\nI can. She may as well fret at me as at any one else. I don't mind it\nmuch: that is one good thing.\"\n\n\"Perhaps if you minded more, she would have less cause to fret,\"\nremarked Elvira. \"That is one trouble. When any one begins to tell you\nany thing, you never begin to listen till they are half done, and so\nyou don't more than half understand. I don't believe that you cannot\nplease Mrs. Ward well enough, if you only try. Do try, Abbey,\u2014please\ndo,\" she added, earnestly. \"I can't bear to think how bad mother\nwill feel if you lose this place, and she has so much to trouble her\nalready. Do try, to mind Mrs. Ward, and attend to what she says to you.\nYou will learn after a while, and then it will come easier.\n\n\"Come, now; I am sure you ought to be able to do as well as I, when\nyou were always so much smarter to learn, and you are more than a year\nolder than I am. And every one says Mrs. Ward is such a good woman.\nMrs. Campion was here yesterday, and I heard her say she did not know\na better woman than Mrs. Ward. It will be such an advantage to you to\nlearn the best way of doing all sorts of work.\"\n\n\"Well, well, you needn't say any thing more, Elvira,\" said Abbey,\nrising. \"I'm sure I am willing to stay; though I don't know, after all,\nwhether she will want me. And\u2014there! She told me to stop somewhere, and\nwhere was it?\"\n\n\"Do try to remember,\" said Elvira, anxiously. \"Was it the baker's?\"\n\n\"No: she never sends to the baker's, except for yeast; and I am pretty\nsure it wasn't yeast. Oh, I know now. It was a veal cutlet: so she must\nhave meant the butcher's.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" said Elvira, laughing, but much relieved. \"Well, you have\nno time to lose; for it is almost five o'clock.\"\n\n\"I must hurry, then, for she told me to be home by five. And if I\ndon't, there will be another fuss. Come walk a little way with me.\"\n\n\"I can't,\" said Elvie; \"the other girl has gone out, and I must get tea\nready. I will come and see you as soon as I can. I am going to run home\nthis evening and carry Harry's basket to him. Won't he be pleased when\nhe sees it?\"\n\n\"Don't say any thing about this fuss at home, or mother will be coming\nover to see Mrs. Ward, and there will be no end of a time,\" said Abbey.\n\"Promise now, Elvie, that you won't.\"\n\n\"I will promise, if you will promise me to take pains and try to keep\nyour place,\" said Elvie.\n\n\"Of course I mean to do that. I must, or I sha'n't have any thing to\nwear pretty soon. My brown dress is almost worn out.\"\n\n\"Well, good-by. Don't be long on the road, now. It is almost five.\"\n\nThus urged, Abbey did contrive to accomplish her errand and get home\nonly ten minutes after the time specified.\n\nElvira went back to her work with a deep sigh. She had long ago given\nup trying to make Abbey understand or sympathize with her, and since\nshe had taken a decidedly religious stand, they were farther apart\nthan ever. Elvira was sensible of her own faults. She knew that she\nhad a hasty temper, and that she was apt to fret if things went wrong\nor did not go on as fast as she desired. She had latterly striven hard\nagainst this fault, and corrected it in a great degree; but sometimes\nshe was overcome by Abbey's easy indifference, and allowed a little of\nthe old fire to appear. She knew very well that such outbreaks did harm\ninstead of good, by affording food to Abbey's self-complacency: yet she\nfound it impossible to repress her indignation, as she thought of her\nsister's selfishness and indifference to the necessities of the rest of\nthe family.\n\n\"There is no use in fretting, however,\" said Elvie to herself. \"She\nwill never be influenced by me. And the only thing I can do is to work\nall the harder myself, and try to keep my temper with Abbey. There is\none comfort,\" she added, as she took up her trowel once more. \"One can\nalways pray.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nA CHANGE.\n\nFOR three or four weeks, moved by Elvira's energetic remonstrances,\nand stimulated also by the necessity of earning the means of paying\nfor a new frock and hat, Abbey did a good deal better. Mrs. Ward began\nto have hopes of making something of her, after all, and was able with\na clear conscience to tell Aunt Ph\u0153be Ray (when she called to inquire\nabout the matter) that she thought Abbey was improving.\n\nMrs. Jenkins began to feel her heart in some degree relieved from one\nof its many burdens. And her husband was so gratified with the report\nfrom Abbey, that he made her a present of a very pretty summer hat,\u2014\"to\nencourage her,\" as he said.\n\nUnluckily Abbey was not a person to be benefited by this sort of\nencouragement. As Elvira said, \"the more you did for her, the more you\nmight.\" The same present made to Elvie herself caused her to work all\nthe harder and take all the more pains to please.\n\nIn Abbey's case, she had lost one spur to exertion. Moreover, she at\nonce began to think that, as her father had given her a hat, perhaps he\nwould give her a frock also, or, if he did not, perhaps somebody else\nwould. Mrs. Frost had two or three times given Elvie outgrown or worn\ndresses of Miss Priscilla's, which she\u2014being a little creature, and as\nhandy as she was little\u2014had made over and remodelled into nice dresses,\nas good as new. Abbey knew Mrs. Ward had a whole trunkful of Comfort's\nold things, and \"perhaps\" she would give her some of them. Abbey could\nnot for her life see why such \"pieces of good luck,\" as she called\nthem, should not happen to her as well as to Elvira.\n\nIt was not long before Mrs. Ward began to find things more out of joint\nabout the kitchen than ever. She happened to be ill and confined to her\nroom for a few days. And dreadful were the sights and the smells which\nmet her disgusted senses when she could be about the house once more.\nKettles and spiders set away unwashed, and rusted in consequence; the\ntea-kettle with the handle blackened and loosened; the nice thick metal\nteapot with part of its nose melted off against the hot stove; and the\nsink in a very offensive state.\n\nPoor Mrs. Ward! She had never seen so much dirt in her house since she\nhad one to take care of. She went to work with energy to clear up and\nclean out, and she tried to make Abbey help her; but this was harder\nthan to do the work herself. Abbey was serenely unconscious that any\nthing was wrong, and looked on with calm wonder, not unmixed with\namusement, as Mrs. Ward pulled out pans and basins, scraped dishes,\nand put dish-towels to soak. Presently came an inquiry, \"Where is my\ndish-cloth?\"\n\n\"I don't know what you mean,\" sail Abbey. \"Here is 'mine,'\" (producing\na dripping wad, of most questionable appearance, from one corner of the\nsink.)\n\n\"'That' a dish-cloth!\" said Mrs. Ward, surveying it with unspeakable\ndisgust. \"You don't mean to say you wash dishes with that thing! Where\nis the cloth I gave you just before I was sick?\"\n\n\"This is it.\"\n\n[Illustration: _Abbey; or, Taking it Easy._ \"'That' a dish-cloth!\"]\n\nMrs. Ward folded her hands, sat down on the nearest chair, and looked\nround her in despair.\n\n\"What has happened to that table, that the leaf is turned round to the\nwall?\"\n\n\"Oh, the leaf is broken. It has been loose ever since I came here to\nlive.\"\n\n\"I have never known it, if it was. How did you break it?\"\n\nBut Abbey declared that she did not break it. It had always been so,\nshe repeated, ever since she came into the house. She had never seen\nany cork to the kerosene-can, either. She was quite sure there never\nhad been any.\n\n\"And what has become of the kerosene? Surely all that kerosene has not\nbeen used up in the course of a week. The can was filled only last\nSaturday.\"\n\nAbbey at first did not know any thing about that, either. But she\npresently acknowledged that she had \"spilt\" some of it. This was not\ntrue. She had used the kerosene, but she dared not tell how.\n\nAt this moment the door-bell rang, and Mrs. Ward went to attend to it.\n\n\"Dear me! What a fuss!\" said Abbey to herself, as she began slowly to\nwash up the dishes Mrs. Ward had piled upon the table. \"And now I have\ngot all these dishes to wash, and I shall not get through till noon.\nHow I do hate to live with such fussy people, who will never let one\nhave a minute's peace of one's life!\"\n\nThat she herself was to blame for any part of the \"fuss\" she complained\nof, never entered Abbey's head. For all she cared, dirty dishes\nmight have gone on accumulating till there was not a clean one left\nin the house. If she had wanted one to use at the moment, she would\nhave washed it, or used it without washing, just as it happened. The\ncondition of the sink never disturbed \"her\" senses, so long as space\nremained to pour away any thing else.\n\nHow people could make themselves uncomfortable about such things\nwas something she could not understand. It appeared to her a very\noppressive act in Mrs. Ward to give her so much additional work to\ndo in cleaning the things she had left dirty; but Mrs. Ward was\n\"particular\" and \"fussy,\" and there was no help for it.\n\nMrs. Ward's visitor proved to be her sister-in-law, Mrs. Powell, who\nlived a long way off, quite on the other side of the city, and had come\nto spend the day. Mrs. Powell was a small, wiry little woman, with (as\nthey say) not an inch to spare about her, with sharp blue eyes which\nlooked as if they had been made on purpose to spy out dust in corners\nand under tables, and there was a general air of business and despatch\nabout her.\n\nMrs. Powell was a born housekeeper. Even Mrs. Ward was hardly neat\nenough to suit her ideas. Not a speck of dirt, not a particle of\ngrease, could repose in peace under her vigilant eyes; no \"catch-alls\"\nor \"shut-holes\" could enjoy existence anywhere in her domains.\nNevertheless, Mrs. Powell had the name of being a very pleasant person\nto live with, among the girls whom she and her neighbours employed.\nTrue, she got a good deal of work out of them, and she would have every\nthing done exactly right; but she did not fret or find fault unjustly,\nand she never kept her girls waiting for their wages.\n\n\"Well, Maggie, and how do you do?\" said Mrs. Powell, as she settled\nherself in a very straight-backed, low chair, which Mr. Ward always\ncalled \"Dorcas,\" after his favourite sister. \"Seems to me you look\nrather tired and worn out. You don't get fairly rested yet, I see. You\nought to have a good, responsible girl,\u2014one who can take some charge\nof things and give you a chance to be mistress of your time a little\nwhile,\u2014to look after the garden, or perhaps take a little journey.\nThat's what you want. Some one like my Rebecca, now!\"\n\n\"A girl!\" said Mrs. Ward, with a deep sigh. \"Don't say any thing about\nit, Dorcas. I have had a girl six weeks, and she has nearly been\nthe death of me. I have never worked so hard in all the time I have\nkept house as during the time Abbey has been here. I have not been\ndown-stairs before for two days, and you ought to see the kitchen.\"\n\n\"Who is she?\" asked Mrs. Powell.\n\n\"Why, Abbey Jenkins. Her sister, a year younger, has been with Mrs.\nFrost for a year, and she likes her very much. And Mrs. Jenkins herself\nis a very neat, capable woman; but Abbey is a trial.\"\n\n\"Perhaps she will improve,\" observed Mrs. Powell. \"I suppose she is\nquite young and has never lived out before. I often pity young girls\ngoing to a strange place. Every thing is new to them, and they are\nfound fault with,\u2014which confuses them all the more.\"\n\n\"That's not the case with Abbey, I can assure you. She cares no more\nabout being found fault with than that stove. Nothing ever puts her\nout in the least degree. If I could once see her roused to be vexed or\nashamed, I should have some hope of her. She has spoiled more things\nsince she came into the house than her board and wages are worth twice\nover, but she thinks it is very strange I can make any fuss about\nit, or be disturbed because she has killed both my poor Comfort's\nrose-bushes by throwing the slops on them.\" And poor Mrs. Ward\u2014worn out\nand discouraged, and more than half sick\u2014put down her head on the arm\nof the couch, and fairly cried.\n\n\"Poor dear! You are no more fit to be at work than a baby,\" said\nMrs. Powell, compassionately. \"There! Don't cry. I don't wonder,\nthough, I am sure. If there is any thing that does vex me, it is these\nindifferent people, who will burn your house down by accident and then\nwonder how you can care any thing about it. I wish I had her a little\nwhile! I'd teach her!\" added Mrs. Powell, energetically.\n\n\"I am sure I wish you had, if you can do any thing with her,\" said\nMrs. Ward, sitting up and wiping her eyes. \"I should have sent her\nhome three weeks ago and more, if I had not felt so sorry for her\nmother. They are poor, hard-working people, with a crippled son who has\nnever walked a step and is a great sufferer, and two or three younger\nchildren. Mrs. Jenkins begged me to do just what I liked with Abbey,\nand to teach her to work; but I don't think I am a good hand to teach\ngirls.\"\n\n\"Well, really, Maggie, I must say, candidly, that I don't think you\nare,\" said Mrs. Powell, frankly. \"You have not patience with their\nmistakes, and you are apt to take hold and do things yourself, rather\nthan wait upon them. And, besides, you are not enough of a driver.\nWell, don't trouble yourself any more just now, my dear. After all,\nit is part of the discipline of life, you know. I think a way may be\ncontrived to give you rather easier times: in short, a way 'must' be\ncontrived,\" said the little woman, striking her needles into her ball\nwith great energy, and winding up her work in a decided way. \"You must\nhave a rest; and that is all about it.\"\n\n\"I am sure I should be glad to have one. I don't know how it is, but I\nbelieve I am losing my energy, or something. I never felt so before.\nEvery thing is a burden to me.\"\n\n\"Why, child, you are tired out. Such a year as the last is enough to\nuse up anybody. It is not only the actual work of taking care of a sick\nperson, but the strain upon one's nerves and feelings, that tells.\nI'm sure it was a wonder to me and everybody, the way you kept up all\nthrough; but there is a limit to every one's strength finally, and now\nyou have reached the limit of yours. Let us go out and look at the\ngarden. My early peas are up two inches high.\"\n\n\"I will go up-stairs and find my hood,\" said Mrs. Ward. \"I want to\nconsult you about making a new verbena-bed.\"\n\n\"She must have rest, and that is all about it, or she will go after\npoor Comfort in less than a year,\" said Mrs. Powell, looking after her\nsister-in-law. \"Well, well,\" she added, nodding at her reflection in\nthe glass as she tied on her bonnet, \"we will see. I have a notion in\nmy head; but I won't say any thing till I have talked to Rebecca.\"\n\nAbout a week after this visit, Mrs. Powell made her appearance once\nmore. She found Mrs. Ward scrubbing a tin basin, and Abbey looking on\nwith an air of calm observation.\n\n\"So that's the way you show your girl, is it?\" said Mrs. Powell. \"Clean\nthe pan yourself, and let her stand and look on. But never mind. Let\nher finish it now, and you come into the parlour. I want to talk to\nyou. How do you do? How hot your hands are!\u2014A great deal too hot to be\nscrubbing pans.\"\n\n\"I know it; but I can't help it, Dorcas.\"\n\n\"Well, I am going to help it, right off,\" said Dorcas,\nenergetically,\u2014\"if you are willing to consent to my proposition. You\nmust stop working. And you never will stop unless you have some one who\ncan work for you: that is clear.\"\n\n\"Well?\" said Mrs. Ward. \"What then?\"\n\n\"Just this. I propose to take your Abbey for three or four months, and\nlet you have my Rebecca for the same time. I believe I can teach the\ngirl, if any one can; it won't be by letting her stand and look on\nwhile I scour tins, I promise you. And as for Rebecca, if you can find\nany thing to do while she is in the house, you will be smart, that's\nall I can say.\"\n\n\"But, Dorcas, I can't let you make such a sacrifice. Rebecca is a\nperfect treasure. I hardly ever saw her equal. And you don't know what\nan incapable creature Abbey is.\"\n\n\"Yes, I do: I can see it all over her,\" interrupted Mrs. Powell. \"As\nfor sacrifices, we won't talk of them between sisters. I have not\nforgotten my own long fever, when my poor baby died, four years ago.\"\nAnd the tears glistened in the little woman's eyes for a moment.\n\"Besides, I want more exercise. I am growing too fat.\"\n\n\"Yes: you look like it. But I hardly feel as though it would be\nfair,\u2014though I confess it would be a great relief; for my strength\nseems to go every day. What does Rebecca say?\"\n\n\"Oh, she is willing. You know you are a great favourite of hers. The\nquestion is, what the other girl will say. Call her in, and let's have\na talk with her.\"\n\nAbbey came in, calm as a summer's morning.\n\nMrs. Powell explained the arrangement to her in few words, ending with,\n\"I shall expect you to do more work than you do here, so I shall give\nyou two shillings a week more. So you can choose between going with me\nat that rate, or going home. You can ask your mother about it, and let\nme know directly.\"\n\n\"You had better run home now, Abbey,\" said Mrs. Ward. \"Your father will\nhave come to his dinner by this time.\"\n\nAbbey departed, and at the end of an hour came back, accompanied by her\nmother. Mrs. Jenkins talked the matter over with the two ladies, and it\nwas finally concluded that the exchange should be made the next Monday.\n\n\"I feel as though I had a thousand pounds' weight taken off my\nshoulders,\" said Mrs. Ward, when they were once alone. \"But I am afraid\nyou have not the least idea of what you are undertaking. I believe I\nhave\u2014or had\u2014a tolerable temper; but, really, Abbey tries me beyond\nendurance.\"\n\n\"I am stronger than you,\u2014in health, I mean,\" said Mrs. Powell. \"Your\npresent irritability is more a matter of nerves than any thing else.\nAnd, besides, I presume Abbey's misdeeds trouble you more that they\nwill me. You have always had your house to yourself, to manage just\nas you pleased, and with no one to interfere with your plans and\ncalculations. I have always been obliged to keep help, such as I could\nget, and I have learned that it does not answer to be too set in my own\nways. But, anyhow, I have no choice in the matter, that I see. I should\nnot feel it right to deprive the child of one place without providing\nher with another, and it is easier to try her myself than to find any\none else willing to undertake her. Besides, I have, perhaps, rather a\nconceit of my ability in the way of teaching.\"\n\n\"Don't you find it very hard to get people to obey directions?\" asked\nMrs. Ward.\n\n\"Almost impossible. I set a man to digging in the garden, tell him\nexactly where to begin and where to leave off, and, having something\nelse to attend to, go and leave him. Ten to one that, when I come back,\nI shall find he has begun in the wrong place and dug up the very thing\nI told him to leave untouched. It is the same with girls. When I once\nget one so trained that she can do as she is told, I feel as though I\nhad won the day.\"\n\n\"And yet people say that a housekeeper ought to be able to direct a\ngirl in getting dinner, without looking into the kitchen!\" said Mrs.\nWard.\n\n\"People are very fond of laying down the law to others, and talking\nabout what they don't understand,\" said Mrs. Powell. \"It is so much\neasier than finding out the truth by experiment. But I am heartily glad\nI have carried my point this time. I shall not grudge my trouble in the\nleast, if I can only see you getting rested, and like yourself once\nmore.\"\n\nMrs. Powell spoke sincerely; but she had little notion of what her\nsacrifice was to cost.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nMRS. POWELL.\n\nABBEY soon found she had fallen into very different hands from Mrs.\nWard's or her mother's. Mrs. Powell was not only skilful at all sorts\nof work herself, but she possessed the rather uncommon talent of making\nother people work. And Abbey soon discovered that she could no more\nstand still in that lady's kitchen than she could upon the steps of a\ntreadmill.\n\nBreakfast was on the table every morning exactly at seven o'clock.\nAbbey's business was to get up and make the fire, sweep out and dust\nthe kitchen and sitting-room, set the table, and have every thing ready\nfor Mrs. Powell to cook the breakfast. Mrs. Powell attended to the\ncooking. Miss Maria dusted the parlours, and Miss Margaret attended to\nthe plants and birds,\u2014of which Mrs. Powell had a great many. One of the\nyoung ladies taught in a public-school, and the other acted as clerk in\na large fancy-store down town; and both must be early at their posts.\n\nBreakfast on the table, Abbey must go up-stairs, empty the slops and\ntake the clothes off the beds. So it was all day. Every hour had its\nappropriate duty, as exactly as every pan and plate had its place in\nthe pantry. There was no chance of shirking. If Abbey left her dishes\nhalf washed, she must wash them over, even if she had to make up the\nfire again on purpose. If she did not sweep clean, she had to sweep\nover again. Mrs. Powell never did her work after her, even when it\nwould have saved herself a great deal of time and inconvenience.\n\n\"It would be a good deal easier for me to do this than to call you\naway from your dishes,\" said she, one day when Abbey had left various\naccumulations of dust in the corners of the stairs. \"But I want you\nto learn to work well while you are about it. I did just so by my own\ngirls, and you see now how nicely and easily they do every thing.\nIt will be worth every thing to you to learn the best way of doing\nhouse-work while you are young.\"\n\nBut Abbey did not care any thing about learning the best way of doing\nthings. All she cared for was to get on with the least possible trouble\nat the time. She might have seen that the true way to save herself\ntrouble was to do her work well in the beginning. But this cost her\na little present pains, and the smallest inconvenience at hand was\nenough to overbalance any profit in the future. She persisted in trying\nto shirk, till Mrs. Powell began to lose patience, and to think more\ndecided measures necessary to overcome Abbey's laziness.\n\nShe had called Abbey every morning at half-past five. And every morning\nAbbey had answered, \"Yes, ma'am,\" and turned over for another nap, so\nthat she must be called a second time.\n\n\"Now, I will tell you once for all, Abbey,\" said Mrs. Powell, one\nmorning when she had the fire to kindle herself (Abbey not making her\nappearance till half-past six), \"the next time you serve me in this\nway, you will not find the consequences very agreeable to yourself.\"\n\nMrs. Powell spoke with considerable decision, with a \"snap\" of her blue\neyes, and a movement of her head which looked a little dangerous.\n\nThe next morning Abbey was up in good season, and also the next, but\nthe third morning was dark and rainy. Abbey had lain awake a long\ntime the night before, reading an old magazine which she found in the\ngarret, and she was very sleepy: so she turned over and went to sleep\nagain. This time she slept a good deal longer than she meant to, and\nawoke with something of a start.\n\nShe sat up in bed, and listened. There was no rattling at the stove,\nas she would have heard had Mrs. Powell been making the fire herself.\nThe house was all quiet. She could hear nothing but the singing of the\nbirds in the parlour.\n\n\"I believe I am awake the first of any one, after all,\" thought Abbey,\nas she hurried to dress herself. She found her mistake when she went\ndown-stairs into the kitchen. The fire was out, the stove brushed\nup, every thing was put away, and Mrs. Powell was out weeding in the\ngarden. She looked at the clock. It wanted a quarter to eight.\n\n\"Just like her,\u2014the hateful thing!\" said Abbey to herself. \"She\nwouldn't call me, and of course she wouldn't save any thing for me.\"\n\nAbbey explored the safe and the pantry. There was nothing to be had\nexcept dry bread. Even the butter was put away in the lock-up cupboard,\nand the key was not to be found. She gave up the search, and went out\nto Mrs. Powell in the garden.\n\n\"I don't see what I am to do for my breakfast,\" said she, in an\naggrieved tone.\n\n\"I don't know, I am sure,\" answered Mrs. Powell, who was busy with her\nstrawberries.\n\n\"I can't find any thing but bread, and there is no coffee nor any\nthing,\" continued Abbey, just ready to cry.\n\n\"Isn't there? Then I don't see but you will have to go without,\"\nreplied Mrs. Powell, carefully pulling out a long bindweed from her\nraspberries. \"There was plenty of every thing at breakfast time,\nI assure you. And the coffee was remarkably good, as well as the\nfish-balls.\"\n\n\"You might have called me,\" said Abbey, sullenly.\n\n\"I did call you; but, Abbey, I can tell you one thing,\" said Mrs.\nPowell, rising up and collecting her tools: \"I shall never call you\nagain. You can get up in the morning just as well as I can, if you only\nmake up your mind to it. If I were to offer you a dollar every morning\nthat you were up in time, you would be ready to rise with the sun. I\nhave been willing to call you so far, that you might form the habit;\nbut you have had plenty of time for that, and you must not expect me to\ndo so any more. It is just as easy for you to get up as for Maria or\nMargaret. It ought to be easier; for you have nothing to keep you up\nafter nine o'clock. Now remember, this is the last time.\"\n\n\"I want my breakfast,\" said Abbey, beginning to cry.\n\n\"Well, go and get it, then. There is plenty of nice bread, and I will\ngive you some butter for once; but as for any thing else, you must wait\ntill dinner-time. Come, now, let us have no crying over it. Do you\nhear?\"\n\nPoor Abbey! She thought no one was ever so badly used before. She was\nby no means so good-natured as she had been at Mrs. Ward's. There is\na species of sloth in the South American forests, which, even when\nfirst taken, will travel with the greatest docility in any required\ndirection, so long as it is allowed to take its own time; but the\nmoment it is hurried, it turns fiercely upon its captors and fights\nwith tooth and claw.\n\nIt was somewhat so with Abbey. She could not stand being driven.\nAllowed to take her own pace,\u2014to be as lazy as she pleased, to shirk\nwhatever she did not like to do, and slight all she pretended to\ndo,\u2014and no one could be more amiable. But this precise regularity and\npunctuality, this neatness and order, was in the last degree irksome.\nShe could not say that she had too much to do. She had several hours to\nherself every day, when she could employ herself as she pleased; and\nshe generally chose to lie on the bed and dream of what she would do if\nshe were only rich and had a carriage and servants, and a maid to wait\nupon her, and several fine young men in love with her, to take her to\nthe theatre and to balls.\n\nBut when she worked, she was obliged to work and, above all, fast. The\ngreatest and most ingenious dawdler in the world could not have dawdled\nunder the vigilant eye of Mrs. Powell. Abbey began to find her life\nintolerable, and to consider in her own mind whether there was any\nmeans of escaping from it.\n\n\"Come! Hurry, Abbey,\" said Mrs. Powell, coming into the pantry, where\nAbbey was slowly munching her bread-and-butter. \"I want you to go over\nto Mrs. Ward's on an errand for me, and, if you are smart, you will\nhave time to run home and see how your sister is. Here: you may take\nher this bowl of jelly. It will be good to mix in water for her to\ndrink. Get on your hat, and be ready when the car comes along. There\nwill be one in just twelve minutes.\"\n\nOf course Abbey was not ready at the end of the twelve minutes, missed\nher car, and had to wait for another.\n\n\"What is the matter? Why don't you put your hat on?\" asked Mrs. Powell.\n\n\"I can't find it anywhere.\"\n\n\"Where did you put it when you wore it last?\"\n\n\"I put it away,\" said Abbey.\n\n\"If you had put it in its place, it would no doubt have been in its\nplace,\" said Mrs. Powell. \"You have a closet and shelves, which no one\nmeddles with but yourself. But I cannot have you spend all the morning\nhunting for it. Put on that old black one of Maria's. Now take this\nnote, and the basket which stands in the press, over to Mrs. Ward's,\nand bring back what she gives you. You will have plenty of time.\"\n\nAbbey did her errand at Mrs. Ward's, and, with her basket full of\nstrawberry plants, she turned towards home. She was overtaken at the\ngate by Elvira.\n\n\"Why, what brings you home at this time of day?\" asked Elvira, in some\nalarm as the thought presented itself that Abbey, had left her place\nagain. \"You have not come home for good, have you?\"\n\n\"No such luck,\" said Abbey, peevishly. \"I only wish I had a home to\ncome to, so that I need not be made a slave of all my days!\"\n\n\"I was in hopes you would like Mrs. Powell,\" said Elvie. \"Every one\ngives her such a good name. And Mrs. Rebecca says no one need wish for\na better place.\"\n\n\"No one need wish for a better place!\u2014To be driven like a slave from\nmorning till night!\" said Abbey. \"I hate living out. I don't see why I\nshould have to work for a living, any more than Mrs. Campion, or Mrs.\nFrost, or Miss Priscilla.\"\n\n\"Because they are well off and we are poor; that is all,\" said Elvira.\n\"Besides, they 'do' work. Miss Priscilla practises hours every day,\nand sews and knits a great deal. She has just finished a whole suit of\nclothes, all through, for a little girl at the Coloured Asylum,\u2014cutting\nand fitting and all. Moreover, Abbey, I don't see why it is any worse\nfor you to work than it is for father and mother and me.\"\n\n\"Oh, well, you don't mind it. I believe you really love to dust and\nsweep and poke over sewing.\"\n\n\"I like to do what I do, 'well,'\" said Elvira. \"I don't deny that. But\nI like to do a great many things much better than to sweep and dust,\nthough. I like to work in the garden, and to do the embroidery Mrs.\nFrost is teaching me, and I should dearly love to go to school again.\nBut, Abbey, you did not like going to school any better than working\nout. You used to complain of Miss Morse all the time.\"\n\n\"Because she was so partial. She liked every one in the school better\nthan she did me. But I suppose there is no help for it, I must just go\non slaving and slaving to the end of my days. And now Tot must go and\nget sick, to mend the matter; as if Harry was not enough for one house!\"\n\n\"Abbey, for shame!\" exclaimed Elvira, with flashing eyes. \"As if the\npoor child could help being sick! You are the last one who ought to\nfind fault with her; for the doctor says it is very likely she hurt\nher head when she fell down-stairs that time. And that was all your\ncarelessness, too,\u2014leaving a cup on the stairs, of all places.\"\n\n\"Nonsense!\" said Abbey,\u2014turning pale, however. \"That was almost two\nmonths ago.\"\n\n\"She has never been well since,\" said Elvira. \"She has always\ncomplained of her head, and been dull and heavy, ever since it\nhappened. I think you ought to be ashamed.\"\n\n\"I don't care. I don't think you ought to talk so to me, Elvie. I am\nthe oldest. But I did not come home to quarrel, or be scolded at,\neither. As for the cup, I just put it on the stairs for a minute, while\nI went for the broom. And then I went up the other way, and forgot it.\nI don't see that I was to blame about that. Tot ought to have seen what\nshe was about.\"\n\n\"There is no use in talking,\" said Elvira, struggling to regain the\ncommand of her temper. \"You and I never do see things alike. Where did\nyou get your new hat?\"\n\n\"It isn't mine. It is Maria's old one,\" replied Abbey. \"I couldn't find\nmine. But I mustn't stay any longer now. Just take this bowl in, will\nyou? There is some jelly in it for the young one.\"\n\n\"Oh, Abbey, you won't go away without coming in to see Totty?\"\nexclaimed Elvira. \"What will mother say?\"\n\n\"If there is time,\" said Abbey, rather reluctantly.\n\nShe could not help feeling uncomfortable at the idea that she had any\nthing to do with Totty's sickness. And this feeling made her unwilling\nto meet her mother or see the child.\n\nBut at that instant, Mrs. Jenkins appeared at the door and called her,\nand Abbey had no choice but to go in.\n\nShe was almost startled out of her indifference when she saw how thin\nand wan her mother looked, and observed the change in Totty since she\nhad seen her last. No one could be kinder than Abbey when it cost her\nno trouble. She was very willing now to sit down on the bedside and\ntell Totty her favourite tales over and over, till the child fell\nasleep.\n\n\"You must not stay any longer now, Abbey; but come again as soon as you\ncan,\" said her mother. \"How well you look! I am so glad you have a good\nplace! It is a comfort to me, in the midst of all my other troubles,\nthat you and Elvie are so well provided for.\"\n\n\"Yes, wonderfully well provided for,\" thought Abbey; but even she\nwas ashamed to make any complaint of her place, under present\ncircumstances. She turned to the window, where Harry, bolstered up in\nhis arm-chair, was busily employed over some fine work.\n\n\"What in the world are you doing, Harry? Making tatting, of all things\nin the world! What funny work for a boy!\"\n\n\"If you had to sit still and do nothing as much as I do, you would be\nglad of any thing in the shape of work,\" said Harry. \"Mrs. Campion\nbrought me this work, and showed me how to do it. I have made one\nalready, and Mrs. R. paid me four dollars for it. It is a trimming for\na baby's petticoat. Mrs. Campion said the one I made was as handsome as\nher Sister's Irish lace.\"\n\n\"Margaret Powell is in Mrs. R.'s store,\" said Abbey. \"She works\nsplendidly. You ought to see the rug she is making. She says it will be\nworth fifty dollars when it is done.\"\n\n\"What stitch is she doing it in?\" asked Elvira, very much interested.\n\n\"I don't know. I never noticed the stitch.\"\n\n\"If I were you, I would watch her, and learn all her stitches,\" said\nElvira. \"I have learned ever so many of Mrs. Frost.\"\n\n\"Yes: that would be a very good thing for you,\" added Mrs. Jenkins.\n\"Every such thing comes into use sooner or later. And now so much\nembroidery is in fashion, you might make it very profitable.\"\n\n\"If you knew how much I have to do, you would not say any thing about\nmy learning embroidery stitches,\" said Abbey, with a weary air. \"I am\ndriven to death as it is.\"\n\n\"Yes, you look like it,\" said Harry, laughing. And even his mother\ncould not help joining, as she looked at Abbey's fat cheeks. \"You are\ngoing into a consumption directly: that is plain to be seen.\"\n\n\"Of course 'you' don't think there is any thing the matter, Harry,\"\nsaid Abbey. \"Nobody in the family must presume to have any thing to\ncomplain of in your presence. I suppose sickness always does make\npeople selfish.\"\n\n\"Abbey!\" said her mother, reprovingly.\n\n\"Oh, never mind her,\" said Harry, though his pale face flushed a\nlittle. \"It is only Abbey, and we know her ways. There! Isn't that\npretty?\" he added, spreading out his work on his knee.\n\n\"Beautiful!\" said his mother. \"But don't work too long, my dear.\"\n\n\"Oh, I am not tired,\" said Harry. \"I can work longer at it than at any\nthing I ever tried to do.\"\n\nAbbey would fain have lingered a little, but her mother would not\nallow it, and she went on her way, not much comforted but somewhat\naroused, by her visit at home. Could it really be possible that she was\naccountable for Totty's illness? Her mother had said nothing about it,\nand she would fain have dismissed the matter as one of Elvie's notions;\nbut she could not resist the conviction which forced itself upon her\nown mind that Totty really had been ailing more or less ever since the\naccident, and she could not but remember the sound with which the back\nof the child's head came in contact with the door at the foot of the\nstairs.\n\nIt was not a pleasant thought, certainly, and, to get rid of it, Abbey\nbegan to look in at the shop-windows as she passed along. There was\nnothing very particular to see, till she came to a jeweller's window,\nin which was a great display of watches and ornaments, and at which she\nlingered, choosing which of all these fine things she would buy if she\nonly had money enough, till she heard the clock strike twelve.\n\n\"There, now! I shall be late, and be scolded again. Every thing is\nagainst me today; but, luckily, there is the car.\"\n\nAbbey congratulated herself on her good luck. She had pulled out two\nor three more of the old magazines over which she had already lost so\nmuch time, from a heap of such things in Mrs. Ward's garret: and she\ndirectly became so absorbed in her study that she did not notice which\nway she was going, till the conductor called out, \"Union Street!\" and\nshe found she had come half a mile and more out of her way. There was\nno help for it but to sit still. The car would take her home in time,\nthough by the longest route, and she would gain nothing by going back.\nIt was nearly one when she arrived at Mrs. Powell's door, and became,\nfor the first time, aware that she had left her basket behind her.\n\n\"There! Now there will be another fuss!\" said Abbey, in an injured\ntone. \"Oh, dear! I do wish I could ever have any peace or comfort!\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nKINDLING A FIRE.\n\n\"WELL, Abbey, better late than never,\" was Mrs. Powell's greeting.\n\"What kept you so long? And where are your strawberries? Didn't Mrs.\nWard have them ready? Now, I do hope you haven't lost them on the\nroad!\" she exclaimed, seeing Abbey hesitate. \"I shall hardly know how\nto forgive you, if you have.\"\n\n\"I left them at mother's,\" answered Abbey, beginning to cry. \"Totty was\nso sick, I could not think of any thing else. And she could not bear to\nhave me come away, so I stayed till the last minute. The doctor thinks\nthere is something the matter with her head.\"\n\n\"Poor child!\" said Mrs. Powell softened at once. \"I am very sorry to\nhear such an account of her. Mrs. Ward told me she was sick; but I did\nnot suppose there was any thing serious the matter. How long has she\nbeen ill?\"\n\n\"She has been out of sorts a good while,\" replied Abbey; \"but we did\nnot think there was very much the matter till lately. She had a fall\nand hurt her head, and the doctor thinks that may have had something to\ndo with her sickness.\"\n\n\"Indeed! How did she fall?\"\n\n\"She tripped with her foot and fell down-stairs,\" replied Abbey, crying\nstill more as she saw Mrs. Powell's sympathies were moved. \"She would\nhardly let me come away. And mother wants me to go home as often as I\ncan.\"\n\n\"I will go and see your mother this afternoon,\" said Mrs. Powell,\nbusily dishing up her dinner. \"I was going out, at any rate; and I may\nas well call and get the basket. The strawberry plants ought to be set\nout this evening. Come, put away your things, and change your dress so\nas to be ready to wash up your dishes. And, by the way, I have found\nyour hat,\u2014not in a very nice place, either. Where do you think you left\nit?\"\n\nAbbey was quite sure she had left it in the closet.\n\n\"You left it upon the shelf in the cellar where I put the soap-grease,\nand there I found it. One of the strings is spoiled, but it is not hurt\notherwise. It is lucky the rats did not carry it off. What could have\ninduced you to leave it there?\"\n\n\"I don't believe I did leave it there,\" said Abbey, sullenly.\n\n\"Who do you suppose put it there? Did I, or Miss Margaret?\"\n\n\"I don't know who put it there, I'm sure. I know I didn't.\"\n\nAnd just at that minute, the whole story flashed upon Abbey's mind. She\nhad come home from an errand, late, as usual, and, being sent into the\ncellar for coal, and finding her hat in the way, she had laid it on the\nshelf \"just for a minute,\" and forgotten all about it.\n\n\"Now get ready to wash your dishes when you have had your dinner, and\ntake the brushes and dust under the press and down the kitchen-stairs.\"\n\nSullenly enough Abbey obeyed. She had hoped to induce Mrs. Powell to\nsend her back for the basket, and she was not at all pleased at the\nthought of that lady's having a talk with her mother.\n\nThere was no help for it, however, and Mrs. Powell went out about two\no'clock, enjoining it upon Abbey to have the kettle boiling and the\ntable set by half-past five, at which time Margaret came home for her\ntea.\n\n\"Now, don't forget,\" said Mrs. Powell. \"There is nothing particular for\nyou to do; but you can dust those books up in the end of the hall, if\nyou choose.\"\n\n\"I don't choose,\u2014thank you,\" said Abbey, when Mrs. Powell had shut the\ndoor. \"If I have a chance for a little peace and quiet, I mean to enjoy\nit.\"\n\nThe way she took to enjoy her peace and quiet was to throw herself down\non the sofa in the cool, shady parlour, and read her magazines till she\nfell asleep over them. Two or three visitors rang the bell in vain, and\nwent away without getting in; but at last, the grocer's man succeeded\nin making her hear. Rubbing her eyes, she went to the door.\n\n\"What! You have been taking a nap have you?\" said the man, as he handed\nher various parcels, and, among others, a can of kerosene. \"I guess\nMrs. Powell a'n't at home, or you wouldn't take it quite so easy. I\nthought every one must be dead.\"\n\n\"If you knew how I was driven round, you wouldn't wonder that I liked\nto take a nap now and then,\" said Abbey. \"It is just drive,\u2014drive, from\nmorning till night\u2014no peace, so long as she is in the house.\"\n\n\"I always heard she was a stormer,\" said the man. \"But hurry up your\nbasket, for I must be at the station at half-past five, and I must\ndrive smart to get there.\"\n\nAbbey, startled, glanced at the clock. It was ten minutes after five.\nShe hurried to make her fire; but her kindling-wood was rather damp,\nand would not catch easily. She took up the can and poured some\nkerosene on it. It flamed up directly.\n\n\"That's the way to start a fire!\" said she, exultingly. \"Wouldn't\nMother Powell scold, though, if she knew it?\"\n\nShe set the can down\u2014\"just for a minute,\" as she was fond of saying\u2014on\nthe hearth, while she searched for the stove-handle, which was never in\nits place. It was nowhere to be seen.\n\n\"Oh, I know,\" said Abbey. \"I took it to drive up that nail in the shed.\"\n\nAs she stepped into the shed to look for it, there was a loud\nexplosion, and a sudden rush of flames and hot air. In a moment (she\ndid not know how) she found herself in the garden, her dress on fire,\nand the kitchen all in a blaze behind her, with the flames rushing from\nthe windows and doors.\n\nThere was a large, shallow tub standing under the pump, which in this\ndry season was kept full of water for the purpose of watering the\ngarden.\n\nMore from instinct than from any exercise of sense, Abbey threw herself\nhead foremost into this tub, and thus extinguished the fire on her\nclothes, with no other damage to herself than a slight scorching of her\narms and face; but, meantime, the back part of the house was all in a\nblaze.\n\nThere was a fire-engine station near by, and the steamer was soon on\nthe ground, pouring its great stream of water upon the flames, which\nwere thus subdued before they could spread to the brick part of the\nbuilding. But what a sight met the eyes of Mrs. Powell and Margaret as\nthey arrived at home! The flames were out, but the ruins were still\nsmoking. Every thing was drenched with water, within and without. The\npoor birds lay dead in their cages, smothered by the smoke. All the\npretty things\u2014the photographs and engravings, the books and music and\ndainty bits of embroidery, and such things, which Mrs. Powell and her\ndaughters had got together by their taste and industry\u2014were ruined.\nAnd the garden, which had been years in coming to its late state of\nperfection, was trampled and destroyed. Such was the result of Abbey's\n\"taking things easy.\"\n\nOf course there was an inquiry into the origin of the fire, and Abbey\nwas closely questioned. At first she declared she knew nothing about\nit: she found herself in the garden, with her clothes on fire, and that\nwas all she could tell about the matter.\n\n\"What were you doing when the fire broke out?\" asked the engineer of\nthe fire-department.\n\n\"Filling the tea-kettle,\" answered she.\n\n\"Oh! And you had just made the fire a minute before, I presume?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Abbey. \"I had just got it started.\"\n\n\"Oh, indeed! And perhaps you poured kerosene on your kindlings to make\nthem light?\" said the experienced engineer, eyeing her closely.\n\nAbbey coloured deeply.\n\n\"Yes, I thought as much. I have seen that trick played before. And I\ndare say you set the can right down by the stove. You couldn't have\nhad it in your hands, or you would not have got off so easily. Well,\nmy girl, you have done a pretty good stroke of work for one day. The\nnext time you want to light a fire in a hurry, I advise you to take\ngunpowder. It is about as convenient, and rather safer.\"\n\n\"I didn't mean any thing,\" sobbed Abbey.\n\n\"Then you had better mean something next time, and see if you can't do\nit,\" said the engineer. \"You may be thankful that you were not burned\nto death. It was a wonderful escape.\"\n\n\"How could you do so, Abbey?\" said Mrs. Powell. \"You have often been\ntold not to bring a candle near the can of kerosene, or even to fill\nthe lamps after dark. You had abundance of kindlings of all sorts, and\nplenty of shavings, if you had wanted them, in the shed at the end of\nthe garden.\"\n\n\"I was in a hurry,\" said Abbey, \"and the fire wouldn't burn, and\u2014and\u2014I\nam sure I didn't mean any thing. I am sure you told me to have the fire\ngoing and the kettle boiling by half-past five,\" she added, in her\nusual injured tone, as if that fact were a sufficient excuse for all\nshe had done. \"You said so the last thing before you went out. I knew\nyou would scold if it wasn't ready when you came home, and so I hurried\nall I could.\"\n\n\"Where was the need of hurry? You had all the afternoon.\"\n\n\"Well, I didn't know what time it was, till it struck five; and then\u2014\"\n\n\"There! That will do,\" said Mrs. Powell. \"I don't want to hear any\nmore, Abbey. You may take your things, if any of them are left, and\ngo home. I am sorry for your poor mother, who has enough on her hands\nwithout you; but I cannot have any one in my house whom I cannot trust\nfor a single minute. If you showed any sense of your faults, I could\nhave more patience with you; but you seem inclined to lay all the blame\nupon me. I have done my best to teach you; but it is labour and time\nthrown away. If you were only stupid, I could have patience with you;\nbut you are utterly unfaithful. Your laziness and carelessness have\ncaused me losses which can never be repaired.\"\n\nAnd Mrs. Powell's eyes filled with tears, as she thought of the\nprecious portraits, and of the birds the dear deceased daughter had fed\nand tended with so much care.\n\n\"You have destroyed my garden, that I have taken so much pains with,\nand all-but destroyed my house,\u2014and all because you were too idle to\nset about your work in season, and too lazy to seek proper materials\nfor making your fire. You can go home at once, as soon as you have\nchanged your dress. I do not mean to be harsh to you, but I never wish\nto see your face again.\"\n\nMrs. Powell turned away, and, wiping the tears from her eyes, went into\nthe house, where Margaret and Maria were mourning over their treasures\nand trying to rescue some of them from the general ruin. She was a\nChristian woman, and strove to forgive as she would be forgiven; but\nshe may be pardoned if she found it hard to put her principles at once\nin practice on the present occasion.\n\nIt would have been easy for her to get a capable girl in the place of\nRebecca, whom she had lent (as it were) to her sister-in-law,\u2014for she\nhad a good reputation among working people; but she felt that it would\nbe unjust to deprive Abbey of her place at Mrs. Ward's without finding\nher another; and after she learned something of Abbey's family, she\nbecame interested in the girl on her own account. She knew very well\nthat a young woman who thoroughly understands house-work can always\ncommand a good home and good wages in every change of times, and she\ndetermined in her own mind that it should not be her fault if Abbey\nwere not well educated in this respect.\n\nHer conscience acquitted her of ever having been hard upon Abbey.\nShe had been exact and particular with her, but not more so than\nshe was with her own daughter, and not half so exacting as she was\nwith herself. She had indulged her in all proper ways, given her a\nsufficient amount of rest and leisure, and taken all due care of her\nhealth and her moral and mental advancement, and here was the result!\nIt was no wonder she felt as though she never wished to see Abbey again.\n\n\"Well, what are you waiting for?\" she asked, with some sharpness, as\nAbbey presented herself in the parlour, where she was helping Margaret\nto select and dry such of the books and pictures as were not utterly\ndestroyed.\n\n\"I want my wages,\" said Abbey,\u2014as calmly as if nothing had happened.\n\"You didn't pay me last week, nor the week before, and you owe me three\ndollars.\"\n\n\"'Owe' you!\" was all Mrs. Powell could say. She looked at Abbey a\nmoment in silence, and returned to her work.\n\n\"You had better go, Abbey,\" said Margaret. \"Mother will settle with\nyour father about your wages.\"\n\n\"I wonder if she don't mean to pay me?\" thought Abbey, as she went out\nto wait for the car. \"It will be real mean if she don't. Just as if I\nset the house on fire on purpose!\"\n\n\"Well, I must say, Abbey's coolness is rather beyond any thing I ever\nsaw!\" remarked Margaret. \"She does not seem to have the least notion\nthat she has been to blame.\"\n\n\"Oh, no. It was all my fault, you see, for telling her to have supper\nat half-past five,\" replied Mrs. Powell.\n\n\"Well, I only hope it will be a lesson to her, and rouse her up a\nlittle.\"\n\n\"It won't,\" said Mrs. Powell. \"Her laziness is too far ingrained\never to be driven out of her. She will go on to the end of her days,\nshirking and slipping out of work, depending upon any one and every one\nto take care of her, accepting every thing as her right, and thinking\nit terribly hard and oppressive if she is obliged to do any thing\ntowards her own living. There is nothing which can make people more\nmeanly and dishonestly selfish, nothing which can more entirely and\nhopelessly degrade them, than that dislike to honest hard work which\nmakes them submit to any inconvenience for themselves or others, rather\nthan labour with their own hands.\"\n\nI am sorry to say that Mrs. Powell's prophecy about Abbey has thus far\nproved true. While Elvira has gone on earning higher and higher wages,\nand more and more respect and confidence from her employers,\u2014while\npoor Harry in his arm-chair gains no inconsiderable sum from his\nwood-carving and other fine work, and even poor little half-idiot\nTotty (made so by Abbey's \"just a minute's\" neglect) earns her mite by\nweeding in the neighbours' gardens,\u2014Abbey is perfectly contented to be\na burden upon her hard-working father and mother.\n\nShe has been in several places since the catastrophe at Mrs. Powell's;\nbut no lady will keep her any longer than till she can find somebody\nelse. She has tried to learn two or three trades, but always finds out\ndirectly that the sewing-machine makes her head ache, and standing\nbehind the counter makes her side ache, and bottoming chairs makes her\nshoulders ache,\u2014and so on, to the end of the chapter. She thinks there\nis no use in her trying to help her mother, because no one is ever\nsatisfied with any thing \"she\" does.\n\nWhen Mrs. R., at the fancy-shop (for whom Harry does a great deal of\nwork), will not buy her tatting, it is not because some of the loops\nare large and others small, and all dirty, but because Mrs. R. has been\nset against her by Margaret Powell. When Elvira remonstrates (which she\nseldom does, knowing its utter uselessness), Abbey says Elvira always\nhad a natural taste for work, and of course it is easy for her.\n\nWhen Mr. Jenkins frets, she reminds him that he would not let Mrs.\nPowell pay her any wages after the fire, and asks what is the use of\nworking if she is not to be paid for it. She sits by the window or the\nfire all day, sometimes pretending to sew, sometimes reading any trash\nshe can pick up, sometimes dreaming of somebody who is to fall in love\nwith her and marry her and turn out a rich nobleman in disguise. She\nis very generous at these times, and plans how she will take Harry to\nthe Springs, and buy cashmere shawls and silk dresses for her mother,\nand heap coals of fire upon the heads of her stepfather and Margaret\nPowell by setting the one up in business and ordering of the other an\nindefinite amount of embroidery.\n\nIt does not at all detract from her self-complacency at these times\nthat she lets the fire go out or the dinner spoil: that is merely a\npiece of the bad luck which, by some strange fatality, always attends\nher. The probability seems to be that she will go dreaming through life\nin the same way, and that when she goes to meet the Judge who condemned\nthe slothful servant not for what he did, but for what he left undone,\nnot one creature in the world will have been the better for her having\nlived in it.\n\n\n\n                           THE END.","title":"Abbey : $b or, Taking it easy","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":16992}