Category: Lisbeth

Chapter X :Reading Pictures

7/26/2015

    Lisbeth stopped to see Alma that afternoon as she had promised. She brought the white violets that she had left wrapped in wet leaves in Sister Barbara's care, while she went into the chapel for instructions. For Sister Barbara and Lisbeth had been fast friends ever since the good nun had made her first visit to the Brambles. Many were the crisp ginger cakes and red apples Sister Barbara had pressed into the little girl's hand as she passed in and out of the convent gate. And her friendly message, "My compliments to your grandmother, Lisbeth," had cleared Gran's savage frown more than once."
    "And you're going to make your First Communion with the rest," Sister Barbara said when Lisbeth stopped by the kitchen door for her violets. "Ah, but that's good news, my little girl. It was I that spoke up for ye last night, when some one said ye couldn't read your Catechism.
    "Sure, there's a many a saint in Heaven that never looked looked into a book," says I.
    "But I do," said Lisbeth eagerly. "I look into this book Sister Angela lent me every day, and I can ready the pictures, every one. I know about them all, from the stable of Bethlehem to the Cross."
    "Ah, God bless ye," said Sister Barbara. "The Lord Himself will ask no more than that, I'm sure. Here are your flowers now, fresh and sweet. And my compliments to your grandmother. I hope her rheumatism is better these fine May days." And the kind, cheery words seemed to make Lisbeth's heart warm even to cross, fierce, old Gran.
    Alma was waiting by the big iron gate, her pretty face pressed close to the bars.
    "I thought you would never, never come. It's so dull and stupid, staying home all day long. I would much rather go to St. Mary's"
    "And why -why don't you?" asked Lisbeth as Alma threw her arm about her shoulder and drew her up the shaded walk.
    "I can't, answered Alma with a sigh. "Daddy says I am too little."
    "Oh, but you're not," answered Lisbeth. "There are other little girls not as big as you."
    "I know," answered Alma, I told Daddy so - but he didn't care . I am his little girl, you know, and must do what he says."
    "Oh, I'm sorry," said Lisbeth in a troubled voice. "I'm so sorry. I missed you to-day and wondered where you were. And i brought you the violets. I kept them in these wet leaves so they would be sweet and fresh."
    "Oh, Lisbeth, thank you!" Alma buried her pretty little nose delightedly in the shy, fragrant flowers. "I never had white violets before. They will be lovely for our tea party. I have got the table set under the lilacs. It's too pretty to play in the house to-day. And Nora has baked us some dear little doll biscuits, and a cake just big enough for my plates. Come and see."
    And Alma led her wondering guest by lawn and fountain and garden bed to a soft, grassy little nook hedged in with tall white and purple lilacs in full bloom. There was a broad stone bench, a moss-grown sundial, and through a bread in the lilacs a wide-stretching view of river and valley, with old Top Notch rising dark and frowning against the May-day-sky. But Lisbeth gave no thought to Top Notch now.
    For the old moss-grown dial had been transformed into a tea table, covered with a gayly fringed Japanese cloth, set with Alma's Japanese china dishes, and surmounted by a very big and highly color Japanese umbrella.
    There was a tiny bowl filled with sugared strawberries, a pitcher of cream to match, and plates with wee brown biscuits and frosted cakes. Lisbeth was quite dumb with delight. Never had she seen anything so charming.
    "Sit down," said Alma. There were two little chairs twisted out of tree boughs, that now weather could hurt. "Now we'll put the white violets in the middle of the table and have tea."
    "It isn't real tea, of course," continued Alma as she poured the sweetened milk into the pretty cups. "I can't drink real tea until I grow up, can you?"
    "Yes," said Lisbeth, whose cracked cup was always half filled from Gran's old black teapot to soften her morning's crust. "I drink tea every day."
   "You can do lots of things I can't," said Alma with a sigh. "Some day I will come to see you, Lisbeth, and swing on your gate, and climb your trees, and wade in your brook, and have real tea, like you.
    "Madame thinks I ought to do just like Susanne and Colette, the little girls she taught in France. They were so good, and never tore their dresses, or blotted their books, or ran away at lesson time like me.
    "Take another biscuit , Lisbeth; take tow, they are so little," and though dainty Alma wondered when Lisbeth dipped her biscuit into her teacup, and picked the berries up with her brown fingers, as she picked them from the vine and bush at home, she was too much of a little lady to say a word. Under the pleasant charm of it all, Lisbeth's shyness wore off and she found voice to talk.
    "I'm sorry you can't come to St. Mary's any more. It was just beautiful to-day. The altar was full of snowballs and lilacs, and the sunshine came read and blue and every color through the windows, and Father Francis told us a stories, real true stories, he said, about little girls and boys that died for Our Lord. They had their heads cut off and let lions eat them. Oh, I couldn't do that, could you?"
    "Oh yes, I could." said Alma boldly. "I wouldn't let swords or lions frighten me. I wish there were prisons and martyrs and underground places to hide in now. Its so dull to be just plain good," said Alma with a little sigh.
    But Father Francis says we don't have to die for our Lord like those boys and girls did any more," said Lisbeth eagerly. "Oh, I am glad we don't for I'd be afraid, I know. Uncle Lem shot a wild cat that came down from Top Notch to steal our chickens last winter. Oh, you ought to have seen its teeth and claws! I - I couldn't face a wild cat, I know. I am glad we don't have to let wild things kill us now. I am glad we just have to live good as Father Francis says. He talked so nice," continued Lisbeth softly.
    "He said it was very hard sometimes to live good, and not tell stories, and to do right no matter what happened - that is all our Lord expects from His little children now. Then we all sang - I sang with the rest to-day:
                                                                            "'Teach us, dearest Lord, to love Thee,
                                                                                Make our little hearts Thine own.'"
    "Oh, Lisbeth, you make me fell awful sorry that I can't go with you any more. But I can't," sighted Alma. "Daddy says I'm too little to think or to know what First Communion means. But I do. I told him I did, but he would not listen. It seemed like he didn't want to hear. And Madame said that I didn't know enough too. She said that Colette and Susanne were not allowed to make their First Communion till they knew the Catechism through, every hard word in it. Do you know the Catechism through, Lisbeth?"
    "No," said Lisbeth, hesitating. "I - I only know what Sister Angela has told me. I - I can't read words yet. But I can read pictures," she added, brightening. "Sister Angela gave me this book." She picked up the little pictorial "Life of Christ" which she had laid on the grass beside her. "It's the only book I have, but I can read the pictures in it right through."
    "Oh, can you?" said Alma. "I never knew anyone that could read pictures. Did Sister Angela teach you how?"
    "No," said Lisbeth. "She told me about them, but I learned all the rest myself. I sit on the kitchen step, or up on the crotch of the old elm, or on the flat rock by the spring, and read and read. It is much nicer that reading words."
    "Oh, I am sure it is," said Alma, who had her own troubles in that line. "Show me ho you do it, Lisbeth ; read a picture for me now." She pushed up her little closer, and the gold and brown heads bent together over the book in Lisbeth's lap. It was a simple little book, made for children, but the pictures were copied from paintings of great masters, and were well worth the study of the young eyes bent upon them now.
    "I'll read this first," said Lisbeth. "I believer I like it best of all. It is Our Lord blessing little children.
    "There are the hills." ( Lisbeth's small brown finger traced the picture as she spoke) "where He had been walking until he got tired, and he sat down under this tree to rest. And some of the little children who were playing away off there one the grass saw Him. 'Oh, look, look,' they whispered to each other, 'that is the good Jesus, who is so kind. He cures all the sick people who come to Him. He can make the blind see and the lame walk.' And some of them ran home and called their mothers, and the mothers brought out their little babies, and they all went hurrying to find Our Lord. Some of the babies were sick and weak, I guess, and the mothers knew that He would make them well and strong.
    "But these good men, who are standing around our Lord in the picture - I forget what Sister Angela called them -"
    "Apostles," prompted Alma, who knew more about names and words that the little picture reader.
    "Yes," continued Lisbeth, still pointing with her little brown finger. "Those are the apostles. They are looking cross, because they don't want the children to come and trouble Our Lord. "'Run away,' they are saying, 'run away, little children' take those crying babies away, mothers. Our Lord is resting and cannot be troubled with you now.' But Our Lord is resting and cannot be troubled with you now.' But Our Lord hears the cross words and says, 'O no, no, no, they will not trouble me. Let them come to Me - all these little children, and the little babies with their mothers - let them come.'
    "And they came," went on the picture reader softly. "Little girls and boys, and babies and all - see, they are all glad, laughing, and not afraid any more. They crowd around Him, and He takes the sick babies in His arms, and he puts His hands on the little girls' and boys' heads, and he loves them and blesses them all."
    "Oh, I wish I was one of those little girls in the picture," said Alma, quite carried away by Lisbeth's readings.
    "So do I, said Lisbeth. "I'd like to be that little girl kneeling there by His side. And this one with the long hair falling down her shoulders looks like you, Alma, just like you."
    So the picture reading went on, Lisbeth's little brown fingers pointing to face and form, to house and tree and road, to which her eager fancy had given meaning, and Alma listened as she had never listed to word reading in all her gay young life.
    "This is a poor dead man that hey are carrying to his grave. His mother is crying - he was the only child she had, and she was a widow. It's awful sad to be like this. And they were all walking out of this gate to the grave when Our Lord met them. He looked at the poor crying mother and felt so sorry for her. She didn't ask Him for anything, because her boy was dead, and it was too late to cure him. She just walked on crying, with her head bowed down, and didn't even see Our Lord standing there by the gate pitying her. And he stopped the men who were carrying the dead boy, and put His hands on him and made him alive again, and gave him back to his mother - well and strong."
    Much more Lisbeth read in the same simple way - of the blind man whose eyes were opened, of the ruler's gentle little daughter who was raised from death, of the storm and wind that rocked St. Peter's boat and were stilled by his gentle Lord's voice and word.
    Perhaps Lisbeth would not have read pictures so well if she had ever had book or pictures before. But into her bare, dull, lonely little life the sweet story of Jesus had come in full tenderness and beauty, and filled her childish heart and mind with its love and light. The dark, gloomy, old house in the Brambles, the course, scanty meals, fierce, old, scolding Gran had been all that poor little Lisbeth had known of home, of care, of love - until Sister Angela had taken her into the convent garden, and taught her the blessed lessons that happy children learn at their mothers' knees, - lessons that Lisbeth read into pictures now filling the bare outlines with her childish fancy, teaching poor little lonely , neglected Lisbeth to think, to wonder, to love.
    The sun was close to its setting before the little party by the sundial broke up.
    "Oh, I didn't know it was so late," said Lisbeth. "I must hurry home, or Gran will be angry. But I will come again if you want me. I'll read some more pictures to you. There's some I don't quite know yet. I can't read the words under them."
    "Oh, I can," said Alma. "I can read words if that will help you, Lisbeth. Come again and we will read your book together."
    "Yes, I will," said Lisbeth. "And I needn't go round by the gate," she added, casting and anxious glance at the western sky, flaming beyond old Top Notch. "There's a short cut through the hedge here - home."
   "Oh, is there?" asked Alma delightedly, peeping through the break in the lilacs. "Isn't it nice? You can that way always then, Lisbeth. Come every day - this was my mama's garden - she used to sit here by the sundial and read and sew. Daddy never comes here, it makes him too sad; so it's my garden now. I have it all to myself and can play what I please."
    And this was the beginning of an innocent friendship of which Daddy, keeping a watchful eye on the "boys" of Top Notch, never dreamed.
    This great, beautiful house, standing apart its wide-reaching grounds, seemed as far from the Brambles as heaven from earth. Alma's daddy would have been shocked and startled indeed id he had known the tender, childish tie that bound them, - if he could have seen his golden-haired idol reading pictures every evening with the little niece of Lem Lorne.

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Chapter Seven - Mayday

2/25/2015

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IT was May time in the Brambles now, and everything was fresh and green, the woods were shady again, all the shy wild flowers were peeping out from the soft new grass, the brook was foaming over the rocks'—widening in pleasant, mossy shallows, dancing where the sunbeams fell through the Arching trees. Lisbeth loved the brook, and knew its every turn and bend, where the queer "Indian pipes" stood up stiff and pale, where the water cress grew crisp and green, where the white violets starred the mossy banks, bending their pretty heads as if saying their prayers. She knew the hollow under the rock where the big frog lived, the old great grandfather frog, who never hopped and jumped away like the rest but sat still at his door, blinking in the sunshine. She knew where the nest was hidden in the willow, and the tiny birds were beginning t o chirp.

Now that' the days were bright and long, there was plenty of time to ramble out in the woods that, after all, are the biggest and best playgrounds a little girl can have when spring is working sweet wonders in trees and grass and flowers. And Lisbeth was free today — Gran had limbered up her stiff knees with the bottle of medicine and gone up to Top Notch. Gran's heart and thought were always up on Top Notch with her boys. .Why they lived up there instead of at the Brambles Lisbeth did not know. It was a long, steep way for poor Gran to go, for she came back fierce and tired and cross, and cried out in her sleep as i f she was frightened or afraid. But she brought money with her to buy sugar and flour and meal and tea.

Lisbeth was too young and innocent to guess the truth, that the boys were wild, bad men, hiding up on the rough heights of Top Notch so that they could break the laws and make money by wrong, forbidden ways. Only in the dark nights of winter, when the roads were blocked with ice and snow, dared the boys venture home. Now that all the dim ways of the Brambles had opened into light and beauty, they feared to come. And Uncle Lem, the wildest, the dearest, the youngest of Gran's boys, had been sick of late with a fever, and Gran had to go help him, cost what it might. But little Lisbeth knew nothing of all this. Gran was afraid of her childish "prattling ," and so kept the boys' troubles to herself, only taking it out on the poor little girl by being rougher, crosser than ever in her mother's grief and pain.

So it was with a glad, light heart that Lisbeth shut the door of the big black kitchen and felt that she had this whole bright May day free. No water to draw, no fire to make, no floors to scrub, no dinner to cook, there was some cold corn bread and ajar of milk — that would be quite enough for her — above all no Gran to nag and scold and cuff her. A whole long, bright day! "Stay home, Dirck ," she said to the big dog who followed her to the broken gate. "You must stay home and keep house, I 'm going to take my new doll out for a walk. She has never been out in the country before, have you, Endora? I am going t o show her the brook, and the birds' nest, and the frogs. We are going to pick white violets -- oh, we are going to do so many nice things, and then — then we are going to St. Mary's and to church and to Alma's. Oh, I never thought I would have such good things happen to me," murmured Lisbeth as she went skipping along over the rough, weedgrown road. " I never thought I would go to a garden school and a beautiful church; I never thought I would have a lovely, lovely doll, like this, with lace on her skirt and a real hat, and eyes that go to sleep; I never thought a nice little girl like Alma would ask me to play with her; I never thought I would have such happy, happy times as I am having now." And with her heart singing this glad, grateful little song, Lisbeth went skipping on through the dark shadowy woods until the low roof of a little cottage showing under the trees made her suddenly pause. "Oh, Endora, I forgot," she whispered with a quick-drawn breath. " I forgot Bobby Burns. It's Bobby Burns' day." Mrs. Burns was the nearest neighbor to Gran. She lived where the Brambles opened into a soft little glen, that had been, cleared of thorns and briers, and she had a nice garden patch, half a dozen speckled hens, and a cow. She had tow-headed Billy , who tended the cow and brought Gran every day a can of milk. And last but not least, she had Bobby -- kicking, crowing Baby Bobby — just old enough to tumble into, the wash boiler and tip over the milk pans and catch at everything — from pins to scrubbing powder -- his fat hands could reach. There was never the likes of him , "rosy Mrs. Burns groaned one day as she turned from her wash tub to take the drenched, spluttering Bobby from Lisbeth, who had just picked him out of the rain barrel. " I can't turn my back five minutes to hang out my clothes." "Oh, Mrs. Burns," said Lisbeth, who was looking wistfully at the snowy pieces hanging out on her neighbor's line, "I'll come and take care of Bobby every day that you wash, if you'll do up one of my nice dresses every week for me. I can't do them myself." "You poor darling, I don't suppose you can," said the good woman warmly. " And you should have those pretty frocks the Sister gave you ironed right." So the bargain was made.

Bobby's mother laundered Lisbeth's pretty new dresses, and Bobby kicked and tumbled,
safe from harm, under his little nurse's watchful eye for the best part of a bright day every week. And this was Bobby's day. Reluctantly poor little Lisbeth turned to the house, where Mrs. Burns was already up to her elbows in soapsuds, and Lisbeth's blue gingham with its white braid and buttons was being rubbed and rubbed by a skillful hand. "Ah, it's you, Lisbeth — I thought you were not coming," said the good woman. "Your poor old grandmother was bad last night, as Billy said. If she wants you at home today you need not come. I wouldn't be taking you from her when she is crippled up. Bobby and I will get along without you if you're wanted at home." The truth rose to Lisbeth's lips and stopped there — held by the thought that she could escape, could have the long, happy day without work or care. Gran was away at Top Notch; Gran did not want her; no one needed her at home. But — she would not tell; she would just slip away from Bobby—tiresome, teasing, kicking Bobby--to the brook, the woods, for this whole lovely morning—she would not nurse Bobby today. "Run off home with yourself, back to the poor old woman," continued Mrs. Burns. "I know what it is to be down with the rheumatism myself. It's the good little girl you are, I know, and the Lord's blessing will be on you for all your patience with the poor old soul. And there's some nice ginger cookies on the table that you can take with you for your lunch." At these kind words, the truth again leaped to Lisbeth's lips, and again it stopped. She ought to stay; she ought to help Mrs. Burns with naughty Bobby; she ought to pay for the blue gingham the good woman was washing so carefully for her lest it should fade or streak. She would have it ironed this evening, just as if it were new. "Me want Libby," said Bobby, dropping the clothespins that for the moment had kept him quiet. "Me wants the pitty doll, me wants Libby to play wif me." "You can't have her this morning, for she is wanted at home. Run off with yourself before he begins t o screech for ye, Lisbeth dear. Run off — " And Lisbeth ran off at the word, ran off with Bobby's piercing screech already sounding in her ear, for her free, happy day.

The sunbeams were dancing through the arching trees, the birds were singing, gay little squirrels were frisking over the leafy boughs, the pink laurel was in bloom, but when at last Lisbeth reached the soft, mossy banks of the brook and paused to rest, the bright, beautiful world around her seemed to have lost something of its charm. Now, though naughty Bobby's tyrant screech could no longer be heard, another voice seemed whispering to her — whispering clearer than the brook tumbling so joyously at her feet whispering to her heart. "Lisbeth, Lisbeth," it seemed to say, "is our Lord blessing you today, as kind Mrs. Burns said?" "Cheating, shirking little Lisbeth, are you pleasing Him today?" " Lisbeth — Lisbeth — Lisbeth, are you doing right today? Are you good and true today?" "I did not tell a story," said Lisbeth as with Endora in her arms she sat down on a moss-grown rock. "I did not tell Mrs. Burns Gran wanted me at home. I did not say a word, did I , Endora?" Endora stared blankly; a little bird perched on a twig across the brook gave a low tweet, tweet, as it flew away; a hoarse ker-plung came from the grandfather frog. Last summer Lisbeth would have heard nothing more — but now, now her little soul had been wakened, and the voice in her heart kept whispering in spite of bird and breeze. "You did not tell a story, Lisbeth, but were you true to Mrs. Burns— real, real true? Are you a good little girl, as she said? Is our Lord blessing you today as He blessed the little children long ago?"

Lisbeth jumped up from the rock, and 'leaving Endora in her place began to pick violets, the shy little violets that starred the brook's mossy banks. She had taken a big bunch to St. Mary's yesterday. "But they won't show much," she said as she handed them to Sister Angela for the May altar. . "Maybe not, Lisbeth, but our Lord can see, and I think He likes them best, these shy little flowers that do not show; so I am going to put them at His feet." And while the lilacs and the snowballs the other girls had brought from their mothers' gardens stood high and beautiful on the altar vases, Lisbeth's violets filled a low silver bowl before the tabernacle, their white heads bent, their sweet breath rising as if in whispered prayer. At His feet, Sister Angela had said Lisbeth's little wood flowers were, at our Lord's feet. They would be there still when she knelt this afternoon before the altar--
a naughty little Lisbeth who had not been true. ,

Oh, Lisbeth could not stand the chiding voice any longer. "I'm going back," she said, catching up Endora from the rock. "I'm going back to take care of Bobby. I'm going back to
Mrs. Burns and be good and true." And Lisbeth went hurrying on along the brookside; that was the shortest if roughest way, for her slim brown feet were bare today, and she could wade the shallows, skip and jump the rocks as she^ pleased. Bramble brook was a frolicsome little stream that all the gloom and loneliness around it could not tame. Only the icy grip of Jack Frost could hold it silent and still. Now, with the soft spring rains of the last six weeks, with all the drip andtrickle from the rocks and ridges of Top Notch, it was full to the very brim, widening here and there into pools deep and clear, and fringed with the wide leaves of water lilies, that a little later would bloom out white and sweet. Then Lisbeth would have flowers for the altar indeed, flowers that would outshine all the garden blossoms the nicest little girls could bring. But one must skip carefully about the lily ponds.' The banks hidden by the spreading leaves were slippery, the water was deep.

Long ago, Mrs. Burns had told her that when Thornwood was in its glory and pride swans had floated among the lily leaves. Lisbeth started forward eagerly as she caught a glimpse of something white^among them now. Then her heart seemed to jump to her lips and hold her speechless—breathless: For it was Bobby! Bobby in the little white slip in which he took his noonday nap! Bobby, bare-legged and barefooted, runaway baby! Bobby among the lily pads, on these slippery, dangerous banks! And before Lisbeth could reach him — cry to him — there was a swish, a tumble, and Bobby was down and in — flat on his little back in the water, too frightened to struggle or scream.

To be continued . . . . . . .

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Chapter Six - Alma

2/13/2015

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ALMA watched through the iron gate until Lisbeth turned the street corner; then she took her way back to the house, the great, beautiful house where she lived with her father and Madame Manette, her French governess, and Nora and Elise and Tim , and all the other men and maid servants that such a rich and fine establishment as Mr. Oliver Norton's required.

Alma's mother had gone to Heaven when her baby girl was born, and her father, who until then had been young and gay and happy, had grown old and grave with sorrow. His dark hair was threaded with gray; to all but little Alma his face was cold and stern. In his great grief, he had turned away from God and man, living only for his little girl and his work. He was a lawyer whose clear head and keen eye were dreaded by all evildoers far and near, for when he stood against them in the courts of justice there
was no hope.

Little Alma was the idol of this proud, strong man's heart and life. For her the great house, the spacious grounds were kept up in all their beauty; for her the flowers bloomed and the fountain played. For her Madame Manette, who had taught the high Noblesse in her own land, had been brought across the sea. For the little girl with her mother's dancing eyes and golden hair, "Daddy" lived -- to all Heaven and earth beside he was dead in heart and soul, buried in rebellious despair.

So blind was Daddy's love that, if Alma had not been blessed with the sweetest, sunniest disposition in the world, she would have been altogether selfish and spoiled. As it was, she had grown up to eight years old, a roguish, mischievous little sprite, whose pranks good Madame Manette, used to the proper ways of the high Noblesse, found quite beyond her rules.
"And monsieur the father will permit no punishment," the good lady had confided to Sister Angela about two months ago.

Sister Angela had been one of the Madame's pupils, when she was at school in Paris, and was still her fast friend. "This little Alma will not listen, she will not study, she flies away — like the birds and the butterflies — when I would hold her to her lessons, to her desk. Ah, so mechante, so naughty, hiding from me, making the grimaces when I talk to her, laughing up in my face. Never in my country would we permit- such things, ma chere, as you know. We would tie such little girls to the chair, we would lock them up, we would give them no supper. But here I can do nothing — nothing. Monsieur the father will not permit. If she is naughty, if she is lazy, if she is flyaway, like the birds and butterflies, he does not blame, he does not care. "He gives her the kiss, the caress, the new beautiful toys all the same. In his great love, he is blind — ma chere — blind." "Poor father, blind indeed," said Sister Angela softly, for she knew that in the bitterness of his grief for Alma's mother M r . Norton had turned from his Faith, from his Church, from his God. "Little Alma comes to Mass with you every Sunday, as I see," continued the gentle speaker. "It is time for her to do more. Let her make her First Communion in June."

"Ma chere!" the good French lady fairly gasped in dismay. "Alma make her First Communion! She is but eight years old."

"Quite old enough, according to our present rules," said Sister Angela. "None of my class this year are over ten, many only seven."

"Seven!" repeated Madame, "Seven! Never have I had a pupil make her First Communion until she was twelve years old at least, until she knew the Catechism through, until for two years she had the instructions every week. Seven! You terrify me, ma chere. How can a child of seven understand?"

"Oh, my dear Madame, how can the wisest, the oldest of us understand?" said Sister Angela softly. "Our Lord does not ask us to understand, only to believe and to love. In these happy days, the sweet call that once sounded on the hills of Judea is echoing all over the earth: 'Let the little ones come unto Me. Forbid them not.' Let little Alma come with the rest, dear friend." And after a little more gentle pleading, the good Madame yielded reluctantly, for the old-fashioned ideas were strong in her still.

So Alma in her blue hat and ribbons took her place in the First Communion class, that assembled three times a week, and began to learn lessons that in her own beautiful home no governess could teach. With long rows of little girls sitting still and good, Alma sat strangely still and good too. With long rows of little girls knowing their lesson, Alma was ashamed to miss; with these long rows of little girls listening to Father Francis in the chapel, Alma fixed her blue eyes on the kind old speaker, and listened too. And then always there was a little talk with Sister Angela, who was watching with special tenderness over this little lamb, who, unlike poor little Lisbeth, lived amid sunshine and flowers. But lambs can be tangled in flowers as well as thorns, as wise Sister Angela knew.
And so slowly but surely there had come into Alma's dancing eyes a new look — the starry light of thought. It was in her eyes to-day as she walked back to the house, after parting with Lisbeth, poor little Lisbeth, who lived in that dark, gloomy, old house in the Brambles, who had no dear Daddy to love her, no Madame to teach her, no Tim or Nora or Elise to wait on her — poor little Lisbeth! Alma was thinking what she would give Lisbeth to take home to-morrow, when a carriage swung through the iron gates, and Daddy, who had been on a business trip, sprang out and caught his little girl in his arms. For a while all other things were forgotten in the joy of his return, for he had been gone six long weeks. They had dinner together. It was not often that Alma shared Daddy's late dinners, but he said he must have her downstairs to-night, so she sat opposite to him at the round mahogany table with its lights and flowers, and had ice cream made into roses,
and candied nuts. Then they went into the library, where her mother's picture hung over the chimney place, and there were rows of bookcases, and Daddy often sat working or thinking the whole night through. But though letters and papers were piled high upon his big table, he did not even look at them to-night. He flung himself down in his leathern cushioned chair and drew Alma to his knee. The golden head nestled on his shoulder, the fair little face looked up into his own — the only light in poor Daddy's darkness, the only joy in his lonely life — his heart's treasure, his little girl.

"Oh, it's so good to have you back again, Daddy," whispered Alma. "You've been gone so long."

"Only six weeks, Midget!" he answered smiling. "You've missed me then?" "Oh yes, dreadfully, Daddy, and so many things have happened! "

"I'm sure of that," said Daddy with a laugh. "You have made it lively for poor Madame, I know. Have you been very naughty since I left?"

"No," said Alma softly.

"You haven't run away to the frog pond, to fish and tumble in?"

"No," answered Alma again.

"Nor hidden in the cedar hedge at lesson time?"

"Not once, Daddy."

"Nor pitched your school books out of the windows ?" asked Daddy.

"No," answered Alma, " I haven't done anything of these bad things. I've been good, Daddy, real good."

"You have! "exclaimed Daddy, startled by some new tone in the soft voice. "Has Madame been getting a French grip on you since I have been gone ? You've been good, Midget ?"

"Yes," answered Alma. " I go to St. Mary's now every day with the other little girls. And we say our Catechism, and our prayers, and Sister Angela teaches us, and Father Francis tells us all about God and Blessed Mother and how our Lord lived on earth, and loved little children, and wants them to be good so they can come to Him in Heaven."

"Come to Him in Heaven." Daddy's dead heart seemed to leap with living pain at the words. His Alma — his little baby Alma talking like this. For a moment he could not speak. He felt as if the God from whom he had turned was stretching out His hand to claim his little girl, as He had claimed her mother eight years ago.

"Come to Him in Heaven." Oh no, no, no, was the fierce cry that rose from Daddy's breaking heart, though it did not pass his lips. He only drew Alma closer to him and asked almost angrily, "Who sent you to St. Mary's to hear all this — a baby like you?"

"I'm not a baby, Daddy, I am eight years old. All the little girls eight years old make their First Communion now."

"First Communion!" echoed Daddy. "You are to make your First Communion! You don't know what you are talking about, my pet."

"Oh yes, Daddy, I do, I do. Sister Angela, Father Francis told us. We all know what First Communion means. We know that it is our Lord Himself, that He is hidden under the white Host the priest gives us. Father Francis says the oldest and wisest people in the world cannot understand, but He is there. He said so and we must believe Him, because all that He tells us is true. It is the very happiest day of your life, Father Francis says, when our Lord first comes into your heart and makes it like Heaven. Did you ever make your First Communion, Daddy, when you were a little boy?" And Alma uplifted her soft eyes to her father's darkened face, unconscious of the torturing memories she was waking. For even as his little girl asked the question, the long years seemed to roll away, and Daddy saw himself with the white sash on his shoulder, the lighted taper in his hand, heading the First Communion band of twenty years ago — a believing, hoping, loving, true-hearted boy.

But he had lost the faith, the hope, the light of that happy day — lost the love that might have kept him in blessed ways, lost all but the little girl nestling in his arms, in his heart — his Alma, his own. Ah, he would keep her his own, his own, he felt with a pang of fierce, jealous fear, keep her his own bright, dancing little earth fairy. He would not have her an angel as the nuns were making her. Already there was a new look in her eyes, a tone in her voice he had never heard before, an angel look he did not like. "Tut, tut," he said, pinching her cheek. "We must stop these St. Mary's lessons. They are making you too solemn-eyed altogether. I want you to be my own laughing, playing little girl. It will be time enough to think three years from now — you must not begin yet. It's too soon, little girlie, too soon.

"And we're going off in June for a long, long trip together," continued Daddy in a lighter tone; "off in a big ship across the sea — off to be gay and glad the whole summer through."
And then Daddy brought out a big book of pictures, showing the trip they were to take together, the big boat in which they were to sail, the beautiful lands they were to visit, the wonderful sights they were to see. Soon the gentle shadow of thought had vanished from Alma's pretty face, she was laughing and chatting with all the glee of old.

But when she had gone t o her little rose curtained bed that night, Daddy went to Madame's sitting room, his face dark and stern.

"I want these convent lessons stopped at once," he said shortly. "Alma is too young for such teaching as the nuns are giving her — far too young."

"So I myself thought, monsieur," Madame answered nervously, for never had she seen monsieur with this frowning brow — "but the good Sister Angela said — " "What the good Sister Angela says is nothing to me," interrupted monsieur brusquely.

"The child is mine. Keep her from the convent; let me hear no more of a First Communion. It must all be stopped at once. She is far too young — scarcely eight years old. I simply refuse to have a baby like her bewildered by such grave, solemn teachings. She is too young for thought, for prayer, for anything but childish play."

"It is for monsieur to command," said Madame submissively. And so Alma's sweet lessons at St. Mary's were ended.

To be continued . . . . . .

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Chapter Five - A New Friend

6/19/2014

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SO the days and the nights went by until Lisbeth had been going to her garden school for five weeks. Not for all the world would she have missed a day. Three times it had rained, but she had appeared all the same under a very torn and broken-ribbed umbrella, and Sister Angela had taken her into the vine-wreathed summer house and had given her lessons there.

For St. Mary's garden was all abloom now. There were jonquils and tulips, St. Joseph's lilies, great bushes of snowballs — all the first sweet flowers of spring. And it seemed as if little Lisbeth too — pale little thorn flower that she had been — was opening into sweeter, brighter bloom. The soul that had been sleeping so dully was waking into strange, beautiful life.

Poor little Lisbeth had never had lessons before — no one had ever told her stories or sung her songs. She seemed to drink in Sister Angela's teaching as the flowers drink the dew. She had learned a great deal now; she had listened with wonder and delight to the sweet story of the Divine Babe, born in the stable of Bethlehem, while the angels filled the midnight skies with music, and kings came from the far-off countries to lay their gifts at His feet. Lisbeth had never known what Christmas really meant until now; it had only been a time when the boys came home with a wild turkey to cook for dinner, and Uncle Lem had bought her the tin horn and a doll. So with her eager little face uplifted to her gentle teacher, her soft eyes shining, Lisbeth listened day after day to the lessons that told her of our dear Lord's life on earth.

And before the roses began to bud in St. Mary's garden, she had heard with breathless wonder how He lives on the altar to bless and love His poor earth children still, how He comes to them in Holy Communion, to make their hearts and souls His own.

"Would He come to a poor little girl like me?" asked Lisbeth tremulously.

"Yes," answered Sister Angela.

"A little girl that lives in the Brambles and ain't pretty and nice like the rest?" said Lisbeth.

"Ah, my little Lisbeth, yes. All our Lord asks is a little soul without stain of sin, a little heart that loves Him.

"When the roses bloom all my little children are going to Him, and you shall go with the rest." ,
And the next afternoon Sister Angela led her little garden pupil into the convent chapel, where the sunlight streamed through a painted window upon the altar with its candles and flowers, upon the swinging lamp that burned before it like a star, upon the little girls sitting in rows, while Father Francis talked to them in his kind old voice of our dear Lord and His love.

"He loves you more than your father, more than even your dear, sweet mother can love her little child. He wants you to come as the little children in the days of His earthly life came to His arms and to His heart.

"Do not keep them from Me," He said when the disciples would have turned the little ones away. And to us priests He says the same thing:
"Do not keep them from Me until they grow old and wise" until they know all the big words in the Catechism. "Let the little ones come to Me now, with their white souls Unstained by sin — their little hearts loving and trusting and pure."

That same dear Lord, who called the children on the hills of Judea long ago, who took them in His arms and blessed them, is calling you today, to kneel at His altar to receive Him in that Blessed Sacrament in which He lives still on earth, as truly and really as when He took the little Jewish children to His loving heart two thousand years ago.

"And though you cannot see Him now, though you cannot hear His voice as they did, though you cannot feel His divine hands laid on your heads, He will be with you in Holy Communion, blessing you, loving you, as He blessed and loved them. For He has told us so, and we believe His every word, for He is our Lord and our God."

Lisbeth's heart seemed to beat quickly and as she listened, the soft eyes, hidden by the sun-bonnet, shone with a new, glad light. It was such a wonderful thing to sit here in the beautiful chapel, with all these "nice" little girls, and feel that she would be loved and blessed with the rest. That night Lisbeth sat on the broken kitchen step long after the stars came out, thinking of all that Father Francis had said.

"They must be very good children," he had told them. The white dress, the beautiful wreath and veil they would wear on their First Communion day were only signs of the spotless purity of their little souls. And then Father Francis had told them how children sometimes stained these little white souls with anger, with jealousy, with unkind words to their playmates, with disobedience, with untruths. Untruths! Lisbeth thought of this word more than all the rest as she sat on the doorstep tonight. Untruths — that meant telling stories, and poor little Lisbeth had escaped many a hard word and blow by telling stories in the past.

It had been so easy to say that Dirck had broken the cracked pitcher, that Tabby had turned over the bowl of milk, that Bobby Burns had left the gate open for the chickens to stray. In her fear of cross old Gran such little lies had popped from Lisbeth's lips almost without a thought. But now, now, never would she tell a story again, let Gran scold and beat as she might — never, never again.

And Lisbeth went to her narrow little bed to dream beautiful dreams of the chapel, of the altar, of the white angels kneeling on each side of the great painted window that showed the Good Shepherd bringing the lost lamb home.

Three times a week Sister Angela's First Communion class gathered in the convent chapel, the little fair-haired girl in the pretty blue hat sitting next to Lisbeth and making room for her on the bench with a friendly smile. But on the fourth day she was not there and the shy little stranger from the Brambles missed the bright, roguish face that had looked so pleasantly into her own. Lisbeth had to stop at the drug store this afternoon, to buy a bottle of medicine for Gran's rheumatism, and she was going home by another street — a street into which she seldom turned. It was wide and shaded, and great houses stood back in beautiful grounds, behind high iron gates.

Lisbeth was hurrying along with her medicine bottle, the picture book which Sister Angela had lent her under her arm, when a white kitten scurrying along the sidewalk nearly threw her off her feet.

"Oh, my kitty, my kitty!" cried an eager young voice. "Catch it for me, oh, catch it, please!" Lisbeth made a quick grasp, and soon had the furry, mewing little ball in her hold. The iron gate of one of the big places swung open, and her friendly little neighbor of the convent chapel came running out.

"Oh, my kitty, my naughty kitty, thank you so much for catching her; she slipped away from me before I could open the gate. Oh, my bad little kitty, to run away like that!"

"Take care," said Lisbeth, who knew the ways of kittens. "She will scratch you if you hug her up like that."

"Oh, I don't care, I don't care, I am so glad to get her back. I just brought her from some bad boys who were going to drown her in the creek."

"Do you live here?" asked Lisbeth, looking up at the iron gates that were guarded by two big stone lions.

"Yes, don't you know I am Alma Norton, and this is my house?" laughed kitty's mistress.

"I know you. You are the little girl that lives in the Brambles. Sister Angela has told me about you, and I've been wanting to talk to you ever since."

"Oh, have you?" said Lisbeth, her little brown face lighting up in glad surprise.

"Yes," answered Alma, "Sister Angela said you had no story books, or toys or anything to play with, and I want to give you some of mine. I have such a lot, and Daddy is always bringing me more. He sent me home a talking doll last week. It says, 'Mary has a little lamb' straight through."

"A doll!" said Lisbeth breathlessly. "Oh, I'd like to hear it."

"Come up to the house and you can," said Alma. "And you can take some toys home with you — dolls or games or anything you like."

It was an offer no little girl of eight could resist, and Lisbeth went, following pretty Alma through the iron gates, and up the broad, shaded walks that led by garden beds full of springtime flowers and splashing fountains. In a daze of wonder and delight Lisbeth kept on, across a pillared porch, through the wide hall with its rugs and pictures, up the broad, polished stairs to a room that to even happier little girls than the lonely little child of the Brambles would have seemed like a Christmas dream.

Four big windows let in the sunshine upon walls papered with pictured fairy tales — Jack the Giant Killer, Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, and half a dozen more; a soft green rug bordered with roses nearly covered the shining floor; there was a wide, low table and half a dozen little white wicker chairs cushioned in pink, and all about, on shelves and stands, in closets, were toys and dolls and games and books, in bewildering array, while in a deep recess, just made for its accommodation, stood a doll's house, whose glistening, lace-curtained windows showed it to be furnished in the very latest style from kitchen to roof.

"Oh!" gasped Lisbeth as soon as she could find breath and speech, "are these all — all yours?"

"Yes," said Alma, still hugging her stray kitten, "this is my playroom. But I don't stay here very much now; I like outdoors best, don't you?"
"Oh, I — I don't know," said Lisbeth. "If I had all these beautiful things I would stay in and play with them forever — forever," she repeated with a long-drawn breath.

"Would you?" asked Alma. "Oh, I think it is a lot more fun to run out in the woods and climb trees and wade and dig. Can you climb trees?"

"Yes," said Lisbeth, thinking of the tossing boughs of the old elm where she often swung for hours.

"And wade?" asked Alma eagerly.

"Yes," answered Lisbeth. "The brook is full now, almost to my knees, and the white violets are out on the banks. I brought Sister Angela a big bunch to-day."

"White violets! Oh, I'd like to see them," said Alma. " I never saw white violets in my life."

"I'll bring you some tomorrow." said her little guest, and with this pleasant start Alma and Lisbeth were soon making friends rapidly.

The talking doll was brought out and said "Mary had a little lamb" without a break or a stammer; the miniature motorcar ran around the room for Lisbeth's pleasure; the dancing doll that "Grandma" had sent from Paris pirouetted to the gay strains of the music box beneath her satin slippered feet.

"Take some toys home with you," said Alma as at last her visitor rose to go. "Take that tea set, or those picture books, or maybe you would like a doll. Take Endora" — Alma caught up a golden-haired lady sleeping in a pink-curtained bed — "I've got two others with yellow hair, and I want this bed for my kitty anyhow," and the generous little giver pressed the wide-awakened Endora into her visitor's arms in a way that lisbeth could not resist.

Then the kitten, who had been dozing in one of the cushioned chairs, was picked up again, and Alma led Lisbeth down the broad stairs, and through the pictured hall, and out on the pillared porch to the broad, shaded walk again.

"I'll bring you the white violets tomorrow," said Lisbeth as the two friends parted at the gate.
"Yes, do" answered Alma, "I'll getNora to make us some cakes, and we will have a tea party. Come soon again, Lisbeth, and play with me — come soon again.

To be continued . . . . . on Thursday.

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Author

Mary T. Waggaman
1846-1931
Mary Waggaman was a Catholic author of children's books. From what we can find out she wrote around 45 of them. We have been able to collect quite a few and would like to share them with you. They are wonderful!

Chapter X :Reading Pictures

Chapter Seven - Mayday

Chapter Six - Alma

Chapter Five - A New Friend

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