Lolla
Date: 2025-04-25T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction; Girls -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction; Sunday school literature; Avarice -- Juvenile fiction

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Lolla

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Title: Lolla
or,The sin of greediness

Author: Lucy Ellen Guernsey

Release date: April 25, 2025 [eBook #75955]

Language: English

Original publication: Philadelphia: American Sunday-School Union, 1867

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/75955

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOLLA ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

Lolla; or, The Sin of Greediness.
She put in her finger, and scooping up a large mouthful,
she hastily swallowed it.

LOLLA;

OR,

The Sin of Greediness.

[BY]

[LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY]

——————————

PHILADELPHIA:

AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION

NO. 1122 CHESTNUT STREET.

——————————

NEW YORK: 599 BROADWAY.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by the

AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States
for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

CONTENTS.

——————

CHAP.

I.—LOLLA AT HOME

II.—LOLLA IN DORCHESTER

III.—THE MOUSE

IV.—"BREAD IN SECRET"

V.—THE ICE-CREAM

VI.—THE CONSEQUENCE

LOLLA;

OR,

THE SIN OF GREEDINESS.

——————

CHAPTER I.

LOLLA AT HOME.

"SEEMS to me Lolla does not eat any breakfast," said Aunt Delight, looking at a little girl who sat opposite to her at the table, with a well-filled plate before her, upon which, however, she did not seem to be making any impression.

"She never does," said Lolla's mother. "She never seems to have any appetite in the morning. She complains that nothing tastes good to her; and she almost always gets up tired and feverish."

"That is a pity," said Aunt Delight. "Little folks ought to be hungry in the morning, and to be as fresh and lively as birds and lambs are. We must see if we cannot cure that when we get her down in Dorchester."

"I dare say the sea-air will help her," said Lolla's mother. "I remember how hungry it used to make me when I was a little girl. I am very uneasy about Lolla, sometimes. It seems so unnatural for a child to be so languid in the morning. But you are quite sure, Aunt Delight, that you do not want to take nurse with you?"

"I am quite sure, my dear Laura. In the first place, I have no room for her; and in the second place, I have nothing for her to do."

"Then who will take care of me, Aunt Delight?" asked Lolla, very much interested in the discussion.

"I expect you will take care of yourself and of me too," replied Aunt Delight, smiling.

Lolla looked as if she were doubtful whether to be pleased or alarmed at this project. But she was very much delighted at the idea of the long journey, and the summer in Dorchester with Aunt Delight, and not displeased at being spoken to as if she were something more than a baby: so she made no further objections.

Lolla's father and mother lived in a very fine place near one of the great Western cities; but they were expecting to break up and remove to California during the summer, and it had been settled that Lolla was to go to Dorchester and spend a year at least with her mother's aunt, Miss Delight Wentworth, who had a pretty place of her own and was famous for her skill in nursing the sick and managing and teaching children. Lolla was considered rather a delicate child, and her mother had been out of health ever since her daughter was born; for which reasons it was thought best for both that they should be separated for a time.

About ten o'clock, as Aunt Delight was passing through the kitchen, she saw nurse giving Lolla a large piece of loaf-cake.

"Eating so soon after breakfast?" said Aunt Delight.

"Why, you know, aunt, I did not eat any breakfast," replied Lolla, in rather a tone of apology.

"She has got into a bad way about eating, that's a fact," said nurse. "She doesn't eat at meals, and she is always wanting something between-times; but her mother thinks there is no help for it. Now you will see that she won't want any thing at dinner; and by-and-by she will be asking for another piece of cake."

"Do you think it is good for her to eat in that way?"

"Well, no, I don't. She is spoiling her teeth, for one thing. But, being the only child for so long,—and delicate besides,—Mrs. Lane has got in the way of indulging her. She is a good child, too, in most things; but it won't do her any harm to have a change. She cares Were for eating than for any thing else."

As nurse had predicted, Lolla had no appetite for her dinner,—at least for the solid parts of it; but she ate two plates of rich pudding, and then she had almonds and raisins, besides filling her pocket with the nuts, which she was munching all the afternoon. A large piece of fresh maple-sugar helped the almonds to fill up the interval between dinner and tea, when Lolla supped upon pound-cake, preserved melon and cottage-cheese.

In the evening some friends came in, and about ten o'clock Lolla had her share of the supper prepared for them.

As Aunt Delight noted all these things, she no longer wondered that Lolla did not sleep well and had no appetite for her breakfast. She was not one of those people who think that children should never have any thing that they like; but she made up her mind that when Lolla came under her own care she should make some change in her habits.

"Well, Lolla, have you said good-by to all your pets?" asked Aunt Delight, as she met Lolla at breakfast on the day set for their journey.

Lolla did not seem as languid as usual, this morning. Her cheeks had a little colour, her eyes were bright, and she ate her bread-and-butter as if she liked it.

"Oh, yes, aunt. I have been out to the barn and the pasture to see the calves and the colts, and down by the river to see the little ducks, and over to Mrs. Merrie's to bid good-by to Fanny and Jenny. I have been up and running about ever since five o'clock; and I am so hungry,—you can't think! I believe it makes people hungry to get up early in the morning."

"It is said to have that effect," replied Aunt Delight, smiling. "But finish your breakfast, my dear. We have no time to lose."

The carriage came to the door, the last good-byes were said, and Aunt Delight and her little niece were soon speeding away over the Michigan Central Railroad.

Lolla felt very sadly at leaving home, and cried bitterly at parting from father, mother and nurse. But children are usually easily diverted from their grief; and Lolla's tears were soon dried. She had never been upon the railroad before; and she enjoyed the rapid motion, the constant change of scene, and the novelty of staying in a great hotel over-night.

She thought it rather hard that her aunt should refuse to buy oranges, candy and maple-sugar of all the boys who came upon the train, and a very unlucky circumstance that the package of rich cake and confectionery which her mother had put up for her should somehow have been lost directly, so that they had nothing left for their luncheon except biscuits, cold chicken and sponge-cake. But there was so much to see, and the change of air made her so hungry, that she did not feel disposed to complain: besides that, she felt too much awe of her aunt to go into one of her tantrums, as nurse used to call them.

The travellers arrived at home late in the evening; and when Lolla entered her aunt's cottage in Dorchester, she was too sleepy to notice any thing, except that her room was of an odd shape, and her little low bed very comfortable.

"Come, Lolla," said Aunt Delight, entering the room, next morning, just as Lolla was rubbing her eyes; "breakfast is almost ready. I have let you sleep late this morning, because you were tired. Here is your bath, all ready to brighten you up. Now let us see how soon you will be dressed."

"Nurse used to dress me at home," said Lolla, rather doubtfully.

"Yes, but nurse is not here; and, besides, you are old enough to wait upon yourself. You are eight years old, are you not?"

"Yes, aunt,—on my last birthday."

"Well, when I was as old as you, I dressed myself and my little brother every morning, besides putting my own room in order. You do not want to be a baby all your days, do you? Come; don't dawdle, but lace your boots quickly, and then put on the rest of your things, and I will fasten them for you."

"Is this my room, aunt?" asked Lolla.

"Yes, Lolla. How do you like it?"

"I think it is beautiful," replied Lolla, looking around upon the neat, old-fashioned furniture, the pretty red-and-white matting, and the little book-case full of books. "I never had a room of my own before. What a funny window! It is like a little room by itself. Oh, aunt, what is that out there?" exclaimed Lolla, catching a glimpse through the curtains of something bright and blue, and speckled with large and small white dots. "That 'blue,' I mean."

"That is the sea,—or the bay, rather," replied Aunt Delight, smiling at Lolla's excitement. "Don't you remember I told you, you would be able to see the ships and the bay from your window? See, there is a great steamer coming in. It must be the ocean steamer from Liverpool."

There seemed some danger that Lolla would not get dressed at all, so much interested was she in watching the steamer, and the fishing-boats, and a large ship just going out of the bay; but Aunt Delight found no fault with her. She knew how interesting all these things must be to the little girl who had never seen ships or salt water before. At last, however, Lolla was dressed; and she was about to run down-stairs at once,—when her aunt stopped her.

"It seems to me that you have forgotten something, Lolla," said she, gravely.

"Have I?" asked Lolla, surveying her dress. "I don't see any thing, except my apron; and you know you said you would give me a clean one out of the trunk."

"I was not thinking of your dress, but of something else."

Lolla still looked puzzled.

"Who has taken care of you all night while you have been asleep, and kept you from harm all through this long journey? And who is it you should ask to take care of you through the day?"

"Oh, you mean saying my prayers," said Lolla. "But, aunt, I never said my prayers in the morning,—only at night."

"Then you don't want God to take care of you in the daytime?" said Aunt Delight. "You think, perhaps, that you can do that for yourself?"

"Somehow, there never seems to be any time in the morning," said Lolla. "One has to hurry so to get ready for breakfast."

"Then one must get up earlier in the morning," said Aunt Delight. "But you will have plenty of time. I told Sarah to ring the bell five minutes before breakfast was ready. I will wait for you in my room."

Lolla, did not feel very much like saying her prayers; but she did not like to dispute with her aunt: so she hastily repeated the Lord's Prayer, without thinking much of its meaning, and then joined her aunt in her own room, and they went down-stairs together.

The breakfast-room would have been a large one if it had not been cut up into so many angles and corners. There was a large chimney, with a high, old-fashioned wooden mantel-piece, and a deep recess containing a book-case on each side of it. There was another deep recess, where stood a large, carved mahogany side-board. There was a corner cupboard, with glass doors, which seemed to be filled with china. There were two windows with deep window-seats, and a glass door opening into the garden. The walls were covered with old-fashioned paper ornamented with lilies and roses, with gayly-feathered birds flying about and perching on the flowers; and there were many pictures and prints, in black and gold frames.

The breakfast-table was set for them, and looked very inviting, with its snowy cloth and shining china and silver.

"Whose place is that, aunt?" asked Lolla.

"That is Mr. Locke's place; but he will not be here this morning," said Aunt Delight. "He has gone over to Boston, and will breakfast with a friend. This is your chair."

Lolla slipped into her chair. She was very hungry, and could not help taking a sly survey of the table, even while her aunt was saying grace, to see what they were likely to have for breakfast. There was a loaf of white bread, and another of brown, upon a beautifully-carved wooden plate. There was a silver egg-boiler, a pitcher of milk, and a dish of cold ham; and that was all.

Presently, however, Aunt Delight rang her bell, and Sarah brought in a plate of hot toast, and a coffee-pot.

"What is that, aunt?" said Lolla, pointing to the egg-boiler.

"That is a boiler to cook the eggs," replied her aunt, as she opened the cover and took out the rack filled with eggs. "Did you never see one before?"

"No," replied Lolla. "Mary always boils ours in a kettle; but I think this is a much nicer way. Our eggs are always too hard, or too soft, or something."

She had another question on her tongue's end; but she did not quite like to ask it. At last, however, out it came.

"Aunt Delight, don't you have any meat for breakfast? No beefsteak, or chicken, or any thing?"

"Sometimes," replied her aunt. "Don't you call cold ham meat?"

"Oh, yes," replied Lolla, feeling rather ashamed of her question. "Only I thought I would just ask, because—because—" Lolla paused in some confusion. She did not exactly know what to say.

"I dare say you can make a breakfast on ham-and-eggs and bread-and-butter," said Aunt Delight.

"Was it wrong to ask, aunt?"

"Oh, no. But, Lolla, it is not usually considered very polite to make remarks upon what is on the table. Little girls should eat what is set before them, without saying very much about it. See here: you shall have your coffee in this silver cup, which belonged to your great-grandmother,—and her grandmother before her, for aught I know. Just think how many little girls must have drunk out of it before you."

CHAPTER II.

LOLLA IN DORCHESTER.

"NOW, Lolla, can I trust you to run about by yourself for a while?" asked Aunt Delight, when breakfast was done and family prayers were over.

"I don't exactly know what you mean, aunt," said Lolla.

"Can I trust you not to pick the flowers, or tread upon the flower-beds, or meddle with what does not belong to you? If so, you may go where you like about the house and garden; but you must not go outside the gate unless I give you leave. I suppose you will be like a kitten brought into a strange house: you will like to make acquaintance with every thing about you."

"I won't meddle with any thing," said Lolla. "But why may I not go into the street, Aunt Delight?"

"For this reason, among others: that you might easily get lost, and it would not perhaps be so easy to find you again."

"May I go down to the gate and look-out?" asked Lolla.

"Yes, if you do not go outside. By-and-by we will begin some lessons; for it will not do to play all the time. But to-day I am going to be busy about the house all the morning: so you will know where to find me if you want me."

Lolla was pleased with the permission to go where she liked,—and pleased, too, with being trusted. She spent an hour or two very pleasantly in exploring the garden and greenhouses, and going about the house, where there seemed so many pictures, and books, and curious boxes, and china vases, and pots, and bowls. One pair of vases, which stood in the hall, especially excited her curiosity, they were so very large. They were nearly as tall as herself; she thought she could have got into one of them easily,—and had covers, which fastened with large metal hinges and hasps.

Then she put on her hat again and went down to the gate, where she saw a little boy mounted on a Shetland pony not much larger than her father's great Newfoundland dog, and a girl driving a little donkey in a low wagon, and some cows in a field opposite, each with a thin blanket on to keep off the flies, and each one tethered to a stake by a long rope.

"Well," thought Lolla, "they seem to take a great deal of care of their cows; but if I were a cow, I should rather be running about on the prairie than be tied up in that way."

Just then she heard a church-clock strike eleven, and she remembered that it was more than two hours since she had had any thing to eat: so she sauntered slowly to the house, and went in at the back door.

She found Aunt Delight in her neat little store-room, surrounded by shelves full of preserves and canned fruit, stone jars which reminded one of pickles and cake, bunches of sweet and medicinal herbs, and bottles and jugs of all shapes and sizes.

"Please, aunt," said Lolla, "I want something to eat."

"Do you?" said Aunt Delight. "For what?"

Lolla smiled at the oddness of the question.

"Because I am hungry, aunt."

"Are you sure it is because you are hungry, or because you are used to eating just about this time? But never mind. Go to Sarah, in the kitchen, and ask her to give you a piece of bread-and-butter."

"I don't like bread-and-butter very much," said Lolla. "Nurse used to give me a piece of cake."

"I don't like little girls to be always eating sweet things," said Aunt Delight. "It is bad for their teeth and for their health. If you are really hungry, bread-and-butter will taste good to you. If you are not hungry, you do not want any thing."

"Mother lets me have cake," persisted Lolla; "and I guess she knows what is good for me as well as anybody."

"See here, Lolla," said Aunt Delight, sitting down, and drawing the little girl to her side: "I cannot have any argument with you about these things. Your mother has trusted you to me, to be taken care of and treated as I think best. She knows all about my ways of management,—because I brought her up till she was fourteen years old; and she knows I intend to do as I think right with you. When I tell you to do a thing, I do not expect you to tell me what somebody else does or thinks, but to be governed by what I think. Now go and get your bread-and-butter, if you want it; and if not, let it alone."

"I don't want it," said Lolla, with an air of disgust. "I haven't any appetite for such things."

"Very well," said Aunt Delight, smiling. "I dare say you will find your appetite by dinner-time. Do you want to go and play, or would you rather stay and help me? I am going to take my Indian curiosities out of the cabinet and dust them."

Lolla did not exactly know what to do. She felt very much abused, and a good deal like sulking about it; but, then, she wanted to see the curiosities, and she had, besides, a feeling that sulking was not likely to answer a very good purpose: so she slowly followed Aunt Delight into the parlour, which was across the hall from the breakfast-room. She had peeped in before, but the blinds were closed and the curtains down, so that she could not see any thing.

Aunt Delight drew up the curtains and opened the shutters.

"What a pretty room!" exclaimed Lolla. "I do think, aunt, you have the most beautiful things! I don't see where you got so many splendid vases."

"They have been accumulating for a long time," said Aunt Delight. "Some of our family have been in the India trade ever since there has been any India trade in Boston; and they are always bringing home things. See, here is my India cabinet."

"A real India cabinet, just like the one in Rosamund!" exclaimed Lolla, forgetting all about the bread-and-butter question at once. "Are there any branches of coral in it?"

"We shall see," said Aunt Delight, unlocking the little drawers. "There is no telling what we may find."

No telling, indeed. What wonderful things there were in that cabinet! Shells and corals, curious gold and silver coins, butterflies and beetles looking as if made of jewels, little boxes and balls carved with figures, pictures upon rice-paper of birds and flowers and Chinese men and women. I could not begin to tell you half the things there were in that cabinet. Aunt Delight took them out and handed them to Lolla, who laid them carefully on the table set to receive them.

Every article had a story to it, and Aunt Delight was ready to answer all Lolla's questions. She gave the little girl a number of pretty things for her own, and a beautiful little Japan work-box in the shape of a cabinet, covered with gilded figures of cranes flying and perching, and having drawers lined with a sweet-scented wood, which Aunt Delight said was sandal-wood.

"There! We have made a good morning's work," said Aunt Delight, as she closed the last drawer. "Now put away the dust-pan and brush in the back entry, and, as you come back, look at the clock and tell me what time it is."

"Why, aunt, it only wants a quarter of one!" exclaimed Lolla, in great surprise. "And Sarah has set the table. She says dinner will be ready in a quarter of an hour. I did not think it was nearly dinner-time: did you?"

Aunt Delight smiled. "You will just have time to wash your hands and brush your hair nicely. Run upstairs, and don't waste any time."

Lolla thought every thing tasted unusually good at dinner. She thought the air of Dorchester must make people very hungry. She had not cared any thing about roast beef and mashed potatoes for a long time, and seldom ate any meat at dinner when she was at home.

Mr. Locke was at dinner. He was a pale, thin, delicate-looking young gentleman, who wore spectacles and ate very little; but he was pleasant and kind in his manners, and Lolla thought she should like him very much. She wondered how he came to be living with Aunt Delight, and thought she would ask by-and by.

"Are you going to feel well enough to give some time to this little girl lessons, Mr. Locke?" asked Aunt Delight.

"Certainly," replied Mr. Locke, smiling kindly upon Lolla. "When shall we begin?"

"After a day or two. She will need a little time to run about and get used to her new home. Next week, I think, we will look up some school-books, and see what we can do."

Lolla looked rather alarmed at the idea of lessons.

"My mother never lets me go to school," said she; "I have the headache so much."

"No one has said any thing about your going to school," returned Aunt Delight, dryly. "As to your headaches, I think they will be better after a while. You are growing a great girl, and cannot afford to waste all your time. Will you have some pudding?"

For the next week Lolla did nothing but amuse herself. She played about the yard and garden, read story-books, looked at pictures, and, in short, did what she liked. Twice she went into Boston on the horse-cars with her aunt; and on one of these occasions they went into a shop and had some ice-cream, to Lolla's great satisfaction.

"Won't you buy me some candy, Aunt Delight?" said she, as they passed through the shop.

"Not to-day," replied Aunt Delight. "A saucer of ice-cream does very well for once, I think."

"Father used always to buy me candy when we went into town," murmured Lolla.

"My dear child, how much you do think about eating!" said Aunt Delight. "Seems to me I would try to find pleasure in other things, if I were you. Candy is very unsuitable for you now, and, besides, it is a very bad habit to fall into, that of thinking you must always have something to munch, like one of the little guinea-pigs we saw just now."

"Oh, dear," said Lolla to herself, "how I do want some candy!"

CHAPTER III.

THE MOUSE.

"MISS DELIGHT, I think there must be mice in the store-room cupboards," said Sarah to her mistress, one morning after breakfast. "I find the cake and biscuits crumbed and nibbled; and the crackers go away faster than they ought I am sure. And just see here how this syrup from the dish of plums I set away yesterday is trailed upon the shelf. Nasty little things! If there is any thing I do hate, it is a mouse."

"You must shut Dragon into the store-room at night, and move the things away so that he can get about on the shelves," said Aunt Delight. "It is a long time since we have had any mice in the house. The old cat must be growing lazy."

"I am not so sure about the mice, either," said Sarah, in a low tone. "I am afraid Philly has been at her old tricks again. Mice would not carry away whole slices of cake and lumps of sugar."

"Hardly," said Aunt Delight. "But I don't like to suspect Philly,—she has done so much better lately; and I do think she is trying to be a good girl."

"Well, we shall see," said Sarah. "I mean to keep a sharp look-out upon her. I don't know how it is, but I never can trust her."

"Take care, Sarah," said Aunt Delight. "Remember, charity thinketh no evil. Do not begin With a prejudice against the child."

"Well, I can't help it," said Sarah. "When I do like people, I do; and when I don't, I don't; and that is all about it. Now, I took to Lolla, from the first. I'll be bound you won't find any underhand sly ways about her. But Philly has such a down kind of look."

"You must remember how differently the two children have been treated," replied Aunt Delight. "Lolla has never had occasion to be afraid of any thing or anybody; but poor Philly has been a slave all her life, and her mother before her. I expected she would make us a good deal of trouble. You know we talked of that before she came to us, and we agreed to have patience with her faults as long as there was a prospect of doing her any good; and you must admit that she has improved."

Sarah observed that there was room for improvement still.

"That is the case with all of us," said Aunt Delight, dryly. "Well, say nothing, Sarah, at present. We shall soon find out about the matter."

The next day but one, as Aunt Delight was passing through the pantry, she heard Sarah's voice in the pantry, and looked in to see what was the matter.

"Just see here, ma'am," said Sarah. "Last night I found the plums all spilled on the shelf again. So I thought I would watch; and this morning, when Philly came in to put the spoons away, I thought she was a long time about it: so I followed her, and found her at the open cupboard-door, with a teaspoon in her hand sticking all over with the plum-syrup. If that is not proof, I don't know what is!" concluded Sarah, triumphantly. "I knew very well I should catch her at her tricks."

"I didn't never touch the plums," sobbed Philly. "I only—"

"Oh, you only—You only went 'snooping' in the closet," said Sarah, severely. "It's no use! I caught you at it!"

"Wait a little, Sarah, if you please," said Aunt Delight, quietly. "Let me hear Philly's own story. That is but justice. Now, Philly, tell me all about it; and be sure you tell the truth. Don't be afraid: you shall not be condemned unjustly. How was it?"

"I was jes puttin' away de spoons," began Philly, falling back into her native negro dialect; but Aunt Delight interrupted her.

"Speak quite plainly, Philly, and then I shall know you think of every word you are saying. Go on."

"I was just putting away the spoons," continued Philly, this time pronouncing her words carefully, "and I thought the row of teaspoons looked as if there was one gone; and I counted them, and there was; and I began to look round for it, and I saw that cupboard-door partly open: so I thought I would look in there, and there I found the spoon in the dish of plums; and I was just taking it out when Sarah came in."

"A likely story, indeed!" said Sarah, with a sneer. "Didn't I put away the dish of plums myself last night? And shouldn't I have seen it if there had been a teaspoon in the dish? Don't tell me!"

"I can't help it," said Philly. "I found it there, and I know I didn't put it there. That's all I know."

"Come into my room, Philly," said Aunt Delight. "I will talk to you there."

Philly followed willingly enough. She was beginning to have great confidence in Aunt Delight's justice as well as in her kindness. She answered all questions readily, and did not vary at all from her first story.

"Well, Philly, I don't know what to think," said Aunt Delight, at length. "You have been such a good girl lately that I do not like to believe you are telling me a story. Appearances are against you; but that happens with innocent people, sometimes. It is a rule in law that people are to be supposed innocent till they are proved guilty: so, unless I see something else to condemn you, I shall say nothing more about this affair. Get your book now, and read to me while I turn down these glass-cloths for you to hem."

"You are the most goodest lady I ever see," said Phillis to herself, as she went for her book. "I'd be ashamed to do any thing mean for such a nice lady."

Every morning, besides her reading and spelling lesson, Phillis read a chapter in the Testament, or a psalm, to Aunt Delight. She was learning to love these Bible lessons, and often studied them over by herself. Her lesson this morning was the thirty-seventh Psalm. She read slowly and carefully, and at the sixth verse she paused for a moment.

"Well," said Aunt Delight, "what are you thinking of, Philly?"

"Nothing, only—sometimes it seems as though verses in the Bible were made on purpose for people."

"Why, so they are," replied Aunt Delight. "All the verses in the Bible are made on purpose for people; and it often does seem to us that particular verses are made on purpose for us. I suppose they are. Do you find any verses in this psalm which suit you at present?"

"Yes, ma'am: I did think those two last verses seemed to."

"Read them again."

Philly did so.

"You think He will make your just dealing as to the plums clear as the noonday. Is that it?"

"If it wasn't wicked to think so," said Philly, doubtfully. "You know you did say one day that God cared about us."

"True: so I did. Well, my child, you have as much right to take God's promises to yourself as any one in the world. Read the next verse."

Philly hemmed her towels as well as possible, earning great praise from Miss Delight for her neatness and quickness.

Then, much comforted, she went down into the garden, where Aunt Delight had told her to do some weeding.

"How good she is!" she said to herself. "It a'n't that she don't find fault sometimes; but she never does it just to be hateful, and she always praises what I have done right, if I have been ever so naughty. That's the kind of goodness I like."

Philly was right. Kindness without justice is not worth much. She had rather hard times, as she would have said, all that day. Sarah, who had never liked her, had made up her mind that the child was guilty, and treated her accordingly. She would not allow her to go into the pantry or store-room, watched her as a cat watches a mouse, and kept all the time throwing out hints about thieves and liars, and people who deceived and cheated their best friends.

It needed all Philly's philosophy and religion to boot to enable her to bear patiently with all this; but the poor child had learned how to bear her troubles and where to carry them. She believed that "God really did care," because Miss Delight said so; and this day she learned by her own experience that He did help as well as care. Three or four times that day she escaped to her own little attic, and every time she came down comforted.

Miss Delight expected every person of her household to repeat two verses of Holy Scripture at morning prayers. The next morning Philly's two verses were these from the thirty-seventh Psalm:—

"'Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in him; and he shall bring it to pass.'

"'And he shall bring forth thy righteousness as the light, and thy judgment as the noonday.'"

Something in Sarah's heart gave her a little pain just then, as if she had been stung.

"May-be she did tell the truth, after all," said she to herself. "Anyhow, she is an orphan child, and hasn't a friend in the world except Miss Delight. I guess I'll wait and see before I say any more."

CHAPTER IV.

"BREAD IN SECRET."

FOR some time after she came to Dorchester, Lolla's health continued steadily to improve. She lost the heavy, languid look she had worn in the morning, had a good appetite not only for her breakfast, but for all her other meals, slept well, and ran about all day long as lively as a kitten. She had an hour and a half of lessons in the morning, which she said to Mr. Locke, and half an hour of sewing with Aunt Delight after dinner; and the rest of the time she was encouraged to play in the open air as much as she pleased. She found her way down to the beach, where she was never weary of the marvel of seeing the tide come in and go out. She learned the way to the few shops in the neighbourhood, so that she could do errands; and—greatest pleasure of all—she went several times to Savin Hill.

Savin Hill is like a large mountain seen through the wrong end of the telescope. It has caves and precipices, rocks and cliffs, all made of a stone which looks very much indeed like petrified plum-pudding. There are evergreen trees called savin, Virginia creepers, and a slender, thorny vine with glossy leaves, very pretty to look at and very impossible to get through.

Savin Hill runs out into the bay, and commands on all sides a beautiful view of the bay and shipping, South Boston, the Blue Hills, and the villages round about. I have spent many pleasant hours upon the little mountain, watching the ships and boats, the clouds and hills, and waiting till dark to see the revolving light in the far-off lighthouse flash out and fade as regularly as the pendulum of a clock.

Two or three times Aunt Delight and Mr. Locke had gone up on Savin Hill with Lolla and Philly and had a little picnic. The two elders would sit on the rocks in the shade or the sunshine, as the day happened to be cool or warm, and read or talked while the little girls played with their dolls and made playhouses.

Philly was a grand playmate. She was four years older than Lolla, but she was always ready to do any thing Lolla wanted of her,—to dress the doll, jump the rope, tell stories; or "make-believe" to any extent.

Aunt Delight did not think it would do Lolla any harm to play with her. She had watched Philly for some months, and she saw that the child was really trying to improve,—that she had learned to have a sense of duty which made her careful to be good out of sight and alone as well as before other people. Since the affair of the spoon and the plums she had taken special pains to observe her, and she became convinced that whoever was to blame for the spilt syrup and crumbled cake, Philly was not. She was not so sure about some one else, but she kept her own counsel; for Aunt Delight was one of the people who could think of things and not talk about them,—a talent more rare than many persons suppose, and one we would advise our young readers to cultivate.

By-and-by, however, Lolla's head began to ache once more, and again she had no appetite for her meals. She declared it was because Mr. Locke made her learn the multiplication-table; but Aunt Delight was of a different opinion. She had taught many little girls the multiplication-table without doing them any harm; and she had seen many more headaches come from improper eating and exposure than from lessons; and she came to the conclusion that Lolla was indulging in something which she ought not to have. She watched her closely, but quietly, and by-and-by she found out the truth, as you will see.

Lolla had brought some money from home. Her father had been in the habit of giving her all his new three-cent and five-cent pieces to put in her little money-box, and these had amounted to a considerable sum; and, besides, she possessed other money, which had been given her from time to time by her uncles and cousins. She had very little temptation to spend at home, for she lived some distance from town, and she had all the sweet things she could eat, without buying them. She brought her money with her to Boston, intending to purchase some pretty thing that she fancied; but it all seemed likely to go in another direction. Lolla discovered that she could buy cakes and gingersnaps at the baker's, and candy and chocolate at the other shops; and she now kept on hand a constant supply of these articles, which she was munching at every opportunity when she could do so unobserved. Now, when a little girl eats two large ginger-cakes, a stick of chocolate, and a dozen or so of lemon-drops after she goes to bed at night, it is hardly necessary to blame the multiplication-table if she rises with a headache in the morning.

Lolla hid away her store of dainties in two or three different places,—in one of the great covered vases in the hall, in the back part of a cupboard where she kept her shoes, and in the pockets of her dress. Something told her all the time that she was growing mean and deceitful and sly, and more and more fond of eating,—more like a little pig; but she persuaded herself that she could not help it, and that it was her aunt's fault in not giving her all she wanted.

"Won't you ever tell as long as you live and breathe?" said she to Philly, one day, as they were playing in the lower part of the garden.

"No," said Philly, without thinking. "Tell what?"

"If I give you something," said Lolla, putting her hand in her pocket and pulling out two or three large lumps of sugar.

"Oh, Lolla, you shouldn't eat hard sugar," said Philly. "I heard Miss Delight tell you it was bad for your teeth. Where did you get it?"

"That is my business, and not yours," replied Lolla, pertly. "Aunt Delight is as full of notions as she can be. Lizzy Mercer said she knew she would be, because she is an old maid. I hope I shall never be an old maid."

"Oh, Lolla! How can you say so?" exclaimed Philly. "I think she is as good as she can be. I am sure she is just like a mother to you."

"She is not a bit like 'my' mother, I can tell you," said Lolla. "Mother always let me have all the cake I wanted."

"Well, you know yourself it wasn't good for you," returned Philly. "Just see how much better you are than when you first came here."

"I am 'not' better," said Lolla, pettishly. "My head aches all the time, lately. I know it is all that hateful arithmetic; but Aunt Delight won't believe me."

"I guess it is the sweet stuff you eat," said Philly. "I am sure your aunt would not like it if she knew how you bought candy all the time."

"You had better run and tell her," said Lolla, angrily. "I wish you would just mind your own business. I didn't come down here to be ordered about by a nigger."

Lolla knew very well, when she used the ugly word, that nothing made Philly so angry or hurt her feelings so much as being called a "nigger." She thought Philly would fly into a passion, and that then she could tease her till she made her cry. She had done so before when they quarrelled, and, somehow, found a great pleasure in seeing Philly angry. This time, however, she did not succeed in her object. She was very much hurt, and her dark eyes snapped for a moment; but she restrained herself, and merely said,—

"I shall not play with you if you talk that way." She turned and went into the house.

"Just like you," Lolla called after her. "Now go and sulk up in your room all the afternoon."

Philly did not answer, and Lolla began to consider whether she had been very wise in provoking one who could betray her secret. There was no help for it now, however; and she determined to make it up with Philly, and to be more careful in future.

Philly was deeply hurt, for she was fond of Lolla, but she was very much troubled besides. She was pretty sure that the lumps of sugar came out of Miss Delight's pantry, and she was very much afraid that if they were missed she should be accused of taking them. The matter of the spoon had never been cleared up, and she feared if any more suspicion fell on her, Miss Delight would send her away. Think as she would, she could see no way out of her trouble. She could not make up her mind to tell Miss Delight or Sarah what had passed. She could not feel that it would be right, and, besides, she argued, "as like as not Miss Delight wouldn't believe me. She would naturally take part with her own niece, and Sarah thinks Lolla is perfect. Oh, dear! I thought when I got here, there would not be any more trouble; but seems to me there is trouble everywhere."

Philly was right. There is trouble everywhere in this world. Happily, however, the Refuge from trouble is everywhere as well.

"Sarah," said Philly, as they were drinking their tea that afternoon, "why doesn't Miss Delight keep things locked up, as my old missus used to do down in Georgia?"

"Why should she?" asked Sarah. "There is nobody to meddle with things but you and me; and we don't either of us mean to rob her, do we?"

Philly felt that it was kind in Sarah to include her in this question. "I'm sure I don't," said she.

"Well, Philly, I don't believe you do," said Sarah. "I had my doubts of you a little while ago about those plums; but I have got eyes in my head. I have watched you, and I don't believe you meddle with things any more; though you know, Philly, you did when you first came here."

"Yes, I know; but I didn't know any better then. I do try to be a good girl, Sarah."

"Yes, I see you do; and I must say you make out better than some folks who have had more advantages. But you mustn't be proud of it, child: if you are, the first you know you will be doing something bad again."

"It was queer, though, about that spoon: wasn't it?" said Philly, emboldened by Sarah's kindness. "You know, Sarah, a mouse wouldn't take a spoon; if he wanted the plums ever so much."

"A mouse wouldn't do a good many things," said Sarah. "A mouse wouldn't leave the cover off the sugar-bowl and take out all the largest lumps. A mouse isn't apt to open cupboard-doors and leave them ajar. But we shall see. Every thing comes to the light some day. Come, hurry and wash up your dishes; and, if you are real smart, I will ask Miss Delight to let you go with me into Boston to-morrow."

Philly hastened to obey, feeling very much comforted at finding that she had made a friend of Sarah, who had begun by disliking her so greatly.

"I know what I know," said Sarah to herself; "and Miss Delight shall know it too, if she has not penetration to find it out for herself,—which I guess she has."

CHAPTER V.

THE ICE-CREAM.

"OH, Aunt Delight, do let us go in and have some ice-cream," said Lolla, as they came opposite a pleasant-looking shop on Washington Street, where she had several times been with her aunt. "We have not had any for ever so long."

"How long?" asked Aunt Delight.

"Not since last week."

"And how long is that?"

Lolla was obliged to confess that it was no longer ago than the day before yesterday.

"I cannot buy ice-cream every time we come into town. It is too expensive."

"I thought you were rich enough to afford to get whatever you liked, aunt," said Lolla; "and it only costs twenty-five cents."

"Well, I come into town, on an average, three times a week. Suppose I were to spend twenty-five cents every time: how much would that come to in a month?"

"Three dollars, exactly," replied Lolla, after a little consideration.

"Yes: enough to buy a nice Testament in large print for old Mrs. Prince, and a 'Silent Comforter' to hang on the wall for poor Jessie McMillen, who you know has not strength to hold a heavy book in her hand."

"You might buy the book too," said Lolla. "I am sure you have money enough."

"Perhaps you do not know just how much money I have; but, if I were as rich as the richest man in the world, it would not be right to spend money foolishly. Besides, it is a very bad habit to be constantly buying nice things to eat. It leads to selfishness, gluttony and extravagance. I am willing to indulge you to a reasonable extent; but if you tease me for ice-cream or candy every time you see a confectioner's shop, I cannot bring you to town with me any more."

Lolla was silent. She knew by experience that when Aunt Delight said no, that was all that was to be said; but she felt very much dissatisfied, and she was really provoked when Aunt Delight bought a pretty photograph of some cliffs and boats, and some fishermen's huts upon the sea-shore.

"That cost more than the ice-cream would have cost,—fifty cents more," said Lolla; "and what is it good for, after all?"

"Good to look at," replied Aunt Delight. "The ice-cream is eaten and gone, and that is the end. The photograph may be looked at every day for ten years, and be just as good at the end of the time. But this picture is not for myself, but for Jessie McMillen."

"That is queerer yet," said Lolla. "I thought when people bought things for the poor they got somethings useful."

"That depends upon circumstances, and also upon what you call useful," replied her aunt. "Jessie's father can buy her the clothes and the food that are absolutely necessary for her; but he has no money to spare for any thing else. This picture will hang on the wall opposite her bed, and be a new pleasure to her every time she wakes up and looks at it, and all the more because it will remind her of the shores of Scotland, which she will never see again. I have had a long illness myself, and I know very well how pleasant is any thing which reminds one of out-of-doors and fresh air."

"Come, Lolla," said Aunt Delight, after tea; "let us go up and carry Jessie her picture."

Jessie McMillen was a Scotch girl who was dying slowly of a painful disease. Her father had come from Scotland not many months before, with his wife and his only daughter. He was a sober, steady man, who had been injured by an accident in a coal-mine, so that he was unable to work very hard; but his wife was skilful in fine washing and clear-starching, and Jessie understood housework and sewing: so there seemed every probability that they would be able to support themselves nicely.

They took rooms in a little cottage near Savin Hill, and for a time did very well; but misfortune fell upon them. Mrs. McMillen took cold while hanging out her clothes one biting winter's day, and went into a quick consumption. It was while waiting upon her sick and dying mother that Jessie was seized with a pain in her chest. She thought little of the matter at first; but, between hard work and watching, the pain grew more and more severe; and when, after her mother was buried, she went to the doctor, he told her, as gently as he could, that there was nothing to be done for her. Since then she had gradually but surely grown worse, till she was now nearly helpless.

Her father obtained work as a gardener, in which business he was very skilful, and some kind people of the neighbourhood interested themselves in the daughter, so that Jessie wanted for nothing. She had failed very much through the spring, and was now unable to sit up.

Lolla could not regret the loss of her ice-cream when she saw how Jessie's eyes brightened at the sight of the photograph, and heard the little cry of joy which she uttered as she examined it.

"It is just my grandfather's house in Scotland," said she. "I have been there a hundred times. And that woman is Maggie Lawlor, the old fishwife, who used to carry me on her back. I've often seen them make pictures of it when I was a little girl; but I never thought to see it again.

"Many artists came to our village in summer to draw the rocks and the boats. One of them painted my picture when I was a wee thing like Miss Lolla, there. I mind well how I would have putten on my fine Sunday gown and hat; but he would have me in my old stout red petticoat. Oh, how pleased my father will be!"

"I am very glad," said Aunt Delight. "I thought you would be pleased with a Scotch scene; but I had no idea that you would know the place."

"It just seems like a gift from God," said Jessie, reverently. "Oh, I have so tried and prayed to dream of it all, but I never could; and now he has sent me this."

"He is always good," said Miss Delight. "You will find that out more and more to all eternity, Jessie. And now about your eating: have you been able to take any food to-day?"

"No, ma'am. I canna eat, though I try. Every thing turns against me,—especially every thing warm."

"Do you like ice?"

"Very much, ma'am; and Mrs. Tuttle was very good to send me some several times. I often fancy if the broth was frozen I could eat it."

"I will see if something cannot be prepared," said Aunt Delight.

The next morning, while Lolla was at her lessons, she heard a sound in the kitchen like the turning of an ice-cream freezer, which so distracted her attention that she missed half the questions in her arithmetic lesson, and had to study it over again. At last, however, she accomplished her task, and hurried down-stairs to see what was going on; and, behold! there was Philly, in a cool recess which opened out of the kitchen, turning the freezer as busily as possible.

"What are you making, Philly?" asked Lolla.

"I don't know. Something for Jessie McMillen," answered Philly, pausing in her work for a minute, and then beginning again with new vigour.

"Pshaw! Always Jessie McMillen!" said Lolla, half to herself. "I wonder why I can't have something decent to eat, as well as that beggar."

"Why, Lolla!" said Philly. "I don't see how you can talk so. I wish you could live where I did before I came here, for about three weeks. You would know what it is to have something good to eat. Jessie isn't a beggar, either; and you should not call her so."

"Just like you, Philly!—Always contradicting every word I say. I should think Aunt Delight might teach you not to be quite so impudent. Just like niggers! I can't bear them."

"Lolla," said Sarah, "if you call Philly a nigger again, I shall tell your aunt. I don't think that is much like a little lady, for my part."

"Never mind, Sarah," said Philly. "Lolla will be sorry by-and-by. After all, I 'am' a nigger," she added; "and I needn't care about being called one. This stuff is all frozen now."

"I'll tell Miss Delight," said Sarah. "I don't know whether she wants you to carry it to Jessie now or not."

"Miss Delight," she asked, going to the door of the breakfast-room, "the milk porridge is frozen. Shall Philly carry it over directly?"

"I will see," replied Aunt Delight, coming into the kitchen. She examined the contents of the freezer and put them into a small tin pail, which she set into another larger pail. She then packed the outside pail full of finely-powdered ice, and sprinkled in a little salt.

"Now, Lolla," said she, "I want you to put on your things and carry this over to Jessie directly, that she may have it for her dinner. The sun is clouded over, and you can keep in the shade nearly all the way. When you come back, stop at the shop and bring me half a dozen lemons."

"What is Philly going to do?" asked Lolla.

"She is going to be busy at home. Don't waste any time. You can leave the pails, and tell Jessie to have them set in the cellar."

Lolla set out on her errand in no very good humour. She had hoped when she saw the freezer that she was going to have ice-cream for her dinner; and it was a great disappointment to find that Philly was only making something for poor Jessie.

Lolla was growing more and more fond of eating every day. She cared a great deal more for nice things than she used to do at home, where no one objected to her eating them every day and all day long. The fact of being obliged to indulge her appetite in secret gave a zest to her stolen feasts,—literally stolen, many times, I am sorry to say; for she fell more and more into the habit of pilfering from the pantry and from the store-room at every opportunity. She had heretofore been so sly and careful that Sarah had not been able to detect her in the act; but she was growing bolder every day. Nor was this the worst of it. She had spent all the money she had brought from home upon ginger-cakes, raisins, and other things of the kind. She could hardly believe it when she found her purse empty, and in her heart she accused some one of having robbed her; but, however that might be, it was all gone.

It was a fault of Miss Delight's that she was rather careless of money. She was somewhat apt to leave her purse in her work-box or on her desk; and she had a habit of keeping loose pennies and small change in the corner of drawers and on the edges of shelves. Sarah often remonstrated with her about the matter, especially since Philly came to live at the cottage,—and Miss Delight had been more careful for a time; but, as her confidence in the child's honesty became established, she gradually fell into her old habits.

It was with fear and trembling that Lolla first took to herself a penny to spend in molasses-candy; but, as she was not discovered, she grew bolder; and now it was a regular thing for her to look-out for the waifs and strays from her aunt's purse. At that very time she had five cents in her pocket which she was intending to spend at the store.

CHAPTER VI.

THE CONSEQUENCE.

LOLLA walked along under the trees, feeling rather fretful and dissatisfied, though she could not exactly tell why. She fancied the pail grew heavier every minute.

"I wonder if that cover is on tight?" said she to herself. "It wouldn't be very nice for the ice and salt to get into the porridge, or whatever it is. I don't believe it will be good, anyway, when it gets there. It will be all melted."

There are many low stone walls in the village of Dorchester, which are very nice to sit down upon, especially when, as it often happens, there is a large elm-tree exactly in the right place to keep off the sun. Lolla found just such a place in the retired lane through which she was passing, and sat down for a rest. She looked this way and that, and, seeing nobody, she pulled off the cover of the small pail.

The frozen milk porridge looked very nice and inviting, and Lolla could not resist the temptation.

"Nobody will know if I just taste it," said she.

She had no spoon; but gluttons are not apt to be nice. She put in her finger, and, scooping up a large mouthful, she hastily swallowed it. It was certainly very nice,—as good as ice-cream; and, almost without thinking, Lolla took another mouthful.

When I was a little girl and used to gather raspberries, I used to make it a rule not to taste one till I had gathered all that I wanted to take home; because I found by experience that it was much easier not to eat the first raspberry than it was not to eat the second. Lolla discovered the same thing with regard to the iced porridge. Having begun, she found it hard to leave off. She took mouthful after mouthful, intending that every one should be the last. Meantime, the warm air was rapidly melting the porridge, and making it run together as fast as she took it out: so that she did not discover what havoc she was making, till a deeper dig than usual uncovered the bottom of the pail. She was frightened to see that there was not a teacupful left. Then, indeed, she wished she had let it alone.

"What shall I do now?" said she to herself. "There is no use in carrying that little bit to Jessie. She will know that aunt never sent such a small parcel as that; and, besides, the side of the pail shows how much there was in the first, place. Hateful stuff! I wish I never had seen it! Aunt ought to have sent Philly with it. But I may as well eat the rest, now that I have begun; and then what shall I do with the pails? Aunt told me to leave them there at Jessie's; and if I bring them back, she will surely suspect something. Oh, what shall I do?"

Lolla thought and thought, but could come to no conclusion. At last, however, she hid the two empty pails among some weeds and brambles in a corner of the wall, and turned into the street that led to the store.

"My aunt wants you to send her seven lemons," said she to the shop-man; "and I want five cents' worth of nice raisins."

The lemons were done up in a parcel, and the raisins put into Lolla's pocket, from which they were soon transferred to her mouth. Then she undid the parcel, and took out the odd lemon, taking care to select the largest. She had fully intended to keep it for home consumption; but the smell was too inviting, and presently she found herself sucking it as she walked along.

Lolla's stomach had been long accustomed to excesses; but a handful of raisins and the juice of a lemon upon the top of more than a pint of frozen milk was more than it could endure. Before she reached the cottage, Lolla found herself feeling very ill. Her head was dizzy, and she had a strange pain, as though she had swallowed some hot coals. She had hardly strength to open the gate; and it seemed to her that the walk which led up to the cottage was a mile long.

"Oh, Lolla, I am glad you have come. Guess what we are going to have for dinner! Beautiful raspberry ice-cream! I froze it myself, after you went away. But what is the matter?" cried Philly, in alarm, as Lolla dropped on the nearest seat. "Oh, dear! Sarah, come here,—do! Lolla is dying, I do believe!"

"Nonsense!" returned Sarah, sharply. "Don't call out like that, child! Here, Lolla, what is the matter? Why, you do look badly, sure enough! What have you been doing? Call Miss Delight, Philly, as quick as you can! She is in the greenhouse."

Nobody enjoyed the raspberry-cream, or any thing else of the nice dinner Sarah had provided; for every one had their hands full with Lolla. Miss Delight held her in her arms, or rubbed her convulsed limbs; Sarah was busy with the bath and with hot mustard-poultices; and Mr. Locke was gone post-haste for the doctor; for Lolla was in a fit, and for a good while it seemed rather doubtful whether she would ever come out of it.

"Has she eaten any thing more than usual?" asked the doctor.

"Not that I am aware of," replied Miss Delight. "She was accustomed at home to eat every thing she took a fancy to, and at all times and seasons; but I have been careful of her diet since she came to me, and her health has greatly improved. Latterly, however, she has not seemed as well; and I have not been able to find out what was the matter."

Philly heard this conversation, and it threw her into a state of great perplexity. She felt as though she ought to tell Miss Delight what she knew about Lolla's habits; and yet she hated the very name of tattling. At last she did the wisest thing in her power. She asked advice. Meeting Sarah on the stairs, she repeated to her what she had heard, and what she herself knew, of Lolla's habits.

"Do you think I ought to tell Miss Delight?"

"Of course you ought to tell her," returned Sarah. "It might make all the difference in the world. Tell her directly; or, if you don't want to, I will."

"Oh, do!" said Philly, much relieved by the proposal. "That will be a great deal the best way."

It happened, however, that the story told itself, so far as the cause of Lolla's present illness was concerned.

"She must have drunk a quantity of milk, and then eaten something sour on the top of it," said Miss Delight. "But where could she get milk at this time of day?"

"I guess she has been eating up Jessie's porridge," said Sarah. "Lolla is not to be trusted with any thing good to eat. I have been finding that out this long time, but I have not been quite sure till lately. But where could she get raisins? There are none in the house."

"Look in her pocket, and see if there are any more," said Miss Delight.

There were no raisins in Lolla's pocket; but there were the remains of the lemon; and now Lolla's sickness was fully accounted for.

"Now, my little girl, if you can tell me what else you have eaten," said the doctor, seeing that Lolla was able to speak. "Tell me the exact truth, that I may know what to do for you."

"Oh, dear!" sighed Lolla. "I only ate a few raisins."

"And what else?"

"And—and—a lemon!"

"Raisins and a lemon; and what else?"

"Nothing," said Lolla, sullenly.

"Where did you get the milk?" asked Miss Delight.

"I didn't have any milk," said Lolla; and to this story she adhered, in spite of any thing and every thing that could be said to her. She was better for a little while; but in an hour or two she was attacked with illness in another form, and it was not till the next day that Miss Delight ventured to hope that she might be saved. All this time her mind was more or less wandering, and, besides, it was absolutely necessary to keep her quiet: so there was no chance of finding out the truth.

The next evening Lolla was somewhat better; but it was many days before she was pronounced out of danger, and many more before she was able to leave her room and go about the house again. Meantime, Aunt Delight had learned from Jessie that Lolla had not been at her house at all, the day she was taken sick. She tried to make Lolla tell her the truth; but in vain.

Lolla would not say a word. If she were questioned, she would begin to cry, declare that every one hated her and ill-treated her, that Aunt Delight had carried her away from her dear mother only to abuse her, and that as soon as she got better she would go to California, if she had to walk every step of the way. These "tantrums," as Sarah called them, usually ended in a fit of sickness. At last Miss Delight gave the matter up in despair.

When Lolla began to go about the house once more, she found her position very much changed. No one found fault with her, or alluded in any way to the affair of the porridge; but she felt herself distrusted and constantly watched. The store-room was kept locked, and the sugar-bowl put out of reach. She was never allowed to go outside the gate by herself, never sent of errands as before; no one asked her for information about any thing, or paid any attention to her statements.

All this was disagreeable enough; and, to add to her discomfort, she found herself restricted to the plainest food, and a very little of that. If she exceeded in the least, either in quantity or in quality, she speedily found herself in bed as sick as ever. This was a sad plight for a little girl who cared for nothing but eating and drinking.

One evening she was sitting alone in the bay-window of the parlour, feeling very sad and lonely indeed. Her aunt and Philly had gone to church; Sarah had gone up to see Jessie, who was now not expected to live many days: so there was no one at home but herself and Mr. Locke, who had come in not long before and was sitting on the veranda. Lolla felt very unhappy. She thought it was because she was sick and alone, and because every one was unkind to her; but something in her heart told her that was not all. She thought of her dear father and mother, so many, many miles away, and remembered how kind and indulgent they had always been to her, and how often she had been undutiful to them. She thought how pleased she had been with the idea of coming to Dorchester, and how happy she had been for the first few weeks after her arrival, and how different it all was at present. She did not feel like having a "tantrum," but she put her head down on the end of the couch, and cried, quietly, but very bitterly.

"What is the matter, Lolla?" said a gentle voice. Mr. Locke had come silently into the parlour and taken a seat beside her. "What is the matter, Lolla?" he repeated. "What makes you cry?"

"Because I am so very, very unhappy!" sobbed Lolla.

"And what makes you unhappy?"

"A great many things."

"Well, tell me some of these things. Perhaps I can help you to get rid of them. What makes you unhappy just now, for instance?"

"Because I am sick, for one thing," replied Lolla.

"Well, it is very sad to be sick; but sickness does not always make people unhappy. Jessie is very sick. She suffers far more than you do or can; and she will never be any better. I do not think she can live more than a few days; but she is not unhappy. She told me this afternoon that her heart was full of peace and joy; and I am sure her face shows it."

"Then I am so lonely, with my father and mother away."

"That is sad, too; but, Lolla, Philly's father and mother are both dead. She has not a friend or relation in the world out of this house; and she is not unhappy. You yourself, when you first came here, were as merry as the day was long."

"It was very different then; and that is one trouble," said Lolla. "Every one was good to me then, and liked me; and now nobody likes me, or believes a word that I say: and Aunt Delight is as different as can be."

"What do you suppose has made the difference in her?" asked Mr. Locke.

Lolla hung her head, but, somehow, she felt as if she must answer even in spite of herself. At last she stammered out,—

"I suppose it is because I was so naughty."

"Ah, that indeed! I should not wonder if we had now got at the root of the whole matter. How were you naughty, Lolla?"

Lolla would not answer.

"But even the fact of your having been naughty need not of itself make you unhappy," continued Mr. Locke. "I have known many persons who had done very wrong things in their lives, and were nevertheless very happy afterwards. We read of the Apostle Paul persecuting the Christian church and helping at the murder of the martyr Stephen, and many of his converts at Philippi had been very wicked people: yet Paul was far from being an unhappy man amid all his trials, and he tells the Philippians to 'rejoice evermore,' to 'rejoice in the Lord always.' I don't think we have got at it quite yet, Lolla."

"Well, I don't understand," said Lolla, interested in spite of herself. "I thought when people were wicked they always had to be unhappy."

"And you are quite right, my child. As long as you 'are' naughty, you must needs be miserable; but you need not be miserable because you 'have been' naughty. That is quite another thing. As long as the Philippians continued to be wicked and unbelieving, there would be no use in telling them to rejoice; but they had seen their sin, repented of it and confessed it, and turned with their whole heart to God, and therefore they were happy even in the midst of trials such as we know nothing about. Now do you understand?"

"It don't seem as if I could do any different," said Lolla, after a pause, and speaking earnestly. "I think sometimes I will tell aunt all about it; but, then, I can't, somehow. Oh, dear! I don't know what to do!" And again Lolla put down her head, and cried bitterly.

"Lolla," said Mr. Locke, putting his hand upon her head, "there is one wrong thing you can help directly. Tell me, now: have you asked God to help you at these times?"

"No," replied Lolla. "I did not think it would be of any use. I have been so naughty."

"If we could not ask God to help us when we were wicked, we should remain wicked forever," said Mr. Locke,—"since nothing is more certain than that we can never make ourselves good without his help. He did not wait for that when he sent his Son to die for us.

"'God commended his love to us, in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.'"

"Would he really help me, do you think, if I asked him now?—Really and truly?" asked Lolla, in a reverent whisper.

"Yes: if you are honest in desiring it, I am sure that he will."

"How do you know?" asked Lolla. "Is it in the Bible?"

"It is in the Bible; and I know by my own experience, because he has so often helped me. He has enabled me to do things which I could no more have done by myself than I can fly to that bright star up yonder. But, Lolla, do you really want God to help you to be good?"

"I really and truly do, Mr. Locke," replied Lolla; "but I don't believe I can," she added, despairingly. "I have thought a great many nights that I would tell Aunt Delight the very first thing in the morning; and when morning came it was just as hard as ever."

"Ah! There was another mistake. You should have told her that very moment, and not have waited till morning. But, Lolla, there is some one else you should tell first,—some one against whom you have sinned more sorely than against your aunt. Think how you have displeased Him. There is nothing God hates more than a lie,—nothing which he will punish more severely if the liar does not repent. Yet he has spared your life. He would not let you die in your sin, but gives you a chance to repent and be forgiven. You must confess to him first, before you can ask him to forgive and help you.

"'If I regard iniquity in my heart, the Lord will not hear me.'

"'If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us; but if we confess our sins, God is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.'

"God will not only forgive the sin, but he will take it away. He will wash it out, and make your soul clean and pure. Lolla, shall we ask him to do so?"

"Yes, please," whispered Lolla.

Mr. Locke knelt down with Lolla in the recess of the window, and, in a short prayer which she could understand, he asked God to forgive her, to make her a better girl, and especially to give her strength to confess to her aunt.

"Now, Lolla, you must act for yourself," said Mr. Locke. "God has given you the strength, and you must use it. Don't wait a moment. There is your aunt coming in now. Shall I make a beginning for you?" he added, seeing that Lolla was embarrassed.

"Please do," said Lolla.

"Lolla has something to tell you, Miss Delight," said Mr. Locke, as Aunt Delight came into the parlour. "She has made up her mind to tell you what made her sick."

Before Lolla went to bed that night, she had told her aunt the whole story, and had received her forgiveness. When she awoke the next morning, her head ached and her eyes were heavy, but her heart was lighter than it had been for many a day.

All that summer and fall Lolla was very delicate. She was reaping the fruits of her long course of greediness and indulgence; and the doctor said it would probably be a great while before she would be well again. She could eat only the simplest food,—not a particle of fruit or pastry, and the least indulgence was sure to make her sick for several days.

In one way this was an advantage to Lolla. She lost the habit of wanting to eat at all times and seasons, and she learned to find her pleasure in other ways. She could not run about a great deal; and this forced her to turn for amusement to her books and her needle,—means of employment which she had always disliked and never touched except as tasks. She grew very fond of reading, and so skilful with her needle that she was able to give her aunt a great deal of help in her labour in the sewing-school.

Lolla's stay in Dorchester was prolonged from year to year, and now she was a great girl, fifteen years old, well-educated for her age, able to make her own clothes and cook her own breakfast and dinner.

She went to her new home in California, a useful, amiable, sensible girl, prepared to be a comfort to her parents, a pleasant companion as well as a useful example and teacher to the two little brothers she had never seen, and, better than all, a beautiful fruit-bearing branch of that true vine of which God is the husbandman, and Christ the stock, and all true Christians living members. There is nothing of the "little pig" left about her.

Aunt Delight still lives in her cottage at Dorchester. She is an old woman, if one counts by years, but her heart is as young and her mind as bright as ever. She keeps her old servant Sarah, and Philly, now a tall, useful girl, and she has a pleasant companion in a soldier's widow, the daughter of a "far-away cousin," who has no other home.

Mr. Locke is away in Asia, teaching the word of God among the Japanese. Lolla often hears from him. She thinks sometimes she should like to go too; but she has work enough at home to keep her fully employed for the present. Her mother's health is very delicate, and Lolla is nurse, housekeeper, teacher, and lady of the house, all in one: so she does the duty nearest to her, and trusts to God to give her the desire of her heart, if it is best for her to have it, or to make her contented without it, if he sees best to deny.

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Table of Contents

- LOLLA;

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

- CHAPTER IV.

- CHAPTER V.

- CHAPTER VI.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE