FullReads

“I will be good to-morrow,” said Sharley, dropping into sleep. “Mother’s head will ache, and I can go to church. I will listen to the minister, and I won’t plan out my winter dresses in prayer-time. I won’t be cross to Moppet, nor shake Methuselah. I will be good. Hal will help me to be good. I shall see him in the morning,—in the morning.”

Sharley’s self-knowledge, like the rest of her, was in the bud yet.

Her Sun-day, her one warm, shining day, opened all in a glow. She danced down stairs at ten o’clock in the new hat, in a haze of merry colors. She had got breakfast and milked one cow and dressed four boys that morning, and she felt as if she had earned the right to dance in a haze of anything. The sunlight quivered in through the blinds. The leave
s of the yellow maple drifted by on the fresh, strong wind. The church-bells rang out like gold. All the world was happy.

“Charlotte!” Her mother bustled out of the “keeping-room” with her hat on. “I’ve changed my mind, Sharley, and feel so much better I believe I will go to church. I’ll take Methuselah, but Nate and Moppet had better stay at home with the baby. The last time I took Moppet he fired three hymn-books at old Mrs. Perkins,—right into the crown of her bonnet, and in the long prayer, too. That child will be the death of me some day. I guess you’ll get along with him, and the baby isn’t quite as cross as he was yesterday. You’d just as lief go in the afternoon, I suppose? Pin my shawl on the shoulder, please.”

But Sharley, half-way down the stairs, stood still. She was no saint, this disappointed little girl. Her face, in the new fall hat, flushed angrily and her hands dropped.

“O mother! I did want to go! You’re always keeping me at home for something. I did want to go!”—and rushed up stairs noisily, like a child, and slammed her door.

“Dear me!” said her mother, putting on her spectacles to look after her,—”dear me! what a temper! I’m sure I don’t see what difference it makes to her which half of the day she goes. Last Sunday she must go in the afternoon, and wouldn’t hear of anything else. Well, there’s no accounting for girls! Come, Methuselah.”

Is there not any “accounting for girls,” my dear madam? What is the matter with those mothers, that they cannot see? Just as if it never made any difference to them which half of the day they went to church! Well, well! we are doing it, all of us, as fast as we can,—going the way of all the earth, digging little graves for our young sympathies, one by one, covering them up close. It grows so long since golden mornings and pretty new bonnets and the sweet consciousness of watching eyes bounded life for us! We have dreamed our dreams; we have learned the long lesson of our days; we are stepping on into the shadows. Our eyes see that ye see not; our ears hear that which ye have not considered. We read your melodious story through, but we have read other stories since, and only its haec fabula docet remains very fresh. You will be as obtuse as we are some day, young things! It is not neglect; it is not disapproval,—we simply forget. But from such forgetfulness may the good Lord graciously deliver us, one and all!

There! I fancy that I have made for Mrs. Guest—sitting meantime in her cushioned pew (directly behind Halcombe Dike), and comfortably looking over the “Watts and Select” with Methuselah—a better defence than ever she could have made for herself. Between you and me, girls,—though you need not tell your mother,—I think it is better than she deserves.