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Title: Percy's holidays
        or, borrowing trouble.

Author: Lucy Ellen Guernsey

Illustrator: James W. Louderbach

Release date: October 6, 2023 [eBook #71823]

Language: English

Original publication: Philadelphia: American Sunday-School Union, 1872


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PERCY'S HOLIDAYS ***

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

[Illustration: Percy's Holidays.—Frontispiece.
 "I am sure I don't see anything here to cry about."]



                    The Round Spring Stories.


                        PERCY'S HOLIDAYS;

                               OR,

                       BORROWING TROUBLE.


                               BY

                      LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY,

   Author of "Irish Amy," "Opposite Neighbors," "Comfort Allison,"
    "The Tattler," "Nelly, or the Best Inheritance," "Twin Roses,"
   "Ethel's Trial," "The Fairchilds," "The Sunday-School Exhibition,"
                      "The Red Plant," &c.


                          [Illustration]


                          PHILADELPHIA:
                  AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,
                    NO. 1122 CHESTNUT STREET.

          NEW YORK: 7, 8, & 10 BIBLE HOUSE, ASTOR PLACE.



  Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by the
                   AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,
    in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.



                            CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

   I. MONDAY MORNING

  II. PERSEVERANCE

 III. A TERRIBLE TRIAL

  IV. AUNT ACKERMAN

   V. SEEING ONE'S SELF



                        PERCY'S HOLIDAYS.

CHAPTER I.

MONDAY MORNING.

"PERCY, Percy!"

"Oh, dear me!" said a pale, thin little girl, all black hair and brown
eyes, who was sitting on the door-step, studying with all her might. "I
shall miss, I know I shall, and then I shall get marked again!"

"Percy! Perseverance!" called the voice again,—a somewhat high but very
pleasant and kindly voice. "Come here, my dear, I want to see you!"

"There now! Aunt Zoe will want me to do some errand or other, I know,
and what will become of my lesson!" said Percy, impatiently, closing
her book, and rising. "I am sure I wouldn't mind, only for missing!"

She went slowly up-stairs to the room from whence the voice proceeded,
and uttered a cry of delight, as she beheld Aunt Zoe holding up a large
folio like a scrapbook, which she seemed to have just taken from the
depths of a great chest she was rummaging.

"Mother's book of drawings! Oh, how glad I am! I felt sure I never
should see them again!"

"Well, you were worrying for nothing, you see, child, for here they are
all safe and sound. I thought all the time they would turn up; and this
morning I happened to think I had never taken the things out of this
chest. So I went to work at it, and here is the book all right. What
are you doing?"

"Learning my geography, aunt."

"But I thought you learned that Saturday night."

"I was going to, but Louise wanted me to help her clear off the table
and wash the dishes, and then—"

"And then she ran away and left you to do the whole, I suppose?" said
Aunt Zoe, as Percy paused. "That is her way exactly. Now, Percy, there
is one thing I am going to tell you, and you must mind me. You must not
indulge Louise by doing her work for her. She will shirk quite enough
without any help from you, and you are only doing her an injury."

"She is so slow; and then she thinks I am cross if I don't do what she
asks me," replied Percy.

"Let her think so, then! She thinks every one is cross who will not
let her be just as idle as she wants to be. But don't you see, Percy,
that it is absolutely necessary for her own sake and mine, that Louise
should learn to work? I can't afford to keep her, unless she is some
help to me; and as she is now, she will never learn to get her own
living in the world."

"She thinks it is very hard that she cannot go to school, as I do,"
remarked Percy. "She says she knows she could do well enough, if she
could only have an education."

"Yes, I know. She thinks she would do anything better than her own
work; but what do you think she would do in school?"

"Not much, unless she did very differently from what she does now,"
replied Percy. "I told her so yesterday; and that Miss Van Ness and
Miss Reynolds would never have the patience with her that you do."

"And what did she say to that?"

"Oh, she said she should do differently, if she only had work that she
liked."

"Then why doesn't she learn the lessons I give her?" asked Aunt Zoe.
"All I can do, I can't make her learn the multiplication table nor the
definitions in the grammar; and half the days she manages so that she
has no time for her lessons at all."

"I told her of that, and she said it would be different in school. But
there, it is ten o'clock, and I must get ready. Oh, dear. I know I
shall miss in my geography!"

"Well, if you should, it won't break any bones," said Aunt Zoe, kindly.
"Why cannot you study your lesson on the boat?"

"I can," answered Percy; "I never thought of that. Thank you for
telling me. But, Aunt Zoe, don't you think I ought to wish to have my
lessons perfectly?"

"Of course, child. Learning lessons is your work, and you ought to do
it the best you can; but not be unhappy or fretful, if you do happen
to make a mistake. It would be a good thing if you and Louise could be
stirred together, and divided evenly," added Aunt Zoe, smiling again,
and drawing forth a pretty, old-fashioned writing-desk from the great
chest. "See, here is your mother's old writing-desk. Don't you want to
take it to school to help make your room look pretty? It is in very
good condition; and I have put your clothes into my hat-box, so you
will have plenty of room."

"Thank you, Aunt Zoe, I should like it very much; but how shall I
manage when I get to Round Springs? I can't carry the hat-box up
myself, you know."

"Oh, Percy, you do go beyond everybody I ever saw, for putting
mountains in your own way!" exclaimed Aunt Zoe, laughing. "Are there
no men, or boys, or carts, or wheelbarrows, down at the wharf when the
boat comes in? How do other girls get their trunks carried up to the
school?"

"To be sure: John Fisk is always down with his wagon," said Percy,
blushing a little. "I didn't think of that."

"Your box is all ready, and I told Harry to take it down for you,"
said Aunt Zoe; "and I have put in some apples and pears, and a bag of
ginger-nuts, which you can eat or give away, as you please. You find it
pretty pleasant now, don't you—in the school, I mean?"

"Oh, yes, aunt; I like it better than any school I ever was at. The
teachers are so kind, and everybody is so good to me. I never saw such
nice girls anywhere."

"And you don't find it so very bad to go up and down in the boat,
either, do you?"

"No; I think it is very pleasant. I know what you mean, Aunt Zoe. I did
think it would be horrid when I began. I felt sure I should be left or
put off at the wrong place, or something."

"You would hardly do the last, unless you were very ingenious, seeing
there is not a single landing between here and Round Springs," said
Aunt Zoe. "But come, put away your desk and lock your box, for it is
time Harry was under way. You need not set out yourself till you hear
the boat-whistle, unless you like."

Percy packed up her desk and locked her box, and then went down to find
Harry. As she passed through the kitchen, she saw Louise just finishing
the washing of the breakfast-things—which were not many, as there were
only three in the family, even when Percy was at home.

"Why, Louise!" exclaimed Percy, her eyes opening very wide,—which was
not necessary, seeing that they were large enough by nature. "Haven't
you finished your dishes yet? Well, if ever!"

"Oh, yes, it is all very well for you to say, 'Well, if ever!' when you
are all dressed up and going off to school on the boat," said Louise,
sulkily. "Wait till you have it to do, before you make so much fuss
about it!"

"But I have done it ever so many times: I washed the dishes all that
week you were at home, and I never had one thing round after nine
o'clock. You talk about going to our school; I can tell you, you
wouldn't do very well there, unless you had more ambition."

"That's what's in the way!" remarked Mrs. Swayne, the washerwoman.
"Louise hasn't a speck of ambition; and, like all such folks, she
thinks if she were only in a different place, it would be all right. I
am sure I often wonder at Miss Devine's patience with her. I only wish
my Maggy had the chance that she has."

"I thought Maggy went to the district school," said Percy.

"So she does, dear; but you see the school is very large, and Maggy,
though she is good as gold, isn't that quick at her book; and the
teacher doesn't have time nor patience to explain to her as Miss Devine
does to Louise. Ah, Louise, it's sinning your mercies you are, child,
and 't is a wonder if you don't lose them some day."

"What did you mean by Louise sinning her mercies, Mrs. Swayne?" asked
Percy, as, having dispatched Harry with her box, she came back to the
kitchen door, to watch for the first whistle of the little steamer
which lay in sight at the landing below.

"Oh, 't is just a by-word they have in Scotland," replied Mrs.
Swayne. "When a person is well off, and yet keeps grumbling and
discontented-like, and all the time wishing themselves elsewhere,
people say they are sinning their mercies. Louise has just as good a
place as any girl could have, and as kind a friend as ever lived in
your aunt; and yet you see she thinks, if she were only somewhere else,
or if things were only different—but there's the whistle. Good-by,
dear, and a pleasant voyage to you!"

"I wonder," said Percy to herself, as she established herself in a snug
corner on the upper deck of the steamer, and sat watching the people
who were coming on board, "I wonder if I ever sin my mercies."



CHAPTER II.

PERSEVERANCE.

PERCY, or Perseverance, Denham was the orphan niece of Miss Zoe Devine,
who lived at Bridgeport, or "The Bridge," as the place was familiarly
called.

Percy's father had been an officer in the regular army. He was a man
respected and honoured in the army and out of it, and was in a fair way
of rising in his profession, when his career was cut short by an Apache
bullet; and his young wife was left without any earthly consolations
except her little girl, and the thought that at least her husband had
been granted a swift and easy passage to heaven, instead of falling
alive, like some of his less fortunate companions, into the hands of
those amiable savages, whom, by the way, he had always befriended to
the extent of his power.

Mrs. Denham was not very strong, and her life, like that of most
officers' wives, had been a trying one. In fact, her husband's
death-blow had been hers also; and she only lived long enough to write
to her husband's half-sister,—the only near relative he had,—and beg
her to take charge of his little girl. Miss Zoe Devine was, as she
described herself, a stay-at-home body in general; but she was one of
those people who can always do what seems necessary to be done. She
received her sister-in-law's letter in the morning, and set out for
the distant post, whence the letter was mailed, at six o'clock that
evening. She arrived only in time to see her sister die; and in two
or three weeks she was once more at home at "The Bridge" with little
Percy, then eleven years old, but so small of her age, and so shy and
retiring in her manners, that she might easily have passed for three
years younger.

But if Percy was backward in her growth and manners, she was by no
means so in her mind; and when she began to feel herself at home with
Aunt Zoe, she showed such a capacity for and eagerness in learning,
that Miss Devine at once decided to give her niece the best education
possible. This was not done without some self-sacrifice on her part;
for though "well off" as the phrase is, Miss Devine was by no means
rich, and the income of Percy's own little property was not much
more than enough to clothe her. Miss Devine did not altogether like
the school at "The Bridge." It was too large, and was arranged and
managed with so much "system," that there seemed very little chance for
improvement. There was a boarding school at Round Springs, the next
port on the lake, and to this school Miss Devine determined to send
Percy.

When Percy found that she was to go away to boarding school, she was in
despair. She had learned to love Aunt Zoe and to feel at home with her;
but she was totally unused to the society of girls of her own age, and
she dreaded them almost as much as the Indians who had been her daily
terror, who even yet haunted her dreams. She knew that she should be
perfectly miserable; and she was not at all consoled when her aunt told
her that she should come home every Saturday and stay till the next
Monday,—at least till the steamers were laid up for the winter.

"But shall I have to go alone?"

"To be sure, child. Why, one would think that you were talking of
going to Australia! What do you think can happen to you, when you go
on board the boat within sight of your own door, and have nothing to
do but to sit still till you reach your stopping place? It will only
be a pleasant sail, for the lake is hardly ever rough. I know Captain
Seymour very well, and I will ask him to take care of you, and see that
you get safely ashore. However, you need not come home on Saturdays,
unless you like."

But Percy thought that staying at school week after week without coming
home would be even worse than the weekly journey on the steamboat. She
had sense enough to understand how greatly the arrangement would be to
her advantage; and she had no objection to the lessons, for she was one
of those rare children who love learning for its own sake; and, in the
wandering life she had led, she had enjoyed very few advantages. But
then those dreadful girls—those girls who had always been to school,
and who would know so much more than she did—and the teachers would be
shocked at her ignorance and stupidity! Then she would be obliged to
have a room-mate, and Percy knew the said room-mate would be a cross,
disagreeable girl, or a very orderly and particular lady, who would
be shocked at her carelessness; or, worse still, one of those wicked,
worldly girls she had read about in books, who would hinder her from
reading her Bible, and laugh when she said her prayers, and who would
want her to do all sorts of bad things.

Percy was a good little Christian child, and she felt instinctively
that it would be very ungracious for her to object to a scheme which
was so much for her own advantage, and was at the same time so generous
on Aunt Zoe's part; so she never said a word about all these bugbears
which, to her fancy, were lying in wait for her at Hansen school. But
it was with a down-sinking heart and a decidedly long face that she
accompanied her aunt on board the steamer on that first eventful Monday
morning.

But in one thing Percy was very unlike many weak-spirited and timid
people: her fears and forebodings were no affectation. They were very
real, and they made her really and truly unhappy; so that she was very
glad to get rid of them when she could. The first thing that brought
her a drop of comfort was the steamer. It was such pretty little
boat, so clean and fresh and so tastefully furnished, and it rode so
lightly and easily in the water; and Captain Seymour seemed such a
kind old gentleman; and the banks of the lake were so pretty; and it
was so interesting to watch the gulls as they followed the boat or sat
twittering to each other on the water, that Percy began to brighten up
and think that the weekly sail would be very pleasant, and that she
should not be so much afraid after all. As they came near the landing,
Percy's great eyes were wide open to see all that could be seen, and
she presently exclaimed:

"Oh, Aunt Zoe, just see those young ladies rowing! Don't they look
pretty? See, there is another boat!"

"Those are the school boats," answered Aunt Zoe. "The girls go out
rowing a great deal in pleasant weather. See, they are managing to get
into the wake of the boat, so as to rock on the swells."

There was a wagon to carry up the trunks landed from the boat, and Aunt
Zoe and Percy walked up to the school.

"It doesn't look a bit as I expected," said Percy, surveying the
building.

"All the boarding school buildings I ever saw before looked like
barracks or factories. I think this house seems more like a home."

Nevertheless, Percy shrunk very close to her aunt's side as they
entered the house. School was out for the afternoon, and there was a
great buzz of young voices. Percy could see through an open door into
the library, where two or three young ladies had their heads together
over a volume of prints, and another was reading by herself in a book
which looked as if it had been a good deal used, but was not a school
book, nor a history. Percy loved books dearly, and she had been kept on
a pretty short allowance of them. She thought the young ladies looked
pleasant and not at all stuck-up or supercilious, and she wondered
whether either of them would turn out to be the room-mate she had so
much dreaded.

"Percy has always been used to sleeping alone," remarked Miss Devine to
Mrs. Richardson, the lady Principal. "I don't quite know how she will
get on with a room-mate."

"I think we can manage that matter nicely," replied Mrs. Richardson,
and then she looked into the library, and called:

"Blandina, my dear, will you come here?"

The young lady, who was reading, closed her book, and came forward
neither shyly nor boldly, but with a modest and self-possessed air.

"This is Miss Blandina St. Clair," said Mrs. Richardson. "Blandina, the
little room which opens out of yours is unoccupied, I believe?"

"Yes, ma'am," answered Miss St. Clair: "Henrietta Hardy had it; but she
is not coming back."

"Then I think I shall ask you to take in this little girl—Miss Percy
Denham. Suppose you carry her off, and show her the room and the house,
while I talk with her aunt a while."

Percy looked rather miserable at being separated from her aunt; but she
could not be ungracious when every one was so kind, and she rose to
follow Miss St. Clair with more alacrity than her aunt expected.

"Percy is very bashful," Miss Devine remarked, when the girls had left
the room; "but it is real shyness, and not affectation. She has never
been to school, but has lived with her father and mother in a little
world of her own, and she is as much afraid of children of her own age
as if they were Indians."

"I think she will do very well," said Mrs. Richardson. "Blandina and
her room-mate are very nice, kind, well-principled girls; and if they
have your niece in their room, they will keep a kind of oversight of
her, and help her when she needs help."

Meantime Percy's conductor led her up-stairs, through a passage, and
then at right angles by another passage, and then down two steps to an
open door.

"This is our room," said she, as she entered. "My cousin and I sleep in
the large bed, and this will be yours in here. It is a little place,
you see, but comfortable enough; and you can study here or in the large
room just as you like, only you know we shall expect you to be quiet
when we are busy. What did your aunt call you—Percy? What an odd pretty
name!"

"My real name is Perseverance," replied Percy, rather wondering at
herself for not feeling as shy as she had expected. "I think it is a
dreadful name: don't you?"

"Oh, it is not half so bad as mine!" returned her companion, laughing.
"Mine is Blandina Violetta St. Clair. It sounds exactly like a name in
a novel. They call me Blandy, which is not quite so bad. Well, how do
you like your room?"

"I think it is very pretty," replied Percy; and indeed it was, being
nicely carpeted and papered, and tastefully though plainly furnished.

"You can bring some little things from home to ornament it, you know,"
observed Miss St. Clair. "Those brackets are Jenny's and mine, and so
are the pictures."

"I always thought it would be very nice to have a great many pretty
little things," said Percy, venturing on an original remark. "Mamma
never could, because she and papa were always travelling about, and
living in camps; and an officer's wife can only have just so much
baggage, you know."

Blandina did not know, and began asking Percy questions, and before
they had made the round of the house, they were so well acquainted that
Percy ventured to ask about the lessons.

"I suppose they are very hard."

"Oh, no," replied Blandina: "we are never allowed but three at the
most; and the teachers are very good at explaining. But then we must
mind what we are about, and do our best."

"I don't mind that. I like to work hard when I do work," said Percy;
"but I am afraid I shall be very ignorant and backward, because I have
never been to school. I have always done my lessons at home with my
father or mother."

"Don't you borrow any trouble about that," said Blandina. "Miss
Reynolds says she likes to teach girls who have never been to school,
because they have so much general information."

By the time Percy had finished seeing the house and returned to the
parlour, she felt considerably reassured, and bade her aunt "Good-by"
without crying. She did not very much mind the long tea-tables; and
she managed to get through the recreation hour very well, by dint of
keeping very close to Blandina. The reading hour was quite delightful,
when all the girls were assembled in the great room with their
work-baskets, their mending, and their fancy work, while one of their
number read aloud. Percy had no work, and seeing one of the elder girls
winding some worsted on her arm, she plucked up courage to offer her
hands as a reel. Mrs. Richardson noticed the movement, as she did most
things, and was pleased to see it.

But with bedtime came a renewal of Percy's terrors and forebodings. She
must say her prayers and read her Bible. She had promised her mother
that she would never sleep without reading at least three verses in the
Bible: but "Oh, how could she do so before those strange girls, and
especially before Miss Merton, whom she had never seen?" She was to
have a lamp of her own in a few days, but at present she depended on
that in the large room. Suppose they should laugh at her? Suppose they
should laugh and talk while she was reading? With all her shyness and
timidity Percy never thought for a moment of giving up her devotions.
She belonged to that class of brave cowards who are greatly annoyed but
never conquered by their own fears.

But she made herself very miserable during the forty minutes when the
other girls were studying, and while she, having no lessons to prepare,
sat with her eyes fixed on a story-book which Blandina had borrowed
for her; and it was with a terrible sinking of heart that she followed
her companions up-stairs to their room. Miss Merton had been spending
the evening out of the house. She was quite a grown-up young lady, and
looked, Percy thought, very elegant and fashionable in her black silk;
but she kissed Percy and made her welcome; saying, at the same time,
that it would seem pleasant to have a little girl with them again.
There was a quiet chat while they were undressing and brushing their
hair; and then Jenny said to Blandina in French:

"Shall we ask her to read with us?"

"Yes, I think so," answered Blandina, and then in English: "Percy,
would you like to read your Bible alone or with us? We read a chapter,
verse about, at night."

Percy's heart rose with a rebound.

"I should like it very much, if you please; but—" she added, with a
desperate effort, "I think I ought to tell you and Miss Merton that I
understand French, because you might say something you didn't want me
to hear."

The girls looked at each other, and then Jenny bent down and kissed
Percy again.

"You are a dear, honest little girl, and I am sure we shall get on
nicely together. I am glad that you speak French, because we can talk
together; and it is such good practice. But where did you learn to
speak French?"

"Papa taught me. His father was of French descent, and all the family
speak the language. It comes almost as natural to me as English."

"Well, we will have our reading, and go to bed," said Blandina. "It is
almost time to put out the light."

When Percy said her prayers that night she did not forget to thank her
heavenly Father for making everything so smooth and easy for her in her
new home; but she did not think to ask Him to keep her from useless
fears in future. She had not yet found out that her habit of making
herself miserable by borrowing trouble was a fault.

The next morning she was examined in her studies, and, very much to her
own surprise and pleasure, she was put into the intermediate instead of
into the primary department, as she had expected.



CHAPTER III.

A TERRIBLE TRIAL.

PERCY did not miss in geography; on the contrary, she rather
distinguished herself. She had lived both in Arizona and in Colorado,
and could tell a great deal about the wonders of those places. Miss
Reynolds drew her out to talk, and both the teacher and the pupils were
so much interested as to be surprised when the hour elapsed.

"I am sure we are very much obliged to you, Percy," said Miss Reynolds.
"You have made the lesson very pleasant."

Percy blushed with pleasure, and thought, "There, I needn't have been
so uneasy about my lesson."

"I did have my lesson perfectly, after all," she wrote to Aunt Zoe (for
she always wrote home every week); "and Miss Reynolds says I made the
lesson interesting, because I could tell about Arizona and Colorado."

"I am glad you had no trouble with your lesson," wrote Aunt Zoe; "but I
was not surprised, because I had no idea you would have any. It would
be a good thing if you could learn a good old maxim: 'Never cross a
bridge till you come to it.'"

When the steamboat ceased its daily trips in November, Percy's weekly
visits to her aunt came to an end, as a matter of course; for, though a
stage ran between the two places, the road was heavy clay, and apt to
be very bad.

By this time, however, Percy had learned to be well contented at
school. She liked the girls, and they liked her; she was getting on
famously with her studies, and had actually made an intimate friend
of a girl of her own age. Flora Lester's father had been a physician
in Round Springs for many years; but he had lately gone to Colorado
with his wife to look after some property which had fallen to him by
the death of a brother; and Flora had been left as a boarder at Hansen
school, where she had been a day-scholar almost ever since she could
remember.

The acquaintance began through Flora's desire to learn as much as she
could about the place where her father and mother were living, and
where she might some day go herself. For Dr. Lester liked the climate
of Colorado, and found his own health and his wife's the better for the
change, and he began to talk quite seriously about selling his place
and practice at Round Springs, and setting up his staff in Denver city.

"Don't you hate the thought of going out there, away from everybody you
have ever known?" asked Percy one day, after Flora had been reading a
letter from her father.

"I don't know—no," answered Flora, considering before she spoke, as
usual. "Perhaps I should, if I thought much about it; but I don't.
Something may happen, or father may change his mind; and if I do have
to go, maybe I shall like it after all. There is no use in borrowing
trouble, and fretting about things that may never come to pass, you
know, Percy."

"That is just what Percy doesn't know," remarked Blandina, in whose
room the conversation had taken place. "If she did, she would not keep
such a zoölogical garden of bugbears to frighten herself with. She is
always sure she is going to be late at breakfast, and afraid that she
shall miss in her lesson, and perfectly certain that she shall never
have wool enough to finish her cushion, or be able to match the colour,
if she hasn't. It is no wonder Mrs. Herman complains that she doesn't
grow fat. How can she, when she has all these ravenous bugbears to
feed?"

Percy laughed and blushed a little. Flora's contented spirit and
Blandina's good-natured ridicule had begun to make her feel a little
ashamed of her constant forebodings of evil.

"I know I am silly," said she; "but, somehow, I can't help it."

"Because you don't go to work the right way," answered Blandina: "but
now get your slate, and I will help you over the hard place in your
arithmetic lesson, so you cannot make yourself miserable about that."

Percy laughed, and owned that it was foolish to worry herself so about
what never might come to pass. Nevertheless, it was not more than a
week afterwards, that Blandina and Jenny, coming home from a walk,
found Percy on the bed, drowned in tears and sobs, and Flora in vain
trying to comfort her.

"What is the matter?" exclaimed both girls at once. "Has Percy heard
any bad news from home?"

"I can't make out," said Flora. "It was something in her aunt's letter;
but I can't find out what; only that Miss Devine wants her to go away
somewhere."

"May I look at the letter, Percy?" asked Blandina, picking it up from
the floor. Percy made a strangled sound in the depths of the pillow to
which she was confiding her grief, which might pass for an assent, and
Blandina began reading the letter.

"I am sure I don't see anything here to cry about," said she, when she
had finished it. "Miss Devine tells you that your aunt, Mrs. Ackerman,
in New York, wants you to spend your Christmas holidays with her; and
Miss Devine thinks you had better do so, as she wants to make a visit
to some friends in Millby. What is there so dreadful in that? Is Mrs.
Ackerman an ogress, who dines on little girls? Come, tell me, Percy?"
she added, sitting down on the bed; "what do you know about this
dreadful aunt of yours? What has she ever done to you?"

"She—she—sent me a box of candy—and a doll—and—a stereoscope!" sobbed
Percy. "And she is very rich and—and fashionable, and she lives on
FIFTH AVENUE!" concluded Percy, bringing out these words as if they
formed the climax of all her woes. Neither of the girls could help
laughing.

"What a dreadful aunt, to be sure!" said Blandina, "To send you boxes
of candy. My aunt in New York never sends me anything but dreadfully
stupid and instructive books. But, Percy, all ladies who live on
Fifth Avenue are not heathens nor cannibals. I have known some quite
respectable people from that part of the city."

Percy giggled rather hysterically among the pillows.

"The long and the short of the matter is, that Percy has been
tormenting herself for nothing, as usual," said Jenny Merton. "I must
say, I don't think she is very gracious or very grateful. Why do you
suppose your aunt took the trouble of inviting you to visit her, except
to give you pleasure and do you a kindness? I wish I had somebody to
spend my holidays with. When you have spent your whole life at school,
holidays and all, as I have done, ever since I was six years old, you
won't cry because any one sends you an invitation."

"Why, Jenny, don't you ever go home for holidays? Why not?" asked
Percy, forgetting her own troubles for the moment and sitting up.

"Principally because I have no home to go to. My mother is dead, and
my father is a merchant at Shanghai; and I have no near friends in
this country. I'll tell you what it is, Percy, it is time you left off
making such scarecrows for yourself out of nothing at all. You keep
yourself in a perpetual worry about things more than half of which
never come to pass after all. I should think you had had enough of real
troubles to be contented, without making imaginary ones. Come now, wipe
your eyes and wash your thee, and go out for a walk with Florry before
tea, and you will be better able to meet this great calamity."

Percy was a little afraid of Jenny, who, though very kind, was not
so indulgent to her humours as Blandina. She made a great effort to
swallow her sobs, and presently was ready for her walk.

"Did you think I was very silly, Florry?" asked Percy, when they were
alone together.

"Well, I really couldn't see anything to make such a fuss about,"
replied Flora, frankly. "Why don't you want to go to your Aunt
Ackerman's? I am sure it was very kind in her to ask you."

"I suppose it was," said Percy, dolefully. "But then you see, Florry,
don't know her the least bit: I have never even seen her."

"Well, you had never seen me only a little while ago. It doesn't follow
that people are bad because you don't know them. Your Aunt Zoe is
acquainted with Mrs. Ackerman, and she thinks her a nice woman, you
see."

"And, besides, she isn't my real aunt—not my aunt at all," pursued
Percy. "Her husband's first wife was my mother's sister. Miss Ackerman
is my cousin; but that doesn't make her stepmother my aunt, does it?"

"No; but it doesn't make her a monster, either. I think it is all the
more kind in her to ask you."

"And then she is so rich, and lives in a grand house; and I am sure she
and my cousin will think me a silly little goose!"

Flora thought they might have had some grounds for their opinion, if
they had seen Percy in her present mood.

"But I shall have to go, of course, if Aunt Zoe thinks it best,"
continued Percy, with mournful resignation. "Oh, dear! I thought I was
going to have such a nice time in holidays, and now—"

"Well, there, don't cry in the street," said Flora, rather alarmed.
"How do you know that you won't have a nice time, as it is? I am sure I
think it will be very nice. Does your aunt keep a carriage?"

"Yes!" said Percy, as though Flora had asked, "Does your aunt keep a
tame dragon?"

"I dare say she will take you to Central Park, and Greenwood, and
everywhere," continued Florry; "and you will see the pretty holiday
things in the shops; and I dare say have plenty of nice presents. And
oh, Percy, perhaps you can match my worsted for me. Will you try?
I do hate to give up my work," said Flora, alluding to a wonderful
camp-chair which could not be completed for the want of certain
"dead-leaf" greens, which were not to be had even in Millby.

"Of course I will; I like to match worsted," replied Percy, brightening
up a little at the prospect of doing something for somebody. "Perhaps
Jenny will like to have me do some errand for her."

Percy returned from her walk in a somewhat more cheerful frame of mind,
and, by dint of schooling herself severely, was able to be at least
resigned, and even cheerful, when Aunt Zoe came up in the stage the
next day, to look over her clothes and see what she was likely to want.

"It happens nicely that Aunt Ackerman should have asked you just at
this time," remarked Miss Devine; "because I really did want very much
to visit Cousin Julia's family once more before they went away West. I
should have taken you with me, and Julia would have made you welcome, I
am sure; but their house is small; and I don't know how you would have
got on with all their noisy big boys."

The thought of the noisy big boys did something to reconcile Percy to
the New York visit, and she was able to tell Aunt Zoe with truth that
she thought she should like it better than going to Cousin Julia's.

"Oh, you will have a very nice time, you'll see," said Aunt Zoe. "I
know Mrs. Ackerman and her daughter; and I think they will make their
house very pleasant for you."

Percy was to have gone down to New York with Mr. and Mrs. Hausen, but
something occurred at the last moment to change their plans; and she
was committed to the care of Miss Baldwin, one of the lady teachers,
who was going home to New Haven for the holidays. Percy was, as usual,
afraid that she should be late, and quite sure that they should miss
the train at A—; for, as Round Springs is not on any railroad, they
were obliged to go to a neighbouring city to take the cars for New York.

"Well, if we are late, we will wait for the next train," said Miss
Baldwin.

"But, then, my aunt would not be there to meet me; and what shall I do,
if she isn't?"

"You have the address, haven't you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Oh, well, you won't have any trouble: I shall ask somebody to find us
a carriage, and we can drive straight to your aunt's door."

"But suppose the driver should be a bad man, and should carry us to
some lonely place, and rob us," said Percy. "I have read of such
things, Miss Baldwin; haven't you?"

"And suppose the city should have been sunk by an earthquake or
overflowed by a deluge?" answered Miss Baldwin, laughing. "I have heard
of such things: haven't you?"

"But I am sure I have read of dreadful things being done in New York.
It was only the other day—"

"My dear child," interrupted Miss Baldwin, "I have passed through New
York on an average six times a year for the last six years, and I have
never yet met with the least annoyance or unpleasant adventure. Nobody
has ever robbed or murdered me, or ever wished to do so, as far as I
know. Why should we meet with anything now? New York might be better,
no doubt; but it is not such a dreadful place after all, and a great
many nice people live there. Do put all these worries out of your head,
and think about something else. You will not enjoy your journey at all,
at this rate; and I am sure I shall not."

Percy was nervously sensitive about annoying other people, and she at
once resolved that, however much frightened she might be, she would not
show it nor speak of it. This was a very good resolution, and Percy
kept it all the way to New York. The train was behind time, and there
was nobody to meet the little girl.

"What shall we do now?" asked Percy, trying to speak cheerfully, though
her heart sank very low.

"I shall get a carriage and take you to Mrs. Ackerman's, and then go
and stay at my sister's till to-morrow morning," answered Miss Baldwin.
"I am not very sorry after all, that I have an excuse for stopping a
day in New York. Oh, you need have no fears; we shall do perfectly
well."

Nothing seemed to Percy more unlikely than that they should do
perfectly well, when she saw the crowds of people in the streets, and
realized what a great city she had come into. Nevertheless, she could
have wished the ride to be longer; and her heart began to beat very
fast when the carriage drew up at a very handsome brown house on Fifth
Avenue.

"Here we are, all right," said Miss Baldwin. "See there the name on
the door. Good-by, dear; I hope you will have a very nice time. The
expressman will bring your trunk before long."

It seemed a dreadful thing to Percy to have to go alone up those stone
steps and pull the bell; but she did it; and between the ringing and
answering of the bell, she had time to think that probably her aunt
would not be at home, and that perhaps she had come to the wrong house
after all. The door was opened presently by a very stylish-looking,
elderly coloured man, who looked at Percy in some surprise.

"Is—is my aunt at home? Mrs. Ackerman, I mean," Percy managed to say at
last.

"Oh, yes!" replied Sylvester, all smiles, directly. "Missy will be
the young lady that was expected to-morrow morning. Let me take your
things, Miss, and please walk up-stairs. How you do favour your dear
ma, to be sure. This way, Miss. Mrs. Ackerman is in her room, but she
will be down directly. Take a seat by the fire."

Percy sank into the depths of the comfortable arm-chair placed for her
by a bright, open fire in the handsomest room she had ever seen; and
she waited what seemed to her an hour before anybody came—though in
reality it was not more than ten minutes. The house seemed wonderfully
still. The drawing-room opened into a beautiful conservatory, where
there were plants in flower and birds in cages; there were handsome
books on the tables and pictures on the walls, which Percy would have
liked to look at, if she had not been too much scared. A solemn clock
in the hall ticked loudly, and she could hear somebody moving over her
head. Percy began to think about enchanted castles and the palace of
the White Cat, when her reveries were interrupted by the entrance of a
very handsome and handsomely dressed lady, whom Percy guessed at once
to be her cousin Margaret.



CHAPTER IV.

AUNT ACKERMAN.

"MY dear child," said Miss Ackerman, speaking in a tone which made
Percy start, "I am so glad you have come; but we did not expect you
till to-morrow. How did you get here?"

Percy had to explain that Mr. Hausen had changed his plans, which had
changed her own; and added, that Mrs. Richardson had telegraphed to
that effect.

"And here comes the message, I fancy," said Miss Ackerman, as Sylvester
brought in a yellow envelope. "But it does not matter, so long as you
are safe. I dare say you are tired and hungry enough. Come up and see
your room, and then we will see about some lunch. Never mind your bag;
Sylvester will bring it."

Percy followed her cousin, feeling more and more as if she was in a
dream; for Cousin Margaret's face, figure, and voice were exactly like
what her mother's had been before she was ill.

"See, this is your room," said Miss Ackerman, opening a door. "We could
have given you a larger one up-stairs, but mamma thought you would like
to be near us. Do you think you shall like this little blue and brown
place?"

"I think it is lovely," answered Percy, who had a great liking for all
sorts of pretty things. The room was finished with light oak wood in
the natural colour, and the furniture was of the same. The curtains
were of blue and white, and there was a blue and oak carpet on the
floor. Some pretty china figures and a sociable little clock stood on
the mantel; there was a dainty little writing-desk, and three or four
shelves hung over it, filled with books both new and old.

"It is the prettiest room I ever saw," said Percy.

"I am glad you like it," said Miss Ackerman. "Mamma had it fitted up
on purpose for you." She did not say that Mrs. Ackerman had given up
her own special sitting-room, that the strange little girl might not
have to go up-stairs alone to sleep. "Mamma is dressing to go out,"
continued Miss Ackerman; "and I hope you won't consider us uncivil if
We leave you to your own devices for a couple of hours. You see, we
have an engagement at the Orphans' Home, which can't be very well put
off. I will tell them to send you up some lunch; and you can amuse
yourself with a book, or in any way you please. You won't mind, will
you?"

"Oh, no, ma'am," answered Percy, rather relieved than otherwise at the
prospect of a little solitude. At that moment the door opened, and in
came the prettiest—yes, the very prettiest—little old lady that Percy
had ever seen, with a bright, gentle face and bright blue eyes, and
thin, soft-looking gray hair, put up in puffs under her bonnet. She was
dressed in black, with a good deal of beautiful fur; and everything
she wore was so suitable and becoming, that it made one feel as if her
dress were a part of herself.

"So this is my little niece?" said she, kissing Percy. "I should know
her anywhere from her resemblance to you, Margaret. My dear, it was
very good in you to give your holidays to us. I hope we shall make them
pleasant for you. Margaret, have you explained to Percy about our going
out?"

"Yes, mamma."

"You see, we are going to arrange about the orphans' Christmas-tree,"
continued Mrs. Ackerman, in a soft, purring kind of voice. "We have to
divide the work of buying supplies, because there are so many children
this year. To-morrow you shall go around to the shops with me to see
what we can find; and I dare say you will like to help Margaret dress
some dolls."

"Oh, yes, ma'am," answered Percy; and gathering courage, she added: "I
have got the doll you sent me out in Colorado; and it is as good as
new."

"Indeed! You must be a very careful little girl, I think. And how do
you like your school?"

"Oh, very much!" answered Percy, with animation. "It is not a bit like
a school: it seems just like home."

"It must be very unlike any boarding school I ever attended," said Miss
Ackerman. "Mamma, the carriage is ready; and there is not much time to
spare, you know."

"True," answered her mother. "Good-by, my love; you must try not to
feel lonely. Sylvester will show you the library and the flowers, if
you like, or you can lie down and rest after your lunch, just as you
feel disposed. It seems pleasant to have a little girl in the house
once more: doesn't it, Margaret?"

"Yes, indeed," answered Margaret, and Percy was sure that she saw
tears in her beautiful eyes. She wondered whom they could be thinking
of. There was a lovely picture over the mantel, of a little fair girl
playing with some flowers, and both the ladies looked at it as they
spoke.

Then they kissed her and went away, and presently Sylvester brought her
up a dainty luncheon.

"Whose picture is that?" she ventured to ask, as Sylvester busied
himself in setting out the table by the fire, and arranging the tray.

"That is Mrs. Ackerman's only daughter," replied Sylvester. "She was
a sweet, pretty young lady, and favoured her mother as much as you do
yours."

"I think Cousin Margaret looks like mamma," said Percy.

"The very picture of her. I've often said that very thing myself,"
replied Sylvester, evidently pleased with being talked to. "Miss
Margaret and your ma were near about of an age, and more like sisters
than aunt and niece. You see, your aunt—the first lady, as I may
say—was much older than your ma; and after your grandma died, she
took the charge of her. She was a splendid lady, was the first Mrs.
Ackerman; and the second is just as good, only different—more quiet and
gentle like, and apt to believe everything anybody tells her. The way
them beggars and folks does impose on her! Do you like stewed oysters,
Miss?"

"Very much."

"Then you are just suited, for here they are. I told Symantha I guessed
you would like something kind of hot and comfortable; and she thought
of oysters the very first thing. Symantha, she's my wife, and Drusilla,
the chambermaid, she's our girl. We've got a boy, too, but he works out
for himself. Just ring the bell, Miss, when you want anything." And
Sylvester departed, coming back again presently with the evening papers.

Percy was hungry, and she ate her oysters and drank her coffee with
great satisfaction, thinking, as she did so, that the dreadful part
of her visit had not begun as yet. Aunt Ackerman was not in the least
like the image she had formed in her own mind; which image was modelled
principally on that fashionable city aunt to be found, I believe,
only in a certain class of story-books. Milly Russell's aunt, in the
story of "The Broken Saucer," had been very wicked and worldly, and
had treated Milly with such scorn and contempt, because the said Milly
had read her Bible on Sundays. But Aunt Ackerman, though she was
beautifully dressed, and lived in such a fine house, did not seem as if
she could be either scornful or unkind.

"And I am sure it was very good in her to fit up this pretty room for
me, next her own," thought Percy; "and I am sure Cousin Margaret looks
good. Oh, dear, I hope they will like me. I wish I was fair and rosy,
like the little girl in the picture."

Percy's meditations were here interrupted by a sound as of a cat
scratching to be let in. She arose and opened the door, to admit a
beautiful great Persian or Angora cat, with very long hair and long,
bushy tail; the most superb pussy that Percy had ever seen, and
followed by an equally pretty kitten. Percy loved all kinds of pets,
cats and kittens especially.

"Oh, you beauties!" she exclaimed. "I wonder if I dare give you a
little milk. I have heard that milk is dreadfully dear in New York;
but, then, aunt is so rich, I dare say she won't mind."

Pussy accepted the milk, and drank it with an air of having conferred
a polite attention on a stranger, and established herself on the
rug before the fire, while the kitten frisked about the room. Percy
finished her own lunch, and then began exploring her new quarters.
The room was furnished with every convenience, and on opening the
desk she found a store of nice paper and envelopes, all—wonderful to
tell!—marked with the name of Percy in bright blue and red. There was
an inkstand filled with perfumed violet ink, a gold pen,—even a little
waferstand and a box of wax matches: and on the top of all lay a card
with this inscription, "To Percy from Aunt Ackerman."

"What a lovely Christmas present!" exclaimed Percy, as she turned over
the contents of the desk. "I always did want some paper stamped with my
name. I mean to write to Aunt Zoe directly, and to Blandina and Florry,
and everybody."

"That looks nice," said Sylvester, as he came after the dishes and
found Percy busy at her letter-writing. "Looks as if Missy was getting
to feel at home. Mrs. Ackerman she bought that desk herself on purpose
for your room. I am so glad you have come, Miss Percy. I am sure you
will do Mrs. Ackerman good; and it seems so nice to have a young lady
in the house again."

In process of time, Mrs. Ackerman and Margaret came home; and they had
dinner. Mrs. Ackerman told Percy of the arrangements for the orphans'
Christmas-tree, and of the number and kind of children in The Home;
and she and Margaret talked over the different children on their list,
and discussed what would be the best present for each, and Percy quite
forgot to be shy as she listened. They would go out in the carriage
to-morrow, Mrs. Ackerman said, and Percy should help her buy the
presents, "unless you want to spend the morning writing to your aunt,"
added Mrs. Ackerman.

"I wrote to her this afternoon," answered Percy; "and oh, aunt, I want
to thank you and Cousin Margaret for my beautiful writing paper and
things. I always wanted some paper stamped with my name, and I never
saw any so pretty."

"And the desk? I hope you like that," said Margaret; "because it is my
taste. We will have it safely boxed for you to carry home."

Percy's eyes opened so wide that they seemed to swallow up her whole
face, as she exclaimed:

"Why, Cousin Margaret! You don't mean that the desk is mine to take
home with me? Not mine to keep? I thought it belonged to the room."

"It belongs to you, and nobody else, my little cousin," answered
Margaret, smiling.

"Well!" said Percy, in a tone between resignation and satisfaction. "I
never thought I should have such a desk as that in this world. But I
don't know what I ought to say."

"You have said just the right thing, dear," remarked Margaret. "You
can't please mamma better than by being pleased yourself."

"Well, I do like to have people pleased when I take pains for them,"
said Mrs. Ackerman, piling some raisins and almonds on Percy's plate.
"Now there was old Mrs. Smith, at the Aged Widows' Asylum, you know,
Margaret: I hunted the city over to find her a purple-and-black checked
shawl, because she wanted one so much; and, after all, she said she
thought she would rather have a black and white one, because the
purple made the black look green. And when I bought that Paisley shawl
for Cousin Sarah, I am sure I would not have taken so much pains for
myself, that hot weather. I actually put off going out of town three
days, on purpose to buy that shawl; and yet Sarah was not pleased,
because she said she was sure she found three threads of cotton on the
wrong side."

"I have about made up my mind that I shall not do any more shopping for
Cousin Sarah," said Margaret; "only, I suppose, if I don't, you will:
and she can't impose on me quite so badly as she does on you; I am not
so good-natured. But, as you say, mamma, I do love to have people show
themselves gratified, when one tries to please them. I think you must
be satisfied this time."

Percy resolved that she would be pleased with everything her aunt did
for her. She was examining her desk again before she went to bed,
hardly able to believe that she could be the possessor of so many
little drawers and pigeon-holes, when there was a knock at a door which
Percy had not seen opened, and presently her aunt opened it.

"I was only going to tell you that you can have this door opened into
my room, if you like," said she. "You need not hurry in the morning. We
are not very early risers; and I will see that you are called in time
for prayers and breakfast. You say your own prayers: don't you, dear?"

"Yes, aunt. Mamma taught me," answered Percy, in a low tone.

"Well," thought Percy, as she lay down, "I don't think the dreadful
place has come yet. I do believe I was silly, as Jenny said. I wish she
had as nice a place to spend her Christmas in."



CHAPTER V.

SEEING ONE'S SELF.

A WEEK of Percy's visit had passed, and yet the "dreadful place" had
not come. Percy had thought it just at hand two or three times. Once
when Aunt Ackerman left her alone, at a great fancy store, to select
wools for a sofa cushion, and to match Flora's dead-leaf greens; and
once when she went with Margaret to spend the day at a house where
there were two girls of her own age. But the young woman in the worsted
shop was very polite and helpful. She assisted Percy in her choice;
told her how much of each colour she would need, and, when she had
finished, set her a chair and gave her a great heap of patterns to
amuse herself with, while she was waiting for her aunt.

Presently Percy gathered courage enough to go to the door and look out
for her aunt's carriage; and seeing that it had not come, and that
there was a nice bookstore next door, she actually ventured to enter
the said bookstore all alone, and there to purchase a book-slate and
two pretty note-books, intended as presents for Flora, Blandina, and
Jenny; for Miss Devine had given her ten dollars to do what she liked
with; and she had already spent it, in her own mind, in presents for
everybody she knew.

The other bugbear was rather more alarming. Maria and Alice Ward were
only just as old as herself, but their manners and dress made them
seem at least four years older. They were young ladies, while Percy
had never thought of being anything but a little girl. However, they
found a common subject of conversation in comparing their schools; and
when Percy heard their stories, she was very thankful that she had been
placed at Hansen School, instead of at the grand establishment of Mrs.
Flag. Then the girls found out that Percy had lived all her life on the
frontier, and they were full of curiosity about army life and Indians;
and, altogether, the visit went off very well, and Percy could honestly
say, in answer to her aunt's question, that she had passed a pleasant
day.

Percy's resolution, which she had faithfully kept so far, not to speak
of her terrors and worries, was a very wise one, and it did her a great
deal of good. She forgot her troubles much sooner when she did not talk
about them, and using self-control in words helped her to use it in her
thoughts as well. She did not say a single word even when the carriage
became entangled in a jam on Broadway, and made no objection to going
up and down in the elevator at Stewart's, though she felt quite sure
that they should stick somewhere and never get out.

Percy had not expected any Christmas presents after her beautiful desk
and paper; but when she came down on Christmas morning, there was a
mysterious pile on her plate, covered by a white napkin.

"Oh, aunt, you give me too many nice things!" she exclaimed, as
successive boxes developed a silver napkin ring, a set of Scott's poems
with beautiful pictures, a package of dainty little kid gloves (Percy
always loved kid gloves), and some unheard-of sugar-plums and dried
fruits. "You and Cousin Margaret give me so much and do so much for me,
and I can't do anything for you."

"You can do one thing for us, little cousin," said Mrs. Ackerman. "How
would you like to give us half of yourself?"

"I don't quite understand, aunt."

"You know Margaret and myself are two very lonely women here,"
continued Mrs. Ackerman. "Do you think you would be willing to give us
half your holidays and half of your heart, and let us be at half the
expense of your education?"

"But, but—Aunt Zoe—I don't know what she will say," stammered Percy. "I
believe mamma gave me to her, and she has been so good to me. I must do
as Aunt Zoe says."

"Very true, my love," answered Margaret. "But we are as nearly related
to you as Aunt Zoe, and we have a kind of right to help in your
education. We have written to her about the matter, and she has given
her consent. At first, mamma thought she would like to have you at
school here, so as to be near us; but you seem to be doing so well
where you are, that it hardly seems worth while to change. So, if you
will give us half your holidays and half your letters, we shall be
quite content. My dear little girl, what is the matter?" For two large
tears came splashing down right into Percy's coffee cup.

"Nothing; only,—only you are so good, and I was so naughty and silly
about coming here. I didn't want to come; and I thought Aunt Ackerman
would be exactly like a New York aunt in a story-book! I was just as
ungrateful as I could be."

"But, my dear, you couldn't be ungrateful for what you never had," said
Mrs. Ackerman, soothingly. "You did not know us at all then."

[Illustration: Percy's Holidays. "The girls say I am always borrowing
trouble, and so I am."]

"Well, I needn't have been so foolish," answered Percy, wiping her
eyes. "Jenny said it was silly, and it was; and I am sorry. The girls
say I am always borrowing trouble, and I am."

At that moment, Sylvester brought in a letter, which Margaret opened.

"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed, as she glanced over it. "Mamma, Cousin Sarah
is coming to-morrow, to stay a week!"

Mrs. Ackerman sighed gently. "Well, my dear, you know she must be
somewhere; and if we only have her a week, we shouldn't complain."

"There is one comfort: she can't be afraid of sunstroke in winter,"
said Margaret, laughing.

"I dare say she will make it up by being afraid of fires," said Mrs.
Ackerman. "However, we must be kind to the poor thing, and we won't let
to-morrow spoil to-day, if we can help it. Come, Percy dear, gather up
your pretty things and put them away. It is time we were getting ready
for church."

Percy had dreaded Christmas, because she thought she should feel so
sadly, but the day passed very pleasantly, after all. She went to
church with her aunt and cousin, and after church they drove round to
the Orphans' Home, and saw all the children at their dinner of turkeys
and plum puddings. Percy passed a pleasant two hours in her cousin's
dressing-room, by the light of the fire, telling Margaret about her
father and mother, and learning from her anecdotes of her mother's
school life.

"And you knew papa, too, when he was young," asked Percy.

"Oh, yes; I knew him very well," answered Margaret. She spoke quite
cheerfully; but yet something, she did not quite know what, made Percy
think that Cousin Margaret would rather not talk about her father, and
she asked no more questions.

They had company at dinner and to spend the evening: two or three young
ladies who were very plainly dressed, and who were brought and sent
home again in Mrs. Ackerman's own carriage. Percy found out afterwards
that they were teachers in the public school and the Sunday-school.

"Mamma is apt to make her holiday parties on Scripture principles,"
said Margaret to Percy, when they were alone together. "She does not
invite her rich neighbors, but looks out for those who have no friends
or home to go to."

The next morning Percy went to the station with Margaret to meet Cousin
Sarah.

"There she is," said Margaret, as a thin, tall, anxious-looking woman
came out of the car. "Take care! She will be run over."

Percy could hardly keep back a scream, as the tall lady, having
hesitated at least two minutes while the track was clear, ran across
directly in front of an advancing engine, and only just cleared herself.

"Well, I know I shall be run over by an engine sometime," said she,
as Margaret uttered an exclamation of thankfulness. "I don't expect
anything else. I don't know why I come to New York, for I never expect
to get out alive. But this is not your carriage, Margaret. This is a
public hack."

"I know it, Cousin Sarah," answered Margaret. "Our horses had to go to
the blacksmith's this morning. Just get in, and give the coachman your
check, and he will bring your trunk."

"But do you think it will be safe to give my checks to a hackman?"
asked Cousin Sarah, in a loud whisper. "Don't you think he may run away
with the things?"

"And leave us in possession of his carriage and horses? Hardly, I
think," answered Margaret, smiling. "I don't think there is any danger,
Sarah."

"Oh, but I assure you, I have heard of such things being done." Then,
after she had seen the trunk safely placed on the carriage: "Oh, I was
so frightened in the car. There was a man on the opposite seat, who
looked exactly as if he was drunk; and he spoke to me."

"Indeed! What did he say?"

"He said, 'Would you like to see the morning paper, ma'am?'"

"There was no great harm in that. What made you think he was drunk?"

"Oh, his face was red; and he kept laughing while he was reading the
paper."

"Perhaps there was something funny in it," Percy ventured to remark.

"I don't know about that, child. I wasn't going to have any words with
him, so I just said, 'No, I thank you, sir,' and looked out of the
window. Why, Margaret, there is the very man. Depend upon it, he is
following us. What shall I do?"

"Why, Cousin Sarah, that is Mr. Walden, a most respectable merchant,
and a neighbour of ours," said Margaret, laughing, as she returned the
gentleman's bow.

"Dear me! Well, I am sure! But, Margaret, does this man know the way to
your house? It seems to me this is not the way I have come before."

"No. Percy and I want to stop down town a moment to do an errand. You
will not mind waiting five minutes, will you?"

When they came to the shop, Cousin Sarah was so long in deciding
whether she would sit in the carriage, and risk being run away with,
or go into the shop and leave the hackman to run away with the trunks,
that there seemed some danger of the errands not being done. However,
she finally decided to wait while Margaret and Percy went into the
candy-shop and bought some matters with which to finish the decoration
of the orphans' Christmas-tree, which was to be lighted up that evening.

"Now, Percy," said Margaret, when they arrived at home, "do you suppose
you can run round to The Home with these things, and find your way back
again?"

"Oh, yes!" replied Percy, cheerfully.

"You know you turn to your left, when you come out of the Asylum, and
go to the next corner, and then straight down the street. If you are
puzzled, ask a policeman."

"I think I can find the way," answered Percy; and she actually enjoyed
the idea of going out in the street alone, and on her own feet. She did
her errand at the Asylum and came home quite safely, to report that the
tree was going to be beautiful; and that the two dolls she had dressed
hung right at the top. When evening came, there arose a new difficulty.
Mrs. and Miss Ackerman, being managers of The Home and knowing every
child in it, naturally wished to be present at the Christmas festival.
But Cousin Sarah would not go, because she was afraid to be out in the
evening; and she could not stay at home alone, because she should never
dare to be left with only the servants.

"But our coachman and horses are perfectly safe, Sarah," said Mrs.
Ackerman.

"Everybody thinks their own horses safe," answered Cousin Sarah.

"And with reason, I suppose, since most horses are safe," remarked
Margaret.

"I will stay at home with Cousin Sarah, Aunt Ackerman," said Percy,
following her aunt to the hall, whither she went to speak to a servant.
"Mrs. Stewart told me to tell you and Margaret to be sure and come
early; especially Cousin Margaret, because they want her to help."

"My dear child; but I thought you wanted to see the tree and the
children very much?"

"I did," answered Percy, with a little sigh; "but then I saw it this
afternoon, you know; and the ladies seemed to want you so much. Only,
please, I should like to know who gets my dolls. I hope that little
round-faced infant will have one—the little girl I told you, was like
my little sister."

"I will see that she does. My dear little girl, I am ever so much
obliged to you. I am afraid you will have a dull evening."

"Oh, no. And please, aunt, may I have those big books of birds to look
at?"

Percy was not destined to have much comfort with the big books of
birds. Cousin Sarah was by no means pleased to be left alone in the
house, as she said, though she had an able-bodied man and three women
within call, whenever she chose to ring the bell.

"But I ought to know what to expect," she concluded, plaintively.
"Poor relations are of no account here. They just measure everything
by money, money. Such worldliness! My dear, didn't you hear something
moving up-stairs?"

"I don't hear anything," answered Percy, listening.

"Well, perhaps not; but I am so afraid of burglars. I know perfectly
well that some night I shall wake up and see a man in my room looking
into my bureau. But, as I said, poor relations don't count. I dare say
you have found that out."

"I don't know what you mean," said Percy, colouring. "I am sure Aunt
Ackerman and Margaret are just as kind as they can be."

"Oh, well! I dare say they are kind to you, child. You have a social
position, you see. And Cousin Julia Ackerman does mean to be kind, I
dare say; but she is no hand to do shopping at all. I sent her sixty
dollars to buy me a Paisley shawl; and when I came to look it over,
there were three threads of cotton in it. Now, a shawl that is part
cotton will fade in streaks, you know; and it seems hard to give so
much money for a faded shawl."

"Has your shawl faded?" asked Percy.

"Why, no, not yet; but of course it will. Now, such a shawl ought to
last one a lifetime; but I can't wear it after it is all faded out. My
dear, I certainly do hear somebody up-stairs."

"I dare say it is only the cat; but I will go and see," said Percy,
rising.

"But suppose it should be a robber?" whispered Cousin Sarah; "or
suppose one of the servants should be looking over Margaret's bureau?"

"I don't suppose it is one or the other!" answered Percy, rather
impatiently. "I suppose it is pussy. She lies on aunt's sofa half the
time. There, don't you hear her mew to be let out? I must go, or she
may do some mischief." Cousin Sarah would not be left alone, and Percy
rang the bell for somebody to let out the cat. Then came another fear.

"My dear, I have left my trunk unlocked. You don't think any of the
servants will meddle with my things, do you?"

"I should think not," replied Percy. "You know they have all lived here
a long time, and aunt thinks they are quite honest. But I will go up
and lock it, and bring you the key, if you like."

"But you will be afraid to go up there in the dark. No, I think perhaps
you had better let it be. However, I assure you that the last time
I was here I lost fifteen cents in the strangest way. I never could
account for it."

"Perhaps you spent it, and then forgot about it," suggested Percy.
"One does sometimes. I know I paid twenty-five cents yesterday for
something, and I can't remember what it was."

Cousin Sarah here began to put Percy through a series of questions
relating to her aunt Devine, her father and mother, her school, and
other things which diverted her from her fears, till Mrs. Ackerman and
Margaret came home. Then came another trouble. She was sure she never
should dare to sleep alone, and in the third story, too. What if there
should be a fire, and she should not wake till it was too late to
save herself. What if a robber should come in? He would be sure to go
up-stairs first of all. The matter was finally settled by Margaret's
giving up her own room to her cousin, and sleeping with her mother.

"Dear me, what a fuss she does make," thought Percy, as, after she was
in bed, she heard Cousin Sarah fretting about the gas and the fire,
and the window fastenings, &c. "I wonder if I am as silly as that? I
declare I'll never borrow any more trouble; not if I never have any,"
thought the little girl, sleepily.

The next day at breakfast, Cousin Sarah announced that she had a great
deal of shopping to do; and she must have Margaret to go with her, as
she never could trust herself in those dreadful New York shops alone.
Margaret looked at her mother with a glance which said plainly, "What
shall I do?"

"I believe Margaret will be wanted at the Asylum this morning, cousin,"
said Mrs. Ackerman. "Will not Percy and myself do as well?"

"But I wanted Margaret's judgment," answered Cousin Sarah. "I always
expect to be cheated. I want to buy a poplin and an American silk; and
as likely as not they will make me take one that is half cotton; and I
don't think you are a judge of cotton in things, Cousin Julia: I really
don't, because there was that shawl, you know. I never put it on or
take it off without expecting to see it all faded in streaks."

"I think you will have to rely upon me, or else put off your shopping
till to-morrow, cousin," replied Mrs. Ackerman, without a trace of
ill-temper or annoyance; "because, really, Margaret cannot be spared.
I don't think you need be afraid of being cheated at any of the
respectable stores. I have bought dry goods at Stewart's ever since I
was married, and I have never been imposed upon in a single instance.
Percy, my dear, will you ring the bell?"

All that morning, Percy wondered at the patience of her aunt. She
herself was very well entertained, looking at the pretty things in the
shops, or sitting in the carriage with her book; but Aunt Ackerman must
look at and pronounce upon every piece of goods half a dozen times
over. Cousin Sarah at last made up her mind to buy a silk and a poplin,
after having looked at, at least a hundred pieces of each; but no
sooner were they cut off and paid for, than she regretted her choice,
and wished all the way home that she had bought the black silk instead
of the blue, because blue was apt to fade, and the green poplin instead
of the black, because black poplin was no dress at all. After they
had finished their shopping, they went to Bigot's to lunch; and here
Cousin Sarah would not take any chocolate, because she had heard that
chocolate was shockingly adulterated, nor any stewed oysters, because
she had been told that they always used the stale oysters to make the
stews; and having finally disposed of a large glass of calves-foot
jelly, she remembered having read that such jelly was always made of
gelatine, which was manufactured out of horses' hoofs and the parings
of sheepskins. After lunch, Mrs. Ackerman asked Cousin Sarah, whether
she would like to go home, or whether she had any more to do.

"I want to make a call in Brooklyn; and it is such a pleasant day, I
think Percy will enjoy the ride and crossing the ferry: won't you, my
dear?"

Now Percy had had a great dread of crossing ferries all her life; but
with the example of Cousin Sarah before her eyes, she resolved at once
not to be afraid, and answered promptly:

"Oh, yes, Aunt Ackerman! I shall like it very much."

"But won't it be very disagreeable getting out of the carriage down
there?" asked Cousin Sarah, doubtfully. "And what shall we do when we
come to the other side?"

"We shall not get out," answered Aunt Ackerman. "We shall drive on the
boat at this side and off at the other. Of course you can get out, if
you please; but I never do, because it is some trouble, and our horses
are perfectly steady."

"Now, Julia," said Cousin Sarah, solemnly, "do you really think I am
going to do such a thing as that? Suppose the boat should sink? How
dreadful, to be drowned in a carriage and horses!"

Percy laughed in spite of herself.

"What would you do, if you had to cross on a raft, Cousin Sarah?" she
asked. "Or in a little bark canoe, where you had to sit flat down in
the bottom, and not move for fear of being upset?"

Cousin Sarah thought that under those circumstances she should
immediately die.

"But dying would be as dangerous as crossing the ferry," argued Percy,
gravely. Solomon, the coachman, giggled, and striving to turn the
giggle into a polite cough, he choked himself; whereat Cousin Sarah
remarked, in a terrified whisper, that she thought that he must be
drunk or crazy, and would certainly upset the carriage or make the
horses run away. She finally decided to be left at home, because
she wanted to see her bundles when they came, for she couldn't help
thinking, after all, that her merino must be part cotton.

"Aunt Ackerman," said Percy, very soberly, after they had gone on some
little way in silence, "I never will borrow any trouble again as long
as I live."

"That is a very good resolution, my dear," answered Aunt Ackerman.
"Borrowing trouble is very foolish, and it is also wrong."

"I know it is foolish," said Percy, blushing; "though I never knew how
silly it made people till—till lately. It makes one very unhappy for
nothing. I felt so badly because Aunt Zoe sent me to school; and after
all, I liked it ever so much; and, oh, aunt! You don't know how silly I
was about coming down here. Jenny said I was a goose, and I was!"

"And yet you have had rather a nice time, haven't you?"

"Yes, indeed!" answered Percy. "I am so glad I came. It seems as if I
had been unfeeling and heartless sometimes, to enjoy myself so much
without dear papa and mamma."

"My love, papa and mamma would wish you to enjoy yourself," answered
Aunt Ackerman, gently. "They do not want their little girl to be
unhappy all her life, because her heavenly Father has taken away her
earthly parents for a little while."

"But, aunt, why is it wrong to borrow trouble?" asked Percy, after a
little silence. "I know it is foolish, but why is it wrong?"

"It is wrong to be foolish, if one can help it: isn't it, dear?"

"Yes, I suppose so. I never thought of that, though."

"Then the habit of borrowing trouble is wrong because it interferes
very much with the comfort and convenience of other people," continued
Mrs. Ackerman. "Nothing is more disagreeable than to be in the company
of a person who is always foreboding evil."

"And it makes people fretful, don't it, aunt?" asked Percy. "Blandina
says sometimes, 'Don't fret, Percy!' when I am in a worry for fear of
being late or losing my place."

"Yes, it is very apt to make people fretful and impatient; and, besides
that, my dear, the habit of borrowing trouble shows a want of faith in
our heavenly Father, and is a disobeying of an express command: 'Take
therefore no thought for to-morrow: for the morrow shall take thought
for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.'
You know who said that, Percy."

"Our Lord," answered Percy, reverently.

"We know that our heavenly Father is perfectly wise and good and
all-powerful," continued Aunt Ackerman. "And we know that he loves us,
and has promised to give us all things that we need, if we seek first
the kingdom of God and his righteousness. We know of course that he
does, and permits many things which seem to us very mysterious; but we
must be content to leave all such things to him."

"We don't always know how things will turn out when we do our very
best," observed Percy.

"No, we never know exactly; and all we can do is to 'do our very best,'
as you say, and leave the result with him. Our Lord says we are not
to be anxious even about such necessary things as food and clothes,
you know. You see how unhappy poor Cousin Sarah makes herself: and her
mother is just so. They are always sure that something dreadful is
going to happen. They have a nice house; but they take no comfort in
it, because they are afraid it will burn down, or that somebody will
break into it. The last time I was there; Mrs. McArthur and Sarah went
all around the house with a candle, to see that there were no robbers
concealed in any of the rooms or closets. Then they went around again
without a light, to be sure that they had not dropped any sparks; and,
finally, Mrs. McArthur made another round, to be sure that all the
doors were fastened. They have a beautiful garden; but they are always
certain that the buds will be killed, or the fruit stolen, or that
the grapes won't ripen. They are afraid of keeping a man-servant, for
fear of being robbed, or of doing without one, because they feel so
unprotected. I don't tell you these things to make you laugh at your
cousins, my dear,—though I allow that one cannot always help doing so;
but I want you to see what such a disposition is likely to grow to,
unless it is taken in time."

Percy had plenty of chances to see this during the week that she spent
with Cousin Sarah, and the lesson did her a great deal of good. All the
girls noticed the change in her when she came back to school. She did
not reform her fault all at once, of course, but her eyes were opened
to see that it was a fault; and that, as Blandina said, was half the
battle.



                             THE END.








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