A SPARK THAT KINDLED FRIENDSHIP.
By Anna Pelzel
MAMA, did you know some one is moving into the cottage next door?" asked Helen Vane, as she came home from school one day. “No; and I am sorry to hear it, as I know they will be disagreeable. I told your papa to buy the place, as I did not want any near neighbors, but he said ‘poor people must live somewhere.’ He has no pride, and cares not with whom he mingles.” “Mama, I fear they will give us trouble, as I saw three such rough looking boys, and one girl. They have red hair and freckled faces. O, how I hate red hair;” and Helen walked up to a large mirror and took a satisfied look at her own golden braids. “Well,” said the mother “we must let them know from the start, that they have nothing to expect from us; and if we do not go near them perhaps they will know enough to keep their place.” Now let us get acquainted with these new neighbors who are causing such an excitement in the Vane home. Their name was Douglass; a good old Scotch name, and its present bearers were proud of it. They had moved from the adjoining state for the benefit of the father, who was rheumatic, and this section was said to be dry and healthful. So here they were, strangers in a strange state. They had spent the summer’s savings to make a home, and winter coming on made prospects dull. One would think the Vanes were bad people, but not so, only proud and vain, and not so full of the feeling that makes us “love our neighbor as our selves.” Mr. Vane was very unlike his wife and daughter. No one was too poor to be noticed by him. The charity seekers knew his hand was ever ready to help. The only boy, a lad of fourteen, was like neither of his parents; he had a warm heart, and would have played with the poorest urchin had not his mother kept a watchful eye on him, lest he make friends among the poor. So no wonder his mother was so troubled over the arrival of three boys, as she knew she must be more on the alert than ever. The neighborhood was thinly settled, being a mile from the center of the town, so there were not many to come and make friends with the newcomers. After they had lived in the cottage two weeks, Mr. Vane asked his family if they had called on their new neighbors yet. “No, we have not; neither do we intend to,” said Mrs. Vane. “I give them credit for some sense. They do not force themselves on us, as I feared they would.” Mr. Vane knew from past experience, that to argue would be useless, so said something about “the Golden Rule,” and left the house. He was a good man and comforted himself with the thought that he would make up to those about him for what his wife failed to do. Albert Vane soon manifested a particular antipathy toward poor Mary Douglass, and never let an opportunity pass to tease her. He was ever making her conscious of her braids. But she took all his abuse so kindly, and without resentment. One day Albert had a fine apple, and, passing her, he said, “Don’t you wish you had a little freckle face?” Before he knew what had happened,475Mary had grabbed the apple and taken a bite from it. “O, Albert, that’s a good one on you.” “She was too quick for you.” “Next time you won’t be so smart,” came from all sides. Albert, of course, did not take it back, and the children enjoyed the joke as much as Albert would have enjoyed the joke. Did Albert, too, enjoy it?—Far from it. In his heart he vowed vengeance, and it was not far distant. One day while waiting for Helen to go to school, he watched her tie such pretty ribbons on her hair. It was his chance. So unnoticed he took a pair she had worn the previous day, and, putting them in his pocket, they went to school together. The lines were just forming when they reached the grounds, so he stationed himself behind Mary, and quickly tied a ribbon on each braid. As soon as the room was called to order, Helen’s hand went to her hair for she had just espied her ribbons on Mary’s braids. “What is it?” asked the teacher. “Mary Douglass has stolen my ribbons.” “Helen, I would not use such language. Can you prove it?” Before she could answer, Mary arose in her seat, and with a voice full of suppressed emotion said, “Ma’am, I have not stolen her ribbons. That is something no one can accuse me of, and even accusation can not prove.” Poor girl, there she stood defending herself, and the evidence was with her, and she ignorant of all. The teacher said, “Mary, I do not think you are lying. Some mistake has been made. I trust we shall be able to clear you; and if any one knows anything about this unpleasant affair, I wish they would speak out.” Silence reigned supreme. Mary was seated with bowed head, no sound was heard, but by the convulsed form, all knew a mighty storm was raging in her wounded heart. “Well,” said the teacher, “we will proceed with the lessons. After school I shall investigate this, and I hope that Mary’s high standing will be restored, and indeed she has lost any esteem. I think a cruel wrong has been played on her, and I feel ashamed to have a pupil in my room who would be willing to do such a thing.” The lessons had no interest, as the pupils were thinking of Mary, who had not lifted her head. “You may go home, Mary,” said the teacher, at the same time untying the ribbons from her hair.