MRS. BUT by Friendly Visitor

Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Nov 5, 1901

MRS. BUT.

By Friendly Visitor

Friendly Visitor.

Mrs. But is our next-door neighbor. Her real name is “Green;” but John, whenever he sees her marching up the walk, remarks:—“My dear, here comes Mrs. But.” He is not given to calling people names; he says it merely to put me on my guard, for he knows our neighbor’s failing. She is a bright, breezy little woman, and as long as the conversation is confined to the weather and household affairs, I quite enjoy chatting with her; but the moment that a human being, living or dead, chances to be mentioned, I begin to quake. The first time she called,—it was soon after we moved into the neighborhood,—I happened to say that Mrs. Goodwin, from the opposite side of the street, had called to see me, and that she impressed me as a very lovely character.

“O, she is indeed,” said Mrs. But, heartily; “she is such a devoted wife, and so good to the poor. But,” she went on, lowering her voice, “there used to be a good deal of talk about her when she was a girl; and though I don’t suppose half the things that were said were true, people don’t seem to forget them.”

What necessity there was for this drop of poison to be instilled into my mind I could not see. Mrs. Goodwin’s youth was in the far past, and in the gossip concerning her in that remote period, I had no interest whatever; I was quite willing to take her as she was in her sweet, ripe womanhood.

One day, when Mrs. But dropped in, she found my little friend, Nellie Gray, at the piano. Nellie is a shy, brown-eyed girl of fifteen, gifted with a wonderful ear for melody, and, as the Gray’s had no piano, I had offered her mine. “I can’t help loving the child, she is such a warm-hearted little creature, and so eager for music,” I said, as the door closed behind her.

My visitor gave a scarcely perceptible shrug. “Yes, Nellie seems to be a very nice girl,” she admitted, “but I suppose you know she is a poorhouse waif?”

“No,” I said, “I knew nothing of the kind.” Mrs. Gray had introduced Nellie to me as her

eldest daughter, and the information volunteered by Mrs. But was utterly uncalled for.

One evening, on our way home from prayer-meeting, John remarked that he always enjoyed listening to young Spaulding, he was so devout and earnest.

“Yes, he is a very interesting speaker,” said our neighbor, who had joined us as we came out of the lecture room, “and he seems very sincere, but I can’t help feeling a little suspicious; I knew him when he was a boy.”

John made haste to change the subject; a word of encouragement would have resulted in our hearing the whole history of the young man’s boyhood.

“I’ve no patience,” he exclaimed, the moment we were by ourselves, “with people who are always bringing up the past. Just imagine what heaven would be if the inhabitants were disposed to indulge in that sort of retrospection! The Angel Gabriel himself would hardly be safe from their disparaging ‘buts,’ and the whitest robe in all the white-robed throng would be in danger of being smutted.”

“And yet,” I said, “Mrs. But evidently considers herself a Christian.”

“O, I don’t dispute her title,” said John, “but I can’t help thinking that she might be able to read it clearer if she would rub up her glasses with I Corinthians 13.”