LETTIE'S TRIAL | AdventAI

Seventh-day Adventist Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Apr 7, 1881

LETTIE'S TRIAL.

"I don't know what to do about it," said Lettie Lindsay, looking at her open pocket-book with a very disconsolate face.

"About what?" asked her little sister Janie, looking up from her seat on the rug before a glowing coal fire.

"About going to Thomas's concert to-night with the Masons. Bertha has written to me that she and John are going, and if I want to go with them I must get my ticket at once. You know Bertha and I agreed to save all our money to go to hear Thomas, and now he has come, and I can't go."

"Why not? You have ever so much money in there," said Janie, stretching her little neck to peep over the edge of the pocket-book.

Lettie sat down on the rug and emptied the contents of the book in her lap. Then she carefully counted the money, and laid it in two separate piles.

"No, it won't do," she said, shaking her head sorrowfully.

"Why, Lettie! there's a lot of money there!" cried Janie, looking at her sister with wide-opened eyes.

"This is my housekeeping money. To last till papa comes back," Lettie answered, putting her hand on the large pile of notes.

"But the other is yours, and there's a dollar-note, and one, two, three fifty-cent notes, and three ten-cent notes. Are the tickets three dollars, Let? Oh, I have a quarter, you know! I'll run and get it for you, and you can go, after all."

"No, no! Sit still, Janie," cried Lettie, holding her little sister down, and laughing, though her eyes were full of tears. "The tickets are only a dollar; but I have promised. I must do something else with two dollars and a half of this. Thank you, dear, but your precious little quarter will not help me. No, no, I can't go."

"O Lettie! I'm sorry, because I know you do want to go very much. But then, if there's something you like better still, and you mean to spend your money in that—it's just as good, isn't it?"

"Ye-yes," said Lettie, absently. Then—"I wonder if she could wait. Maybe to-morrow papa will come, and I know he will give me a dollar to make it up. I think I'll do it."

She got up, walked slowly to the door, opened it, and stood hesitating in the doorway.

"O Let," remonstrated Janie, turning round from the book into which she had again plunged, "don't keep the door open, please. The front door is open too, and it's so cold. Ugh! It's going to snow, I believe. Cold shivers are running all over me."

"Yes, it's bitter cold," said Lettie, suddenly stepping into the hall, shutting the door first, then closing her pocket-book with a snap and dropping it in her pocket.

"Johnnie," she said in a quick, decided tone, advancing toward a boy of about fourteen, who was dancing about on the front porch with his hands in his pockets, keeping himself warm by the exercise, "please tell Bertha I'm ever so much obliged to her for sending, but I can't go to-night. I hope she and you will have a good time."

"I s'pose Bertha will. I'd rather go to the circus," said Johnnie, carelessly. "I wish you were going, Miss Lettie, there'd be some fun then."

Lettie tried to laugh, but it wasn't much of a success. "I'm very sorry I can't go," she said. "Listen to the 'Midsummer Night's Dream,' for me Johnnie. You can hear the fairies laughing and talking in those sweet little violins, they say. I'm sorry you won't come in and warm you."

"Haven't time. Bert said I must hurry and get good seats. Good-bye." And he dashed off down the steps, leaving Lettie to close the door and walk sorrowfully back toward the sitting-room. But as she put her hand on the door knob, a great tear came splashing down her cheek, and she turned and ran up stairs to her own room.

Poor little Lettie! She was only sixteen—a child still, though she had been her father's housekeeper and Janie's "sister-mother" now for three years. And this was a great disappointment to her, for music was her passion,—the greatest charm and happiness of her quiet busy life,—and she had long looked forward to hearing "Thomas's Orchestra," as the greatest pleasure that could be afforded her. If she had only known sooner that he was coming, she could have had the money; but she had heard nothing of it till Johnnie arrived with his message, and so she could not go.

For a little while Lettie sat down in her rocking-chair and cried heartily. Then suddenly there flashed into her mind some words she had been reading a day or two before, "The Lord loveth a cheerful giver." She started up, wiped away her tears, and flew to the basin to bath her face, saying energetically, "I won't cry any more. I won't be such a baby. 'A cheerful giver!' Was there ever such a doleful giver as I am? It's wicked to grudge charity as I am doing. I'll try to give cheerfully, and then I shall be blessed as well as poor Mrs. Johnson."

Lettie's father was not a rich man, but his brother John had, as little Janie said, "more money than he knew what to with," and no children to spend or save for. He was a very busy man though, and rarely paused in his work long enough to enjoy the pleasures his money might buy.

On this cold wintry afternoon, when light flakes of snow began to drift slowly down out of the gray sky, Uncle John, wrapped in his furred coat and carrying his gold-headed cane, came walking rapidly down a narrow business street in the city. A cart going into a coal-yard blocked his way for a moment, and just then he caught a glimpse of a familiar little figure darting out of the yard, and springing hurriedly past the great trampling horse and the heavy wheels. There was the little gray hat with its black velvet trimming, the jaunty but plain gray jacket, and the black alpaca dress that walked up the aisle of the church and sat in his brother's pew every Sabbath. Yes, and under the hat he caught a glimpse of a pleasant, rosy little face, with very blue eyes and short, light waving hair. It was his niece Lettie. She did not see him, however.

Great snow flakes were drifting over her hat and her cloak, and into her eyelashes, and she ran past in breathless haste, brushing them off and laughing a little as they fell faster and faster, and her cheeks turned a fresher bright red under their cool kisses.

Uncle John turned and watched her, and frowned angrily as he muttered, "A pretty place for that child. I suppose Henry hadn't foresight enough to buy his winter's fuel in the summer, and she's obliged to run about after it in this weather."

If "foresight" meant ready money, it's very probable poor Mr. Henry Lindsay hadn't it; but Lettie was not here on her father's business now.

"I'll just go and see what she was about," said Uncle John. He stepped into the small office in the coal yard; and the merchant with whom he dealt himself, rose up and bowed with great respect. "What was my niece doing here just now, Mr. Cook?" asked Uncle John.

"Your niece? I did not know that she had been here, sir," said Mr. Cook, looking puzzled.

"That little girl with light hair who just went out."

"Oh! the young lady came to leave an order. Here it is, sir. 'One-half ton of coal for Mrs. Mary Johnson, No. 745 Blank Street, $2.50.' I'm just going to send it off."

"Humph. 'Mrs. Johnson.' What does that mean?" mused Uncle John. "Did she pay for it?"

"Yes, sir. And now I come to think of it, I suppose she paid for it with her own money. Mrs. Johnson, I happen to know, is wretchedly poor. She comes with a basket sometimes to buy half a bushel of coal. You may depend that it is your sweet little niece's charity."

Little Janie running merrily over the snow to school the next morning, was stopped by Uncle John. He was always kind to the children, though a little rough sometimes.

"Here, puss! Who is Mrs. Mary Johnson, 745 Blank Street?" he asked, shaking her little hand heartily.

"Oh, she's a poor woman. She sews and does things. She's awful poor," said earnest little Janie.

"Humph! And Lettie has been paying $2.50 for coal for her, has she?"

"Oh, has she?" cried Janie with great eyes. "There! That's what she did with her money, and she couldn't go to hear Thomas! Well, I never!"

"Neither did I," said Uncle John, drily; and he walked on slower than usual, musing a little and shaking his head occasionally. "No, I never did!" he said to himself. "I never denied myself to give to others as this child has done. I call myself a Christian, and subscribe to a dozen charities 'out of my abundance,' but she hath cast all she had. The child has taught me a lesson."

"Papa won't come to-day," said Lettie turning away from the window with a little sigh, as the sun set and the night began to close in. "So I won't hear Thomas to-night either. Well, Janie, we'll have a little 'sing' now and roast some apples and go to bed early. Or no—let's go into the kitchen and stew some molasses for your cold. Kate has a good fire there." They went dancing through the cold hall, and there was Kate at the door admitting Uncle John.

"Hallo! young people. I've come for you both. There's your Aunt Lucy in the carriage waiting for you. Go put on your hats and come home to supper with us, and then we are going to hear Thomas, and the little fiddles. Hurry!" he cried.

"Oh, you dear Uncle John! Am I going too? Isn't it nice! Oh, I'm so glad!" exclaimed Janie joyfully. But Lettie could only clasp her hands and catch her breath in a speechless ecstasy.

She could not thank her uncle, and all that wonderful evening as she sat listening to lovlier music than she had ever dreamed of, her face glowed with the happiness that could not find words, and her uncle understood that bright sweet look now.

"I've given Cook an order to supply Mrs. Johnson with coal all winter, Lettie," he said abruptly, as they stood round the parlor fire at Uncle John's after the concert. Lettie looked up in surprise. Uncle John nodded and smiled.

"Your friend Mrs. Johnson, 745 Blank Street. Ah, do you know now?" as Lettie's cheeks flamed and her eyes opened wide.

"Oh, thank you, uncle! How good you are!" she said catching his hand in both hers.

"Nonsense, it is 'out of my abundance,' child. And you sha'n't miss any more of Thomas's concerts," he stooped to whisper now, "but I'll keep your secret, if Janie will."

"Oh, thank you, uncle," whispered Lettie again, and as she pressed his hand to her soft cheek he felt the happy tears that were falling from her eyes.

"It is more than I deserve," thought Lettie humbly, as she lay awake that night thinking over her happy evening, "for I was not quite 'a cheerful giver.' And I wonder if I could have borne it patiently if I had not heard Thomas at all? I hope so. And hope I shall not be spoiled by this happiness, for I must not expect a reward for all the little trifling good things I do. No, no! I didn't deserve it. It is only God's goodness to me. But oh, I'm so glad, for me and for poor Mrs. Johnson."—Christian Weekly.