Where the Fault Was

Pacific Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Oakland, California · Dec 4, 1879

Where the Fault Was.

"THE most disobedient child I ever knew." The words were uttered in a languid tone, and the speaker pressed her hand on her throbbing brow as though she would still its beating.

A few minutes later Mrs. Elbert repeated the same words to her husband.

"He must be sent to school, Grant," she continued, "such a racket would drive me crazy."

The subject of these remarks was at that moment engaged with a company of miniature soldiers, and a small pop-gun, which he was using with considerable dexterity, for several of the wooden warriors lay with their faces to the floor, and every new downfall was greeted with a burst of boyish laughter, which fell discordantly on his mother's ears.

"Send him out doors for a romp, Mary," good-naturedly suggested Mr. Elbert, "boys will make a noise."

"And this is all the sympathy you have for my nerves, Grant. Send him out of doors, indeed, perhaps the next moment to hear of his having fallen into the creek. No, I will not think of such a thing. As long as the children are out of school they must remain with me. I should not have a moment's comfort any where."

"Yet I am sure, Mary, neither you nor they are quite comfortable as it is. I cannot imagine how your sister Lucy manages with small children."

"Lucy again," retorted Mrs. Elbert sharply—"I don't think, Grant, you need be constantly holding up Lucy as a pattern for me to copy."

"Yet allow, Mary, that Lucy is an admirable manager," said Mr. Elbert, in a conciliatory tone.

"She has never had any ill health to contend with. There, go away, Minnie, do not trouble me with your doll. Do you hear me? Go play in the corner."

The little girl moved away slowly, and her evident reluctance was, as usual, construed into that rebellious spirit which Mrs. Elbert had persuaded herself existed in her children to a large degree.

"Mrs. Colton, marm, sent me over to know if you'd step over, if you felt well enough," said an Irish girl, thrusting her head into the drawing-room.

The lady hesitated before replying, and the girl continued:—

"It's in trouble the lady is, marm, the docther has been there twice this mornin'; one of the young uns is down with the croup."

Mrs. Elbert had not visited her sister for several weeks, excusing herself on the plea of ill health, though it must be confessed that other causes had something to do with her absence. The truth was, these visits had only served to make her more dissatisfied with herself; for, while she acknowledged her sister's superiority, she did not care to have a second person remind her of it; and the well meant allusion of her husband proved to be particularly annoying.

Still, Mary Elbert was not a bad-hearted woman—and Lucy in trouble awakened feelings that Lucy in prosperity had failed to do.

Hastily throwing on a shawl, she turned her steps toward her sister's residence. With a noiseless tread she entered the dwelling and repaired to the sick chamber, where she found her sister seated near the couch of her youngest child, who was breathing painfully.

For several days she remained an inmate of the dwelling, sharing the midnight vigil and doing all in her power to relieve the little sufferer, who rapidly continued to grow worse, and finally breathed its last in her arms. Yet, though this period was passed in benefiting others, it proved of rare value to herself; she could not but acknowledge that in the activity which the circumstances demanded, she had forgotten many of her own ills—nor was this all.

It was the day before the funeral—the little waxen form with its violet eyes calmly closed, lay like a lily bud on its pearly bed; and as Mrs. Colton gazed with tearful eyes on the little figure, the thought of her other children crossed her mind.

"Where can Willie and Emmie be?" she said, turning to her sister, "I have not seen them since breakfast."

"I will go and see," Mrs. Elbert replied, and she left the room expecting to find them engaged in some childish mischief.

"Is that you, auntie?" said a childish voice as the lady passed through the dining-room.

"Yes, Emmie. What are you doing? Where is your brother?"

"Willie is doing his work and I am keeping house for mamma."

"Keeping house for mamma?" Mrs. Elbert continued in a puzzled tone. "What do you mean, child?"

"It's my hour to help mamma," continued the child in her artless way; "I fold the napkins, dust the chairs when Betsey's done sweeping, and feed Carlo; and mamma says that is keeping house for her. Willie's making paper matches; he likes to use his fingers, so that is his part of the work. Mamma didn't come down this morning, but we thought we'd keep house just the same."

"You are a good little girl," said Mrs. Elbert, kissing the child. There were tears in her eyes as she turned away. Why had she not taught her little ones to help her?

The funeral was over. Mrs. Elbert repaired to her home. At another time she might have found much to censure, for during her absence a little contretemps had occurred, and the servants regarded the silence of their mistress with amazement.

"Come, get right into bed, Miss Minnie. Do 'n't bother about saying good-night; for I can tell you your ma is'n't in a good humor for all she's so quiet. Cook says we shall all catch it to-morrow; I'm sorry Harry broke the pitcher, but there's no use crying for spilt milk. Come, get into bed," and the girl took the light and left the apartment.

"Do 'n't you think, Harry, we'd best tell mamma about the pitcher?" said Minnie, as soon as the sounds of the girl's footsteps were no longer heard; "you know our teacher said last Sabbath that we should be willing to confess all we have done amiss during the day, before we ask God to take care of us through the night."

"I ain't afraid of being punished, Minnie," continued the courageous child, "but mamma will be cross. I can't bear to make her cross."

"Or I either, Harry," returned Minnie, in almost a sobbing tone. "I wonder what makes mamma cross! We 're such dreadful wicked children! She don't take us to bed like aunt Lucy does Emmie and Willie."

"Perhaps it's because she's sick," returned Harry.

"I don't think God would make mamma sick and cross, Harry, if we told him how badly we felt about it."

"I don't know, Minnie; we might try," the child said thoughtfully.

The two children kneeled down, and after repeating their usual evening prayer, the little girl added these words:—

"Please God, don't make mamma sick and cross any more, and Harry and Minnie will try to be good children—Amen."

It was a simple petition, but it went to the heart of one listener at least; for during the period passed at her sister's, Mrs. Elbert's feelings had been deeply impressed, and she resolved to visit her children's chamber before retiring that night.

Thus she overheard their artless prayer, and her tears fell thick and fast on their couch.

In the morning Harry recited the story of the broken pitcher; and soon he was telling Minnie that God must have heard their prayer, for mamma wasn't a bit cross, but had kissed him, and said he was a good boy for coming to tell her the truth, and that he must be more careful in the future.

Mrs. Elbert again repaired to her sister's residence. "I have come, Lucy," she said, "to learn the secret of your influence in your household."

Mrs. Colton smiled kindly on her sister, while she returned: "Constant watchfulness and love, dear Mary, with the blessing of Heaven, have so far availed in my family. My children, like your own, are each of a different temper. I try to discover what are their peculiar traits and dispositions. Willie is naturally of an active, nervous temperament, and if I did not keep him employed his restlessness would be a source of annoyance to himself and all around him; yet he is an open-hearted, generous child, and I trust with proper training his activity will prove a blessing; for, believe me, sister, it is possible for a child to be restless, even boisterous, without being willfully disobedient. I do not say this to extenuate or excuse the disregard of a known command, but simply to show the necessity of occupation for one like himself. Besides, children like to feel they are of use, and though at first it may tax your time and ingenuity to devise plans for their employment, in the end they may prove of real assistance; and not only in devising plans for their employment should we take an interest, but also in their diversions, for as we were children ourselves once, so should we remember that youth is peculiarly the season of those innocent enjoyments which we once shared; and by caring for their joys as well as sorrows, we shall be able to gain their confidence and that perfect love which casteth out fear."—Mother's Magazine.