Miss Prue's Happiness

Seventh-day Adventist Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Apr 20, 1882

Miss Prue's Happiness.

The afternoon sunshine crept lazily along the west side of the house, until it reached the sitting-room window. Passing in unhindered it found Minnie's head directly in its path, and lingered lovingly on the gold-brown braids of hair, turning them into a crown of glory. She sat on a low ottoman, her fingers lost in the meshes of some bright worsteds, and her face unusually grave and thoughtful. Mrs. Ray was near by with her knitting-work, and in an easy-chair close to the window sat Minnie's handsome brother Tom. Profound silence had reigned for some time. Tom was absorbed in his book, Mrs. Ray was planning economy for the coming winter, and Minnie—where were her thoughts? Suddenly she dropped the tangled skein which her slender fingers had been unraveling, and leaned her head on her hand, partly shading her eyes. She had a sweet, mobile face, which, at first glance, one would call girlish pretty; but something impelled a second look, which would discern the earnest lines about the mouth and chin, and the thoughtfulness of the broad forehead. It was the same way with her eyes. Clear, simple brown eyes seemed, sparkling with youthful happiness; but there were darker depths, like the still places in a river, which told of something below the surface. Tom, coming to the end of his chapter, threw down the book, and looked up to find his sister in a brown study.

"What is it, Min?" he asked. "Is fancy-work too deep for you? Does it take as much thought as that sober face of yours indicates?"

She gave the worsteds a little impatient push, which sent them to the floor, as if to show that they were far from occupying her thoughts. The deep garnet and pale-blue threads found an excellent background in the shaded browns of the carpet, and the sunshine stole on and touched them softly, as if to solace them for their exile.

"I was wondering what it really means to be happy." Tom looked at her curiously, and her mother spoke in rather a reproving tone:—

"Why Minnie, child, aren't you happy? I'm sure we have given you every advantage, and I try the best I can to make your home pleasant."

"I was not complaining, mother;" answered the girl, stopping the course of the needles long enough to imprint a kiss on one of her mother's hands. "It seems as if I wasn't making as much out of my life as I might—that's all."

"I'm sure you do a great deal, dear. There's your Sabbath-school class, and the mission work; and I'm pretty sure there's no young lady about here who visits the poor, and sympathizes with those who are in trouble, as much as you do."

Minnie made no reply; and her face still wore its grave expression.

"Just how would you define happiness?" asked Tom.

"I—don't—know," answered his sister, hesitatingly.

"I'll read you what Kant says;" and Tom reached for his book. "Here it is: 'That life we may call happy, which is furnished with all the means by which pain can be overcome; we have, in fact, no other conception of human happiness.'"

"Nonsense!" ejaculated Minnie, her brow knit, and her face more puzzled than ever.

"Be careful, young lady, how you apply that word to so profound a philosopher as Kant," said Tom, laughing at her perplexed expression. "And now think if it is not true, are you not unhappy when you are in pain? If you have the means by which pain can be instantly overcome, does it not banish your unhappiness?"

"Then you consider the absence of pain as synonymous with happiness."

"You are thinking only of physical pain. Remember that there are other varieties much more difficult to endure. Let us say, for instance, that you are in pain now because you cannot answer that question which puzzles you. That is a mental pain, but it causes you suffering of a certain kind. Now, if you have the means by which that pain can be banished, will you not be happy?"

"Then, all Kant has done for me is to tell me what the trouble is. I knew that before, only I should not have dignified it by the name of 'mental pain.' He doesn't furnish the means to overcome the pain, and that is the present necessity. Enough of definitions, Tom! They do very well in books and for school-children. I want something living."

"You know," interposed Mrs. Ray, "what the Word says, 'Whoso trusteth in the Lord, happy is he.'"

"Yes, mother, my trust is all right. Do not think I am faltering in that direction,"—for Mrs. Ray's voice had in it a hint of anxiety,—"but I want something, and I don't know just what."

After a moment more of grave meditation, she sprang to her feet, saying:—

"I'll go and ask Miss Prue."

As she came to the door ready to start, Tom caught up his hat and walked out with her. Mrs. Ray watched them from the window.

"I don't just understand either one," she murmured. "They are more like their father than they are like me. If he had lived,"—and she paused a moment to brush away a tear,—"he could have helped them as I don't know how. What is happiness to them doesn't quite seem to content them. There—I knew Tom would turn that corner! I don't know what will come of his going so much to see Maude Reynolds. She is a nice girl, but I can't bear to think of giving up my first-born so soon. He is only twenty-two."

And she turned from the window to answer some question of eight-year-old Willie, who had not yet grown beyond her comprehension.

Minnie's light tap had been speedily answered, and she soon found herself seated in a comfortable rocker, awaiting the return of Miss Prue, who had excused herself for a moment. The room was long and low, but gave one a feeling of cozy brightness. A secretary at one end was covered with papers, which seemed to indicate some amount of literary work. There was a bookcase in one corner, and near the window stood an easel with a half-finished picture on it. There were pictures on the walls, and brackets with bright lambrequins, while fancifully worked tidies adorned the chairs. Miss Prue's real work was among the poor. She gave the greater part of every day to visitations among the needy, the wretched, the sorrowing, the wicked, reading the Bible to them and praying with them, as well as finding material aid for those who were deserving. Many a sad face was brightened by her presence; many a tear she wiped away; many a fair face, which had felt its first blush of shame, was turned from the path of sin to righteousness and truth, by her earnest pleading words. Her spare minutes at home she devoted to something which should take her thoughts quite in an opposite direction.

"I see and hear so much of the dark side of life," she often said, "that I must have bright, cheery things at home."

She lived alone, took care of her own rooms, and still—besides her regular work—found time to write for the papers, to paint, to read, and to make various articles of fancy work. Many of her friends treasured the work of her hands in the shape of a little painting, or some dainty tidy or pin-cushion. With her usual quick perception, Miss Prue saw that her guest had come for some special purpose, and, like a wise woman, gave her time to tell it. She chatted to her about her visitations, showed her the painting she was at work on, and told the idea of her last new story.

"Have you noticed that little white cottage across the street?" she asked at length. "I want to tell you about the young couple who have lately moved in there. They have known each other for a long time, and pledged mutual love some five years ago; but misunderstandings and lovers' quarrels separated them from time to time, only to be forgotten in the renewal of their affection. Young people think too lightly of such things in these days. If an engagement was looked upon as being as sacred as a marriage, there would be fewer wrecked hopes, and more happy hearts. Well, these friends of mine were delaying their marriage until Harry should be well settled in business. When he determined that he was ready for a wife, to his complete surprise Mamie suddenly broke off the engagement. I was deeply interested in it all, for I have known Mamie since she was a little girl, and I was kneeling close by Harry the night he was converted, which somehow gave me a claim in him. Moreover, they both trusted me with their trials, as well as their joy. I have a sister living in the town where Mamie's parents reside, and I concluded to go there for a visit. Of course I saw Mamie. She was miserable and unhappy, just as I had left Harry. She told me all about it, finally. She is a very sensitive, conscientious girl, and, a short time before, a gentleman, of whom she had thought merely as a friend, had asked her to marry him. She thought that she must have been guilty of some indiscretion in order to encourage him to such a proposal, and only wrote to Harry that she was not fit to be married, which, of course, puzzled him very much. I came back with her permission to tell Harry all about it. He took the next train to her home after he had heard the story, and they were married six weeks after. And they are so happy, perfectly contented with each other, and devoted to their little home. And when I am very weary, and have been where I have seen only wickedness and crime, I stop in there, on my way home, to steal a bit of their sunshine. And when they say, 'If it hadn't been for you, Miss Prue, we might not have been here,' I come home with my heart glowing with the thought that I have a share in that happy home life." Miss Prue paused, and Minnie came to a stool by her side, and laid her head in her lap.

"Tell me some more," she said, softly.

"There's another one of my girls," went on the gentle voice, "in whose happiness I do so rejoice. She came in one day to tell me how perplexed she was. A number of paths seemed opening before her, and she did not know which was the right one to follow. After she had told me all about it, a verse came into my mind, which I quoted to her: 'Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in him; and he shall bring it to pass.' The very next day she came in with a radiant face to tell me how she did commit it all to him the night before, and in the morning she saw the way clearly; and, moreover, a letter had come to her, which assured her that she had made the right decision. So she is teaching now, and has made a home for her widowed mother, and her last letter was full of gladness from beginning to end. And I said to myself, 'Aren't my girls rich!' A bit of their wealth belongs to me. I like to live with those I love, especially in their joys. In fact, I have become so habituated to living with others, that I really question whether I have much life of my own. I have thought, lately, that if an angel should come to me as to Abou Ben Adhem, and ask me the same question, I should have to answer much as he did. Though I think that I should say, 'Write me as one who loves his fellow-men, and loves above all to find God in their lives.' There, my dear, have I tired you with my stories? You were so unfortunate as to find me in a talking mood."

Minnie lifted her face, the brown eyes looking very deep, and the thoughtful lines most prominent in her whole face, but with a light over all.

"You have given me just what I wanted, without my even asking you for it. And now I must go."

"But this is not fair," and Miss Prue laid her hand detainingly on the girl's arm. "You know I must have my bit of it."

"Well," Minnie answered, "I was thinking about what real happiness was. Tom quoted Kant, and mother quoted Scripture, but neither one answered my questionings. I know now."

"There are two great commandments," said Miss Prue, earnestly. "To love God is first, but to love our fellow-men is like unto it."

With a light step and lighter heart, Minnie hastened homeward. Willie was in the front yard, turning somersaults on the soft grass.

"Oh, Minnie, he called out, "I have won the first prize at school."

"Have you, dear? Well, I am ever so proud of my little brother."

Will stopped his preparation for another turn, to look after her.

"She never said anything like that before. I'll get the prize next time, too, if she's proud of me—you bet I will,"—and over went his heels, more emphatically than before. At the door Minnie met her mother.

"Mr. Johnson was here while you were away, and he can invest that money for me at eight per cent."

"How fortunate!" cried Minnie. "Now don't worry any more, will you, mamma?" and with a caress added to the endearing word, Minnie went on, while her mother's eyes moistened as she murmured, "She is a good daughter."

Tom noticed the glad, bright eyes, and the sweet expression of his sister's face.

"Happiness—that reminds me. Have you solved your problem, Min?"

"Yes, Tom. It is to 'rejoice with them that do rejoice,' as well as to 'weep with them that weep.'"—North-Western Advocate.