"Do you think that I could possibly learn now?" asked Mary Erskine.
"Why,-I don't know,-perhaps, if you had any one to teach you."
"Thomas might teach me, perhaps," said Mary Erskine, doubtfully. Then, in a moment she added again, in a desponding tone,-"but I don't know how long he will stay here."
"Then you don't know at all yet," said Mrs. Bell, after a short pause, "what you shall conclude to do."
"No," replied Mary Erskine, "not at all. I am going on, just as I am now, for some days, without perplexing myself at all about it. And I am not going to mourn and make myself miserable. I am going to make myself as contented and happy as I can, with my work and my children."
Here Mary Erskine suddenly laid her head down upon her arms again, on the little work-table before her, and burst into tears. After sobbing convulsively a few minutes she rose, hastily brushed the tears away with her handkerchief, and went toward the door. She then took the water pail, which stood upon a bench near the door, and said that she was going to get some water, at the spring, for tea, and that she would be back in a moment. She returned very soon, with a countenance entirely serene.
"I have been trying all day," said Mrs. Bell, "to think of something that I could do for you, to help you or to relieve you in some way or other; but I can not think of any thing at all that I can do."
"Yes," said Mary Erskine, "there is one thing that you could do for me, that would be a very great kindness, a very great kindness indeed."
"What is it?" asked Mrs. Bell.
"I am afraid that you will think it is too much for me to ask."
"No," said Mrs. Bell, "what is it?"
Mary Erskine hesitated a moment, and then said,
"To let Mary Bell come and stay here with me, a few days."
"Do you mean all night, too?" asked Mrs. Bell.
"Yes," said Mary Erskine, "all the time."
"Why, you have got two children to take care of now," replied Mrs. Bell, "and nobody to help you. I should have thought that you would have sooner asked me to take Bella home with me."
"No," said Mary Erskine. "I should like to have Mary Bell here, very much, for a few days."
"Well," said Mrs. Bell, "she shall certainly come. I will send her, to-morrow morning."
CHAPTER VI. MARY BELL IN THE WOODS.
Mary Erskine had a bible in her house, although she could not read it. When Albert was alive he was accustomed to read a chapter every evening, just before bed-time, and then he and Mary Erskine would kneel down together, by the settle which stood in the corner, while he repeated his evening prayer. This short season of devotion was always a great source of enjoyment to Mary Erskine. If she was tired and troubled, it soothed and quieted her mind. If she was sorrowful, it comforted her. If she was happy, it seemed to make her happiness more deep and unalloyed.
Mary Erskine could not read the bible, but she could repeat a considerable number of texts and verses from it, and she knew, too, the prayer, which Albert had been accustomed to offer, almost by heart. So after Mrs. Bell had gone home, as described in the last chapter, and after she herself had undressed the children and put them to bed, and had finished all the other labors and duties of the day, she took the bible down from its shelf, and seating herself upon the settle, so as to see by the light of the fire, as Albert had been accustomed to do, she opened the book, and then began to repeat such verses as she could remember. At length she closed the book, and laying it down upon the seat of the settle, in imitation of Albert's custom, she kneeled down before it, and repeated the prayer. The use of the bible itself, in this service, was of course a mere form:-but there is sometimes a great deal of spiritual good to be derived from a form, when the heart is in it, to give it meaning and life. Mary Erskine went to bed comforted and happy; and she slept peacefully through each one of the three periods of repose, into which the care of an infant by a mother usually divides the night.
In the morning, the first thought which came into her mind was, that Mary Bell was coming to see her. She anticipated the visit from her former charge with great pleasure. She had had Mary Bell under her charge from early infancy, and she loved her, accordingly, almost as much as if she were her own child. Besides, as Mary Bell had grown up she had become a very attractive and beautiful child, so kind to all, so considerate, so gentle, so active and intelligent, and at the same time so docile, and so quiet, that she was a universal favorite wherever she went. Mary Erskine was full of joy at the idea of having her come and spend several days and nights too, at her house, and she was impatient for the time to arrive when she might begin to expect her. At eight o'clock, she began to go often to the door to look down the road. At nine, she began to feel uneasy. At ten, she put on her hood and went down the road, almost to the corner, to meet her-looking forward intensely all the way, hoping at every turn to see her expected visitor advancing along the path. She went on thus until she came in sight of the corner, without seeing or hearing any thing of Mary Bell; and then she was compelled to return home alone, disappointed and sad. She waited dinner from twelve until one, but no Mary Bell appeared. Mary Erskine then concluded that something had happened to detain her expected visitor at home, and that she might be disappointed of the visit altogether. Still she could not but hope that Mary would come in the course of the afternoon. The hours of the afternoon, however, passed tediously away, and the sun began to decline toward the west; still there was no Mary Bell. The cause of her detention will now be explained.
When Mary Bell came down to breakfast, on the morning after her mother's visit to Mary Erskine, her mother told her, as she came into the room, that she had an invitation for her to go out to Mary Erskine's that day.
"And may I go?" asked Mary Bell.
"Yes," said her mother, "I think I shall let you go."
"I am so glad!" said Mary Bell, clapping her hands.
"Mary Erskine wishes to have you stay there several days," continued her mother.
Mary Bell began to look a little sober again. She was not quite sure that she should be willing to be absent from her mother, for so many days.
"Could not I come home every night?" said she.
"Why, she wishes," answered Mrs. Bell, "to have you stay there all the time, day and night, for several days. It is an opportunity for you to do some good. You could not do Mary Erskine any good by giving her your money, for she has got plenty of money; nor by carrying her any thing good to eat, for her house is full of abundance, and she knows as well how to make good things as any body in town. But you can do her a great deal of good by going and staying with her, and keeping her company. Perhaps you can help her a little, in taking care of the children."
"Well," said Mary Bell, "I should like to go."
So Mrs. Bell dressed Mary neatly, for the walk, gave her a very small tin pail, with two oranges in it for Mary Erskine's children, and then sent out word to the hired man, whose name was Joseph, to harness the horse into the wagon. When the wagon was ready, she directed Joseph to carry Mary to the corner, and see that she set out upon the right road there, toward Mary Erskine's house. It was only about half a mile from the corner to the house, and the road, though crooked, stony, and rough, was very plain, and Mary Bell had often walked over it alone.
There was, in fact, only one place where there could be any danger of Mary Bell's losing her way, and that was at a point about midway between the corner and Mary Erskine's house, where a road branched off to the right, and led into the woods. There was a large pine-tree at this point, which Mary Bell remembered well; and she knew that she must take the left-hand road when she reached this tree. There were various little paths, at other places, but none that could mislead her.
When Joseph, at length, set Mary Bell down in the path at the corner, she stood still, upon a flat rock by the side of the road, to see him turn the wagon and set out upon his return.