The King's Daughter and Other Stories for Girls Part 8

A secret is not a good thing for a girl to have. The fewer secrets that lie in the hearts of women at any age, the better. It is almost a test of purity. She who has none of her own is best and happiest.

In girlhood, hide nothing from your mother; do nothing that, if discovered by your mother, would make you blush. When you are married, never conceal anything from your husband. Never allow yourself to write a letter that he may not know all about, or to receive one which you are not quite willing that he should read.

Have no mysteries whatever. Tell those who are about you, where you go, and what you do,--those who have the right to know, I mean, of course.

A little secretiveness has set many a scandal afloat; and much as is said about women who tell too much, they are a great deal better off than the woman who tells too little.

The girl who frankly says to her mother, "I have been there, I met so-and-so. Such and such remarks were made, and this or that was done,"

will be sure to receive good advice and sympathy.

If all was right, no fault will be found. If the mother knows as the result of her greater experience, that something was improper or unsuitable, she will, if she is a Christian mother, kindly advise her daughter accordingly.

You may not always know, girls, just what is right or what is wrong,--for you are yet young and inexperienced. You can not be blamed for making little mistakes, but you will not be likely to go very far wrong, if from the first, you have no secrets from your mother.

To thy father and thy mother Honor, love, and reverence pay; This command, before all other, Must a Christian child obey.

Help me, Lord, in this sweet duty; Guide me in Thy steps divine; Show me all the joy and beauty Of obedience such as thine.

Teach me how to please and gladden Those who toil and care for me; Many a grief their heart must sadden, Let me still their comfort be.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THEY TOOK ME IN

"Who is she?"

"Couldn't say. She is a stranger here, I think."

"Yes, she lives in that little house down by the bridge, you know, girls, that tiny bit of a house covered with that white rose."

"Where we always got such lots of flowers to decorate with because no one ever lived there. Why, the house is almost tumbled down. How can anyone live there?"

"No one would if they were not very poor. Of course you can tell by the girl's clothes that she is poor."

"Come on, girls, never mind talking about her," said one of the number impatiently. "What difference does it make to us who she is? We will be late," and the troop of merry girls pa.s.sed on down the street.

Meantime the subject of this conversation was hurrying in another direction, her eyes blinded by the quick tears that had sprung unbidden to them when the wistful glance she had cast at the girls had been met with only those of cold curiosity.

"It is hard to be so alone," she murmured, "but I must not let mamma know."

The girls went on their way, unconscious of the wistful look, or unthinking that they had been in any way unkind.

Nellie Ross had noticed, however, and she was thoughtful all the afternoon. How must it feel, she wondered, to be alone among strangers.

As they were returning home toward night, she whispered to her particular friend:--

"Do you know, Mabel, I can not help thinking of that girl we met this morning."

"What girl?" asked Mabel Willis, with a slightly puzzled air.

"Why, the one that Margaret said lived in the little cottage you know."

"O yes. What about her?"

"Why she looked at us so wistfully, and I never see her with anyone; she must be lonely."

"Well?"

"You know what the Bible says," slowly: "'I was a stranger and ye took Me not in.' This girl is a stranger and don't you think we might apply that?"

"Just what are you thinking of, Nellie?"

"I was thinking that we might call on her and ask her to join our Sabbath school cla.s.s, and that might open the way."

Mabel laughed. "You always were a regular missionary, Nellie; but I hardly believe I care to go with you," with a shrug of her shoulders.

Nellie was disappointed, but she said no more for she had learned the uselessness of arguing with Mabel, so she determined to make her call alone.

Nellie felt a little timid as she presented herself at the tiny home the next afternoon. The girl herself answered her rap, and invited her into the wee living room. In an easy chair at one side of the fireplace reclined a delicate, sweet-faced woman.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'_I thank you, my dear,' said the woman_."]

"My name is Nellie Ross, and I have noticed you and thought you were a stranger here," began Nellie in the winning way that had always won her many friends, "and so I thought I would call and ask you to join our Sabbath school cla.s.s. We have such good times, and Mrs. Allen, our teacher, is so interesting."

"I would like to go," the girl faltered; "but they are all such strangers to me, and"--

"That will not matter," declared Nellie. "I will come for you and will introduce you to the rest of the girls."

"I thank you, my dear," said the woman, before the girl could answer again. "I am sure Edna will be glad to go. It has been rather a trying time for her, I fear, since we came here, although she has never complained, for fear it might worry me.

"She was always in church and Sabbath school work at home. But my health failed, and the physician said a winter here might save my life.

"My husband could not come with me, for he must work at home to get money to pay our expenses, so Edna gave up her school and everything to come with me. We are compelled to live very cheaply, you see, but I am getting better, and I think I shall get quite well, if only Edna can be contented here," with a fond glance at her daughter.

"Of course, I shall be contented mamma," replied Edna.

"I'm sure she will like the Sabbath school very much," said Nellie, earnestly, "and I will come for her to-morrow."

She did so, and Edna went with her, although she felt a little shy, but the warm welcome given her by Mrs. Allen, and the friendliness of the girls, soon made her feel at home. It was not until the school joined in singing the last song, that she so far forgot herself as to join in the singing. Then the girls were astonished. She sang alto beautifully.

"Really," cried one of them as soon as they were dismissed, "you must join our young people's choir, will you? We do need an alto so badly."

From that time on, Edna had no cause for loneliness, for she was one of the girls, and her mother smiled and grew better.