Janet's Love and Service. Margaret M. Robertson
“like brides.” Marian had no thought of sorrowful things in her heart now. They came home again the other way, past Judge Merle’s and the school-house, singing and laughing in a way that made the sober-minded boys and girls of Merleville, to whom sleigh-riding was no novelty, turn round in astonishment as they passed. The people in the store, and the people in the blacksmith’s shop, and even the old ladies in their warm kitchens, opened the door and looked out to see the cause of the pleasant uproar. All were merry, and all gave voice to their mirth except Mr. Snow’s little Emily, and she was too full of astonishment at the others to think of saying anything herself. But none of them enjoyed the ride more than she, though it was not her first by many. None of them all remembered it so well, or spoke of it so often. It was the beginning of sleigh-riding to them, but it was the beginning of a new life to little Emily.
“Isna she a queer little creature?” whispered Harry to Graeme, as her great black eyes turned from one to another, full of grave wonder.
“She’s a bonnie little creature,” said Graeme, caressing the little hand that had found its way to hers, “and good, too, I’m sure.”
“Grandma don’t think so,” said the child, gravely.
“No!” exclaimed Harry. “What bad things do you do?”
“I drop stitches and look out of the window, and I hate to pick over beans.”
Harry whistled.
“What an awful wee sinner! And does your grandma punish you ever? Does she whip you?”
The child’s black eyes flashed.
“She daren’t. Father wouldn’t let her. She gives me stints, and sends me to bed.”
“The Turk!” exclaimed Harry. “Run away from her, and come and bide with us.”
“Hush, Harry,” said Graeme, softly, “grandma is Mr. Snow’s mother.”
There was a pause. In a little Emily spoke for the first time of her own accord.
“There are no children at our house,” said she.
“Poor wee lammie, and you are lonely sometimes,” said Graeme.
“Yes; when father’s gone and mother’s sick. Then there’s nobody but grandma.”
“Have you a doll?” asked Menie.
“No: I have a kitten, though.”
“Ah! you must come and play with my doll. She is a perfect beauty, and her name is Flora Macdonald.”
Menie’s doll had become much more valuable in her estimation since she had created such a sensation among the little Merleville girls.
“Will you come? Mr. Snow,” she said, climbing upon the front seat which Norman shared with the driver, “won’t you let your little girl come and see my doll?”
“Well, yes; I guess so. If she’s half as pretty as you are, she is well worth seeing.”
Menie was down again in a minute.
“Yes, you may come, he says. And bring your kitten, and we’ll play all day. Graeme lets us, and doesna send us to bed. Will you like to come?”
“Yes,” said the child, quickly, but as gravely as ever.
They stopped at the little brown house at last, with a shout that brought their father and Janet out to see. All sprang lightly down. Little Emily stayed alone in the sleigh.
“Is this your little girl, Mr. Snow?” said Mr. Elliott, taking the child’s hand in his. Emily looked in his face as gravely and quietly as she had been looking at the children all the afternoon.
“Yes; she’s your Marian’s age, and looks a little like her, too. Don’t you think so Mrs. Nasmyth?”
Janet, thus appealed to, looked kindly at the child.
“She might, if she had any flesh on her bones,” said she.
“Well, she don’t look ragged, that’s a fact,” said her father.
The cold, which had brought the roses to the cheeks of the little Elliotts, had given Emily a blue, pinched look, which it made her father’s heart ache to see.
“The bairn’s cold. Let her come in and warm herself,” said Janet, promptly. There was a chorus of entreaties from the children.
“Well, I don’t know as I ought to wait. My horses don’t like to stand much,” said Mr. Snow.
“Never mind waiting. If it’s too far for us to take her home, you can come down for her in the evening.”
Emily looked at her father wistfully.
“Would you like to stay, dear?” asked he.
“Yes, sir.” And she was lifted out of the sleigh by Janet, and carried into the house, and kissed before she was set down.
“I’ll be along down after dark, sometime,” said Mr. Snow, as he drove away.
Little Emily had never heard so much noise, at least so much pleasant noise, before. Mr. Elliott sat down beside the bright wood fire in the kitchen, with Marian on one knee and the little stranger on the other, and listened to the exclamations of one and all about the sleigh-ride.
“And hae you nothing to say, my bonnie wee lassie?” said he pushing back the soft, brown hair from the little grave face. “What is your name, little one?”
“Emily Snow Arnold,” answered she, promptly.
“Emily Arnold Snow,” said Menie, laughing.
“No; Emily Snow Arnold. Grandma says I am not father’s own little girl. My father is dead.”
She looked grave, and so did the rest.
“But it is just the same. He loves you.”
“Oh, yes!” There was a bright look in the eyes for once.
“And you love him all the same?”
“Oh, yes.”
So it was. Sampson Snow, with love enough in his heart for half a dozen children, had none of his own, and it was all lavished on this child of his wife, and she loved him dearly. But they did not have “good times” up at their house the little girl confided to Graeme.
“Mother is sick most of the time, and grandma is cross always; and, if it wasn’t for father, I don’t know what we should do.”
Indeed, they did not have good times. Old Mrs. Snow had always been strong and healthy, altogether unconscious of “nerves,” and she could have no sympathy and very little pity for his son’s sickly wife. She had never liked her, even when she was a girl, and her girlhood was past, and she had been a sorrowful widow before her son brought her home as his wife. So old Mrs. Snow kept her place at the head of the household, and was hard on everybody, but more especially on her son’s wife and her little girl. If there had been children, she might have been different; but she almost resented her son’s warm affection for his little step-daughter. At any rate she was determined that little Emily should be brought up as children used to be brought up when she was young, and not spoiled by over-indulgence as her mother had been; and the process was not a pleasant one to any of them, and “good times” were few and far between at their house.
Her acquaintance with the minister’s children was the beginning of a new life to Emily. Her father opened his eyes with astonishment when he came into Janet’s bright kitchen that night and heard his little girl laughing and clapping her hands as merrily as any of them. If anything had been needed to deepen his interest in them all, their kindness to the child would have done it; and from that day the minister, and his children, and Mrs. Nasmyth, too, had a firm and true friend in Mr. Snow.
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