Bellows Falls times. [volume] (Bellows Falls, Vt.) 1856-1965, 1894-06-21


meal. Then Aunt Mary gave her a
bound volume of "The Monthly Pack
ct, y and turned herself to wrestle with
a number of little account books in
notified paper covers. Bedtime came all
too soon, n bedtime that meant loneli-
ness in the big, dark, quiet chamber.
| Una's heart beat with the terror when
she found herself alone there with the
one candle. She undressed very quick
| ly, trying to encourage herself by say
| ing over as quickly as she could all the
texts and hymns she could remember,
| in vague hope that they might act as
a charm against what might be lurking
invisible around her, ready to spring
into active, horrible, material existence
as soon as the light was blown out.
Once in bed, kind Nature remem-
| bered the child for whom no else in all
the busy, living world had any thought
in that hour, aud rocked her sweetly
and swiftly into dreamlass sleep.
Next day prim but kindly COVER
ness appeared. For the time Una
found in sums and geography refuge
from her bitter longing for love, and
| from the bleak waste of misery that
life had become to her. When she
went to wash her hands for tea, she
found that the big dressing-table, with
its large swinging-glass, was gone.
| When she came down she said timidly
to the aunt who sat waiting behind the
tea tray
''There is no looking-glass in my
room, aunt. How am to do my
hair ?"
"You must learn to do without a
glass" her aunt replied, beginning to
thn tao with ,,im
81 didn't say anything to you about it
Yesterday because you were tired, and
[ didn't wish to be too severe with YOU
but l must tell you l was very much
shocked to find you INDUCING in fool
ish vanity before the looking-glass.
You will have no glass for the future. y
eyes, aunt" said the child meekly,
climbing on to the large horsehair chair
and smoothing her pinafore down over
| her black frock.
"Will you please pass me the bread
and butter?" the aunt went on. "You
must learn to be very obliging and
agreeable, Mary, and think no more
| about looking-glasses and such vanities.
Remember that you are an extremely
plain child. You will grow up to be a
very plain woman. From what / have
seen of you am quite sure that you
will never be clever one. So you
must be good and obedient or no one
will ever love you. You will certainly
not be loved for your looks or your
cleverness.
.No, aunt" Una answered, choking
down bitter tears with the bread and
butter.
cit will be no fault of mine" said
Miss Vincent complacently to herself
as she sat alone that night over the
clothing club accounts-"it will not be
my fault if she grows up vain and friv-
olous. 1 will do my duty by her what
ever it costs me.'
And she did. She was woman in
whom duty took the place of faith and
hope and charity. She saw that Una
was well clothed and sufficiently fed.
The saw that Una was well taught and
had regular daily exercise in the open
air. She took her to church. She
taught her her catechism, and at the
proper age she had her taken to the
bishop to be confirmed. All this care
Miss Vincent gave ungrudgingly. More
than this she had not in her to give.
So Una grew up silent, awkward
girl, more and more finding her pleas
ure in learning and reading. There
were no books of frivolous character
at Mrs. Vincent's. 1t was a sympa-
thetic housemaid who gave Una copy
of Longfellow, furtively, on her fifteenth
birthday, and the same housemaid at
her request bought her Mrs. Hemans
and Scott, and a vilely printed edition
of Shakespeare, with the ten shillings
the doctor had given her at parting five
years before. She had not spent the
ten shillings ; she had nothing to spend
it on. All her material wants were sup.
piled, and Miss Vincent would not have
approved of any catering for spiritual
needs beyond the official banquet q
prayer-book, hymn-book and sermon.
So Una hid her poetry books on tbs
top of the big wardrobe and read and
re-read them.
| After that first day she had never
looked in the glass. AT first from the
blind instinct of obedience, which ter
years of loving care had made strong
within her /; afterward because the
memory of her aunt's words to bel
ranked in wound that never healed
mo one will ever love me. L am not
good. | shall never be clever. l must
always be ugly. l don't want to see ar
ugly, stupid PERSONS face"
And not to look in any glass in any
room at any time became habit
stronger than any resolution could have
been, and she grew up, learned for bel
years and thoughtful, taking her par,
in Miss Vincent's mothers meetings
and the acts of duty, misnamed char
tiles, till it seemed to her as if the
world must always, always go on just
like this, with nothing. in it beautiful
except the flowers in their seasons in
the dull garden, the memory of those
ten years in India, and the contrabanC
poetry books on the top of the mahog
any wardrobe.
She still read with her governess
though she had long outstripped thai
worthy woman's little round of learn
ing and accomplishments. She kissed
her aunt morning and evening, but
after Betty, the housemaid, left there
were none in whom she could confide
even to the point of stretching her arms
in their presence when she was weary
or signing in their presence when she
was sad. And she was sad so often, vel
not with the bitterness of those first
days, because one can get used to any
pain, even the pain of loneliness and o
l. L.