Mildred at Home: With Something About Her Relatives and Friends.

"It is a vast deal easier to talk than to act, I can tell you, Don," was Zillah's half-offended retort.

"I dare say; but people can act as well as talk; father and mother did with us – we always had to obey, and that without being petted and wheedled into it – and Milly does too."

"I think it's a great deal better to coax than to beat them," Zillah said half angrily.

"Circumstances alter cases," said Don. "I don't think it's just the thing to pet and fondle a child, and tell him he's 'a darling; there never was such a boy,' and all that, when he's kicking up a row just because he isn't allowed to do exactly as he pleases. Percy began that very behavior the other evening when he had to go into the house before he considered it quite time."

"Well, what did Milly do with him?" inquired Zillah, with some curiosity.

"She first told him firmly and quietly that he must stop screaming on the instant, or she would shut him into a room by himself till he was ready to be good; and as she always keeps her word, not threatening over and over again before she acts, as some people do, he did stop promptly; then she took him on her lap and amused him with stories and rhymes a little while, when she carried him off to bed.

"She's always gentle with him, but firm as a rock; as regular as clock-work too; he's put to bed when the hour comes, and left there to go to sleep by himself, and he does it without a whimper."

"I suppose that's the orthodox way," said Zillah, "but I can't bear to force Stuart to bed when he cries to stay up. The sweet darling, I do love him so!" bending down to kiss the round rosy cheek.

"I've no doubt you do," said Don; "but I remember to have heard mother say it was but a poor selfish kind of love that couldn't bear the pain of controlling a child for its own good, but would rather let it become so wilful and ill-behaved as to be a torment to itself and everybody else. Ah, here comes Wallace," he added, glancing from the window.

"Then I'll leave you to have your talk with him while I put this boy to bed," returned Zillah, rising and leaving the room.

Wallace was no sooner seated than Don made known his errand.

Wallace looked grave. "I don't like the idea, Don," he said. "I wish you could be persuaded to give it up. If you should be unsuccessful, of which there are ten chances to one, it would involve the loss of some of the best years of your life."

"One must take a risk in anything one tries," interrupted Don, impatiently.

"True," replied Wallace, "but in this more than in many others."

"'Nothing venture, nothing have,'" muttered Don.

"I thought you were to go to college in the fall," remarked Wallace.

"That has been father's plan for me, but as I have no fancy for a profession, I think a college course would be almost time thrown away – money too. Ru has proposed to make a druggist of me, but that isn't to my fancy either."

"I wish you would go in with Ru, if you are determined not to take a collegiate education. I can see that he, poor fellow, is sadly overworked, and to have a brother in with him – one whom he could trust – would doubtless prove a great relief."

"Ru hasn't seemed well of late," assented Don in a reflective tone, "but I was laying it all to – to grief. Wallace, the house isn't what it used to be. I've thought I couldn't stand it. I've been a selfish dog, but I'll try to forget self and think of other people. Good-evening. I promised mother I'd be back soon," he added, as he rose and took his departure.

His heart was filled with grief and disappointment; he crossed the street slowly, with head bent and eyes on the ground, battling earnestly with himself, striving to put aside his own inclinations for the sake of others.

He found the family still gathered in the sitting-room, Dr. Landreth and Mildred with them.

As he entered the doctor was saying to Rupert, "I have been considering your objections to my plans for you, and think I can see a way out of the difficulty in regard to leaving your business."

"What is that?" Rupert asked, and Don, aroused to eager interest, dropped into a chair and listened for the doctor's explanation with bated breath. "Could it be that Rupert was going from home? and if so, where? and what difference might it make in his own plans?"

"Simply this," returned Dr. Landreth, with his genial smile, "that I will take charge of it and carry it on for you, if that arrangement seems to you entirely satisfactory."

"A most generous offer, Charlie!" exclaimed Rupert, flushing with surprise and gratitude, "but would it not interfere with your professional duties?"

"No; not necessarily. I should merely take the oversight, keeping the good clerk you have, and getting another equally competent – the two to do the work between them."

"Many thanks," said Rupert, grasping his brother-in-law's hand; "you have removed my greatest difficulty. I begin to think I can follow out your prescriptions, if" – and he turned smilingly to Don – "if Don is as ready to sacrifice himself for my sake."

"I hope so, Ru; what is it?" the boy asked, a trifle huskily, for his momentary gleam of hope died out at the question.

It shone out with tenfold brilliancy at his brother's reply. "Charlie thinks I am in danger of permanent loss of health unless I give up my business for a time, and have an entire change of scene; so he advises me to join the party about starting for California. He thinks the journey across the plains just the thing for me. But I ought to have some friend – say a brother – with me; so it may depend upon your willingness to go."

"My willingness?" interrupted Don eagerly; "I'd be delighted, Ru, and do the very best for you that I know how."

The mother was regarding them with glistening eyes, her lips quivering with emotion.

"And let him give you the care and oversight an elder brother should?" asked the father gravely.

"Yes, if he doesn't try to exert more than his rightful share of authority," returned Don, a slight reluctance perceptible in his tone.

"On that condition your mother and I consent to your going," Mr. Keith said, "though, my boy, it will be hard indeed for us to part with you our youngest son."

Don saw the tears in his mother's eyes, noted that his father's tones were not quite steady, and his heart went out in love to both. "I will never, never do anything to cause them shame or grief on my account," was the firm resolve he whispered to himself.

There was necessity for speedy decision, and it was arrived at within twenty-four hours. The young men were to go. The allotted time was short for needed preparation, particularly that which fell to the mother's share; but her three remaining daughters and Miss Stanhope coming to her assistance, and all working with a will, the thing was done well and in season; nothing forgotten, nothing overlooked that could add to the comfort of the loved travellers.

And it was well for all that matters were so hurried, leaving no leisure for sad forebodings or unavailing regrets.

The parting was a hard one, almost harder, the mother thought, than the last she had been called to pass through; for while her beloved Fan was safe from all sin, and sorrow, and suffering, these dear ones were to be exposed to many dangers and temptations.

But she bore up wonderfully as she bade them adieu and watched the slow-moving train out of sight; they were not going beyond the reach of prayer; they would still be under the protecting care of Him who has said, "Behold, I am with thee, and will keep thee in all places whither thou goest, and will bring thee again into this land; for I will not leave thee, until I have done that which I have spoken to thee of."

"Wherever they might be, He would cover their defenceless heads with the shadow of His wing."

Annis's tears fell much longer and faster than her mother's; the letter she wrote to Elsie, giving a graphic account of the preparations and departure, was all blistered with them, even more so than the one telling of Fan's last hours.

"I am the only child left at home now," she wrote. "That was what mother said when we got back from seeing the long train of wagons, with their ox-teams, starting on that long, dangerous journey. She took me in her arms, and cried over me for a few minutes; then she wiped away her tears, and kissed me over and over, saying, 'But we won't murmur, darling, or make ourselves unhappy about it; for they are all in God's good keeping, and one day, I trust, we shall all meet in that better land where partings are unknown.'

"And I have great reason to be thankful that Mildred and Zillah are so near us; it is almost as if they were still at home."

The letter wound up with an earnest request to Elsie that she would pray daily for the safe return of Rupert and Don.

Chapter Ninth

"A child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame." – Prov. 29:15.

May had come again, waking the flowers with her sunny skies and balmy breath, and our friends at Pleasant Plains spent much of their time in their gardens. Delighting in each other's society they were often together, now in Mr. Keith's grounds, now in Dr. Landreth's, and anon in Wallace Ormsby's.

Mrs. Keith missed her sons, who had always relieved her of the heavy part of the work of cultivating the flowers she so loved, but their place was filled, so far as that was concerned, by a hired gardener, and she found herself better able to endure the absence of Rupert and Don out of doors than in, especially when her daughters and baby grandsons were her companions.

Mildred took great pleasure in the laying out and improvement of the comparatively extensive grounds about her new home, and husband, mother, aunt, and sisters entered heartily into her plans, helping with advice and suggestions, sometimes followed, sometimes not, but always appreciated as evidence of their affectionate interests.

As for her husband, she and all her doings were altogether perfect in his eyes. She was queen of his small realm, and could do no wrong; she excelled every other woman as wife, mother, and housekeeper; her taste was beyond criticism, and whatever she desired must be done.

He was nearly as great a paragon in her eyes, except as regarded the training of their child, to whom he would have shown unlimited indulgence, if she could have seen it without remonstrance. That she could not, knowing how ruinous it would be; but her disapproval was never manifested before Percy. She would not have him know or suspect that his parents differed in regard to his training.

And, indeed, it was only when she and Charlie were quite alone that she addressed him on the subject; never then in an unkind, fault-finding way, but with gentle persuasion and arguments drawn from observation and the teachings of Scripture.

Loving the child with an affection even deeper and tenderer than his, she was yet much more disposed to curb and restrain where she saw it to be for his good; her sense of parental responsibility was far stronger than the father's, and while he looked upon Percy as, for the present at least, scarcely more than a pretty pet and plaything, she regarded the child as a sacred trust, a little immortal whose welfare for time and eternity might depend largely upon her faithfulness in right training and teaching.

"My dear Milly, he is so young, such a mere baby," the doctor would sometimes say, "that it can't do him much harm to get his own way for a while; it will be time enough a year or two hence to begin his education."

"A very great mistake," Mildred would answer gravely; "I have had a good deal to do with young children, and am convinced that a child's education begins as soon as it knows its mother's voice and can note the changing expression of her countenance. And, Charlie, it is far easier to learn than to unlearn; if we let our child acquire bad habits at the start it will be a far more difficult task to break them up and substitute good ones, than to train him to such in the very beginning."

Zillah was quite as devoted a wife and competent a housekeeper as her older sister, but not so wise and faithful a mother. No child was more comfortably or tastefully clad than hers, or had more tender caresses lavished upon it; she meant also to take proper care of his bodily health, and was quite resolved in the long run to train him up in the way he should go; she wanted him to grow up a good man and a strong and healthy one, but in the mean time was often weakly indulgent, to the damage of both his physical and moral natures.

The two sisters, taking work and babies along, were spending a sociable afternoon with their mother.

The little boys, playing about the room, met with an occasional mishap.

Percy tripped on the carpet and fell, striking his head against the leg of the table.

He burst into a cry, and Annis, running to pick him up, exclaimed, "Oh, the poor little dear! that did hurt him, I know."

But Mildred, taking him from her, said in a sprightly tone, "Oh, he's mother's soldier boy; he isn't going to cry for a trifle. But what a blow the table got! poor table!" and she bent down and stroked and patted it pityingly.

Percy stopped crying to echo her words and imitate her action. "Percy didn't doe to hurt oo," he went on; "Percy tiss the p'ace and mate it well," suiting the action to the word.

Then his mother having dried his eyes and given him a kiss, he went back to his play.

Zillah had watched the little scene with interest.

"Is that the way you do?" she said to Mildred. "Don told me that was your way, and I believe, as he says, it is better than mine."

"What is yours?" asked Mildred, resuming the sewing she had dropped on Percy's fall.

"Oh, I've always made a fuss over my boy's hurts, pitied him, and blamed the chair, or table, or whatever he had struck against, for hurting him, and have pretended to punish it, just to take his attention from his hurt and so stop his crying."

"Are you not afraid of teaching him to be selfish and revengeful?" Mildred asked, with a look of grave concern.

"I never thought of that, and am afraid it may," said Zillah frankly. "I shall not do so any more."

Annis was laying herself out for the entertainment of her little nephews. Presently she came with a request. "The boys want me to take them out to the garden to play horse. May I?"

"I have no objection to Percy's going," said Mildred; "the fresh air will be very good for him, I think, as well as the exercise."

"But I don't want Stuart to go," Zillah said; "he has a bad cold, and ought to be kept in the house. Slip away from him if you can, Annis, for if he sees you and Percy start out he'll scream himself sick. Or if not himself, other people," she added with a laugh.

"I'll do my best, but you will have to engage his attention for a while," said Annis.

"Yes. Stuart, come here; mamma wants to speak to you."

"No; me's doin' out; p'ay horse wis Percy," the child returned, with a scowl and a shake of his little shoulders.

Zillah put down her sewing, rose, and went to him. "Come with mamma, pet," she said in coaxing tones, stooping down to caress and fondle him. "Don't you want to go out to the kitchen and see what Celestia Ann is doing?"

"No, me don't; me's doin' out-doors to p'ay horse wis Percy," shouted the child defiantly, quite seeing through the artifice.

Zillah began to grow impatient. "No, you are not," she said peremptorily; "you cannot play out of doors at all to-day, because you have a bad cold, and it would make you sick."

"I will! I will! I will!" screamed the child, stamping his foot at her and clenching his tiny fist. "Ope de door dis minute, naughty mamma. I will doe out p'ay horse."

There was something comical in his baby rage, and unfortunately Zillah could not refrain from laughing, though the other ladies looked on in grave concern.

Her mirth had not a happy effect upon the little rebel. Bursting from her grasp, he ran toward the door just closing on Annis and Percy, screaming at the top of his voice, "Let me doe wis you, Annis! Ope de door," pounding on it with his fists, then taking hold of the knob and trying to turn it for himself.

"You bad boy, I'm ashamed of you," Zillah said, taking his hand, which he instantly snatched away; "stop this screaming, or I'll take you home."

"No; sha'n't doe home. Me's doin' out p'ay horse wis Percy."

"I do believe he's the most persistent child I ever saw or that ever was made!" Zillah exclaimed with angry impatience, apparently addressing the company in general. "I wonder if it would hurt him to go out for a little while if I wrap him up well. Do you think it would, mother?"

"Perhaps not physically, Zillah," Mrs. Keith answered, with look and tone of grave disapproval, "but morally it certainly would have a very bad effect; you have told him positively that he shall not go out to play to-day, and if you break your word how can you expect him ever to esteem his mother a perfectly truthful woman?"

"You make a very serious matter of it, mother," Zillah said, reddening.

"It is a very serious thing, my dear daughter," Mrs. Keith answered, in her own sweet, gentle way, and with a look of loving sympathy.

She would have said more, but Stuart at that instant renewed the screams he had ceased for a moment, upon perceiving symptoms of relenting on his mother's part.

But Zillah now felt that for very shame she must remain firm. She tried the old plan of coaxing and wheedling – offered picture-books, stories, candy – but nothing would do except the forbidden pleasure, and at length, losing all patience, she took him into another room and gave him the punishment Don would have liked to prescribe on a former occasion. Then she cried over him while he sobbed himself to sleep in her arms.

Having laid him on a bed, covered him carefully, and left a tender kiss on his cheek, she went back to the sitting-room where the others were.

Sitting down by her mother's side she took up her sewing, and tried to go on with it, but her hands trembled and tears dimmed her sight. She dropped the work to wipe them away.

"O mother," she said in quivering tones, "what shall I do with that child? I can never bring him up right, as you have brought up all yours."

"It is a great work, dear, to train up a child in the way he should go," Mrs. Keith answered in sympathizing tones; "and the wisest of us may well ask, 'Who is sufficient for these things?' yet rejoice and take courage in the assurance that 'our sufficiency is of God.' Do not forget His gracious promise, 'If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him.'

"Whatever success I may have had in bringing up my children aright has been given me in answer to prayer and in fulfilment of that promise."

"I love him so dearly I can hardly bear to refuse him anything," sighed Zillah, wiping her eyes and resuming her work.

"I hope, daughter, that you love him well enough to give yourself the pain of refusing him hurtful indulgences," was her mother's grave response. "It often requires deeper, truer love to deny than to grant, to punish than to let slip; but 'a child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame.'"

"Yes, mother, I know that is Bible truth, and I do not intend to leave mine to himself. I do really earnestly desire to bring him up for God and heaven, faulty as my training has been, I fear, thus far. But he is so young yet; it seems so hard to discipline such a mere baby."

"I know it does, my dear child – I have not forgotten my own experience – but I assure you you will spare much suffering to both him and yourself by beginning early the lesson that parental authority is to be respected, and prompt and cheerful obedience rendered.

"Be very gentle with him, giving your directions in the form of requests rather than commands, unless it becomes necessary to order him. I think children should be treated with consideration and politeness as well as grown people; it is the best way to teach them to be polite and considerate toward others."

"It was your way of teaching us, mother," remarked Mildred, with an affectionate, smiling glance into her mother's sweet, placid face.

"And a very effectual one it has proved in their case," remarked Miss Stanhope.

"I think it has," said Mrs. Keith; then went on: "There is another thing, my two dear daughters, that I wish to impress upon you: it is the paramount importance of always keeping your word with your children. Try not to make hasty promises or threats, which you may regret having to carry out; but having once passed your word, let nothing induce you to be false to it.

"I need scarcely urge upon you the importance of being always entirely truthful with them, since you know how severely the Scriptures condemn any, even the slightest, departure from truth."

"I should hope not, indeed, mother," said Zillah. "I know I have not always been firm with my boy, have sometimes let him gain his wishes – which I have at first denied – by persistent fretting and crying, and have often too coaxed when I ought to have demanded obedience; but I have never tried to secure his obedience by deceiving or telling him what was not true."

"It is surprising what very lax ideas many persons – yes, even some who profess to be Christians – have in regard to that thing," remarked Miss Stanhope. "Shrinking from the exertion or the pain of enforcing obedience by legitimate means, they resort to subterfuge, prevarication, or even downright falsehood.

"I have heard a mother say to her refractory or crying child, 'If you don't come into the house now a big black bear will catch you;' or, 'If you don't stop that screaming a dog will come and bite you.'

"Besides that, they will utter threats they have not the remotest intention of carrying out, a fact which the little ones are not slow to discover and act upon."

At this point the conversation was interrupted by a call from two neighbors. It was of unfashionable length, and the talk ran principally upon housekeeping, children, and servants.

One of the callers, an elderly lady, had several little anecdotes to tell of the smart sayings and doings of her grandchildren; one of them so aptly illustrating Miss Stanhope's recent remarks that Mildred and Zillah could not refrain from a furtive exchange of significant glances. This was the narrative that drew them forth.

"Two of my grandchildren were staying at our house last week – Mary Bronson, my son's daughter – she's ten years old – and Tommy Linn, my oldest daughter's child, he's about five, and has a great notion of being a man; he's out of petticoats now, and you couldn't punish him worse than by making him put them on again.

"Well, the second night he was with us I was in a quandary. His night-gown had been hung out to air, and a shower had come up and made it soaking wet, for you see nobody had thought to bring it in, and his mother had sent only one.

"When Tommy saw the condition it was in he spoke right up: 'Grandmother, don't you give me a girl's night-gown, 'cause I sha'n't wear it. I want to have a man's.'

"'Yes,' I said, 'so you shall. Mary, you go and get one of his Uncle Sam's for him.' Then I whispered to her, 'Bring one of yours.'

"So she brought it, and as I shook it out Tommy looked at it very suspiciously. 'Is that a man's?' he says.

"'Yes,' says I, 'it's one of your Uncle Sam's.' So he let me put it on him, and went off to sleep as quiet and contented as could be."

"But do you think it was right?" asked Miss Stanhope in a tone of gentle remonstrance. "It was not the truth you told the child."

"No," acknowledged Mrs. Bronson reluctantly, "but what is a body to do? You have to manage children somehow, and if I hadn't deceived him, there'd have been a regular battle. What would you have done in my place?"

"Anything, I hope, rather than tell an untruth to one child and give a lesson in falsehood and deception to the other. Excuse an old woman's plain speaking, but how can you ever tell that little Mary that lying is a great sin – a sin that must cost the loss of the soul if unrepented of and unforsaken? or how blame her if she, at some future day, puts your lesson in practice to deceive you, perchance in some matter of vital importance to you or herself?"

There was silence in the room for some moments, while Mrs. Bronson sat looking extremely uncomfortable; then she said, with an attempt to speak lightly, "You make a very serious matter of it, Miss Stanhope."

"It is a serious matter," returned Aunt Wealthy, "as I am sure you will acknowledge upon thoughtful consideration. I am sorry to cause you mental disquiet, but 'faithful are the wounds of a friend,' the wise man says."

"That is true, and I dare say you are right. I shall think over what you have been saying," Mrs. Bronson returned, rising to take leave.

"What do you think of it all?" she asked her companion as they left the house.

"I'm afraid the old lady was right, Sarah, though I own I never thought of it in that light before – telling fibs to children to keep them from misbehaving, I mean. I've done it occasionally myself, but I don't think I ever shall again. As she said, how can we expect them to speak the truth if we are not always careful to do it ourselves?"

"Annis," Mildred called to her sister, "please bring Percy in now; it is growing too late for him to be out."

"He doesn't want to come," was the answer; "can't he stay out a little longer?"

"No; the sun is near setting, and the air is growing quite cold," Mildred answered, running down into the garden and taking her little boy by the hand. "Come, son, we must go in now, for mamma does not want her dear baby to get sick."

"No; won't get sick," he asserted in the most positive manner. "P'ease, mamma, let Percy tay wee 'ittle bit longer."

"No, darling; but if it is a good day to-morrow you shall have a nice long play and a drive in the carriage with papa and mamma, beside."

She was leading him gently on toward the house while she spoke. The child did not resist, but he set up a loud wail.

"My little boy must not be naughty," Mildred said, in a gently reproving tone.

Still the crying continued, and indeed increased in violence as she led him over the threshold into the hall. There she stopped, and stooping down to take off his out-door garments, "Percy," she said firmly, "you must stop this noise at once. Mamma is very sorry her little boy is so naughty. Now be good, and we will go into the parlor to see dear grandma and the rest, and you may get up on a chair by the window and watch for grandpa, and papa, and Uncle Wallace to come to supper. They'll be coming pretty soon, and then we will have our supper, and after that Percy shall go to his nice little bed."

Being of a pleasant disposition, and having already learned by experience that nothing was ever gained from his mother by fretting, crying, or teasing, the little fellow presently ceased his wailing, allowed her to dry his eyes, gave her a kiss and a promise to be good, and was so for the rest of his stay at his grandfather's.

Zillah had watched the little scene with interest, and had not failed to note the fact that Don's report of Mildred's management was correct; that she did not caress and fondle her child while he was misbehaving, but treated him in a way to make it evident to him that his conduct was displeasing to her.

At the tea-table there was again an illustration of the difference in the training the two children were receiving. Percy was given only plain, wholesome food suited to his infant years. Stuart, refusing to be content with that, was permitted to eat cake, preserves, meat – in fact, everything upon the table to which he chose to take a fancy.

"Is that the way you feed your child?" the doctor asked in a tone of surprise quite unmingled with approval.

"Yes," replied Wallace carelessly, "he eats whatever we do; we let him have anything on the table that he fancies. You don't think it the best plan, I see."

"No; unless your object is to make an invalid of him."

"I couldn't bear to eat dainties without giving my child a share!" exclaimed Zillah with some heat. "And it never hurts him."

"I think you are mistaken there," said the doctor; "that such indulgence does not immediately result in violent illness is no proof that it does no harm. I am afraid you will discover one day, when it is too late, that very serious harm has been done. There is great danger that his digestive organs will give way under the great strain put upon them, and if you do not lose him, you will have him a sufferer for life."

Zillah looked startled and alarmed, while Wallace, turning to her, said, "If that's the case, little wife, we must promptly turn over a new leaf with him. I'm afraid Charlie has the right of it; you know how restless Stuart is often at night, and I dare say it's all owing to our foolish habit of indulging him in eating rich and unwholesome food."

"I suppose so; I begin to think I am not fit to have a child," Zillah said half impatiently, half sadly, "for my management so far seems to have been all blunders."

"Live and learn, daughter," her father said cheerily; "don't be disheartened, but set about correcting your mistakes as fast as possible. I don't think," he added, patting Stuart's head, "that my namesake grandson is quite ruined yet. Do you, Uncle Charlie?"

"Oh no, indeed!" replied the doctor; "he's a fine little fellow, and I want him to have a chance to continue such, physically as well as otherwise."

"It shall not be his father's fault if he doesn't," said Wallace.

"Nor his mother's," added Zillah. "Wallace, we would rather live on very plain fare ourselves than have our boy injured with rich living, wouldn't we?"

"Certainly; but perhaps that need not be the only alternative," he answered, with a good-humored smile.

"I'm sure I don't want to have a battle with him at every meal," she said disconsolately.

"Perhaps that may be avoided by sending him to his play before bringing on objectionable dishes," said her husband.