''Mother," said Amelia, ''don't you think we can send Doris to Mt. Holyoke next year? She is twenty, and if she is ever going, it is time. We are getting along so well with the farm, I am sure we can manage without her, but perhaps it is too late even now to get her a place."
Mother and daughter were sitting over their basket of weekly mending, on a summer afternoon. Teachers and twins were at school, as usual, and this was their hour for conference and confidence.
"Yes, daughter, it is high time; I am glad you have spoken of it."
"Has Doris said anything about it to you, mother?"
"No, nothing directly, for a long time. You know she is very slow to ask anything for herseIf, but I am sure she is thinking about it and longing very much to go. There is an eager look in her eyes when Keren's letters come that goes to my heart."
"Yes, I have noticed that, the dear unselfish child! It is hard to realize that our baby is twenty, isn't it, mother?"
"It is, indeed," said Mrs. Banner, with a sigh; "but we must be unselfish too. It is quite possible to get Doris a place, for when we were at the anniversary exercises last August I arranged with Miss Lyon to send her at the opening of the next year."
"And never told us! Mother, I did not think you were so full of guile."
"Well, dear, I was not sure; and Miss Lyon said that if we found it impossible there would be some one else glad of the place. So I waited for developments."
"Have you given Doris a hint?"
"No; but now that you and I have come to the same conclusion from separate standpoints, I think it is time to tell her. We shall have to begin right away to make her frocks and other things. There she is now with a twin on each side of her. Miss Hurst must have been detained."
"Mother, moth-e-r," shouted two boyish voices in concert.
"Yes, Johnny, there is some gingerbread on the shelf before the pantry window. You boys take it out under the apple tree and eat it, after you have cooled off a little."
"How'd you know, mother?"
"Trust mothers for knowing, little men. Now, run along."
"Aunt Doris come too," said Jimmy, as he quickly obeyed.
"Aunt Doris has to be 'kept in' now; she cannot go," said Mrs. Banner.
"Has she been naughty, grandma?" whispered Johnny, with a sorrowful droop of his lip.
"Not very; run along."
"What are you two dignified matrons looking so wise and solemn about? If you were as warm as I am you could not keep still long enough to look solemn. I don't believe those poor children have learned one thing this hot day. When I am governor of Connecticut there shall be no school in summer," gasped Doris, sinking into a chair.
"In the meantime, daughter, while you are waiting to be governor, what would you like best to do?"
"Oh, mother, I am almost afraid to tell you; you may think it selfish."
"Then suppose I tell you what I most want you to do; you will not call me selfish. Do you think you can get ready to enter Mt. Holyoke next year?"
"Mother, 'Melia, you don't mean it! Can I go and may I go, really?"
"Yes, dear child, we see nothing now to hinder."
"Does Mark know and does he approve?"
"Yes; a letter came to-day, and he is as anxious as you are to have you go."
"We shall not be far from each other, and he can come over to see me sometimes. Oh, I am so happy - happy - happy! You are the dearest mother and sister in the wide, wide world," and Doris, with the old loving gesture of her childhood, threw her arms around her mother's neck. "There, you dear mother, defend yourself if you can. But - but - I never thought, perhaps I cannot get in."
"You are already 'in,'" said Amelia; "mother arranged with Miss Lyon last year."
"Well, you are a pretty pair of conspirators. Catiline isn't a circumstance beside you. We shall finish school here next week, and soon Mark will be home, and then we shall be happy all together over everything. Keren is coming to the Jones's too. Did ever anybody have such a dear family and such good times coming to them?" cried Doris, whirling around the room as if the mercury were at zero.
There was a chill in the air when Mark came home. A soft crimson had here and there touched a leaf to splendor. The September sun still shone warm at midday, but the long twilights faded early from purple to gray, and deepened into dusky shadows, while lonely whippoorwills mourned and called from woodland coverts.
"There he is, mother, coming around the bend o' the road. Don't tell the twins; I want him first. What a pity you can't run, mother dear; I'll give him your love the very first thing."
Doris flew down the path and along the road. Mark came with swinging stride to meet her, with his hat in one hand and his flowered carpet-bag in the other. He laid them both down to receive her eager greeting.
"Oh, how big and tall and splendid you are!" she cried; "I am so glad to see you I'll just have to cry, unless you do something to stop me quick."
"We will hurry on to see mother and 'Melia so fast you won't have time to cry, little sister. Come on."
He waved his hat as his mother came through the gate.
"How well you look, mater. Oh, it is good to get home! 'Melia, have you grown gray taking care of this big family? As I'm alive, what savages are these? Help! Murder! Fire! I'll take you both to prison."
He took a twin under each arm, and carried them kicking and screaming to the house, where he set them down and took a quick glance around.
"Charles is at the mill? How well kept everything looks. I shall have to acknowledge that he is a better farmer than I."
"He is somewhat older than you, my son."
"Yes, a little. What do you say, Crinkles, shall you and I do the milking to-night - have you forgotten how?"
"No, indeed; I'll get the pails. Juna, Cowslip and Buttercup are all there, though I don't often see them these days. It will seem like dear old times," and Doris disappeared through the kitchen door.
"You will spend all your vacation at home, Mark? You need to rest, and there is enough to do here to keep you busy and out of mischief."
His mother's eyes were wistful, and he was struck with their beauty.
"Your eyes look like violets that grow in shady places, with dew on them; or maybe it is rain," he added gently as they brimmed over. "Of course I am going to stay, mater dear. I am going to sleep in my own bed to-night."
"Mother," he said, with sudden seriousness, ''is Keren here?"
"Yes," she answered, with a sympathetic smile.
"Mark, Mark," called Doris, "see who will get to the barn first," and he hurried after her.
"Mark," said that young person, as she gave Juna some preliminary pats, "can we find time for some Homer while you are home?"
"Yes, indeed; let us see if we can finish the fourth book. I know you will be busy getting ready to go to Mt. Holyoke, but I think we can manage it. So - so there, bossy, so - so, Buttercup, so," and the milk splashed into foaming pails.
All too quickly the vacation passed away. Doris was the first to leave the home nest, and Mark was there to read with his mother the bright letter that told of her first impressions and experiences at Mt. Holyoke.
South Hadley, Oct. 5, 1847.
Dearest Mother:-
I wish you could look into our room this evening. I say "our" room, for Miss Lyon kindly granted Keren's request that we might room together for the present. They have a "shake up" every few months, and change roommates, in order that we may get used to living with all sorts of people. I suppose that is a part of the discipline of which I hear so much. We are on the fourth floor, and there is a very nice set of young ladies up here. Miss Lyon calls for volunteers for this floor, as it is not so convenient, and Keren volunteered. That is why I am numbered with the good ones. We have a Franklin stove, and the tiny grate is open now, with a bed of glowing coals that makes me think of the dear big fireplace at home. There is no time to be homesick, though there is a great tugging at my heart for you all. Before my trunk was unpacked I was assigned to the "silver circle," and was shown where the silver was kept, how cleaned and how placed on the table. It is no small task to care for the silver used by about three hundred people. The girls in the circle are nice, and we have merry times. One little dark-eyed girl from the South had never washed a dish in her life, and I caught her scouring a fine spoon with Bath brick. It was dreadfully scratched. Poor Anita! she cried for an hour, but she will never clean silver with Bath brick again. Keren is the "leader" of the "bread circle," and she has to get up very early on bread mornings. Her bread is fine and everybody praises her.
Miss Lyon has been most kind, taking time to talk with me about my studies when she might have left it to some of the other teachers. They are not quite arranged yet, as I am somewhat irregular, but for the most part happily so. My knowledge of Latin is a great advantage. As soon as I know definitely, I will write out my schedule and send you.
Keren is like a dear older sister (I sometimes think she will be my real sister some day), and helps me to get into the system that is everywhere manifest, but is not at all irksome to any one who chooses to obey. I am so glad you taught me to obey when I was little, mother dear; it is not hard now.
One of the first students has been here for a visit, and came down to the bitchen, where our circle was working this morning. She told us of some droll experiences of those early days. The need for close economy was great, and as the whole thing was on trial, Miss Lyon was continually trying experiments with the food, usually with good results. One night gingerbread appeared on the table in generous quantity for supper, and Miss Lyon watched the girls closely. The first girl who tasted it made a peculiar grimace, which was repeated with varying expressions all along the line as the gingerbread passed on.
"Young ladies," said Miss Lyon, "I know that potatoes are often put into bread to keep it moist, and it occurred to me that if the squash left from dinner was put into the gingerbread it might have a similar effect. I see from the expression of your faces that it is not a success."
No one laughs more heartily than Miss Lyon over such blunders, and if she had been there she would have joined in the gale of laughter that swept through the kitchen.
Keren reminds me that it is nearly bedtime, and that I must get ready. She sends much love, and I send oceans.
Always your baby,
Doris.
Mark was soon on his way to enter the Junior year of his college course, which opened auspiciously. Unknown to him, his scholarship was attracting the attention of the heads of the departments. Not long after his return, to his great surprise, he was called to the office of one whom he especially revered, and found the great man alone and waiting for him.
"Mr. Banner," he said, "my colleagues and I have felt for some time that you were showing unusual ability in your studies, and an earnest purpose in your work; and not only that, but we believe that you have, to a marked degree, high spiritual aspirations. May I ask whether you intend to enter the ministry?"
"No, sir," said Mark humbly, but with straightforward manfulness; "I have never had a 'call' to preach, but I feel - and I say it with reverence, sir - that I have a distinct call from God to teach. It seems to me as holy a calling. If I might influence a soul, hungering for knowledge, as you have influenced me I should count it the highest success. I cannot hope for that, sir, but, so far as I may, I must try."
Mark's clear gray eyes looked steadfastly into the eyes of the older man, that were dim with tears, and in the eloquent silence that followed two great souls drew near to each other. The teacher held out his hand and the pupil grasped it with a strong, lingering clasp.
"Mark, you do not know what a cup of cold water you have pressed to my lips to-day, what an overflowing cup. I was a-thirst. God grant that in the years to come you may find like refreshment. And now will you come to me as to a father whenever you feel that I can help you?"
"I will, sir; I will," and Mark, deeply moved, left the room, feeling that he had stood on a mount of privilege with one who saw with wide vision the Truth. He walked far out into the country, along quiet lanes and bypaths, returning to his room in the clear starlight of an autumn night. He stood a moment at the doorway, baring his head and lifting his face up to the sky.
"God, I thank Thee," he whispered; "help me to teach for Thee and for Eternity." So Wordsworth wrote of a like consecration:
"Ah! need I say, dear friend, that to the brim
My heart was full; I made no vows, but vows
Were then made for me; bond unknown to me
Was given, that I should be, else sinning greatly,
A dedicated spirit."
Meanwhile into these days of studious life came bright, breezy letters from Doris that linked seminary and college closely together. Mark's room-mate, Robert Courtney, looked with envious eyes as he read, with sudden laughter or serious face, her well-filled sheets from time to time.
"I would give ten years of my life, Banner, to have a mother and sisters like yours," he said one evening as they sat at their study table, with ponderous lexicons between them, and "the bright lexicon of youth" all their own. Mark was reading eagerly, but Robert went on:
"You know I have no memory of father or mother, and I have no brother or sister."
"And well you might give much, Courtney. I am sorry I cannot help you, chum; but I think I may share most of this with you. Would you like to hear it?"
"Yes, indeed, if I may."
South Hadley, Oct. 20, 1847.
Dearest of Brothers:-
I am really settled and fixed in this wonderful system. I am filled with amazement that one Female(!) ever planned and carried out a project like this. Everything goes like clockwork. I feel like the Queen of Sheba - the half was not told me.
I am so happy about one thing that I can hardly help shouting in the most improper places. I am learning to play the piano - me, Doris Banner. You ought to hear Keren play. She does wonderfully well, her teacher says, and so say I. Then we have a singing class, and our teacher says that I have a little voice of my own. You know I always loved to sing high. Keren sings a sweet second, and we have delightful times together. If only we had your strong tenor.
Miss Lyon has found time to call me to her and talk with me about my studies. She was greatly pleased that I had enough Latin for the course, and when I told her that I had read four books of the Anabasis and several of Homer she drew a deep breath, and said earnestly:
"My dear child, you ought to be very thankful; you have had great opportunities in your own home. I wish we might have Greek in our course; it gives a kind of culture that nothing else can. The time will come before many years."
There was a far-away look in her eyes that filled me with awe. Well, if any one is a thankful girl, it is Doris Banner. I am to take French, Euclid, Cutter's Physiology and Newman's Rhetoric. I passed a good examination in Algebra and English Grammar, thanks to Miss Hurst. You know that I have read a great deal of ancient and modern history with mother, and Miss Lyon said that I could take an examination in the history of the first year if I chose. I did choose, and, Mirabile dictu, passed. I told her that I should like to finish the course in two years, and she thinks it quite possible.
I am realizing what excellent teachers you and mother have been. Then I have had Miss Grey and Miss Hurst, and now I have the whole of Mt. Holyoke and Miss Lyon. Oh, Mark, dearest brother, I am grateful to God, and I try to be good. We have "silent half-hours" every day, when each girl is alone in her room. We are supposed to think and pray, or at least to have an opportunity to do so without interruption. I really do, and read my Bible then, as dear mother asked me to do.
There is an atmosphere here that impresses every one. Miss Lyon is very cheerful, vivacious even, and likes all her "daughters" to be happy and gay, but there is a deep undercurrent of religious feeling, and we realize that, while she keeps us all to as high a literary standard as possible, she wishes more than anything else to have us good.
I cannot stop to tell you more now, but I will some time. Write as often as you can to your little sister, always lonely without you.
Doris.
The weeks and months of Doris's first year Mt. Holyoke passed rapidly. She was still a comrade, full of eager impulse and true heart.
"Be careful, my dear," said Miss Lyon, as met her alone in the hall, one May morning, "that you do not laugh too much in the wrong place. I love your merry laugh, and would never take a glad note from it - but sometimes I would have you laugh less at one time and more at another."
"Oh, dear Miss Lyon," cried Doris, with burning cheeks, "that is my old fault. Do you think I shall ever overcome it? I mean to be right in laughing as well as in doing, but the funny side of almost everything strikes me so irresistibly that I laugh without thinking. And I am twenty-one. Oh, you don't know how hard it is to overcome."
"My child," said Miss Lyon, with a merry twinkle in her blue eyes, "I do know. I am over fifty and have not yet done trying to overcome. But, Doris, the other day, when Harriet was reading in the Bible about the Hittites, and called them Hity-tites, you laughed, and it called the attention of every one to her ignorance. It did not seem quite kind, did it?"
"Oh, Miss Lyon," cried Doris penitently, "I was not laughing at her ignorance, but at the appropriateness of the word. She is herself such a hoity-toity. I am sorry."
"And now that I have reproved you," Miss Lyon went on gently, "let me tell you that I am much pleased with your work and general behavior. Your influence as a Christian girl is very helpful, and I know that I can depend on you wherever your duty calls."
Doris went to her room in a state of glorified humility. She found Keren there studying.
"Keren," she said, "except our mother, Miss Lyon is the most wonderful woman in the world."
"Have you just found that out?" asked Keren, lifting her eyes from her book. "I knew that long ago, and so does every one who comes under her influence. Your cheeks are hot; let us go down through the orchard, across the brook and up the hill. The buds are swelling on the trees, and we will bring an 'observation' into the Botany class that will astonish them all."