A Waif of the Mountains

“Mr. Isham,” said the gentleman, severely, “are you aware that you are using improper language in the presence of this young lady?”

“Explain yourself.”

“It is wrong for you to appeal to heaven on so trifling a question; it is such a near approach to profanity that the dividing line is imperceptible. I am sorry you forgot yourself, but I will overlook it this time.”

Budge was really frightened, for though the distinction was quite fine, he felt there was some justice in the position of the parson, but he bluffed it out.

“I doubt whether a jury would find me guilty, and in the meantime explain the remark just made by Nellie, if you please.”

Thus cornered, the parson made a clean breast of it. Isham assumed a grave expression.

“The only criticism I can make is upon your taste in selecting a word, susceptible of a questionable meaning. You know as well as I that if this should be submitted to a jury at the Heavenly Bower this evening, the majority would sit down on you, and it would be hard work for you to escape the penalty.”

“I’m afraid it would,” responded the parson; “it was a piece of forgetfulness on my part–”

“Which is the plea that Bidwell and Ruggles made, but it didn’t answer. However, I’ll say nothing about it, knowing you will be more careful in the future, while I shall not forget to put a bridle on my own tongue. The trouble, however,” he added with a smile, “is to make her overlook it.”

“She has promised she will do so.”

“Since that promise was made just before I got here, she has shown how readily she can forget it.”

“I will give her a longer lesson than usual and thus drive all remembrance out of her mind,” said the parson resolutely.

Budge Isham folded his arms, prepared to look on and listen, but the queen of the proceedings checked it all by an unexpected veto.

“Mr. Brush, I feel so tired.”

Her face wore a bored expression and she looked wistfully away from the blackboard toward the cabins below them.

“Does your head hurt you?” inquired the teacher with much solicitude, while the single auditor was ready to join in the protest.

“No, but mebbe it will hurt me one of these days.”

“It isn’t wise, parson, to force the child; a great deal of injury is done to children by cramming their heads with useless knowledge.”

The teacher could not feel sure that this counsel was disinterested, for there could be no danger of his taxing the mental powers of the little one too severely, but her protest could not pass unheeded.

“You have done very well, my child; you are learning fast, so we’ll leave the spelling for to-morrow. Suppose we now try the commandments: can you repeat the first one?”

Nellie gave it correctly, as she did with slight assistance, the remaining ones. She was certainly gifted with a remarkable memory and possessed an unusually bright mind. Budge Isham was impressed by her repetition of the decalogue, whose meaning she was unable fully to grasp. His frivolous disposition vanished, as he looked upon the innocent child and watched the lips from which the sacred words flowed. He quietly decided that it would be inexcusably mean to seek any amusement at the expense of the parson, and it may as well be added that he never afterward referred to the incident, while it seemed to have passed wholly from the mind of Nellie herself. At the conclusion of the lesson, Budge complimented teacher and pupil and said he would be glad to certify that Mr. Brush was the best teacher in New Constantinople, and that it was impossible for any one to take his place. Then he bade them good day and walked thoughtfully away, leaving them once more to themselves.

These were the most precious moments of all to the teacher, when the formal lesson was completed, and he sat down for a little talk with his pupil. He occupied the stone which served her for a seat, while one arm loosely clasped the figure which stood between his knees. She patted his cheek, played with his rough collar and shaggy whiskers, while as he listened and replied to her prattle, felt as never before the truth of the declaration that of such is the kingdom of heaven.

“Mr. Brush,” she finally said, “do you know why I love you?”

“I suppose it must be because I am so handsome,” he replied with a smile.

“No; it isn’t that, for you ain’t handsome.”

“Whew! but you are not afraid to speak the truth, little one, and I hope you will always do that. No; I don’t know why you love me, unless you are so good yourself that you can’t help it.”

This was not exactly clear to the little one, and she stood silent for a minute, gently fingering his long beard. Then she thought it best to clear up the mystery without further parley.

“I love you ’cause you’re good.”

Even though the avowal was delightful, it caused a pang, like a knife-thrust from his accusing conscience.

“I am thankful to hear you say that, but, Nellie, I am not good.”

“Yes, you is, but if you ain’t good, why ain’t you good?”

The logic of the reply of the adult was of the same grade as that of the child.

“I suppose the true reason is because I am bad. I am sorry to say it, but I have drifted far away from where I ought to be.”

The dimpled hand continued to fondle the whiskers, and the little brain was busy, but a wisdom that was more than human guided it. Turning those lustrous blue eyes upon him she softly asked:

“Will you do what I ask you?”

He almost gasped, for he instinctively suspected what was coming, but he answered without hesitation:

“If it is my power I will do it, though it kills me.”

“Oh, I don’t want it to kill you; this won’t hurt you; will you do it, Mr. Brush?”

“Yes, God helping me.”

“Do like Mr. Ruggles.”

“How’s that?” asked the parson with a sinking heart.

“Don’t drink any more of that red water, which makes men talk loud and sometimes say bad words.”

“Heavens!” thought the parson; “she little dreams what she is asking me, but it is not she but some One who is thus calling me back to duty. Yes, my child, I will do what you ask.”

“You is as good and nice as you can be now, but then you will be a good deal gooder and nicer,” said she, warmly kissing him.

“I hope so,” he added, rising to his feet, with the feeling that he was not himself but some one else, and that that some one else was the young man away among the distant hills of Missouri, before he wandered to the West, and in doing so, wandered from the path along which he had attempted to guide and lead others.

“I call myself her teacher,” he mused, as he reached down and took the tiny hand in his own, “but she is the teacher and I am the pupil.”

They had started in the direction of the cabins, when they heard curious shouts and outcries in that direction. “There’s something strange going on down there,” he said, peering toward the point; “I wonder what it can be; let us hurry and find out.”

Firmly clasping her hand, the two hastened down the incline, wondering what it was that caused all the noise and confusion.

CHAPTER VIII

THE PASSING YEARS