Mamie's Watchword

There was no need for this now; here were some of their friends on the spot, and they were ready enough to take all further charge of them, and carry them home as fast as possible.

With sympathizing thoughts for the agonized mother, searching vainly for her babies, Mrs. Norris and Mrs. Walton hurried the party away; and presently they were all in the great wagon which had brought Mamie's friends to the light-house, and driving home as fast as the darkness of the evening would allow.

Lulu nestled in Mrs. Norris' arms, and, covered with her shawl, was soon fast asleep; while Mamie sat with one hand clasped in Lily's, the other in that of Belle, who, sitting one on each side of her, could not do enough to show their pity and sympathy. Even Mabel, who sat behind her, quite forgot the chronic feud between them, and was constantly leaning forward to put her arm about Mamie's neck, and kiss her cold cheek, or to ask tenderly, "How do you feel now, Mamie?"

And the rejoicing there was over them when at last they reached home, and the little wanderers were restored to their frantic mother! How fast the glad news spread from house to house, bringing joy and relief even to the hearts of those who had never known or seen them, can be imagined only by those who knew what the suspense and anxiety had been.

XI.

REPENTANCE

THERE might have been some danger that Mamie would feel herself too much of a heroine, and forget that all this had been brought about by her own sad disobedience and naughtiness, but for the trouble which followed.

Strange to say, neither of the children suffered much from the exposure and excitement of the evening; and, beyond a little paleness and languor, seemed as well as usual the next day.

But it was far different with their mother. Not very strong at any time, the agony and suspense about her little ones had proved too much for her, and she was very ill; so ill that Mr. Stone was telegraphed for, and for some hours it was believed she could not live. She was quite wild, too; and, though she called and pleaded incessantly for her children, she did not know them when they were brought to her, but thrust them away from her in a way that frightened little Lulu, and quite broke poor repentant Mamie's heart. Oh! was her tender, indulgent mother going to leave her? Would she never know her, never speak to her again, never tell her she forgave all her disobedient, naughty ways, all her disrespect and pettishness?

She sat all day, just outside of her mamma's room, listening to every sound from within, crying bitterly, but silently, and utterly refusing to be comforted or coaxed away.

But at night there was a little change for the better; Mrs. Stone fell into a quiet sleep, and the doctor said he had hope for her now.

So Mamie, utterly worn out, suffered herself to be led away by some of the pitying ladies, and to be put to bed, where she forgot her troubles until the morning.

She had dreaded facing her father when he should come and hear all the sad story; but she was awakened by his kiss; and, though he looked very sober when she poured forth her confession, and offered to submit patiently to any punishment he might think proper, he told her he thought she had brought punishment enough upon herself, and that he hoped this would be a lasting lesson to her.

Mamie thought that it would indeed; she should never forget that terrible night upon the sea, alone with Lulu, who was rather a silent reproach than a comfort to her. She could not believe, poor child! that the night had not been half gone when she was brought home, or that it was hardly an hour after dark when the fisherman had found her, and brought her to land.

She was curious to know, as perhaps you may be, how her young playmates and their parents happened to be at the light-house "in the middle of the night;" and this was soon satisfactorily explained to her.

It was in this way.

The whole party had driven that afternoon to the house of a friend whose beautiful place was situated some distance from the shore; and they had there taken tea, and spent the earlier part of the evening, so that they had known nothing of the alarm about the lost children.

Their way home lay near the old "Point Light;" for this was not the light-house which Mamie saw each evening from the piazza of the hotel, but another, in quite a different direction, though much nearer home; and Lily and the other children, who were wild to see the light-house at night while its revolving lamp was burning, had persuaded their parents to indulge them, late as it was, with a visit there. They had been up to the very top, seen all that was to be seen, had the screeching fog-whistle blown many times for their benefit, and had come down to be astonished by the sight which met them below.

All this, and much more, Belle and Lily poured into Mamie's ears on the morning of the second day, when her mother had been pronounced a little better, and she could be coaxed out of doors.

But mamma was still very ill, and must be kept perfectly quiet; and Mamie, feeling that this was all her fault, and filled with self-reproach, which was perhaps the greater for her father's kindness, had no spirits for play, and sat quite subdued and mournful in the midst of her playmates, who were all ready to devote themselves to her, and to talk to her if she did not choose to play.

"Mamma says," said Lily, when she had concluded her account of the way in which they came to be at the light-house, – "Mamma says that it was quite a providential dispensary that we should have gone to the light-house."

"What does that mean?" asked Belle.

"I asked her," answered Lily; "and she said it meant that it really seemed as if God intended us to go there on purpose to find Mamie and Lulu; because she had really thought it was too late for us to be out, and was not very willing to be persuaded."

"Because God knew what trouble we were in, and wanted to help us out of it, I suppose," said Mamie thoughtfully, with the words of her neglected watchword in her mind.

"Yes," said Belle. "If He did not see us always, and take care of us, what would become of us? Mamie, it makes me feel like crying, even now when you're all safe, to think about your being out all alone on the sea in the dark."

"Yes," assented Lily, "it did me, too, at first; but I'm getting used to it now. But I hope there's one good thing come out of it. Mamma doesn't approve at all of children sitting up late; but now, I suppose, she will see that it can have very delightful consequences."

"Does she think that light-house man would not have brought us home if you had not come to his light-house?" said Mamie.

"Well, no; but I suppose you wouldn't have been home quite so soon," said Lily. "Maybe he wouldn't have brought you at all till the morning."

"I never knew the nights were so dreadfully long," said Mamie. "People say the nights and the days are just about as long as each other, and now I know they're not. The nights are a great deal the longest, – oh, so long!"

And Mamie gave a shuddering sigh at the recollection of the long, weary time she had passed upon the waters.

"Mamma said the time seemed longer to you than it really was," said Lily, "because you were alone and frightened; and the days are really the longest now, 'cause it's summer. In the winter the nights are the longest. It must be so, you know, 'cause our jography says so, and our 'Elements of 'Stronomy' too."

"Then they never were up all night, and don't know," said Mamie emphatically, quite resenting the idea that any one could be better informed in the matter than she who had had such an experience.

"Who were not up all night?" asked Mabel.

"She means the jogra-fers and the 'stron-amers," said Lily; "not the books of course, but the people who wrote them; but they must have been grown up; so I dare say they stayed up all night if they chose."

"I should think that I ought to know about it," said Mamie; "and when I'm grown up, I shall write a jography that says all the others don't know; 'cause once I stayed up and up and up, and there was a piece of the night left yet to go to sleep in."

Mamie was not to be convinced, and the others, with a feeling that she was to be indulged, and not contradicted under the present circumstances, left her to her belief.

"What did you think about, Mamie?" asked Belle. "Did you think you were going to be drowned?"

"Yes," said Mamie, her eyes filling with tears; "and, Belle, I thought a good deal about that watchword you gave me, and how, if I'd remembered it all the time, that wouldn't have happened to me; but it did make me feel a little better, – no, not better, there wasn't any better about it, – but not quite so very afraid to think God could see me, and take care of me, even out on the sea and in the dark. I did not see, either, how He was going to help me; and yet the way did come quite easy after all. And now – and now" – Mamie hesitated, and looked doubtfully from one to another of her companions.

"Well," said Lily encouragingly.

"I think," said Mamie, "that now I will have to remember always that God sees me all the time; and that He would think I am very ungrateful, and don't deserve to be taken care of, if I don't try to be good and never disobey mamma."

"Yes, I think so too," said Lily; "and that's the very best kind of a verse to help you to 'resist the hm – hm – and he will flee from you.'"

"The who?" asked Belle, amazed; and Mamie and Mabel also looked inquiringly at this mysterious utterance from Lily.

"The hm – hm," repeated Lily, no ways abashed, and persisting in the ambiguous form of expression; "you know that verse, don't you?"

"I know the verse, 'Resist the devil, and he will flee from you,'" said Belle.

"Yes, that's it," said Lily; "but if everybody knows the verse, which 'most all the world does, – and ought to be ashamed of themselves, if they don't, – why, then it's just as well to say hm – hm, and not that other ugly word."

"But the Bible says it," said Mabel.

"Yes," answered Lily, in a tone of indulgence for the Scriptures; "the Bible can say what it pleases, because it is the Bible; but mortals ought to be more careful."

"You learned that from Maggie and Bessie, I suppose," said Belle. "They never say that word if they can help it."

"Yes, partly," said Lily with an air of becoming modesty, but yet as one who feels that she has ground of her own to stand upon, "partly from them, but partly from my own self. You see, children, I do it to keep myself from temptation."

"Temptation of what?" asked Belle.