Aunt Kitty's Tales

by Madame Guizot

  CHAPTER X.

  A GOOD BEGINNING.

  "Well, Harriet," said Dr. Franks, as he came into our breakfast roombefore we had risen from table, "I was half angry with you yesterday,when I thought you had ridden to my house and then turned back and senta boy for me, instead of following me yourself. But my wife saved you ascolding by telling me you walked there. And now, Miss Simple, pray whatwas that for? Of what use is your pony if he cannot bring you for adoctor when a child is in convulsions?"

  Harriet colored and looked confused, but Florence colored still moredeeply. I saw that the doctor expected an answer, and both the childrenlooked at me to explain, but I would not interfere. The doctor seemedannoyed at our silence, and catching hold of Mary Mackay, who was justentering the parlor, he drew her forward, saying, "Why, Mary Wild," aname he had long given her, "could not have done a more thoughtlessthing."

  Low and hesitatingly, Florence spoke, "It was not Harriet's fault."

  "It was not Harriet's fault!" the doctor impatiently repeated; "whosefault was it then, pray?"

  "It was mine,"--the first difficulty conquered, Florence spoke moreboldly--"It was mine. I was riding the pony, and would not let her havehim."

  I knew Dr. Franks well, and I saw that he was about to reply to thiswith a severity which, however Florence might have deserved the daybefore, would then have been cruel; so before he could speak, I drew herto me, and said, "Not a word of blame, doctor, for Florence has alreadysaid harder things to herself than you can say to her. Besides, youwould have known nothing of it but for her, and she must not suffer forher truth telling."

  I was pleased with this little incident, for though Florence had onlydone justice to Harriet, selfishness often makes us unjust as well asungenerous; and I knew to tell the truth as fully as she had done, musthave given her great pain. I was glad, too, to find that Harriet andMary both seemed to feel this, and were very cordial and pleasant intheir manner to her afterwards.

  The next afternoon we went to the farm where we were to find the bestcherries in the neighborhood; and there Florence's new principle ofaction displayed itself frequently. She was evidently on the watch foropportunities to be generous. The best place under the trees, the finestcherries, for which she would once have striven, she now pressed uponHarriet and Mary; and whenever she had thus conquered her former habits,she would turn her eyes to me with a timid appeal for my approval. Butthe act on which she evidently most valued herself, was, asking toreturn in the carriage, and so giving up the pony to Harriet, when wewere going home.

  It was but a few days after this that Mr. and Mrs. Arnott came forFlorence, on their way home from the Virginia Springs. During these fewdays, she continued to manifest the same earnest desire to correct herfaults. I told her father and mother of the interesting scenes throughwhich she had passed, and of what seemed to be their happy result. Mrs.Arnott shed tears, and Mr. Arnott shook my hand repeatedly, declaringthat I had done more for their happiness than I could conceive, if I hadbrought Florence to see and endeavor to correct this one great fault.

  The evening before we parted, I had a conversation with Florence whichinterested me very much. We were walking, and I had purposely taken thepath which led by Mrs. O'Donnel's cabin. When we came in sight of it,Mrs. O'Donnel was standing at the door with little Jem, now quite well,in her arms. We spoke to her as we passed, and then Florence said, "Ishall always love little Jem, Aunt Kitty."

  "Why, Florence?"

  "Because, if it had not been for him I should not have found out what aselfish child I was, or have learned to be generous."

  "And do you think you have learned to be generous, Florence?"

  She colored and seemed confused for a moment, then looking up in my facesaid, with great simplicity, "I hope so. Do you not think I have?"

  "I think you are learning, and learning very fast. It was fortunate,dear Florence, that you discovered the evil of your selfish habits whileyou were so young; but the habits even of ten years are not to be brokenin a day. You will often find it difficult to resist them. If you willwrite to me when you go away, and tell me all the difficulties andtrials you meet in your efforts to conquer them, I may sometimes be ableto help you. Will you do this? Will you write to me?"

  "Write to you! oh! I shall like it,--at least I shall like to get yourletters, and read mamma just as much as I choose of them."

  "But you must remember, Florence, that my object in our correspondencewill be to give you my aid in learning to be generous. That I may beable to do this, you must be very honest with me, and tell me wheneveryou have done, or even been tempted to do a selfish thing."

  "May I not tell you, too, when I have been generous?"

  "Certainly, my dear; tell me all you wish to tell me of yourself, Ishall be glad to hear it all; but I hope you will soon feel that youhave a great deal more to tell me of your selfishness, than of yourgenerosity." Florence looked at me in speechless surprise. "Because,Florence, I hope you will soon become really generous, generous _atheart_, and then those things which, now that you are only trying to begenerous, it is hard for you to do, which you notice because they aredone with a great effort, will be so easy and so common that you willforget to tell me about them--that you will not even notice themyourself."

  "But how, when I get to be so generous, can I have any selfishness towrite you about?"

  "Ah, Florence! we are never quite free from selfishness, any of us, andthe more generous we become, the more plainly do we see selfishness inacts and feelings which seemed to us quite free from it once. Do you notfeel this yourself? Do not things seem selfish to you now, which only aweek ago you did not think so at all?"

  "Yes," said Florence, in a low voice, and then walked thoughtfully andsilently by my side.

  The next morning Florence returned home, and I did not see her again fornearly eighteen months. But I heard from her often, for ourcorrespondence commenced very soon. Her first letters were filled withher own generous acts,--how she had risen early when she was verysleepy, that she might not keep nurse waiting--how she had sat quitestill almost all day, when she had wanted to run about very much,because mamma was not well, and would have been disturbed by noise--howshe had given her cousin Mary her very prettiest book, because she saidshe liked it. But it was not long before Florence began to write of hergrief for selfish feelings, which, to use her own language, "if shetried ever so hard to get rid of them, would come back." Once or twice aletter came from her full of the bitterest shame and self-reproach forthe selfishness of some action, which, a little while before, Florencewould not have felt to be in the least degree wrong. I rejoiced at allthis, for I saw it was as I hoped; Florence was becoming generous _atheart_--selfishness was becoming a hateful thing to her, and a strangething, which like other strange things, could not make its appearancewithout being noticed. I would copy some of these letters for you, but Ihave other things to tell you of Florence, which I think will interestyou more than her letters.