Chapter 11: In Church

THAT little Miss Kathleen Withers was the very sweetest child!

She seemed to come to me like a sort of sunbeam. I had got out of sunshine, and among shadows, with black clouds overhead, and I couldn’t see any brightness anywhere. And then all of a sudden I came on her.

Isn’t it wonderful how comfort is sent when one needs it? Not that I deserved anything of the sort, I’m sure; but still it seemed sent.

Mrs. Withers was kept longer than she meant or thought to be. But it didn’t matter. I was in no hurry.

Miss Kathleen took me up to a little attic-room, as neat as could be, and told me I was to sleep there. She popped her head into different rooms by the way, bidding me peep in, awl telling me whose they were. “That’s father and mother’s,” she’d say. “And that’s the best spare-room. And that’s mine. And that’s the boys. And those are the nurseries.”

When I was in my room, she ran away; but before I’d been five minutes alone, she came rapping at the door, and when I opened it, she was carrying a little tray, with a cup of tea and some bread and butter.

“That’s for you,” says she, all in a glow of pleasure.

“O Miss Kathleen, you shouldn’t!” I said, feeling shamed to have her wait on me.

“O yes, I should,” said she, walking in. “They’d have brought it, but I wanted to bring it myself. Why shouldn’t I?” says she, looking up at me. “You’re in trouble, you know and father always says one ought to wait upon people in trouble, and take care of them. And you’ve been ill too. Oh, don’t cry,” says she, looking anxious. “I oughtn’t to have said that, ought I? Please don’t cry, but just drink the tea while it is hot. You see, the servants don’t have their tea for nearly an hour yet, and we thought you oughtn’t to wait so long.”

Then she bade me sit down on the bed, and she perched herself on the dressing-table.

“Don’t you like tables to sit on? I do,” said she. “I like anything better than chairs.”

I wasn’t used to sit on tables, and I said so, my tears drying fast, for she interested me.

“Well, I suppose I shall have to leave off soon, now I’m growing so big,” says she. “I wish one needn’t grow big. Only of course, when I’m big I can be of more use to my mother and father, and that will be nice.”

Then she told me she was the only girl, and she gave me the names and ages of her brothers, and all the birthdays. She seemed to think a deal of the birthdays. She talked next about the pets—the dogs and cats and birds—and she said she wasn’t fond of lessons, only she tried to work hard because one ought.

“For I want to be very very useful by-and-by to everybody,” said she, “and of course I can’t be that if I don’t learn now. Don’t you want to be useful?” says she, smiling up at me as if she’d known me always.

“I suppose I do,” I said, wondering that I hadn’t wanted it more.

“Only ‘suppose,’” says she, opening her eyes wide. “Oh, but I want it a great deal more than only just supposing. I want it dreadfully. Don’t you know those words—” and then she folded her hands, speaking soft— “don’t you know those words about our Lord?—’He went about doing good.’ That’s what I want,” says she. “I want to go about doing good, when I’m grown up. Mother says, if I mean to do it by-and-by, I’ve got to begin now, because there’s so much in habit. Do you think I shall be able to do any good to you while you’re here?” says she, not a bit conceited, but all in earnest.