for a fortnight things ran smoothly in the good-conduct club. it seemed to work admirably. not once was jem blythe called in as umpire. not once did any of the manse children set the glen gossips by the ears. as for their minor peccadilloes at home, they kept sharp tabs on each other and gamely underwent their self-imposed punishment—generally a voluntary absence from some gay friday night frolic in rainbow valley, or a sojourn in bed on some spring evening when all young bones ached to be out and away. faith, for whispering in sunday school, condemned herself to pass a whole day without speaking a single word, unless it was absolutely necessary, and accomplished it. it was rather unfortunate that mr. baker from over-harbour should have chosen that evening for calling at the manse, and that faith should have happened to go to the door. not one word did she reply to his genial greeting, but went silently away to call her father briefly. mr. baker was slightly offended and told his wife when he went home that that the biggest meredith girl seemed a very shy, sulky little thing, without manners enough to speak when she was spoken to. but nothing worse came of it, and generally their penances did no harm to themselves or anybody else. all of them were beginning to feel quite cocksure that after all, it was a very easy matter to bring yourself up.
"i guess people will soon see that we can behave ourselves properly as well as anybody," said faith jubilantly. "it isn't hard when we put our minds to it."
she and una were sitting on the pollock tombstone. it had been a cold, raw, wet day of spring storm and rainbow valley was out of the question for girls, though the manse and the ingleside boys were down there fishing. the rain had held up, but the east wind blew mercilessly in from the sea, cutting to bone and marrow. spring was late in spite of its early promise, and there was even yet a hard drift of old snow and ice in the northern corner of the graveyard. lida marsh, who had come up to bring the manse a mess of herring, slipped in through the gate shivering. she belonged to the fishing village at the harbour mouth and her father had, for thirty years, made a practice of sending a mess from his first spring catch to the manse. he never darkened a church door; he was a hard drinker and a reckless man, but as long as he sent those herring up to the manse every spring, as his father had done before him, he felt comfortably sure that his account with the powers that govern was squared for the year. he would not have expected a good mackerel catch if he had not so sent the first fruits of the season.
lida was a mite of ten and looked younger, because she was such a small, wizened little creature. to-night, as she sidled boldly enough up to the manse girls, she looked as if she had never been warm since she was born. her face was purple and her pale-blue, bold little eyes were red and watery. she wore a tattered print dress and a ragged woollen comforter, tied across her thin shoulders and under her arms. she had walked the three miles from the harbour mouth barefooted, over a road where there was still snow and slush and mud. her feet and legs were as purple as her face. but lida did not mind this much. she was used to being cold, and she had been going barefooted for a month already, like all the other swarming young fry of the fishing village. there was no self-pity in her heart as she sat down on the tombstone and grinned cheerfully at faith and una. faith and una grinned cheerfully back. they knew lida slightly, having met her once or twice the preceding summer when they had gone down the harbour with the blythes.
"hello!" said lida, "ain't this a fierce kind of a night?
"t'ain't fit for a dog to be out, is it?"
"then why are you out?" asked faith.
"pa made me bring you up some herring," returned lida. she shivered, coughed, and stuck out her bare feet. lida was not thinking about herself or her feet, and was making no bid for sympathy. she held her feet out instinctively to keep them from the wet grass around the tombstone. but faith and una were instantly swamped with a wave of pity for her. she looked so cold—so miserable.
"oh, why are you barefooted on such a cold night?" cried faith.
"your feet must be almost frozen."
"pretty near," said lida proudly. "i tell you it was fierce walking up that harbour road."
"why didn't you put on your shoes and stockings?" asked una.
"hain't none to put on. all i had was wore out by the time winter was over," said lida indifferently.
for a moment faith stated in horror. this was terrible. here was a little girl, almost a neighbour, half frozen because she had no shoes or stockings in this cruel spring weather. impulsive faith thought of nothing but the dreadfulness of it. in a moment she was pulling off her own shoes and stockings.
"here, take these and put them right on," she said, forcing them into the hands of the astonished lida. "quick now. you'll catch your death of cold. i've got others. put them right on."
lida, recovering her wits, snatched at the offered gift, with a sparkle in her dull eyes. sure she would put them on, and that mighty quick, before any one appeared with authority to recall them. in a minute she had pulled the stockings over her scrawny little legs and slipped faith's shoes over her thick little ankles.
"i'm obliged to you," she said, "but won't your folks be cross?"
"no—and i don't care if they are," said faith. "do you think i could see any one freezing to death without helping them if i could? it wouldn't be right, especially when my father's a minister."
"will you want them back? it's awful cold down at the harbour mouth—long after it's warm up here," said lida slyly.
"no, you're to keep them, of course. that is what i meant when i gave them. i have another pair of shoes and plenty of stockings."
lida had meant to stay awhile and talk to the girls about many things. but now she thought she had better get away before somebody came and made her yield up her booty. so she shuffled off through the bitter twilight, in the noiseless, shadowy way she had slipped in. as soon as she was out of sight of the manse she sat down, took off the shoes and stockings, and put them in her herring basket. she had no intention of keeping them on down that dirty harbour road. they were to be kept good for gala occasions. not another little girl down at the harbour mouth had such fine black cashmere stockings and such smart, almost new shoes. lida was furnished forth for the summer. she had no qualms in the matter. in her eyes the manse people were quite fabulously rich, and no doubt those girls had slathers of shoes and stockings. then lida ran down to the glen village and played for an hour with the boys before mr. flagg's store, splashing about in a pool of slush with the maddest of them, until mrs. elliott came along and bade her begone home.
"i don't think, faith, that you should have done that," said una, a little reproachfully, after lida had gone. "you'll have to wear your good boots every day now and they'll soon scuff out."
"i don't care," cried faith, still in the fine glow of having done a kindness to a fellow creature. "it isn't fair that i should have two pairs of shoes and poor little lida marsh not have any. now we both have a pair. you know perfectly well, una, that father said in his sermon last sunday that there was no real happiness in getting or having—only in giving. and it's true. i feel far happier now than i ever did in my whole life before. just think of lida walking home this very minute with her poor little feet all nice and warm and comfy."
"you know you haven't another pair of black cashmere stockings," said una. "your other pair were so full of holes that aunt martha said she couldn't darn them any more and she cut the legs up for stove dusters. you've nothing but those two pairs of striped stockings you hate so."
all the glow and uplift went out of faith. her gladness collapsed like a pricked balloon. she sat for a few dismal minutes in silence, facing the consequences of her rash act.
"oh, una, i never thought of that," she said dolefully. "i didn't stop to think at all."
the striped stockings were thick, heavy, coarse, ribbed stockings of blue and red which aunt martha had knit for faith in the winter. they were undoubtedly hideous. faith loathed them as she had never loathed anything before. wear them she certainly would not. they were still unworn in her bureau drawer.
"you'll have to wear the striped stockings after this," said una. "just think how the boys in school will laugh at you. you know how they laugh at mamie warren for her striped stockings and call her barber pole and yours are far worse."
"i won't wear them," said faith. "i'll go barefooted first, cold as it is."
"you can't go barefooted to church to-morrow. think what people would say."
"then i'll stay home."
"you can't. you know very well aunt martha will make you go."
faith did know this. the one thing on which aunt martha troubled herself to insist was that they must all go to church, rain or shine. how they were dressed, or if they were dressed at all, never concerned her. but go they must. that was how aunt martha had been brought up seventy years ago, and that was how she meant to bring them up.
"haven't you got a pair you can lend me, una?" said poor faith piteously.
una shook her head. "no, you know i only have the one black pair. and they're so tight i can hardly get them on. they wouldn't go on you. neither would my gray ones. besides, the legs of them are all darned and darned."
"i won't wear those striped stockings," said faith stubbornly.
"the feel of them is even worse than the looks. they make me
feel as if my legs were as big as barrels and they're so
scratchy."
"well, i don't know what you're going to do."
"if father was home i'd go and ask him to get me a new pair before the store closes. but he won't be home till too late. i'll ask him monday—and i won't go to church tomorrow. i'll pretend i'm sick and aunt martha'll have to let me stay home."
"that would be acting a lie, faith," cried una. "you can't do that. you know it would be dreadful. what would father say if he knew? don't you remember how he talked to us after mother died and told us we must always be true, no matter what else we failed in. he said we must never tell or act a lie—he said he'd trust us not to. you can't do it, faith. just wear the striped stockings. it'll only be for once. nobody will notice them in church. it isn't like school. and your new brown dress is so long they won't show much. wasn't it lucky aunt martha made it big, so you'd have room to grow in it, for all you hated it so when she finished it?"
"i won't wear those stockings," repeated faith. she uncoiled her bare, white legs from the tombstone and deliberately walked through the wet, cold grass to the bank of snow. setting her teeth, she stepped upon it and stood there.
"what are you doing?" cried una aghast. "you'll catch your death of cold, faith meredith."
"i'm trying to," answered faith. "i hope i'll catch a fearful cold and be awful sick to-morrow. then i won't be acting a lie. i'm going to stand here as long as i can bear it."
"but, faith, you might really die. you might get pneumonia.
please, faith don't. let's go into the house and get something
for your feet. oh, here's jerry. i'm so thankful. jerry, make
faith get off that snow. look at her feet."
"holy cats! faith, what are you doing?" demanded jerry. "are you crazy?"
"no. go away!" snapped faith.
"then are you punishing yourself for something? it isn't right, if you are. you'll be sick."
"i want to be sick. i'm not punishing myself. go away."
"where's her shoes and stockings?" asked jerry of una.
"she gave them to lida marsh."
"lida marsh? what for?"
"because lida had none—and her feet were so cold. and now she wants to be sick so that she won't have to go to church to-morrow and wear her striped stockings. but, jerry, she may die."
"faith," said jerry, "get off that ice-bank or i'll pull you off."
"pull away," dared faith.
jerry sprang at her and caught her arms. he pulled one way and faith pulled another. una ran behind faith and pushed. faith stormed at jerry to leave her alone. jerry stormed back at her not to be a dizzy idiot; and una cried. they made no end of noise and they were close to the road fence of the graveyard. henry warren and his wife drove by and heard and saw them. very soon the glen heard that the manse children had been having an awful fight in the graveyard and using most improper language. meanwhile, faith had allowed herself to be pulled off the ice because her feet were aching so sharply that she was ready to get off any way. they all went in amiably and went to bed. faith slept like a cherub and woke in the morning without a trace of a cold. she felt that she couldn't feign sickness and act a lie, after remembering that long-ago talk with her father. but she was still as fully determined as ever that she would not wear those abominable stockings to church.
