Cousin Mary Rose well understood how to make them so, when she coupled
the setting of the delicate little stitches with the idea of doing a
service or giving a pleasure to somebody. This was a bag for Nancy.
To-morrow, it was a cravat for Chauncey. Now, this same Chauncey was my
special delight, he being a lively youth of eighteen, the only son at
home, with whom, after tea, I had always a merry race, or some
inspiriting game of romps. And then, feat of all, came the hemming of a
handkerchief for Mr. Williams.
But who was Mr. Williams? I had no manner of idea who he was, or what
relation he held to the family, which entitled him to come in
unceremoniously at breakfast, dinner or tea-time, and gave him the
privilege of driving my Cousin Mary Rose over hill and valley for the
benefit of her health. In these rides I often had my share, for my
little bench fitted nicely into the old-fashioned chaise, where I sat
quietly between the two, looking out for wonders with which to interrupt
the talk going on above my head. Not that the talk was altogether
unintelligible to me. It often turned on themes of which I had heard
much. It spoke of God, of heaven, of the goodness and love of the
blessed Savior, of the hopes and privileges of the Christian. I liked
to hear it; there was no constraint in it. They might have talked of any
thing else; but I knew they chose the topic because they liked it,--I
felt that they were true Christians, and that it was safe and good to be
near them.
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