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Ester Ried

<h2 id="id01118" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XXII.</h2> <h5 id="id01119">"LITTLE PLUM PIES."</h5> Ester was in the kitchen trimming off the puffy crusts of endless pies—the old brown calico morning dress, the same huge bib apron which had been through endless similar scrapes with her—every thing about her looking exactly as it had three months ago, and yet so far as Ester and her future—yes, and the future of every one about her was concerned, things were very different. Perhaps Sadie had a glimmering of some strange change as she eyed her sister curiously, and took note that there was a different light in her eye, and a sort of smoothness on the quiet face that she had never noticed before. In fact, Sadie missed some wrinkles which she had supposed were part and parcel of Ester's self. "How I did hate that part of it," she remarked, watching the fingers that moved deftly around each completed sphere. "Mother said my edges always looked as if a mouse had marched around them nibbling all the way. My! how thoroughly I hate housekeeping. I pity the one who takes me for better or worse—always provided there exists such a poor victim on the face of the earth." "I don't think you hate it half so much as you imagine," Ester answered kindly. "Any way you did nicely. Mother says you were a great comfort to her." There was a sudden mist before Sadie's eyes. "Did mother say that?" she queried. "The blessed woman, what a very little it takes to make a comfort for her. Ester, I declare to you, if ever angels get into kitchens and pantries, and the like, mother is one of them. The way she bore with my endless blunderings was perfectly angelic. I'm glad, though, that her day of martyrdom is over, and mine, too, for that matter." And Sadie, who had returned to the kingdom of spotless dresses and snowy cuffs, and, above all, to the dear books and the academy, caught at that moment the sound of the academy bell, and flitted away. Ester filled the oven with pies, then went to the side doorway to get a peep at the glowing world. It was the very perfection of a day—autumn meant to die in wondrous beauty that year. Ester folded her bare arms and gazed. She felt little thrills of a new kind of restlessness all about her this morning. She wanted to do something grand, something splendidly good. It was all very well to make good pies; she had done that, given them the benefit of her highest skill in that line—now they were being perfected in the oven, and she waited for something. If ever a girl longed for an opportunity to show her colors, to honor her leader, it was our Ester. Oh yes, she meant to do the duty that lay next her, but she perfectly ached to have that next duty something grand, something that would show all about her what a new life she had taken on. Dr. Van Anden was tramping about in his room, over the side piazza, a very unusual proceeding with him at that hour of the day; his windows were open, and he was singing, and the fresh lake wind brought tune and words right down to Ester's ear: "I would not have the restless will That hurries to and fro, Seeking for some great thing to do, Or wondrous thing to know; I would be guided as a child, And led where'er I go. "I ask thee for the daily strength, To none that ask denied, A mind to blend with outward life, While keeping at thy side; Content to fill a little space If thou be glorified." Of course Dr. Van Anden did not know that Ester Ried stood in the doorway below, and was at that precise moment in need of just such help as this; but then what mattered that, so long as the Master did? Just then another sense belonging to Ester did its duty, and gave notice that the pies in the oven were burning; and she ran to their rescue, humming meantime: "Content to fill a little space If thou be glorified." Eleven o'clock found her busily paring potatoes—hurrying a little, for in spite of swift, busy fingers their work was getting a little the best of Maggie and her, and one pair of very helpful hands was missing. Alfred and Julia appeared from somewhere in the outer regions, and Ester was too busy to see that they both carried rather woe-begone faces. "Hasn't mother got back yet?" queried Alfred. "Why, no," said Ester. "She will not be back until to-night—perhaps not then. Didn't you know Mrs. Carleton was worse?" Alfred kicked his heels against the kitchen door in a most disconsolate manner. "Somebody's always sick," he grumbled out at last. "A fellow might as well not have a mother. I never saw the beat—nobody for miles around here can have the toothache without borrowing mother. I'm just sick and tired of it." Ester had nearly laughed, but catching a glimpse of the forlorn face, she thought better of it, and said: "Something is awry now, I know. You never want mother in such a hopeless way as that unless you're in trouble; so you see you are just like the rest of them, every body wants mother when they are in any difficulty." "But she is my mother, and I have a right to her, and the rest of 'em haven't." "Well," said Ester, soothingly, "suppose I be mother this time. Tell me what's the matter and I'll act as much like her as possible." "You!" And thereupon Alfred gave a most uncomplimentary sniff. "Queer work you'd make of it." "Try me," was the good-natured reply. "I ain't going to. I know well enough you'd say 'fiddlesticks' or 'nonsense,' or some such word, and finish up with 'Just get out of my way.'" Now, although Ester's cheeks were pretty red over this exact imitation of her former ungracious self, she still answered briskly: "Very well, suppose I should make such a very rude and unmotherlike reply, fiddlesticks and nonsense would not shoot you, would they?" At which sentence Alfred stopped kicking his heels against the door, and laughed. "Tell us all about it," continued Ester, following up her advantage. "Nothing to tell, much, only all the folks are going a sail on the lake this afternoon, and going to have a picnic in the grove, the very last one before snow, and I meant to ask mother to let us go, only how was I going to know that Mrs. Carleton would get sick and come away down here after her before daylight; and I know she would have let me go, too; and they're going to take things, a basketful each one of 'em—and they wanted me to bring little bits of pies, such as mother bakes in little round tins, you know, plum pies, and she would have made me some, I know; she always does; but now she's gone, and it's all up, and I shall have to stay at home like I always do, just for sick folks. It's mean, any how." Ester smothered a laugh over this curious jumble, and asked a humble question: "Is there really nothing that would do for your basket but little bits of plum pies?" "No," Alfred explained, earnestly. "Because, you see, they've got plenty of cake and such stuff; the girls bring that, and they do like my pies, awfully. I most always take 'em. Mr. Hammond likes them, too; he's going along to take care of us, and I shouldn't like to go without the little pies, because they depend upon them." "Oh," said Ester, "girls go, too, do they?" And she looked for the first time at the long, sad face of Julia in the corner. "Yes, and Jule is in just as much trouble as I am, cause they are all going to wear white dresses, and she's tore hers, and she says she can't wear it till it's ironed, cause it looks like a rope, and Maggie says she can't and won't iron it to-day, so; and mother was going to mend it this very morning, and—. Oh, fudge! it's no use talking, we've got to stay at home, Jule, so now." And the kicking heels commenced again. Ester pared her last potato with a half troubled, half amused face. She was thoroughly tired of baking for that day, and felt like saying fiddlesticks to the little plum pies; and that white dress was torn cris-cross and every way, and ironing was always hateful; besides it did seem strange that when she wanted to do some great, nice thing, so much plum pies and torn dresses should step right into her path. Then unconsciously she repeated: "Content to fill a little space If Thou art glorified." Could He be glorified, though, by such very little things? Yet hadn't she wanted to gain an influence over Alfred and Julia, and wasn't this her first opportunity; besides there was that verse: "Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do—." At that point her thoughts took shape in words. "Well, sir, we'll see whether mother is the only woman in this world after all. You tramp down cellar and bring me up that stone jar on the second shelf, and we'll have those pies in the oven in a twinkling; and that little woman in the corner, with two tears rolling down her cheeks, may bring her white dress and my work-box and thimble, and put two irons on the stove, and my word for it you shall both be ready by three o'clock, spry and span, pies and all." By three o'clock on the afternoon in question Ester was thoroughly tired, but little plum pies by the dozen were cuddling among snowy napkins in the willow basket, and Alfred's face was radiant as he expressed his satisfaction, after this fashion: "You're just jolly, Ester! I didn't know you could be so good. Won't the boys chuckle over these pies, though? Ester, there's just seven more than mother ever made me." "Very well," answered Ester, gayly; "then there will be just seven more chuckles this time than usual." Julia expressed her thoughts in a way more like her. She surveyed her skillfully-mended and beautifully smooth white dress with smiling eyes; and as Ester tied the blue sash in a dainty knot, and stepped back to see that all was as it should be, she was suddenly confronted with this question: "Ester, what does make you so nice to-day; you didn't ever used to be so?" How the blood rushed into Ester's cheeks as she struggled with her desire to either laugh or cry, she hardly knew which. These were very little things which she had done, and it was shameful that, in all the years of her elder sisterhood, she had never sacrificed even so little of her own pleasure before; yet it was true, and it made her feel like crying—and yet there was rather a ludicrous side to the question, to think that all her beautiful plans for the day had culminated in plum pies and ironing. She stooped and kissed Julia on the rosy cheek, and answered gently, moved by some inward impulse: "I am trying to do all my work for Jesus nowadays." "You didn't mend my dress and iron it, and curl my hair, and fix my sash, for him, did you?" "Yes; every little thing." "Why, I don't see how. I thought you did them for me." "I did, Julia, to please you and make you happy; but Jesus says that that is just the same as doing it for him." Julia's next question was very searching: "But, Ester, I thought you had been a member of the church a good many years. Sadie said so. Didn't you ever try to do things for Jesus before?" A burning blush of genuine shame mantled Ester's face, but she answered quickly: "No; I don't think I ever really did." Julia eyed her for a moment with a look of grave wonderment, then suddenly stood on tiptoe to return the kiss, as she said: "Well, I think it is nice, anyway. If Jesus likes to have you be so kind and take so much trouble for me, why then he must love me, and I mean to thank him this very night when I say my prayers." And as Ester rested for a moment in the arm-chair on the piazza, and watched her little brother and sister move briskly off, she hummed again those two lines that had been making unconscious music in her heart all day: "Content to fill a little space If Thou be glorified." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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