Jerrie thought a moment: "That he is good and will love me dearly, and be ever so kind to me and teach me things?"
"And Prue, Aunt Prue; what do you know about her?"
"I know I have some of her name, not all, for her name is Pomeroy; and she is as beautiful as a queen and as good; and she will love me more than Uncle John will, and teach me how to be a lovely lady, too."
"Yes, that is all true; one of these letters is from her, written to you--"
"Oh, to me! to _me_."
"I will read it to you presently."
"I know which is hers, the thin paper and the writing that runs along."
"And the other is from Uncle John."
"To me?" she queried.
"No, this is mine, but I will read it to you. First I want to tell you about Aunt Prue"s home."
"Is it like this? near the sea? and can I play on the beach and see the lions?"
"It is near the sea, but it is not like this; her home is in a city by the sea. The house is a large house. It was painted dark brown, years ago, with red about the window frames, and the yard in front was full of flowers that Aunt Prue had the care of, and the yard at the back was deep and wide with maples in it and a swing that she used to love to swing in; she was almost like a little girl then herself."
"She isn"t like a little girl now, is she?"
"No, she is grown up like that lady on the beach with the children; but she describes herself to you and promises to send her picture!"
"Oh, good!" exclaimed the child, dancing around the chair, and coming back to stand quietly at her father"s side.
"What is the house like inside? Like this house?"
"No, not at all. There is a wide, old-fashioned hall, with a dark carpet in it and a table and several chairs, and engravings on the walls, and a broad staircase that leads to large, pleasant rooms above; and there is a small room on the top of the house where you can go up and see vessels entering the harbor. Down-stairs the long parlor is the room that I know best; that had a dark carpet and dark paper on the walls and many windows, windows in front and back and two on the side, there were portraits over the mantel of her father and mother, and other pictures around everywhere, and a piano that she loved to play for her father on, and books in book cases, and, in winter, plants; it was not like any one else"s parlor, for her father liked to sit there and she brought in everything that would please him. Her father was old like me, and sick, and she was a dear daughter like you."
"Did he die?" she asked.
"Yes, he died. He died sooner than he would have died because some one he thought a great deal of did something very wicked and almost killed his daughter with grief. How would I feel if some one should make you so unhappy and I could not defend you and had to die and leave you alone."
"Would you want to kill him--the man that hurt me?"
But his eyes were on the water and not on her face; his countenance became ashy, he gasped and hurried his handkerchief to his lips. Jeroma was not afraid of the bright spots that he sought to conceal by crumpling the handkerchief in his hand, she had known a long time that when her father was excited those red spots came on his handkerchief. She knew, too, that the physician had said that when he began to cough he would die, but she had never heard him cough very much, and could not believe that he must ever die.
"Papa, what became of the man that hurt Aunt Prue and made her father die?"
"He lived and was the unhappiest wretch in existence. But Aunt Prue tried to forgive him, and she used to pray for him as she always had done before. Jerrie, when you go to Aunt Prue I want you to take her name, your own name, Prudence, and I will begin to-day to call you "Prue," so that you may get used to it."
"Oh, will you?" she cried in her happy voice. "I don"t like to be "Jerrie," like the boy that takes care of the horses. When Mr. Pierce calls so loud "Jerry!" I"m always afraid he means me; but Nurse says that Jerry has a _y_ in it and mine is _ie_, but it sounds like my name all the time. But Prue is soft like p.u.s.s.y and I like it. What made you ever call me Jerrie, papa?"
"Because your mamma named you after my name, Jerome. We used to call you Roma, but that was long for a baby, so we began to call you Jerrie."
"I like it, papa, because it is your name, and I could tell the girls at Aunt Prue"s that it is my father"s name, and then I would be proud and not ashamed."
"No, dear, always write it Prudence Holmes--forget that you had any other name. It is so uncommon that people would ask how you came by it and then they would know immediately who your father was."
"But I like to tell them who my father was. Do people know you in Aunt Prue"s city?"
"Yes, they knew me once and they are not likely to forget. Promise me, Jerrie--Prue, that you will give up your first name."
"I don"t like to, now I must, but I will, papa, and I"ll tell Aunt Prue you liked her name best, shall I?"
"Yes, tell her all I"ve been telling you--always tell her everything--never do anything that you cannot tell her--and be sure to tell her if any one speaks to you about your father, and she will talk to you about it."
"Yes, papa," promised the child in an uncomprehending tone.
"Does Nurse teach you a Bible verse every night as I asked her to do?"
"Oh, yes, and I like some of them. The one last night was about a name!
Perhaps it meant Prue was a good name."
"What is it?" he asked.
""A good name--a good name--"" she repeated, with her eyes on the floor of the veranda, "and then something about riches, great riches, but I do forget so. Shall I run and ask her, papa?"
"No, I learned it when I was a boy: "A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches." Is that it?"
"Yes, that"s it: "A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches."
I shan"t forget next time; I"ll think about your name, Jerome, papa; that is a good name, but I don"t see how it is better than _great_ riches, do you?"
The handkerchief was nervously at his lips again, and the child waited for him to speak.
"Jerrie, I have no money to leave you, it will all be gone by the time you and Nurse are safe at Aunt Prue"s. Everything you have will come from her; you must always thank her very much for doing so much for you, and thank Uncle John and be very obedient to him."
"Will he make me do what I don"t want to?" she asked, her lips pouting and her eyes moistening.
"Not unless it is best, and now you must promise me never to disobey him or Aunt Prue. Promise, Jerrie."
But Jerrie did not like to promise. She moved her feet uneasily, she scratched on the arm of his chair with a pin that she had picked up on the floor of the veranda; she would not lift her eyes nor speak. She did not love to be obedient; she loved to be queen in her own little realm of Self.
"Papa is dying--he will soon go away, and his little daughter will not promise the last thing he asks of her?"
Instantly, in a flood of penitent tears, her arms were flung about his neck and she was promising over and over, "I will, I will," and sobbing on his shoulder.
He suffered the embrace for a few moments and then pushed her gently aside.
"Papa is tired now, dear. I want to teach you a Bible verse, that you must never, never forget: "The way of the transgressor is hard." Say it after me."
The child brushed her tears away and stood upright.
"The way of the transgressor is hard," she repeated in a sobbing voice.