From Wit’s End

We continued our correspondence:

Hey, cool.  I just found a neat verse.  Read Acts 5:36. 

Here’s the quote:

When she entered the wilderness of books she saw no one; but peeping around one of the many screens, she spied Mattie sitting with her back toward her and her head bent downward.  Looking over her shoulder, she saw that she had a large folding plate of the funeral of Lord Nelson open before her, the black shapes of which, with their infernal horrors of plumes– the hateful flowers that the buried seeds of ancient paganism still shoot up into pleasant Christian fields– she was studying with an unaccountable absorption of interest.

   "What >have< you got there, Mattie?"
   "Well, I don’t ezactly know, miss," answered the child, looking up, very white-faced and serious.
   "Put the book away and come and see grannie.  She wants you to take care of her today, while I go out."

   "Well,  miss, I would with pleasure; but you see father is gone out, and has left me to take care of the shop till he comes back."
   "But he won’t be gone a great while, will he?"
   "No, miss.  He knows I don’t like to be left too long with the books.  He’ll be back before St. Jacob’s strikes nine– that I know."
   "Well, ten I’ll go and make grannie made comfortable; and if you don’t come
to me by half-past nine, I’ll come after you again."

   "Do, miss, if you please; for if father ain’t come by that time — my poor
head –"
   "You must put that ugly book away," said Lucy, "and take a better one."
   "Well, miss, I know I oughtn’t to have taken this book, for there’s no summer in it; and it talks like the wind at night."
   "Why did you take it, then?"
   "Because Syne told me to take it.  But that’s just why I oughtn’t to ha’ taken it."

   And she rose to put the book in one of the shelves over her head, moving her stool when she had done so, and turning her face toward the spot where the book now stood.  Lucy watched her uneasily.
   "What do you mean by saying that Syne told you?" she asked.  "Who is Syne?"
   "Don’t you know Syne, miss?  Syne is–  you know ‘Lord Syne was a miserly churl’ –don’t you?"

   Then, before Lucy could reply, she looked up in her face, with a smile hovering about the one side of her mouth, and said:
   "But it’s all nonsense, miss, when you’re standing there.  I don’t believe there is any such person.  But," she added with a sigh, "when you’re gone away– I don’t know.  But I think he’s up stairs in the nursery now," she said, putting her hand to her big forehead.  "No, no; there’s no such person."

   And Mattie tried to laugh outright, but failed in the attempt, and the tears rose in her eyes.
   "You’ve got a headache, dear," said Lucy.
   "Well, no," answered Mattie.  "I cannot say that I have just a headache, you know.  But it does buzz a little.  I hope Mr. Kitely won’t be long now."

   "I don’t like leaving you, Mattie; but I must go to my grandmother," said Lucy, with reluctance.
   "Never mind me, miss.  I’m used to it.  I used to be afraid of Lord Syne, for he watched me, ready to pounce out upon me with all his men at his back, and he laughed so loud to see me run.  But I know better now.  I never run from him
now.  I always frown at him, and take my own time and do as I like.  I don’t want him to see that I’m afraid, you know.  And I do think that I have taught him a lesson.  Besides, if he’s very troublesome, you know, miss, I can run to Mr. Spelt.  But I looks so mournful.  Perhaps he thinks it is wicked.  He is so good himself, he has no idea how wicked a body can be."

   Lucy thought it best to hurry away, that she might return the sooner; for she
could not bear the child be left alone in such a mood.  And she was sure that the best thing for her would be to spend the day with her cheery old grandmother.  But as she was leaving the shop, Mr. Kitely came in his large, bold, sharp face fresh as a north wind without a touch of of east in it.  Lucy preferred her request about Mattie, and he granted it cordially.
   "I’m afraid, Mr. Kitely," said Lucy, "the darling is not well.  She has such strange fancies."

   "Oh, I don’t know," returned the bookseller, with mingled concern at the suggestion and refusal to entertain it.  "She’s always been a curious child.  Her mother was like that, you see, and she takes after her.  Perhaps she does want a little more change.  I don’t think she’s been out of this street, now, all her life.  But she’ll shake it off as she gets older, I have no doubt."