THE CHAIN AND SEALS.

BY MRS. MADELINE LESLIE.

"Above all things put on charity, which is the bond of

perfectness." COL. 3:14.

BOSTON:

PUBLISHED BY A. F. GRAVES,

20 CORNHILL.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by

REV. A. R. BAKER,

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the District of

Massachusetts.

MRS. LESLIE'S

BIBLE PEARLS.

Series for Boys.

VOL. I. THE PEARL OF LOVE.

VOL. II. THE PEARL OF CHARITY.

VOL. III. THE PEARL OF OBEDIENCE.

VOL. IV. THE PEARL OF PENITENCE.

VOL. V. THE PEARL OF HOPE.

VOL. VI. THE PEARL OF PATIENCE.

MRS. LESLIE'S

BIBLE PEARLS.

Series for Girls.

VOL. I. THE PEARL OF FAITH.

VOL. II. THE PEARL OF DILIGENCE.

VOL. III. THE PEARL OF MEEKNESS.

VOL. IV. THE PEARL OF FORGIVENESS.

VOL. V. THE PEARL OF CONTENTMENT.

VOL. VI. THE PEARL OF PEACE.

To

FRANK RANDALL, RUTH, MAY, RANDOLPH MORGAN,

AND JAMES WALDINGFIELD,

CHILDREN OF

D. F. APPLETON, ESQ., NEW YORK,

THESE "BIBLE PEARLS" ARE AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED

BY THE AUTHOR.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I. ORFORD BOYS

CHAPTER II. THE LOST CHAIN

CHAPTER III. FRANK'S FRIENDS

CHAPTER IV. WANT OF CHARITY

CHAPTER V. FRANK'S TROUBLE

CHAPTER VI. THE TEACHER'S WARNING

CHAPTER VII. CHARITY REVIVED

CHAPTER VIII. THE CHAIN RESTORED

CHAPTER IX. THE CHARITY CIRCLE

CHAPTER I.

ORFORD BOYS.

"WHAT are you looking for, Frank?" called out Lionel Trask to his school companion.

"I thought I dropped my slate-pencil," answered Frank, hesitating and growing very red.

"Looking for a slate-pencil in that high grass! That's a good joke! Come on, now; I'm going to the Common for a game of base ball."

"I wish I could," muttered Frank, speaking to himself, "but I can't, no," he added, in a louder voice. "I haven't the time." And away he ran without giving himself opportunity to be tempted.

"Hurrah, boys! That's cool," exclaimed Lionel.

But as there were no boys near to answer, he satisfied himself by a long whistle to the tune of "Dan Tucker."

Frank darted off down the street, and presently leaped a wall without touching it, and hurried across a well-trodden path to a cottage on the opposite corner of the field.

Frank Jocelyn was an active, handsome lad of thirteen summers. He was tall of his age, and expert at all the games that boys love. The side he was on was sure to beat at ball, and his kite always flew higher than that of any of his companions. Though the youngest in the "Orford Boys," the name of the Orford boat-club, yet he was accounted one of their best rowers.

But Frank had a great fault. He was proud, not exactly of his personal appearance, though he received praise enough for that to spoil him; but proud of being Frank Jocelyn, the smartest boy in Orford; proud of being the first scholar in his classes, and always at their head in spelling.

Two years before this time, Frank's father was considered to be in as good circumstances as anybody in town except Squire Rawson, who owned the large farm beyond Cedar Hill. But most unfortunately, he endorsed his name on a note to oblige a neighbor. When the time for payment came, the neighbor was missing, and, of course, Mr. Jocelyn had to foot the bill.

It was a heavy loss, but he could have gone through with it, if he had not taken it so much to heart. The disappointment preyed on his spirits; he took cold, and could not readily throw it off. Fever followed, and in less than three months, he was sleeping his long sleep beneath the sods of his native valley.

When his business came to be examined, it was found to be in a bad condition, and his wife, instead of having a competence for herself and her two children, realized only a thousand dollars besides the house and farm where they lived.

Everybody sympathized with the widow, and was indignant at the fraud of their dishonest neighbor; but sympathy, though very soothing to the feelings, does not fill the mouths of the hungry.

Mrs. Jocelyn, after satisfying herself that the reports of the executor were true, made up her mind that she must earn her own bread. Whether she able to have butter with it remained to be proved.

Beside Frank, she had a daughter May, as sweet and fair a girl as one would wish to see. May was two years older than her brother, and loved him with all her heart.

Mrs. Jocelyn, after making and rejecting a number of plans, at last resolved that if she could take a few boarders to occupy her vacant rooms, and thus continue her children at school, she should be very grateful.

This was happily accomplished. The teacher of the high school, with his wife and one child became inmates of her family, and recommended her to their friends so earnestly that she had as many boarders as she could accommodate.

CHAPTER II.

THE LOST CHAIN.

BUT notwithstanding all her pains, the widow found herself unable to meet her bills. Prices for every kind of groceries were so high, and the cost of fuel so dear, she feared she should be obliged to give up housekeeping. She confided her trouble to Mr. Monks, the teacher, who at once proposed to pay more for his rooms; and this gave her means to keep on for another year.

At the time our story opens, her funds had again become exhausted, and, but for her children, she would have sunk at once.

One day she succeeded in making some root beer so superior a quality that she resolved to offer it for sale at the store. It contained sassafras, yellow dock, and sarsaparilla, and was considered very conducive to health.

She succeeded to well in disposing of it that she used to sit up till a late hour brewing and bottling it, ready for Frank to carry to the store in the morning.

This he insisted on doing before any of his companions were out of bed, for he was ashamed to have it known that he was reduced to such an extremity.

It was Frank's business, also, to dig the roots for his mother, and it was for this purpose he was searching behind the rocks when his companion found him. To be sure, he did think he heard his pencil drop, and felt among the grass to find it, otherwise he would not have told Lionel; but he was a truthful boy, and the thought that he did not tell the whole truth made his face burn like fire.

The next morning, as soon as it was light, he was back by the rocks, and dug a fine basket of roots, enough to supply a week's demand.

Toward the close of the school, in the afternoon, Mr. Monks, the teacher, requested his pupils to give him their attention for a minute.

"I have met with a serious loss," he said. "I speak of it now, that if you hear of a watch chain with seals and key attached, you will claim it for me. I had it in the morning, but probably lost it during a walk I took across the fields by the rocks."

Lionel Trask started and colored violently as he glanced at Frank.

"I see you know something about it," remarked the teacher with a smile.

"No, sir, I,—I mean—I don't know—I only suspect."

"And what do you suspect?"

"I—I saw a boy behind the rocks yesterday afternoon. He was bending over as if he had picked up something; and when I asked him what he was looking for, he grew very red."

"Did he not answer?"

"Yes, sir! He said—I lost a slate-pencil.'"

"Is the boy present?"

"Yes, sir."

"I shall take it as a favor if he will rise."

Ever since Lionel began to speak, Frank's mind had been in a tumult. It was his first impulse to get up and indignantly deny that he had seen the chain; but then he must explain why he was in that place and what he had been searching for. This he was too proud to do, and now he sat still, painfully embarrassed.

This, of course, confirmed Lionel in his opinion that he had picked up the chain and concealed it.

Mr. Monks waited a few moments for the boy to rise, then said kindly:

"I do not believe I have one pupil who would willfully keep a chain found under such circumstances. Though the article was very valuable from having been the gift of a friend, now deceased, yet I would far rather lose it, than to suspect one who was not guilty. If any of you have a word to tell me in private, I shall remain in my desk half an hour after school."

When the scholars were dismissed, Lionel, with a hesitating glance at Frank, who stood, cap in hand, in the entry, walked straight up the aisle to the platform.

Frank, who had almost resolved to confide his explanation to his teacher, who was also his mother's and his own best friend, stopped short on seeing this, and saying to himself, "I can tell him better at home," was rushing away, when he heard the words:

"Impossible! I can never believe it!"

He darted a defiant glance toward the spot where his companion stood, and, with his head very erect, walked slowly away.

"A thief!" he exclaimed to himself. "Suspected as a thief! What would my father say if he were alive? What a precious scamp that Lionel must be! Why, I should never imagine such a thing of a companion. O, dear! I'm sick of life! A thief, indeed! But Mr. Monks knows me too well. I've handled hundreds of dollars of his money, for he always sends me to the bank with his checks. Of course, he said, 'Impossible!'"

"Suspected as a Thief!"

Still he was rather angry with his teacher for even listening to Lionel's story, and, hearing a hasty step behind him, put on a haughty air of indifference.

"Frank, stop a minute," called out the gentleman.

He turned, and looked Mr. Monks full in the face.

"Did you get the example right at last, my boy?"

This question was asked in so hearty a tone of friendship that Frank's displeasure vanished.

"Yes, sir, I did; I understand the whole principle, now."

"Capital!"

They were entering the gate when the boy stopped short.

"Mr. Monks," he began, "don't you know that I've seen you wear that chain every day for a year?"

"Yes."

"And that if I had found it, as Lionel suspects, and kept it to myself, I should be a thief—the worst kind of thief, stealing from my best friend?"

Mr. Monks answered, "Yes," with a smile.

Frank said no more, but walked off into the house.

CHAPTER III.

FRANK'S FRIENDS.

"WHAT nonsense!" exclaimed Mrs. Monks, when her husband repeated to her what had passed. "Why, I should as soon suspect Mrs. Jocelyn herself, or Squire Rawson. But I wonder a little that Frank does not explain why he was there."

The gentleman smiled. "I know Frank well enough to guess why he does not. He is a proud fellow, and such a suspicion would cut him like a knife."

Under the window they could hear the boy whistling, and, on looking down, Mrs. Monks saw him sitting on the door-step listlessly breaking a dry stick into pieces.

"Frankey," she called out, "don't you want Ida? she's been calling Ank, Ank, this half hour."

He sprang to his feet, and answered:

"Yes, ma'am, I do," in an eager voice.

"I'll put on her sack, and bring her down to you. She can go to walk if you have a mind."

Mr. Monks smiled archly, as he watched the handsome boy leading little flaxen-haired Ida along the gravelled walk. His merry laugh and bright face proved that, for the time, he had thrown all care to the winds, while the pretty child, clinging so confidingly to his finger was prattling in the sweetest tones.

"That was a happy thought of yours," said her husband, gazing archly in her face; "women always do seem to understand how to manage these matters better than men."

"Unless Frank confessed to me with his own lips, I wouldn't believe such a story of him," she exclaimed, seating herself again at her work.

"Of course not! But there are some who have not your charity."

May Jocelyn, who also attended Mr. Monk's school, repeated to her mother the account of her teacher's loss, and innocently wondered who Lionel Trask meant.

"The scholars all love our teacher so dearly," she went on, "that they would carry him the chain at once. I can't think of a boy so likely to conceal it as Lionel himself."

"Charity thinketh no evil," repeated a manly voice from behind.

"Thank you for reminding me," she said, laughing. "But I do not really suspect him. I happened to catch his eye while you were telling the school of your loss, and could not help observing that he was startled and confused."

"I don't think he looked more so than Frank; and yet we both are sure he is innocent. Indeed, I have known many boys of quick conscience and keen sense of honor, blush painfully with the mere dread of being suspected. I am sorry to lose my chain and seals; but I am glad to say I suspect no one in school or out. I find the ring of my watch is broken, and no doubt, it slipped off during some of my walks."

May was thoughtful for a few moments. "Mr. Monks," she said at last, "do you think anybody can, really and truly, obey the rule about charity?"

"Let me answer your question by asking another. Do you think our Father in Heaven would have commanded us to do anything which he knew we could not do?"

"No, sir; on, no, indeed! I didn't mean that; but it is very hard sometimes to have charity for everybody."

"It certainly is; but that is no reason why we should not strive to 'bear all things, believe all things, endure all things' rather than fail of charity toward our fellow-men."

May looked archly into her teacher's face. "I think, Mr. Monks," she said, "that you do keep the law of charity. With you, I believe, 'charity never faileth.'"

She was astonished at the spasm of pain which passed over his face.

"My dear child," he said, with great emotion, "in that respect I have failed more than in all else. If I do try to bear all things, believe all things, to suffer long and be kind, it is because I have had a fearful lesson to teach me how unjust and cruel one may become who does not aim to obey this inspired rule. Let us be thankful that there is One,—even our divine Saviour, whose charity is not easily provoked, who suffereth long and is kind."

His voice was so serious that her eyes filled with tears.

"I seldom speak of this, my child. It is too painful; but if it might be a warning to you, I should not regret it."

CHAPTER IV.

WANT OF CHARITY.

LITTLE did May realize how soon her schoolmates would have occasion for charity toward one dear to her as her own right hand.

On her way to school, she met two or three of the girls of her own class, who were talking, but who stopped as soon as she came within hearing. She spoke to them in her usual pleasant tone, but perceived that they were embarrassed, and, more annoyed than she liked to show, she passed on alone.

Before she reached the Academy, she heard Lionel talking in a loud tone to a group around the steps, and at last heard the words:

"How mean! I despise a thief."

"They have found out the guilty one," she thought, hastening forward.

But again, she was surprised that, on seeing her emerge from the field, their loud tones ceased altogether.

"What can it mean?" she asked herself, her cheeks burning.

Usually her appearance was greeted with a shout of welcome; but now no one ventured near her except little Annie Ross, one of the youngest girls in school.

Annie caught her hand and pulled her into the recitation room, which was quite deserted.

"It's a shame," she began in great excitement, "I shouldn't think they'd treat you so, and for nothing at all."

"Why, Annie, what are you talking about?"

The little girl stared. "Why, don't you know? Lionel Trask says Frank has the chain Mr. Monks lost; he told teacher he saw Frank pick it up: but teacher wouldn't believe it. Lionel has made the scholars think so; and they say he's a thief, and call him all sorts of names. Oh, it's dreadful!"

"Does Frank know of this?" asked May, her lip quivering.

"I don't know; but, oh, dear! There's the first bell. I think Lionel is the ugliest, meanest boy I ever saw. I dare say he found the chain himself."

"Don't—oh, Annie! I'm afraid it's wrong for you to feel so."

May understood now why Mr. Monks had said, "you and I know that Frank is innocent." He had heard this awful charge. "Oh, it is too cruel!" she exclaimed, laying her head on the seat.

"I shouldn't think the big girls would act so," continued Annie. "Sophy, and Maria, and Sarah Ann said, they shouldn't speak to you. They called you sister to a thief; and Maggie said, like as not you knew all about it. Everybody said you were awful poor now."

"Don't, don't, Annie; I can't bear it."

She sobbed as if her heart would break. "I must go home; I can't stay," she cried, holding her aching head.

The sound of many feet taking their places in their seats prevented her rushing through the school-room, anywhere to get to her mother, away from all these cruel eyes.

"Go, go, Annie. I can't; you must take your seat. There's Mr. Monks' bell for devotion. Oh! I wish I could get out of the window. Where is Frank?"

Annie peeped through the crack of the door, and said:

"He's in his seat, sitting up just like this," holding herself very erect. "He looks real solemn, though. There, I can't go now, Mr. Monks has begun."

Poor May! This was her first school trial. She dearly loved and trusted her schoolmates. What had she done that they should treat her so cruelly!

She tried to check her sobs, and devise some way of reaching home without being seen; but crying had brought on a blinding headache, and she had lost self-control. The room seemed to whirl around, growing darker and darker every minute, until, with a groan, she fell to the floor.

The bell for study to commence was just ringing when, with a shriek, Annie rushed into the school-room exclaiming:

"She's dead! Oh come! Do come!"

Motioning the scholars to retain their seats, the teacher lifted the poor, unconscious girl in his arms, and carried her, looking whiter than a lily, to the window, directing Annie to bring some water in a dipper.

A few drops sprinkled in her face restored consciousness, and she opened her eyes in wonder.

Annie then in a breathless manner, began to relate what had passed.

Mr. Monks grew every moment more stern.

"Poor child!" he murmured, caressingly patting her head.

"Call Frank Jocelyn," he said to Annie.

"Your sister has had a fainting fit, and—"

"Who, May? Is that you, May?" And the brave boy, who would not show how deeply his own heart was wounded, shed tears when told of his sister's affliction.

"We must get her home. Look from the window and see whether Squire Rawson's horse and buggy are still standing at the bank."

"Yes, sir."

"Annie, spread a shawl on the settee. Now, May, I will help you to lie down. You'll feel better, presently."

She shook her head mournfully, and then caught hold of Frank's hand.

CHAPTER V.

FRANK'S TROUBLE.

IN a few moments, Lionel, who had been sent away by the teacher, returned with the Squire's horse; and May, assisted by her brother and Annie, passed through the school-room to the front hall.

"Drive slowly," urged Mr. Monks, "and ask your mother to give her some ammonia. You can return or not, as you please. No marks for absence will be given to either of you."

Lionel started, when he saw May looking so pale and wan. "For the first time," he reflected, "I may be mistaken. Frank certainly does not look nor act like a thief."

Poor May laid her head on her brother's shoulder with a heavy sigh. Their usual path across the field shortened the distance by one half. Now they were obliged to take the road, and for a few minutes, neither of them spoke. At last May murmured:

"Only this morning, I was so happy."

"Sis," exclaimed Frank, as if he could no longer control himself, "if it wasn't for you and mother, I'd never go near that school again. I'd run off and go to sea, or somewhere. I never can live here where they think me a thief."

"Oh, sis! and Lionel too! Why I have helped him to keep his place in the class by going over his lessons with him for a year. He knows I didn't take the chain. He does it out of envy, because; though I'm younger, I'm always above him."

He spoke bitterly, and poor May, who had been silently weeping, said softly:

"Don't, Frank; don't feel so. I'm sure it isn't right. There's mother at the window. She'll feel badly enough."

Mrs. Monks ran to the door to see what brought them home; and Ida held out her arms to Frank begging to be taken to ride.

For almost the first time in his life, he took no notice of her pleading voice. He hardened himself by thinking:

"Perhaps Mrs. Monks thinks I stole the chain."