Lolla by Lucy Ellen Guernsey

"OH, Aunt Delight, do let us go in and have some ice-cream," said Lolla, as they came opposite a pleasant-looking shop on Washington Street, where she had several times been with her aunt. "We have not had any for ever so long."

"How long? " asked Aunt Delight.

"Not since last week."

"And how long is that?"

Lolla was obliged to confess that it was no longer ago than the day before yesterday.

"I cannot buy ice-cream every time we come into town. It is too expensive."

"I thought you were rich enough to afford to get whatever you liked, aunt," said Lolla; "and it only costs twenty-five cents."

"Well, I come into town, on an average, three times a week. Suppose I were to spend twenty-five cents every time: how much would that come to in a month?"

"Three dollars, exactly," replied Lolla, after a little consideration.

"Yes: enough to buy a nice Testament in large print for old Mrs. Prince, and a 'Silent Comforter' to hang on the wall for poor Jessie McMillen, who you know has not strength to hold a heavy book in her hand."

"You might buy the book too," said Lolla. "I am sure you have money enough."

"Perhaps you do not know just how much money I have; but, if I were as rich as the richest man in the world, it would not be right to spend money foolishly. Besides, it is a very bad habit to be constantly buying nice things to eat. It leads to selfishness, gluttony and extravagance. I am willing to indulge you to a reasonable extent; but if you tease me for ice-cream or candy every time you see a confectioner's shop, I cannot bring you to town with me any more."

Lolla was silent. She knew by experience that when Aunt Delight said no, that was all that was to be said; but she felt very much dissatisfied, and she was really provoked when Aunt Delight bought a pretty photograph of some cliffs and boats, and some fishermen's huts upon the sea-shore.

"That cost more than the ice-cream would have cost,-fifty cents more," said Lolla; "and what is it good for, after all?"

"Good to look at," replied Aunt Delight. "The ice-cream is eaten and gone, and that is the end. The photograph may be looked at every day for ten years, and be just as good at the end of the time. But this picture is not for myself, but for Jessie McMillen."

"That is queerer yet," said Lolla. "I thought when people bought things for the poor they got somethings useful."

"That depends upon circumstances, and also upon what you call useful," replied her aunt. "Jessie's father can buy her the clothes and the food that are absolutely necessary for her; but he has no money to spare for any thing else. This picture will hang on the wall opposite her bed, and be a new pleasure to her every time she wakes up and looks at it, and all the more because it will remind her of the shores of Scotland, which she will never see again. I have had a long illness myself, and I know very well how pleasant is any thing which reminds one of out-of-doors and fresh air."

"Come, Lolla," said Aunt Delight, after tea; "let us go up and carry Jessie her picture."

Jessie McMillen was a Scotch girl who was dying slowly of a painful disease. Her father had come from Scotland not many months before, with his wife and his only daughter. He was a sober, steady man, who had been injured by an accident in a coal-mine, so that he was unable to work very hard; but his wife was skilful in fine washing and clear-starching, and Jessie understood housework and sewing: so there seemed every probability that they would be able to support themselves nicely.

They took rooms in a little cottage near Savin Hill, and for a time did very well; but misfortune fell upon them. Mrs. McMillen took cold while hanging out her clothes one biting winter's day, and went into a quick consumption. It was while waiting upon her sick and dying mother that Jessie was seized with a pain in her chest. She thought little of the matter at first; but, between hard work and watching, the pain grew more and more severe; and when, after her mother was buried, she went to the doctor, he told her, as gently as he could, that there was nothing to be done for her. Since then she had gradually but surely grown worse, till she was now nearly helpless.