Bessie Ford had found another teacher, and beside her sat Stella, who, partly from finding her Sunday afternoons dull, and partly from feeling that it was her uncle’s wish that she should accompany Lucy to Sunday school, had overcome her objection to it so far as to go with her cousin.  And having found out on the first Sunday how deficient she herself was in Bible knowledge, and never liking to appear inferior to others in anything, she took some pains to prepare her lessons, at least so far that her ignorance might not lower her in the eyes of her classmates.  It was a poor motive, certainly; still, seeds of divine truth were gradually finding their way into her heart, which might in time germinate and bear fruit.  And her stay in Mr. Raymond’s household, where “serving the Lord” was avowedly the ruling principle, had already exercised a healthful influence over her impressionable nature.

On this particular Sunday the interesting announcement was made, that the annual “picnic” or Sunday-school excursion was to take place on the following Wednesday, the place being a beautiful oak wood about a mile from the church, in the opposite direction from Mill Bank Farm.  As little groups clustered together on leaving the church door, there was a general buzz of talk about the picnic.

Lucy stopped Nelly Connor to ask her whether she thought her mother would let her go to the picnic.

Poor Nelly looked very doubtful as she replied, “I don’t know; I’m afraid not.”

“Well, Nelly, I’ll see what can be done about it,” said Lucy encouragingly.

“But I haven’t anything decent to wear to it, miss,” replied Nelly, looking dolefully down on the tattered frock, which her mother never took the trouble to mend, and which she, poor child, could not, except in the most bungling fashion.

Lucy walked home thoughtfully, and, as the fruit of her meditation, a print dress of her own was next morning produced, and a consultation was held with her aunt as to the practicability of altering it to fit Nelly.  “I only wonder I didn’t think of it before,” she said, “for she is always so miserably dressed.  Will you help me to make it up, Stella?”

“My dear, I wouldn’t know how!  The most I ever sewed in my life was to hem a pocket-handkerchief.”

Mrs. Steele looked shocked at such deficiency in what she rightly considered a most important part of female education.  She had always taken care that Lucy should spare enough time from her more congenial studies, to learn at least to sew neatly.

“Why, Stella!” Lucy exclaimed, “you’re almost as bad as poor Nelly, who said she had never learned to sew because ’nobody had teached her.’”

“I’ve never had time to learn.  I like embroidery better; and mamma said we should never need to do plain sewing, so she didn’t see the use of our taking up our time with it.”

“No one knows what she may have to do,” remarked Mrs. Steele gently.  “It is always best to know how, at any rate.”