IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I 1.25 u m I «s Ml" m U 1111.6 Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 ^;i:tfjf'^sMJ'.--&'i^.tri " m CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. CHILDHOOD. CHAPTER II. PLAYFELLOWS. . « • CHAPTER III. FOEESHADOWINGS. CHAPTER IV. BEBBAVBMBNT. . • • CHAPTER V. STTJDT. . . • • CHAPTER VI. OONYEBSION. • . i rAOB 7 14 . » • 19 29 41 61 I I I I mrmfff'inrffMilii r IV CONTENTS. CHAPTER VII. rAoi ORPHANED. 61 CHAPTER VIII. CHANGES 70 CHAPTER IX. SCHOOL. 81 CHAPTER X. A PLEASANT MEETING. ... 86 CHAPTER XI. A REVELATION. ..... 96 CHAPTER XII. COMMENCEMENT EXERCISES. . , 103 CHAPTER XIII. REPENTANCE. JH CHAPTER XIV. HOLIDATS 118 CHAPTER XV. WILIE'S DEATH. .... 131 mAK PAOB 61 70 81 86 96 103 111 118 131 . • • • CONTENTS. CHAPTER XVI. DOCTOR DOWSE. CHAPTER XVII. HOME AQAm CHAPTER XVIII. OLD FBIENDS CHAPTER XIX. A 8UBPUISB CHAPTER XX. MABBYINQ. • • VAOB 141 153 166 178 187 mmimmmtimiiiti ***" ONE QUIET LIFE. CHAPTER I. CHILDHOOD. CAN just dimly recollect the country village we lived in before my father re- moved to N. I know the cottage used as a parsonage was a pleasant one. It was situated on the slope of a hill, surrounded by a strip of meadow, where I used to pick the yellow but- tercups and dandelions, and hunt low down in the grass for the little purple flowers of which no one seemed to know the name ; I loved their modest faces so well I could think of nothing 1 IK 8 One Quiet Life. pretty enough to call them, unless it was "Meta," after my owA violet-eyed motlier. I had no playfellow except Marco, a great, shaggy, brown dog with eyes that reminded me of the deep well in the orchard; perhaps it was he- cause he always looked so beseechingly at me when I went near it to play. I can remember attending the church where my father used to preach, but once ; then, though I watched eagerly, I could only now and then catch a glimpse of his curls above the top of the high pulpit. The singing sounded so strangely to me; the choir still clung to those ojd-fash- ioned tunes, in which the different parts chase each other with the utmost strength of voice and speed. I was accustomed at home to hear my mother's sweet, yet rich voice in our pleasant twilight hours, which father always devoted to us, singing those beautiful airs that seemed a part of her being ; but this church music was so different; I clung to mother's dress in silent misery until, in what was I suppose the most f Childhood. i uless it was id motlier. I great, shaggy, ed me of the ps it was be- hiugly at me 5hurch where thon, though ow and then he top of the I so strangely ose ojd-fash- ; parts chase of voice and to hear my our pleasant 3 devoted to at seemed a uusic was so Bss in silent se the most j i \ impassioned part, I slipped down beside her, burying my face in her lap to hush the wail that sounded through it all. The graveyard, with its icy children nestling under the grass, came up before me together with the dreary picture that often haunted me of father and mother lying in their coffins, gone far away from their child. I cried myself quiet in her lap, the voices of the singers drowning my sobs. I never wished to go to that church again and my parents in that respect humored my fancies. After we removed to N. the long holiday I had enjoyed ever since I could remember came to an end. Father thought it was high time for my school-day life to begin. I would have greatly preferred the public school with the companionship of children of my own age to the long silent mornings in father's little study, while the sun was cheerily shining outside and Marco eagerly watching on the door-step, wait- ing for a race with me down to the brook, which rippled alone through the meadow, and by the a mi m One Quiet life. edge of the thicket where we used to paudle ia the water, or hunt fruitlessly for bird's nests un- der the trees. At first, instead of such fun, I used to find it hard to puzzle over difficult words in the read- ing lesson and tiresome sums that would scarcely ever come right, but by degrees I came to like the stillness of the quiet study, with the steady scratching of father's pen, or the monotonous beat of his footsteps as he paced to and fro in deep thought. I grew to like even better the gradual inception of knowledge. Father had such a way of interesting me in the lessons ; he tried to make me think for myself, while he taught from Lis own wide stores of knowledge rather than the text book that often lay unused on our study table. When I was scarcely nine he thought me sufficiently advanced to commence Latin and French. I was his only child, and all the ambi- tion centered in me which he had cherished about the boy who never came to gladden his [ to paadle ia L'd's nests un- sed to find it in the read- ould scarcely came to like th the steady monotonous ;o and fro in in better the Father had i lessons ; he slf, while he f knowledge n lay unused thought me 3 Latin and all the ambi- id cherished gladden his [ Childhood. ti heart. I can recall, even now, the long conver- sations he and mother used to have about my future ; every retrenchment was to be made in ' the little household that money might be saved to give me a thorough education ; while the ut- most care was taken of my health ; coarse food was unspairingly given but it was only when enjoying a holiday with some little friend in the town that a delicate morsel of cake or pie found its way to my unaccustomed lips. With father accompanying me, I took daily walks across hill and moor, our tramp frequently extended over many weary miles ; when he waa ill, which soon came to be pretty frequently, I was obliged to go alone with only Marco for at- tendant. This hardy training was the best for me, I grew stronger every day, notwithstanding the severe study father urged upon my only too willing brain. Afterward I came to have other playfellows beside Marco. As I passed to and fro in my walks I noticed one day, an unusual stir going on about the little ii -■•^"ISP #- .-i n One Quiet Life. cottage at the foot of our lane ; it had stood un- occupied ever since we came to N. much to my regret, none of our immediate neighbors had children and my only hope of getting human play-fellows lay in the future occupants of this cottage. As I stood, this day, eagerly watching the proceedings and longing to discover some Bignri of childien, a large good-natured-looking woman who had been bustling about, as I thought, in every one's way, soon spied my anxious little face, peeping through the fence, and coming quickly to my side she said, cheerily: ..• "Well, my little giil, and what might your name be?" ' " Dorothy Thurston," I timidly answered. " Thurston, why are you the ministers child ? " "Yes, he is my father." I waited for no fur- ther questioning and with a beating heait, asked earnestly : " Have you any children. Ma'am ? " "Children? why bless your heart deaiie I have nothing much but children." m Childhood. m lad stood un- mucli to my jighbora hud ttiug human pants of this rly watching iscover some ured-looking about, as I )n spied my h the fence, i she said, might your swered. ters child?" I for no fur- heait, asked Ma'am?" L't dearie I " Oh, I am so glad I May I come and play with them sometime ? " " Why, yes, of course, you can all the time if you like, but have you none at home ? " '' No, I am the only one and its so lonesome." " So it must be, poor child. I think its a cry- ing shame for folks to bring one desolate little chick into the world and keep it all alone ; but never mind my Axy and Ahsy shall play with you." What funny names I thought, and Ashy was instantly presented to my mind as a very girm specimen of humanity, whether male or female [ could not tell. I had no further time however just then to reflect on the nomenclature of Mrs. Dutton's children, as it was time for lessons, so I said good-morning and went hastily up the hill to our door. '.■s-.-js-— -. ^.} ueii! — r^-Tc? . ' /• '« CHAPTER II. Playtkllows. f OU may go and play an hour with Mrs. Button's children." What welcome words these were as .mother addressed them to me, at the close of study hours, the day after I met our new neighbor at the fence. All that day delightful plans had been mingling in my head, with the Latin and French verbs I had to conjugate, and father reproved me more sharply for my inattention than he had ever done before for months. I had so many wonders in field and forest to exhibit, such stores of treas- ures Marco and I had discovered but which he «4 ir with Mrs. e as .mother study hours, at the fence, en mingling mch verbs I ^e^ me more ad ever done wonders in ores of treas- tut which he i'-^mm Playfellows. 16 could not help me to admire. I longed too for child- ish sympathy in my griefs as well as pleasures. My thoughts were busy the last thing at night and the first thing in the morning laying plans for the amusement of my new playmates and when the coveted moment came, when I found myself walking slowly down the lane to their home, I could scarcely realize the measure of my 'satisfaction. When I came in sight of the house what a spectacle awaited my delighted gaze ; a swarm of children were gathered under an old apple tree, that had often given me a gloomy sensation but which was henceforth to be remembered with delight for the friendliness that now awaited me beneath its shade. There were seven children. Could I believe my own arithmetic as I stood stiU and counted them? Yes it was true and forgetting my usual shy- ness, in my anxiety to discovor Ashy and Azy I stepped quickly forward. 16 One Quiet Life. Tho largest child, a pale, gentlo looking boy about twelve years old, was boldiiig a great rol- licldng buby, which seemed determined to de- velop its muscles and vocal powers to their ut- most cai)acity. When tho children saw me, which did not iappen until I stood just beside them, they looked up [)leasantly, and one of the little ones cried out, joyously : *' Here she comes I " • 1 instantly felt at home, and in a few minutes was sitting on the grass \ th Alexandrina in my arms. It was impossible for me to disencumber myself of such a load of infantile humanity, un- til A^hy, whom I discovered to be a boy, and the eldest of the family, took her again. My first task was to learn the names of my new associates, a task, not easily learned; for their father being of an aspiring turn of mind, but not gifted with very discriminating taste, had selected the longest he could find in the few booktt that comprised his scant library. PlayfeUowa. 17 look! fig boy iig a great rol- rmined to de- rs to their ut- 'hich did not > them, they the little ones \ few minutes iindrina in my > disencumber luraanity, un- le a boy, and gain. names of my learned ; for )urn of mind, inating taste, nd in the few Ashy, I found to be an abbreviation of Ahas- ucrus, and Axy, of Artaxerxos. Their mother, less amb'*^iou8 than her husband abbreviated each of the high sounding appella- tions to suit her own taste, but Mr. Dutton never condescended to speak any but the full name. I have often seen a smile on my mother's face, when, through the quiet air, we would hear his cracked voice calling loudly for Artaxerxes or Arthur Wellington, or some other name illustri- ous in history. I was soon so absorbed in watching their merry pranks, and listening to their happy voices, that I forgot all about taking them to see the curiosi- ties I had been planning to exhibit, and the sun was just setting when Mrs. Dutton came to < the children to their tea. During the time I hu^ been there, messengers had been passing to and fro, carrying bread and molasses. " What wonderful appetites they have," I said to Ashy. -f* ^ II 18 One Quiet Life. " There's a good many to eat," lie exi)lained. " And they cut a good deal too," I quietly said to myself. Mrs. Dutton gave me a heorty ipvitation to go in and join with them at their repast, but I sadly recollected that my term of absence had long ago expired, so I could only regretfully decline the offered hospitality. As I glanced wistfully into the bright room with its wide fire-place, and low whitewashed ceiling, I could see that every- thing looked clean and pleasant, while the vision of many happy hours in store for me there sent me home with a glad heart. After this the greater part of each day's play hours I spent with the Buttons and among them all, I liked Ashy the best. Ho was more like a girl in the gentleness of his disposition ; and yet he had all a boy's love of adventure, but he never led us into danger or mischief. « .M •..••...*„ ♦* ff-^ he explained. ," I quietly said ipvitfttion to go last, but I sadly tence had long •etfuUy decline inaed wistfully 3 fire-place, and see that every- kvhile the vision r me there sent each day's play nd among them ;vas more like a, sition ; and yet 'euture, but he aief. CHAPTER III. rOEESHADOWINGS. WO pleasant years passed away thus ; they would seem almost perfectly happy years to me now, but for the gradual failure of my father's health. I distinctly remember what a sad day it was in our little home when he pioached his lasc ser- mon. ' On Saturday afternoon, mother brushed and laid out his clothes as usual. I saw the large tears dropping on the shining cloth, which she carefully wiped away with the corner of her clean white apron ; while my father as usual was »9 ■■ f 20 One Quiet Life. in his study, coming out when tlio early toa- boll rang, with a lace i)ulor ond graver than UHual. While I was washing the tea dishes, they went and sat by the parlor fire. The late September evenings were getting chilly, and father nearly always required a fire. I did not know then that they thought he must die. They did not tell me ; perhaps, because knowing how intensely I loved him, they may have feared to shock me. When I came in from the dusky kitchen, I was surprised to see my mother, crouched on the rug beside my father's chair, her face hidden on his knee and her whole frame quivering with sup- pressed emotion. They did not hear me at the door; my surprise kept me silent. I mutely wondered why mother should seem so strangely troubled, and why should father look so sad ? He spoke, how the words thrilled me : " Meta, my beloved Meta, can't you think it will only be for a little while we shall be separa- ted ? Will you not help me to say to our Heav- :..T*"-' Forethadowiny, 21 tlio early toa- l graver than hes, they wont ito September father nearly • ot know then They did not how intensely I to shock me. ky kitchen, I ouchedon the ice hidden on ring with sup- ear me at the t. I mutely 1 so strangely look so sad ? ae : you think it all be separa- to our Heav- enly Father, who has given us to each other for BO many years, " Thy will bo done ? " " Oh Stephen I I cannot lose you. I never told you how my whole life ^as absorbed in yours: how idolatrously I have loved you. God is punishing me for it. Ho wants uU our hearts, and 1 have given mine almost wholly to you." " You are not just to yourself Meta. I have known few lives purer or more devoted to the service of our Father in Heaven than yours, and he only takes me a little before you, to lead you closer to himself." " How shall I live when I see you lying cold and silent in your coffin, deaf to all my woe, for- ever lost to me on earth? How can I endure the thought ? " " I may still be near to comfort you, Meta*. I will not love you less there, but I believe a great deal more." ^ ' " Ah I but I shall not see you ; I shall not even know if y.>u are aware of my sorrow. You may be so far off among the angels, enjoying the riches of Heaven's glory that you will forget all n\ i IK-^ 22 One Quiet Life. about earthly things, scarcely recognizing me, perhaps, when, bye and bye I meet you among your celestial companions." " Meta, He who made the human heart, did not give to it this deep, underlying affection to last only through this life ; the economy of his other works teaches me this. Let us the rather think of taking up our shortly sundered lives there, worshipping and loving forever." For a while there was silence with the excep- tion of my mother's half suppressed weeping. My father's face as I got a glimpse of it, where I stood in the shadow of the door, looked so strangely spiritual that I shuddered involunta- rily. Presentl}', mother spoke again. I can see now, as I review the memories of childhood, how un- necessary her remark ; she, who had never, I be- lieve, looked unkindly at her husband, said, reaching her hand out blindly towards him : " Will you forgive me everything I have done amiss ? " Her voice trembled. I saw the muscles of 30gniz.mg me, jet you among aan heart, did ng affection to 3onomy of his us the rather sundered lives ver." ith the excep- ssed weeping. ! of it, wliere I lor, looked so red involuuta- I can see now, hood, how un- id never, I be- lusband, said, irds him : g I have done e muscles of Foreshadowings. 23 my father's face quiver, with an uucontrollable tenderness in his voice, he stcoped down and kissing her, said : " My own wife, I have nothing to forgive. I have received from you a devotion that has known no change." I could stay no longer ; my heart was burst- in larger recom- ng quiet hours tmember every t. He rarely t hide my emo- d merely say: 3 this Dora or 9 direction for that the affec- i intense as the Mother said to ^ the room : iry hour for me : me rebellious ve may not be Bereavemtnt, 81 " I beli&ve you will soon follow me, Meta." I could endure this no longer ; bui'sting into tears I asked : " Will you not pray that I may go too ? I cannot live quite alone in this world without either father or mother." " In His own good time my daughter if you love and obey God he will bring you to him- self." "Oh, father 1 You do not love me or you would not wish to leave me alone, and desolate, in this wide world." " I love you Dora as perhaps few children are loved, but I commit you to the care of One, who loves you better even than I have ever loved my only child, and who alone knows the struggle it has been for me to give you up." Stooping down he kissed my tear-stained face and with his arms about me feebly clasped me to the heart that yearned so pityingly over my sorrow. Presently kneeling beside him with my head on his knee, I lay for a long time listening, II ti" -•f^ -S 82 One Quiet Life. while they talked, only interrupting to ^ay that I had heard their first conversation on that even- ing 80 many weeks ago. ; » . ; ». > > " My poor child, how bravely you have borne your griefs, working 90 nobly to save us trouble and yet trying to hide your anxiety." He spoke so tenderly, all the while softly stroking my bowed head, that 1 thought my heart would break with suppressed emotion, but I was determined never again to distress my father with my grief if I could restrain my feel- ings. In my childish way, I determined the barn was just as good a place as any to cry in ; but when I got alone I found the desire to do so was not so great as, when I sat looking at my father's pale face, and listening to the terrible cough. I had another cause for anxiety ; every day I discovered some new retrenchment in our little household. We never bought meat now, and I could not but notice that mother partook spar- ioglj. if at all, of the occasional presents of meat n ng to riay that I on that ovon- 3U have borne avo us trouble y." I while softly [ thought my 1 emotion, but distress my train my feel- itermined the iny to cry in ; [esire to do so )oking at my ) the terrible ; every day I t in our little it now, and I partook spar- 3ents of meat JBereavement. 83 sent from a friendly farmer. Whether father noticed it or not I could not tell but I thought his fondness for favorite dishes had strangely changed. I frequently paid short visits to the more generous of our neighbors, hoping to get something nice to take home to my father; I was too proud even to hint for anything, but the gladness I felt whenever a present was given must have shown plainly without words. The people were kind, but food and clothing for three cost a good deal, and my father had little store of wealth laid by for the rainy day. I have learned since that his unceasing benevo- lence was the cause. 1 . > •: I cannot think even now, after the lapse of so many years, without a feeling of sadness, of the grief it must have been to him, when thinking of leaving us unprovided for. I used to sit near the door at prayer time that I might escape un- noticed to my room to bathe my swollen face. His prayers for resignation that he might say, •' Thy will be done," for the widows and father- ii tmr" One Quiet Life. I0H8 and those dm wing near to death neatly broke my heart. Tliero was soinotimes a sup- pressed agony in hiy voice while urging God's promises that inuafc not fail. I am glad now when I think how suddenly and almost painfully the summons came. I had taken two lessons that day, I was in the habit of studying my les- Bons so perfectly that father need have but little trouble in teaching mo. This day ho seemed unusually well i)leaaed with my recitation and whoa he ditjmissed me with the accustomed Iclss, that usually ended my school duties for the day, he said : " You will make a scholar some day, Dora ; I hope you will continue your studies when I am gone, Remember, ♦ Where there's a will there's a way.' " I gave the desired -promise that I would do so, or at least make the endeavor, and then went about my honsehold duties with a lighter heart than usual. Mother had gradually resigned these to my hands, as father desired to have her death nearly otimcH a Hiip- urging God's am glad now most painfully n two lessons dying my les- liavo but little ay ho eecmed recitation and mstomed Iciijs, )8 for tho day, day, Dora ; I es Avhen I am a will there's would do so, d then went lighter heart iilly resigned 1 to have her Bereavement. 9i near him, while I was glad in any way to gratify his patient und few requests. Towards evening when my tasks for the day were all accomplished I took my seat beaido him on tho low footstool that had been my favorite aeut ever since I could recollect. That evening's conversation seems to have been photographed upon my brain. Father talked to us about Heaven and tho happy time when wo should bo a family complete there and how, if permitted, ho would come to us on earth when our hearts were the sorest, bringing com- forting thoughts ; that he too would v/atch about our pathway, and when the time camn for us to go home to God he would come to conduct us thither; and thus continuing to talk just as he used to do long ago. I heard mother softly weeping ; my overburdened heart found little relief from tears that night. My father's voice sounded so like what I imagined the angels speech might be, that my heart stood still with the sudden fear that ho wa3 very soon to leave I 80 One Quiet Life. us. A moment's silence ensued and then be said, hurriedly : "Will you light the lamp Dora, it is so dark?" I arose quickly to get the light, although the room was aglow with the sunset. Returning to the room I found my muther kneeling beside my father's chair and gazing imploringly into his white, pinched face, while she chafed his cold hands, holding them to her breast to bring back the warmth that would never more return. " Run quickly for Mrs. Button," my mother hurriedly exclaimed. Father roused a little and opening his eyes said feebly: " Kiss me Dorothy, try to be good and love your mother." , I went to his side and as I kissed him his lips moved and I caught the sound of a faintly mur- mured " Good by." ^ In a few minutes I returned bringing Mrs. Dutton; we found, mother still kneeling. I '*=3ff3=-iillifrii&V£ -^ ^^bSfef a,J>-a J. e. led and then be 3 Dora, it is so ght, although the it. Returning to leeliug beside my loringlj' into his chafed his cold ast to bring back lore return, ton," my mother )pening his eyes e good and lovo ssed him his lips of a faintly mur- 1 bringing Mrs. ill kneeling. I ir-j.?sLJn4*, 4; Bereavement. m think father had spoken to her again and taken the last, long adieu of the one whom he loved so tenderly. He breathed once or twice aft(jr I went in, and then the vital spark went out. When mother saw that he was gone she rose, I think to leave the room, but fell fainting to the floor. Mrs. Dutton laid her on her bed while I staid alone with father. Ashy had been dis- patched to the village for assistance, and in a little while, Mr. Wilton, the new minister who had succeeded father, came in with Squii'e Mounts, and in a short time the room was full of sympathizing friends. I could not stay with my father when so many strange hands were about him, so, seeming to be needed by no one, and wishing to be alone with my misery, I slipped quietly down through the meadow, over the damp, partly frozen ground to the sheltering trees. Marco followed slowly behind, stopping, now and then, to utter a dis- mal howl: he was growing old now; soon, I thought, I shall be all alone, not even my dog tmmm mtm 88 One Quiet Life. left to comfort and protect me. I was stunned with grief, and walked as in a dream. I went out into the woods not heeding in what direct- ion. I had never ventured very far into the forest's depths alone before, but this niglit I thought only of getting far away from my trouble, and proceeding with tliis solo object in view heeded nothing about me till it grew dark and the night air felt chilly about my poorly protected body; I sat down to rest on an old log that lay across my path and gathering my scanty garments about me fell asleep". How long I slept I did not know but the moon was shinning through the trees when I awoke and I was so benumbed with the cold I could scarcely move. Marco was asleep ut my feet, but was instantly alert when I began to be- stir myself. I was bewildered and could scarcely realize where I was, and, beside, I felt faint with hunger, for I had taken nothing since dinner, and it was now nearly midnight. My first thought wad to return home, but ■J — I was stunned dream. I went : in what direct- ly far into the ut this night I away from njy is solo object in iill it grew dark •out my poorly st on an old lojr Jring my scanty know but the > trees when I nth the cold I s asleep ut my 1 1 began to be- l could scarcely felt faint with nco dinner, and irn home, but Bereavement. 89 which way was I to go ? Marco generally fol- lowed ray steps and did not often lead me, or I should have known my safest plan would be to resign myself to his- guidance. I feared too the darkness and silence of woods; the moon cast such strange shadows all around me, and, child- ish as it may seem, the thought of my dear, dead father teriilied me. J recollected the promise he made, oul}- a few hnuis before, to come to us in trouble ; what if he should come now with that ghastly look I last saw on Ids face ! I clung to the dog, who seemed to realize that I looked to him for protection, and passively fol- lowing him, after a long weary walk, he brought me to the edge of the thicket. Before reaching home I was greatly alaimed at hearing men shouting, and when wu came to the clearing I was astonished to see people passing in every direction about our place, with lanterns and torches ; it was scarcely necessary, I thought, to look for anything with lights when " the moon was shining so brightly ; it did not occiirr to me ki — 40 One Quiet Life. just then that they might be searching in the well and about the brook for me ; neither did I wonder if my mother had discovered my absence, and was enduring on my account an added pang of misery, to the already accumulated amount of suffering her crushed heart was struggling be- neath. At first I could scarcely comprehend why such glad, thrilling shouts went up towards the mid- night stars from the assembled crowds of men, or why the women sobbed so frantically, as Mr. Wilton led me wonderingly along to where my mother was standing near my father's out- stretched form in the long low parlor. rching in the neither did I I my absence, n added pang lated amount truggling be- 3nd why such ards the mid- 'ds of men, or cally, as Mr. to where my father's out- 3r. ■•*^'."tV- "-'■■■''WfM <- '^VSVff; CHAPTER V. STUDY. ?'!!^FTER a few months mother exhibited a little of her former vivacity. Now and then she would smile, in a half absent way, as if the smile existed only in her face, and her heart was still dead to happiness. She tried to inter- est herself in plans for the future, but it must have been evident to every one but myself that her stay on earth was short. After the painful discovery of our straitened circumstances, made by our friends on the night my father died, our larder was kept well sup- plied ; so much so that we often had something 41 ' •««if ".y. MiW E " V" '" " ''l W^-^" 42 One Quiet Life. I to spare for lamo Sally, and Mrs. Button's in- creasing brood of children. I took up my lessons again with mother for teacher, as she would not in her loneliness per- mit me to attend the public school. Mr. Wilton gave me lessons in Latin and Geometry. I had in these advanced beyond my mother's knowl- edge. I soon came to love the hour for recitation in his pleasant study. The housekeeper kept everything so beautifully neat ; while the hand- some pictures and rich furniture of the rooms gave to them an air of comfort and elegance, to which our plain surroundings were unaccus- tomed. He was rich and could afford such luxurious upholstery, independently of his parish. Sometimes, after I had finished ray recitations, he would invite me into the parlor, where a grand piano stood, invitingly waiting for the master's touch upon the keys. I believe I en- joyed his performances fully as much as the sweet 5 a Ki?". '. ■ iT':t.3;.;,'^«s>*Ki' -"*■: ^JiL Dutton's in- th mother for neliness per- Mr. Wilton etry. I had her's knowl- recitation in keeper kept ile the hand- f the rooms elegance, to (re unaccus- sh luxurious ish. Y recitations, >r, where a ing for the elieve I en- as the sweet Studtf. ^ low strains my mother used to draw from hpr guitar when I was a little child. I must have been a flattering auditor, for I sel- dom heard him without weeping. This musical treat was soon the one, great joy of my life, ap- pearing amid the sad scenes of my daily lot like a stray gleam of sunshine from some other world. One day, happening to turn about abruptly, and discovering my emotion, he said, rising quickly : « Don't you like music, Dora? " « Oh, yes ; it's the greatest joy of my life to hear you play." " Would you like to learn ? " I could not say no, and I was ashamed to say yes ; my indebtedness to him was already so great. " Silence gives consent," he said. " Suppose you take a lesson now ? " "I shall never be able to pay you, Mr. Wil- ton." " Don't you know, Dora, there are some things we do in this world that God pays us for? I Mb- - ■^""'•-m-y"". iSsilii mUh u One Quiet Life. am beginning to find they are my most profitable investment." ** Then I hope God will pay you for your kind- ness to me. Maybe father will thank you when he meets you in Heaven." I looked up earnestly in his face, and must have revealed to him the gratitude my heart felt, for he smiled gently, and I saw tears in his eyes. •' Will you come now and take your first les- son ?" he asked. I did not reply, but went immediately to the instrument. How my fingers tingled as they touched the white keys I They say that genius is sometimes transmitted, and if so a faint breath of that rare endowment may have descended to me, from an ancestor long since dead, who was a celebrated composer. Perhaps a better endowment had fallen to me in an untiring perseverance. Whichsoever it was, I soon gratified my teacher with my readiness to comprehond the lessons he gave, and with my diligent practice of them. ■^SgSsJ- Study. 4ft >t profitable your kind- c you when , and must 7 heart felt, in his eyes, ur first les- itel}' to the ed as they ransmitted, jndowment in ancestor I composer, m to me in 5ver it was, eadiness to id with my Mr. Wilton allowed me the use of his piano for practicing as many hours as I wished every day, and I soon availed myself largely of his per- mission, to the no small annoyance of his house- keeper, Mrs. Green, as 1 accidentally discovered one day. Mr. Wilton said, laughingly, one evening after my lesson was ended : " Mra. Green wishes she was deaf, or the piano broken, such constant clatter gives her noises in her head." " No wonder," I quietly thought, " that she has noises." When Mr. Wilton was out of hear- ring I often attempted difficult music, and the sounds produced were, doubtless, often unearthly. " Perhaps I had better practice less," I said anxiously. " 1 had rather you would practice more instead of less. I am expecting to see you an accom- plished pianist, some day, my little girl." How my cheeks flamed with pleasure I I was not so small though that he should call me " lit- vmatmmtitC" 46 One Quiet Life. lie gill " any longer. I felt very largo and wom- anly, now that I hud reached my sixteenth year ; and, beside, mother depended so much on mo. She had resigned all charge of our little estab- lishment into my hands, permitting mo to mako the purchases which were certainly not very ex- tensive. What planning and thinking I used to expend on every sixpence that came into my possession I Mrs. Mounts bought bits of fancy work that I had been learning how to manufacture, and many a night, long after mother was sleeping, my fin- gers were busy fashioning some article to adorn her rooms or peraou. She paid me handsomely, recommending my work to other ladies also. But the greatest delight I found in my newly acquired art of money-making was reserved for one day when Mr. Wilton asked mo for t»me lace for his mother and sisters, after ho found I was doing such work. I faithfully performed the allotted quantity, sitting up late and rising early to get it quickly completed. Studi/. 47 3 and worn- euthyear ; ch oa mo. ittlo estub- to to luako »t very cx- ; I used to 3 into my ork that I and many jg, my fin- Ic to aduru indsomely, idles also, my newly served for for tK)mo le found I performed and rising What a happy duy it was, when, witli the package iu which it waa neatly folded lying safely iu my pocket, I went to take my lessou ! Now I could make some return, very small in- deed, but it would be sufficient to show I was not forgetful of the weary hours devoted to mo by my kind teacher. After the lesson had been got through with but indifferently, — I was too muoh occupied with the intended offering in my pocket to play well, — I put the parcel in his hand, quite for- getting the pretty speech I had learned by heart, but, instead, saying only : " Will you p^'^ase accept this piece of work for your friends ? " " What is it, Dora, the fancy work I spoke about?" I said *' Yes," and started immediately for the door. " You must not go yet," he said. " I am ever so much indebted for this beautiful work," and he held it up admiringly. . 48 One Quiet Life. 1 I " I don't want any money. Please let nio do something for you." I burst into tears. I did not see his face, but his voice sounded strangely tender, as ho said : " Very well, Dora ; only I wish it was some- thing I could keep myself. I should treasure it carefully." How glad and proud I felt, ast I walked home in the bright sunshine ; but after all, it was such a little thing to be glad and proud for. I was ashamed of my foolishness when I thought over the incident. " I see I have only a child's heart if I avi fif- teen," I said sadly to myself. " I wonder if I shall ever be a real woman." A few days after, as I went down-stairs in the early morning and opened the outer door, I dis- covered two large boxes of provisions setting in the porch, and beside them a parcel containing a complete outfit for myself and mother ; such garments as I had never been the happy pos- sessor of before. I soon awoke mother, I could •vv«!fmMM^mijm.4iimkdii?m.^'£f.--,s m;i!^^M^ r-'w* Study. 49 iHe let mo do tears. I diil led strangely it was some- id treasure it walked home 1, it was such 1 for. I was thought over t if I am fif- wonder if I i-stairs in the r door, I dis- }ns setting in containing a lothcr ; such happy pos- )ther, I could not keep such a delightful surprise to myself. When she camo and saw the abundant array of good things, she said gently : ♦' We are indebted to Mr. Wilton for these. May the Lord bless him, for I can never repay his kindness." All my joy was quenched; her words only aroused an angry pride within my breast. Could I not make even a slight return for all I had received, without being again recompensed a hundred fold ? I allowed mother to put the things away ; in my wicked pride I could not bring myself to touch them. How my heart has ached since then as I have thought how my ill nature must have pained her grateful heaKt I But my wickedness did not stop here. I told a lie to excuse myself from taking my lesson that day, the first I had missed. I complained of headache ; it was only my heart that was aching. I sent Clementina Dutton with a message to Mr. Wilton, that he need not expect me ; I did not :;' " ^yt^y - ' wtivw ' t i ' ii 'r^if i 'T i jy!^''!)!^ " ^'' ' '??^'^''^ •^ 60 One Quiet Life. wish to waste his time even if my heart was bursting vviiii reproach towards him. j In order to drive away the wretched feeling embittering every moment of that bright sunny day, — for it was a rarely beautiful day, — I re- solved to get Mrs. Button to bring her work and the baby, and sit with mother, while I went to put some flowers on father's grave. It was a long wJk, and I could go but seldom. *' Are you well enough, my child ? " my mother asked. She looked searchingly at me, aud I felt my face flush hot beneath her gaze. " I am not sick, mother ; it will do me good to go." - " You may go, but do not stay late ; I am so lonely when you are away." I went up to her and, kissing her, whispered softly: ' ' " Will you forgive me, mother? " " Yes, Dora. At your age 1 might have felt OS you do." • m em ly heart was 1. :.. ; :, tched feeling bright sunny- day, — I re- ler work and ile I went to re. It was a ' " my mother le, aud I felt me good to ite ; I am so r, whispered ;ht have felt J. CHAPTER VI. CONVBESION. - HAT afternoon was the beginning of a new era in my experience. There was a quiet road, with very rarely a traveler, that led to my father's grave. The sun was shiniuj; hot and oppressive when I started. Mother came with me to the gate ; there ^as a wistful look in her face, I know she longed to accom- pany me. I stood a few minutes glancing over the sur- rounding landscape. Our house was on a hill that commanded a fine view of all the country side. The adjoining village could be plainly seen, its roofs glittering in the noontide sun- Si •^ 52 One Quiet Life. f hine ; one of the most plainly visible among thorn being that of the beautiful new church, conse- crated only a few Sundays before. It stood where the pld one had been and was surrounded by great trees that had looked down on several generations as they came up seeking the way to " Heaven's great Cathedral." While I gazed, a hundred memories came trooping through my brain. Recollections of childhood, when with my hand in father's I went to the long services which were so tiresome in those childish days, and to the pleasanter Sab- bath-school, in which he took so much- interest. My father's feet would never press the well- worn path again, and soon, too, my own steps might be turned far away from the scenes of aiy childhood. These and similar thoights brought tears of deep sorrow into my eyes, till for dimness I could scarcely distinguish the fine house on the hill, where Squire Mounts and his fashionable family lived, of whom I was sometimes a little envious, ^^i Converston. 68 ible among thorn church, conse- bre. It stood ivas surrounded own on several eking the way lemorlcs came ecoUections of father's I went so tiresome iq leasanter Sab- much- interest, ress the well- my own steps B scenes of aiy )ught tears of imness I could 3 on the hill, ionable family . little envious, II or the parsonage, where Mrs. Green was now preparing Mr. Wilton's dinner. Away beyond the little town, like a silver thread, I saw the river widening : along whose banks father and I had walked n\ the pleasant summer days of long ago. Would I ever again experience happy days like those ? Great fleecy clouds were piling up iu the sky ; such clouds I ' used to watch with delight, as I lay under the trees ; they only seemed unchanged, and yet they were forever changing. Presently I started along the shady lane. In places as I passed the trees arched overhead, and the way was so unfrequented the grass grew quite across it. With the basket on my arm, containing the flowers I was taking to strew on the grave, I walked rapidly on, my mind so oc- cupied I scarcely realized how swiftly I was go- ing. Conscience was busy at work. The question of how I had been living since father's death seemed forced upon me. Was I accomplishing T 51 One Quiet Life. the work he would wish ? Was I growing bet- ter myself? I felt sadly conscious that since our separation I had been growing worse instead of better. "I am drifting farther from Heaven evory day," I murmured. "Can it be that I shall never reach there at last ? He told me my heart must bo changed before I could be with and like Christ." With an aching heart I walked steadily on, my dejection every moment growing deeper. When I reached the graveyard, the stillness all around, unbroken, except by the songs of birds among the trees, seemed to oppress me. My father's grave was in the farthest corner, beneath the willow and cypress trees, of which there was a profusion in the graveyard. Through their leafy branches I could get glimpses of the broadening river, as it went to join the ocean a few miles below. As I knelt by the grass-covered mound, yielding to despairing thoughts, there came to mind tliese words of Jesus : .4 ! i 4k. •owing bet- it since our instead of iven evory lat I shall 3 my heart th and like teadily on, ig deeper, billness all Efs of birds ist corner, , of which Through ises of the he ocean a I mound, came to Convernon. 65 « Him that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out.' " Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow ; though they be red like crim- son, they shall be as wool." » Can those words reach my case, I wondered ? Might I not come to Jesus? Surely he died for°me." Raising my bead towards Heaven I cried earnestly for pardon. How long I prayed I could not tell, but it seemed like hours, when, just as I was ready to despair, I cried : r " Lord Jesus, receive me I Save me 1 " Like a ray of sunlight penetrating a dungeon, so I felt the light of Heaven entering my soul. Brighter and brighter it shone. I rose to ray feet. The trees, the sky, and the distant river, were bathed in purer Ught. I exclaimed aloud : « Is not this the joy of the redeemed ? Am I not God's child?" My heart was bursting to tell my new-found happiness. Through the fragrant evening air I hastened along the accustomed lanes, resolving to call at the parsonage on my way home. The "Tr-^TmM •?« ■■»-# I 1 il !iv.-= One Quiet Life. 6un had set when I reached there, and the twi- light had so far deepened that the light of the full moon shone distinctly enough to cast my shadow before m:, as I passed up through the row of elms leading to the door. Meeting Mrs. Green in the garden I asked anxiously if Mr. Wilton was at home. " I heard him at the piano a few minutes ago," she replied. As I listened, I could hear the music floating out through the open window into the moon- light. As I heard the rich, fairy-like strains my heart began to faU me ; I found it difficult to acknowledge having given away so easily to my ill nature. I asked myself if it was really neces- sary I should do so. While I hesitated, words of Scripture were again, as at the grave, im- pressed upon my mind : " Confess your faults one to another." I re- membered the joy I there experienced and which was still filling my soul, and then hesitated no longer. A moment more and I was standing by the in- ,/ •■ and the twi- e light of the 1 to cast my through the Heetiug Mrs. ously if Mr. ainutes ago," lusic floating the moon- e strains my i difficult to easily to my really neces- tated, words grave, im- her." I re- d and which esitated no g by the in- Converslon. 67 strument. Mr. Wilton looked up, and when he saw me ceased playing. I reached out my hands, hurriedly exclaiming : ' " Oh, Mr. Wilton, will you forgive me ? I be- lieve God has." " I have nothing, my dear child, to forgive." He spoke as though astonished, but he folded my hands tenderly in his. " You do not know, you could not believe, how wicked I have been; " I exclaimed; and then I confessed the temptation and sin of the morning, not withholding a single fault. When I .had ceased speaking, he said gently: « My poor little girl, I have still nothing to forgive, and, now that I have discovered your honesty and independence of character, I shall love you more dearly than ever." As he spoke, he stooped down and kissed my throbbing brow. I was too mura absorbed in what I had yet to say to experience any feeling of surprise at such an unusual mark of regard fiom him. • in* 68 One Quiet Life. " What father told mo before he died, and what you have often told me, I have found to- day to be true ; only the half was not told me of the joy and peace that comes with the love of Christ," I exclaimed hurriedly. " How have you found this, Dora ? " he eag ^ .L^jr^'^m mmmm^ MjWkaiaiMylii ll llll l iip|l> ) le early dnwn t previous she h her; friends with us every liot hours she articularly her ivn before ; of Kent, where >ted to accom- k. She talked the separation hold on life, he advised me 3w cares that the day wore leave me now to your own i request; I re seeing the Orphaned. 6§ shadow stealing over your face ; let ine be with you while I can, for in a few hours I shall have no mother, no gentle, saintly mother." And I burst into a flood of tears. It pained her to see my distress. Hitherto, when near her side, I had controlled my emo- tions, but now ray anguish was too strong for re- pression as I realized how immediate was our separation. With her arm about me she said so gently: " My poor, stricken child, the Lord help you." Laying my head on the pillow beside her I shed bitter tears I cannot think of that hour, even now, with calmness. Before the people came in we took our last farewell, alone, in the gray dawn of the early morning. She became drowsy after that, and only when just at the river did she seem to realize my presence. " Take hold of my hand, Dorothy," she said excitedly ; then, stretching out her other hand, she said, softly : , "O Christ, eAott art my all, my Heaven is in thee." WM^0^^^'-' •^^^^ii^i^ii^j mf^* ' 64 One Quiet Life, t f Then she lay silently, breathing slower, and slower, until the last breath came, and bhe was in Heaven. Mr. Wilton, Mrs. Dutton and Mrs. Mounts were standing by the bedside, weeping. They seemed to me like persons in a dream, I heard their voices as though they were a long way off; I did not think of crying then ; every- thing grew dark ; I seemed to be floating away into the air ; half unconsciously I wondered if I was dying too. Presently I ceased ta think at all. The first I can remember, I was lying in my own room, on my bed, and the afternoon sun was shining high up on the wall. I was worn out with watching and excitement, and it seemed only reasonable that nature should claim a little rest. I was, however immediatoly able to take charge of everything as heretofore. After everything was over and the house arranged, Mrs. Mounts invited me to spend a woek at her house, I dreaded going ; I knew the customs of her house Orphaned. 65 ower, and id bhe was I. Mounts • I dream, I sre a long n; eveiy- ting away iered if I The first wn room, is shining out with med only- little rest, ke charge verything i. Mounts house, I her house and family would ill accord with my sore heart. But I asked, in lieu of a wiser counsellor, the ad- vice of simple-hearted Mra. Dutton. « Go by all means," she said, " it will liven you up better than anything I know of." Her unsophisticated mind was dazzled by the supe- rior style of their living. I did not ask Mr. Wilton ; I think he woidd have said: "Stay at home." I went, and it was the longest and dieariest week I ever experienced. The only cheery spot through it all wat. when I went to take my music lessons. I practiced on Mrs. Mounts, piano while stopping there. There was a secret of Miss Jennie Mounts, which I fancied I discovered, and that was that she would very gladly take chai-ge of Mr. Wil- ton's heart and home for life. Sometimes I thought he knew it and was thinking seriously of it. He was there nearly or quite every day, and they made it so pleasant for him I would have gone quite as often had I been in his place. ^m v 66 One Quiet Life. i\ One day after coming in from lessons Jennie said in her haughtiest Avay ; " How long are you going to trouble Mr. Wilton with those useless lessons?" *' I cannot say j probably not muuh longer," I replied. " Well, for his sake I should hope not, it must be a great bore to him, when he has so many other duties." My temper was aroused ; I an- swered in a similar tone. " If it is, he can tell me himself " " Don't be saucy, child," she said, angrily. I left the room and the house, walking di- rectly for home ; on my way I stepped in to Mrs. Button's; she saw there was something wrong. " What is the matter, dearie ? " Her voice was so sympathizing T burst into tears. "Oh, I am 60 homesick, so lonely," I said, hysterically. " There is something else the matter ; have those pert girls been saying anything rude ? " "It was I spoke rudely. Oh, I am so wicked, ' \ Orpha'Md, 6T )ns Jennie [ig are you 3se useless longer," I ot, it must 3 so many ;ed; I au- igrily. Eilking di- iu to Mrs. ng wrong. 3er voice ," I said, ier ; have ude?" o wicked, :i ajt so miserable I " Ashy was in the little room, I did not know he was there ; in a moment he was at my side, looking down so pityingly at me with those soft brown eyes. " Come up to the house with me, won't you, Dora ? " he asked. I gladly acceded to his re- quest, and it was not long before he bad dis- covered the cause of my grief. '-' Do you think Mr. Wilton is tired teaching me, Ashy?" "I know he is not," was the hearty repl)', ♦' but if it will be any relief to you I will find out some way. You didn't know he was giving, me lessons now ? " 1 forgot my o\/n troubles in Ashy's good for- tune. " Oh, I am so delighted ! " I exclaimed. "You will be a scholar and great man yet. Won't I be proud of my boy then ? " I expect to.be proud of my girl, too," he said laughingly. " I am going to tell you something. Mr. Wilton thinks you are very clever, and he wishes to send you to school." 68 On/j Quiet Life. " It is no use, Ashy," I said firmly ; «« after this week I am going to be independent ; I am six- teen now ; labor is remunerative, and I shall go to service if I can find nothing better, and earn money to educate myself. I mean to be a scholar ; you know I promised father I should." " I like that spirit," Ashy replied, " but you would be wiser to take assistance." " If you could help me, Ashy, I might consent, but there is no one else that I shall be indebted to any longer, so that's the end of it." " Well, Dora, I hope you will succeed, and I believe you will too." " Do you think, Ashy, I could, teach school ? " I asked hesitatingly. He looked up delightedly. "Of course you could ; I never thought of that." " Or maybe I could give music lessons to very little children," I said somewhat doubtfully. " Very little children, indeed ! Why, I heard Mr. Wilton telling some ladies the other day that you had tho best expression and execution, V v.— — ^y*— * after this I am six- I shall go , and earn to be a should." "but you it consent, I indebted ed, and I school ? " )ur8e you IS to very fully. , I heard »ther day xecution, Orphaned. 69 I think those ^*ere the words, of any person in town." "You good old soul," I exclaimed, enthusi- astically, "you are always making me happy; when I am gone I shall miss you more than any- one, except Mr. Wilton." " Well, you can write every week, that is one consolation." It was a consolation, as I found through the long months when I had only strange faces and scenes to look upon, and when my heart was hungering for news of home and friends, some of whom, how dearly loved I sadly discovered before 1 again beheld the accustomed haunts of childhood. .■«>^'aefiiie'w»js»*^ MHi m If CHAPTER Vra. GHANOES, ^ATURDAY evening came at last, when my week's penance ended. Miss Jennie repented lier unkindness and was more gracious than formerly, while the squire and Mrs. Mounts seemed anxious to have me spend the winter with them, but several grown-up sons and daugh- ters suflBciently engaged their sympathies and attention and I did not wish to occupy a useless place in any circle. I could certainly have found ways of rendering myself sufficiently useful to relieve my mind of a feeling of indebtedness. I went home on Saturday evening, thinking to 70 ^■■■■ ?B9j;*^iJ^^(i^?;*K4§T;,;, -'^v Hi^f^^" last, when [iss Jennie re gracious rs. Mounts the winter md daugh- ithies and Y a useless lave found useful to idness. hinking to Changes. 71 'm stay alone, but the house was so silent as tlio evening wore on I became too timid to brave the darkness and solitude, and went down for Alexandria, now a good seized- maiden of eight summers. I did not retire early ; my little room- mate was sleeping soundly in my own crib which I had exhumed from the garret, and filled with quilts and pillows for her to lie on. I carried my lamp into the parlor, and taking a book sat down to read, but it lay unread in my lap ; my thoughts were busy with the future that was now becoming so sternly real to me* What was I to do, which way turn ? I might manage to live on, in a dreary way, in the old house ; my fancy work would probably keep me in bread ; but how could I secure the education which I felt was only just getting its foundation laid. I determined to cease troubling Mr. Wilton much longer ; ho might not think it an irksome duty, but I knew others were beginning to com- plain, .i " The world is wide enougn for them and me •mrtr^ S?: m- One Quiet Ltfe. too," I exclaimed, perhaps a little passionat Jy, " >>M4*>i^ppMpM*M *9 One Quiet Life. in town, and that he gives away a large income every year. If I understand him, as I believe I do, there is no one in the world he would rather help than you. I know more about men than you do." " Well done, Master Ashy, you have made your maiden speech now." "It was to a very contrary maiden then,' and A.hy turned angrily away. But I was not over- ruled. Mr. Wilton came, and we reasoned the subject for an hour or more. I declined his offer most gratefully, but firmly. I saw he \yas grieved, and my own heart ached while I refused. " I do not know what is the reason I can't do as you wish me, but there is some perverse, wicked spirit, I suppose it must be, within me that is in- exorable whenever I try to reason away my scruples." " You won't ever be dependent on your hus- band, I presume ?" There was a touch of bit- terness in his voice that pained me. "I haven't thought much about a husband } V 4^- large income as I believe I would rather out men than I have made sh then,* and tvas not over- d the subject is oflfer most was grieved, refused. " I [ can't do as erse, wicked le that is in- n away my )n your hus- ouch of bit- b a husband iiljii > ■'•'"' ! ■ ".. .)li.! ! ip,B' i»mi»Mi««»llllnllll«Hll«lli,HMmfM1>« 88 One Quiet L{fe, " Tour little Bertha will bo far better than I, probably." " Maybe so, maybe so," he said, in his slow, re- flective way, " but you are very goot." Before leavuig N. Mr. Wilton said to mc : "I fear you will be frightened when you come to face those young ladies." " I shall not, I think, allow myself to be fright- ened by any one. If they will allow mo to teach them I shall do my best, if not, I can but fail." I did feel considerably abashed, and to confess the truth, a little bit afraid, when I saw the handsomely dressed ladies, my associate teachers, and the still more elegantly apijareled young maidens, many of whom were in the classes I was there to instruct. My own exceedingly shabby wardrobe cost me many a pang, and prob- ably a few unshed tears gave to my purple eyes, as Ashy playfully styled them, a very misty look. I tried to crush this unworthy feeling of coward- ice out of my heart ; the heart that used to throb BO despairingly when I was robing myself for the @ A PUoiant Meeting. 89 tter thr\n T, lis slow, re- to mo : a you come ) be friglit- 110 to teach )ut fail." to confess I saw the ;e teachers, led young 3 classes I Eceedingly and prob- irple eyes, oisty look. )f coward- d to throb elf for the Bocial gatherings, which formed a principal part of our arausemouts. Notwithstanding the ill-concealed contempt and sneers that were ray every-day lot, I man- aged to perform my duties with quite a degree of comfort to myself. Dr. Kye, the principal, was, I thought, a little dignified and unui)proaohttble, and it appeared to me that the teachers stood too much in awe of him. I resolved not to be afraid of him, even if I lost my place ; cringing fear of any I thought to be but ft species of slavery. I had seen the teachers quiver when he came into their class rooms. I devoutly wished he would come into mine. . For some time I waited in vain, but my time came at last. I was hearing one of the advanced classes recite ; the teacher was ill, and it was at her request I had assumed the charge. I knew I was quite capable of teaching them, although the class consisted of young ladies whom I knew despised their plain child-teacher. ... I 90 One Quiet Life. When the doctor ciimo in he looked surpriHod, and then ii^ a rather severe tone of voice said : " I am surprised, Miss Thurston, to see you here." " I am somewhat surprised myself, sir," I po- litely replied. "Tell me how it comes that you have such a class ? " " I had rather the teacher to whom the class belongs would explain to you, sir; the period for recitation is slipping by." I knew it was saucy for me to speak aa I did, but his voice and manner annoyed me exceed- ingly. " It is not necessary for me to ask the teacher. You will please explain to me yourself, Miss Thurston." " The teacher was taken ill, and the other teachers were engaged ; I was at liberty for the period and offered my services. I will desist if it is your desire." " Proceed with the recitation." ■i--** I 1 surprised, lico 3ui(l : to 800 you , sir," I po- lavo such a a tho class tho period [ik as I did, tne exceed- he teacher, irself, Miss the other rty for the ill desist if ■ ■ ^:?ff :«: ?fMH^^W§§» 'sy ^^■^!;'!■ fl fJ:?^- ifV ^r' ''■(?"" ^>. «>"^> ^7^%^^^ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 7 1.0 UK8 |2.5 £ us in 2.0 I.I U ||,.6 1.25 Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 m \ <^ >r^ '^ *■' ». Q ;\ /=*|S&eTEp8aSPil^3^S!W®ISfiS^«Si«S!i!^?Si*J fA CIHM/ICMH Microfiche Series. CIHM/ICMH Collection de microfiches. Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions / Institut Canadian de microreproductions historiques ..J 'i m A Pleasant /Meeting. m \ I did so, and have seldom seen a class do bet- ter. I had awakened their sympathies, and they were, as they expressed it, ^^frantic " yfith de- liglit to hear me talk fearlessly to the doctor. I made no reply : the annoyance had passed. I was afraid my independence had turned me out of a good situation, and a home that was every day becoming pleasanter. I had no con- fidantes in school and so was obliged to bear my anxiety alone. I performed ray duties for the remainder of the day with a heavy heart, dread- ing to hear the bell for faculty meeting that even- ing. When I went into the library, I found the doctor there alone ; he bowed pleasantly and said: . "Really, Miss Thurston, I should congratulate you on your success as a teacher. I shall write to your friend Mr. Wilton, who, by the way, is a dear friend of my own, telling him how ably you are acquitting yourself." "You lovely man," I mentally exclaimed, "how I should like to put my arms around your ^1 92 One Quiet Life. neck and ask your forgiveness." I said aloud, with a little quiver in my voice : *' I am very grateful to you for your kind re- marks, and shall endeavor to merit them." Just then several of the teachers came and nothing further was said, but that was the best faculty meeting I ever attended. Gradually I came into favor with the teachers. I was always willing to take an extra class, or lend a helping hand in any way, and, what espe- cially pleased them, was ready at all times to take charge of a pedestrian excursion ; the long walks that would have exhausted most of the teachers seemed only necessary exercise to me. One day I was walking along quickly at the head of a small detachmentof pupils — we had gone a Uttle beyond our time, and were in dan- ger of being late for some of the classes — when I was startled at hearing some one speak my name. Ahnost instantly I knew the voice, and looking up saw Mr. Wilton coming towards me. It was against the rules to have a gentleman walk with m 1 - woM^sasaissasaii^^sf .**-'- said aloud, ir kind re- m. came and s the best } teachers. a class, or 'hat espe- les to take ong walks 3 teachers kly at the — we had ■e in dan- ■— when I n> name. 1 looking . It was '^alk with A Pleasant Meeting. v9 us on the street. What was I to do ? With my usual impulsiveness I resolved to give up my sit- uation rather than lose that opportunity of speak- ing to Mr. Wilton, and putting out my hand I said joyously : " Oh, how glad I am 1 I did not know I should be so delighted to see you." " Dr. Kye will excuse me walking with you," Mr. Wilton said, and so set my miud at rest on that account. But us we were near our own grounds it did not matter so much ; beside, it was a crowd of the younger girls, and I knew a few words of explanation wotild make it right with them. " Shall I gee you again ? " was the first ques- tion I asked. " Yes, I shall spend the evening with you, if spared." '♦ Oh, it nearly takes my breath away I " I whis- pered, and as I glanced in his face I thought I had never seen him look so haudsome and so happy. We did not say much ; what was the 11 'i ' tma m 94 One Quiet Life. use ? I could not tell him all I wished, nor ask the questions that were filling my brain, in two long hours; what then were five or six minutes ? It was enough to know that he was at my side, and that we were walking along together to- wards that delightful evening. I went into the class room, it was the first period in the morning. I wondered if night would ever come. All day long, — and it was a long day, — I watched the hands of the clock ; tlie minutes seemed to be houra. I looked at my watch so often that Dr. Kye, who was in the school-room for some time, came to where I was standing and whispered pleasantly : '" " Do the minutes go very slowly ? " " Yes, never so slowly before since I can rec- ollect." "I shall feel it my duty to report that speech to your friend." « Oh, you may I Mr. Wilton knows I love him better than any one else in the world. You know he is my brother." s ' ^tj5^,egg^^KSJS:j^*S#jiE*^fti - i*ls*«S-;*-viiS'?«5S*p5ai^» A Pleasant Meeting. ed, iioi* ask ruin, in two X minutes? it my side, ogethcr to- ut intb the e morning. J day, — I e - minutes y watch so shool-room mding and I can rec- «« I did not know that." " WeU, he is, and the best brother in the whole world." i'l should not be surprised if he were," and the doctor smiled knowingly. As he walked away I only wondered what had come over him, he had becc-ne so very affable with me. Could it be that my fearless manner in the class-room had wrought the change ? He must be a coward at heart, I concluded, or he would not be afraid of a mere child; and I looked after him with a feeling in my heart bor- dering on contempt. How mistaken I was I dis- covered some time afterward, along with a good many other strange things. Iiat speech I love him rid. You i ^^immmmmm CHAPTER XI. A BEVBLATION. jVENING came at last, and found me robed with more than usual care for my anticipated interview. I was ready half an hour before I was summoned and was beginning to despair of being called at all, thinking perhaps Mr. Wilton and the doctor had become so interested in conversation that I had been forgotten. I was nearly crying with disappointment when the maid came with the dainty Uttle card and the well-know handwriting in one corner saying: « Come directly." I did come directly and sur- prised him with my promptness. He was stand- 96 \ ■MPMH '■■ai(^^wfc*»'.-> iKb *' ^' bund me re for my f an hour inning to rhaps Mr. nterested otten. I when the and the • saying: and sur- as stand- A Revelation. 97 ing with his back to me, in the doctor's parlor, as T entered, looking at some engravings. I went softly up to him ; the door was ajar and he did not hear me enter. I slipped my hand into his arm, saying : " Won't you speak to your little girl? " He turned around quickly, with such a pleased face, and asked: » Are you still my littkgirl? " « Why, certainly I am. But I am not little now. I have grown so terribly lately, I feared you would think I was too large to be Uttle any ""^a'like you just as well large," he said, play- We had been talking busily for some time on different topics, chiefly about our friends at N., when Mr. WUton said abruptly: , "Do you know Ashy is engaged to be mar- ried, Dora?" ; ; I ■ « Must everybody come to that? I hope you won't, Mr. Wilton, at least not very soon." - • r ligSSSii.Ss'.**-'-' 1 fi One Quiet Life, "ITftve you never loved nnjono thus, Doni?" "No, but I Imve been expecting to, and fear- ing a little lest I should. I should hate the man I loved better than you." "And so should I." He spoke with an en- ergy that reminded me of the remark that Ashy once made: "He has a temper of his own." I was glad to change the subject soon ; someway I felt it was a dangerous topic, I scarcely knew why, but there was something troubling me that I felt resolved that night to have settled, so with a slightly fluttering heart I said : " Would you believe me, Mr. Wilton, if I tell you that I have been just a little jealous of you and Jennie Mounts. Ashy's letters have been making me so ; I am begin;ung to distrust that boy." "Why should you be jealous of us, my child?" "If she were your wife you would not then seem so much my friend. You would give her all your heart, of course." ■•»a^S«iii»iS3Sa»SS*»»i*S»rySi?}j«K,iaiS4i;'«t.5iSi!»wn." I noway I ly knew me tlmt , 80 with if I tell 5 of you i^e been ust th.at us, my lot then ive her , A Revelation. ^$$ " Do you expect me to live alone all my tlaya, Dora? I want some one to make my liome happy as well as the rest. You cannot imagine how lonely I am sometimes." ' The tears came into my eyes, while my heart ached with some nameless dread. "Oh, how dreary it seems. I thought I' should bo perfectly happy this evening, but we get talking about such sad possibilities, but it is no more than I deserv6. I am getting so care- less and selfish since I came hero. I did not think once that I should ever be so wicked again." "You have not lost the joy you found that summer in the graveyard. I hope, Dora?" "Sometimes I fear that I have sinned that blessed peace away; I seem to be going all wrong, besides, I am not keeping the promise I made to father, to work for others." "Have patience, my dear friend, I believe a noble working-time awaits you. Many prayers have been and still are being offered for you, and they will yet be ans- wpred." g^ i£j5Sm iV 100 One Quiet Life. " I used to think more about Heaven and liv- ing for it than I do now ; it seemed, if I only got safely there, it would not matter much if my life on earth were a failure, if it were ouly pure and good, but now I fear the desire to succeed in this world, is stronger than any other desire in my heart." "You get discouraged too easily. You are young, and it is natural to be ambitious, but, by and by, when you get a few more disappoint- ments from life's experiences, you will see how poor a thing, at best, tliis world of ours is to satisfy the cravings of the heart, and then you will find that only the love of Christ, and the practice of his divine precepts, are capable of making us supremely happy in this world." Our conversation, was kept up steadily and most profitably to me, until the entrance of Dr. and Mrs. Kye, when the conversation became more general and to me less interesting. I had been devoting the greater part of my leisure time in making a present for Mr. Wilton, so, while they were talkif.fji I went to my room ind liv nly got my life iro and seed iu ssire in !'ou aro but, by ppoiut- ee how 's is to en you nd the iblo of >» ly and of Dr. became of my ^Vilton, y room BevelatioM, M and brought it down; a pretty study cap, so nicely embroidered one could scarcely tell of what it was made. I laid it on the hall table, and when Mr. WUton rose to go I accompanied him to the door, in quite a state of pleased ex- pectation. • ' ' * ' lie had said good-by to the Doctor and Mrs. Kyo in the parlor, when they kindly allowed us to have a moment alone in the hall. Giving him the little parcel I said : • * « Will you accept a very small present from me? I lave made it myself you were kind enough once to express a desire to have some of my own work for a keepsake." " Thank you, Dora, I have more, I fear, to re- member you by than you will ever know. May I have the brother's privilege again to-night? " Without waiting for reply, he stooped down and kissed my lips. In that moment my heart was unveiled, and I discovered all a woman's love and devotion were smouldering there, and had been for some months, whUe I was so un- conscious of their presence. *1 9- JC^'WI W9 \Jf^ - ur ii u i pji i «ai ii w) i ! ii | i j | ii|' i |ii|i|i ( jkrij' i i j nu *(t»r One Quiet Life. " Good-by," I said quietly, but did not return the warm pressure of his hand. I was glad to escape hurriedly to my own room; then the thought came that he was gone and had not said if ever he would come again. I laid my head down on the window-sill in the starlight and wept «ad, sweet tears, sad when I thought that with my woman's weak heart I should carry this hidden pain, so newly discovered, alone through life. Many a woman carries just such a pain for years hidden away in her heart, and yet she smiles, and hides her pain from every eye, until a kinder bridegroom comes and gives that tired heart rest in a quiet grave. • v-i^b^smm^M^iiMm^s^^^^- )t return glad to /hen the not said uy head ght and ^ht that d carry I, alone pain for yet she '^e, until at tired CHAPTER XII. COMMENCEMENT EXBECISE3. ' FTER this I went back to my school du- ties with a weary feeling, as though I had lost my interest in life. I was ashamed of myself for giving what had! never been asked. I had promised once that I would give him a sis- ter's afEection; I thought I had, in its purity, done so, now I found I could never bo sister, scarcely friend. My sense of honor would for- bid me to longer indulge that most innocent in- timacy that had so long existed between my- self and Mr. WUton. I tried to believe and com- 103 ' -AT -ni' T'Winj'iiirrf -^ 1 One Quiet Life. fort myself with thinking that God saw I needed Buffering to purify my gross affections and de- sires, and that he had sent this pain, which miglit accomplish tho desired end better tljan any other could do. So through my tiresome duties my humbled heart made its moan ; and to hush its complain- ings* and find relief I plunged with all my strength into work. I studied almost incessantly. When I walked with the pupils I took my book with me ; I thought out difficult problems as I took my food, and managed readily to keep abreast with all my classes, not fearing but that at the end of the year I should take my degree. Doctor Eye noticed it all and said to me one day: " You will kill yourself if you continue to work 80 hard. I shall be obliged to write to Mr. Wil- ton about the way you are doing." " It will make no difference. I should die if I did not work." Shortly after this I received a long letter from 3h" I needed and de- ch miglit my other humbled amplain- i all my jessantly. my book lems as I to keep but that degree. ) me one 5 to work Mr. Wil- d die if I tter from Commencement Exercisei. 105 Ashy. He proudly confessed to loving the best and sweetest girl in the world : « At least she is so to me, Dora," he said. " I dare say somebody else would think you far better, perhaps I might have done so if I had not found you heartless in that respect." He went on to say, " I cannot marry for a long time, and Marion has consented to wait. I suppose Mr. Wilton told you about her; she is the new teacher who came here a short time ago. I have been working hard lately. Squire Mounts has given me employment, and I am saving all I can to enable me to get to school. If you were rich I should ask for a loan of money ; you once said that you would receive assistance from me, but we can neither help each othei: ex- cept with encouraging words." " Ah, Mr. Ashy 1 " I thought joyously, "I am richer than you think." And seizing my pen I wrote, saying: my salary was good it had lately been increased, for which I had an uncomfortable fear that it was owing rather to Mr.WUton's pri- vate generosity than to my employer's increased IL 106 One Quiet Life. appreciation of my merit. However that might be, it would enable me, very materially, to assist my friend towards the accomplishment of his desires, and I gladly availed myself of the chance to help him. It was under a protest that Ashy accepted my help ; but the little I was enabled to give, sup- plementing liis own scant means, enabled him to enter school immediately. The winter wore quickly away ; I was kept so diligently at work I scarcely had a moment for unhealthy thought. But the anniversary exer- ercises were a severe strain; I had my own classes to examine, and then take my place to be examined. I had scarcely a moment to myself, from morning till night. Mr. Wilton was there ; he was engaged with the board of examinera, and seemed to have a good deal of business to attend to, so that I gen- erally was with him only long enough to ex- change a word or two. His mother and sisters attended the closing exercises. I was honored ■ "r her own [e looked a avy coils, before," he ladies who ave in my (^hen I had VaJSXm • iU«|ii. II « ^Wj^l m [ CommencevMnt JSxercisea. 109 completed my toilet, I went into the professor's music room. He said : " Yrfu look very superb. Miss Dora ; my Bertha will never be handsome like you." "No one else will look at me through your spectacles, I fear," I laughingly replied. My composition was very kindly received, more applause I could not have desired. " It must have been the cotton dress gained me their kind opinion," I said, in reply to Professor Auhl- man's warm congratulations. " Oh, no ! we nevare looked at de garments ; it was de wonderful voice did charm us, and it was so like you ; I tought all de time, it is her- self is talking." *' Thank you, my good kind friend ; you can- not know how much I appreciate your encoura- ging words." *' I only tell you what is true," my kind- hearted friend replied, as he turned once more to his music. I sat down in his easy-chair, resting my tu-ed ' • •mmm t imM i'' 110 One Quiet Life. head, while, with closed eyes, I listened as ho wandered on through what seemed to me then to be labyrinths of harmony. No musiciai^I hud ever heard iu all my life seemed to possess the Boul of music to such a degree as Professor Auhlman. He knew my favorites, and, glad to please me, rendered them, one after another, in his most impassioned manner. He finished with Thalberg's " Home, Sweet Home," and turnuig round abruptly, said : " Shall you go home now, Miss Dora ? " "I have no home, really, to go to, Professor, I am all alone in the world." " Poor little girl I den you cannot understand dat piece I played last." " Ah, yes 1 better, perhaps, than those who have a home and loved ones. I had these once, but I do not expect to again, until I find them in a world where I shall listen to diviner har- monies than were ever tuned on earth." I; „ \ ,y . I— ■hmS&hBBE^^^BS^BHHh \ encd ns lio ;o me then liciai^I hud [lossess the Professor nd, glad to [luolhor, ill ished with id turning a?" rofessor, I nderstaud hose who lese once, find them iner har- CHAPTER Xlir. BEPENTANCB. A BEGAN to wonder next day what I should do during the vacation. I could retuiii to N,, and support myself, probably, by giving music lessons or by fancy work. My heart led me there almost iiTCsistibly ; how could I resist the longing that had taken possession of me to visit my parents' graves, all that was mine of kindred and love upon earth ? I wanted too to see the old home and the accus- tomed scenery, and faces of children, and to hear Mr. Wilton preach one of those grand, helpful sermons that used in other days to lift my hear* III •*rv&ii W - I J I J-iLJM 112 One Quiet Life. BO fur above the little anxieties and worriea of life, my simple every day life. ** Oh, I must go, it is all the consoktion I shall have for a whole year I " I exclaimed, passion- ately. And then the painful reflection came to me : " What am I becoming ? Where am I drift- ing? Surely I must have lost the last remenaut of the great blessed joy that I once possessed, if a short visit to the scenes of my childhood is the one pleasure of a whole year." I began to re- view the past year and asked myself what I had been doing, how living. Had God been in all my thoughts ; had he been the center of my af- fections, the supreme, abiding joy of my heart as he once was? I could only despairingly an- swer : " He is not." . The peade I liad once en- joyed had given place to unhappiness, and un- rest. My best affections were set on an earthly object ; my highest ambition was to succeed self- ishly. I saw that, in a half-hearted way, I had been endeavoring to keep the pure fires of di- vine love burning silently in my breast, hidden "SS! '!«»SSIWW&«»fe?t»».»?«*'«S!ft:3f^« ^■T^.y'r^ijiaai worries of Lion I ahull d, passioD- )n came to am I drif t- :; remenaut •ssessed, if lood is the !gan to re- ^hat I had )eeu in all of my af- ly heart as iringly an- 1 once en- ss, and un- an earthly cceed self- [vay, I had fires of di- fist, hidden "W •r-w tfiti . Mepentanee, '- Hi from the world ; neither asking nor giving help ; my light hidden under the bushel so long that it had gone out, or so nearly so that only a feeble flicker remained. "O God, have mercy upon me!" I cried ag- onizingly. "I feel myself helpless, wretched, lost. Thou only canst save me from myself, my only hope, my only help, is iu thee." I took my Bible, and as I turned leaf after leaf, my eyes caught at length these words of blessed comfort: "God 80 loved the world that he gave his only begotton Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life." ♦♦ There is no reservation here," I exclaimed, "not; even for the backslider ; it is ' whosoever ; ' I am included there ; ' Lord, I believe, help thou mine unbelief.'" For a long time I remained kneel- ing beside my narrow cot, praying for strength ; casting my all of fear, of doubt, of pain, upon him. The tea-bell rang. All through the afternoon 114 One Quiet Life. 1 had heard my class-mutes, and pupiln, or tho teauhcrs, at my door, some of them coming to bid a good-by that might novot bo followed by a meeting on earth. It was the first time I had over refused any of them admittance, no matter how busily I might be engaged ; but now I felt a higlier claim resting upon mo. I bathed my swollen face and went down to the diiiing-hall, when I was surprised to see so many vacant places at the table. I was grieved to have lost the last adieu from many to whom I was strongly attached. " Dr. Kye said : " Where have you been all the afternoon, Miss Thurston ? You have had n number of callei-s, and many of tho young ladies went away disappointed at not seeing you." " I will explain after tea," I replied, wonder- ing who were my callers. He, however, passed several cards down the table to me, when I was surprised to see the names of Mr. Wilton, and his mother and sisters. Jennie Mounts had also honored me with a call ; I was not aware that 1 , Repentance, sho wns in town ; ft short pang of jealous}' shot through my heart, when I thought of her visit- ing the city with Mr. Wilton. " Did thoy all corae together ? " I asked. " Yes, but Mr. Wilton called twice afterward to SCO you." " Did ho leave any message ? " I asked anx- iously. "I think not." " Has he gone back to N. ? " "He told me he would leave early in the morning, but he is engaged this evening and will not be able to come again." After tea, I went into the doctor's study and told him of my early conversion, of my succeed- ing failures, and of the great joy I had that af- ternoon again found. "I want you to help me," I said, earnestly. " I am very weaK, my resolves are useless ; I be- lieve if I had some work to do for God I should be kept safer ; I am willing to work, no matter how lowly it may be." * • ^ J •< ,i-n,^vm: " I shall gladly help you if I can, Dora ; we ~«>'--^-trX'''ii,i3xUii^-^~-- ' .-s«i^-^ III I 116 One Quiet Life. must help each other. You have done me good fah'eady. I too have been careless and worldly, may God forgive me.'' He gave me his hand, grasping mine fervently. "Shall I commence soon? I have lost so much time already I covet every moment now," I said. " What are you going to do during the vaca- tion?" " I have not yet decided ; I have been think- ing of going home, but if I can get something better to do I will gladly do it." "I can think of several ways in which you could be usefully employ! ; I will think them over to-night and we will decide in the morning which will be best." I sat that night until a late hour with two or three of the young ladies. I felt strong then to commence my work, and why need I wait for to-morrow ? " If I only look for it, 1 can find work every hour," I said to myself ; " if not for others, I can be making my own life pure and lovely ; if we were only what God would have imi :-mM%iM~ mmm \ r ' { .^am^-^ e me good d worldly, his hand, ve lost so lent now," the vaca- een think- something vhich you [link them e morning ith two or ig then to I wait for i can find if not for pure and 3uld have I ""^ Repentance. 117 us be, our lives might be a constant psalm of thanksgiving. "Life, my life, may be very beautiful aua happy yet," I joyously thought, as my tired head pressed the pillow that night, " even if I am denied its great earthly sweetness. If God's benediction rests "upon me, I shall know noth- ing of unrest, my heart shall hav-e no aching void. He will be my all, my entire portion." . But I found even after this that stern lessons must be learned before this state of rest can be attained in all its fulness. Inbred sin must be overcome ; temptation from without trampled beneath the feet, doubts and fears scattered to the winds ; but when the end has come, when God shjvU have completed his work in our hearts, and the unclouded light of Heaven dispels all the shadows that surround us on earth, then, in the clearer knowledge of that perfected state, we will not wish that one painful experience had been abated, a single de- fiance of doubt and difficulty been missed. CHAPTER XrV. i' < V I HOLIDAYS. HE next morning I awoke vith a strango feeling of happiness to which I had long been a stranger. « What is it ? " I wondered be- fore my scattered faculties were fully gathered, and then the blessed experiences of the preceding day came thronging to my memory. After breakfast, I accompanied the doctor in- to his study, with a large degree of expectancy. After we were seated, he opened the conver- sation by saying : " I have come to the conclusion that, if you can remain in the city during the hot weather, the most meiciful work you can engage in will ii8 iaa a strange [ had long idered be- gatkered, preceding ioctor in- pectaney. iG conver- it, if you weather, e in will I Holidayt. 110 be in visiting a few of the sick in hospitals. You can go and come at pleasure. " You can read to the patients, and write their letters, pray with them, and help them in many ways. I know of several families who will will- ingly supply you with flowers, particularly dur- ing their absence you will be able to get as many as you desire." " Where will I stay ? " I ventured to ask. " The servants, some of them, at least, will re- remain here, and you can manage to exist some wa}', I dare say ; it will, I fear, be very lone- some for you, but the good you may do will make you contented." " I shall not mind the loneliness, and will be very glad and thankful for the work. If I can't do anything else, I can read to them, and carry them flowers. But where shall I find books to read to them?" " I will give you the key of the library, and you can make your own selection ; but I think you will find the Bible the most suitable book. lUi One Quiet Life. When peraons are alone among strangers, ofueu face to face with death, it is God's word they de- sire most to hear." " When will I begin my work ? " was my next question. " To-day, if you desire. I will take you to the nearest general hospital, and will take you like- wise to those from whom you will obtain the flowers." After a few days, I found myself comfortably settled at my work. At first I felt terribly, passing among the suffering and dying. I was a stranger to weak nerves, but some of the scenes tried my strength to the utmost. There was one patient in whom from the very first I felt strongly interested. A fair, pure- faced boy, not more than fourteen, who hud met with a serious accident. He had left a pleasant country home, and come up to the great, busy city to make his fortune. He was errand boy in a large, dry goods establishment, and had just begun to get accustomed to the bustle, as well % Holiday». 121 ers, ofueu 1 they de- I my next 'ou to the you like- btaiu the mfortably terribly, Q. I was ;he aoenes I the very air, pure- a hud met \ pleasant •eat, busy nd boy in had just le, as well as loneliness of his new life, when he was brought into the hospital crushed and they feared dying. I had only begun my visits a little while, when, as I entered one of the wards, with several bunches of flowers in my hand, I caught his eyes wistfully turned towards me. I generally se- lected some fragrant, simple flowers, such as the poor, who were the most largely represented in the hospital, were familiar with. I had among the rest a bunch of violets peeping through their green leaves, looking so fresh and cool amid the heat of that midsummer afternoon. I stepped to his bedside, and said as kindly as I could : "Would you like some flowei-s, my little lad?" " Oh I if you please. I should be so grateful." « You may have your choice," and I held up the different bouquets. " I would like the violets best, they look so like my home in the country." His lips quivered, and I saw two great tears standing in his eyes. I put the Uowera iu a cup 122 One Quiet Life. at his side, where he could look at them, and breathe their perfume. I found his forehead very hot, so, while I bathed it, I talked to him of home and friends. After we had conversed for some time, he said : *' I have a sister that looks like you." " Can't you think, then, that I am your sister ? I will try to be just as kind as if I were." And then I asked : " Would you like me to read you some from the Bible ? " *' Oh, so much ! if you would read the four- teenth chapter of John. Mother used sp often to read that, and the following chapters, after father died." -,*,■ Eveiy day I visited him ; sometimes writing, at his dictation, long loving letters to his mother ; sometimes telling him of the blessed Jesus, who sympathized with us in our sorrows, and who waits to receive us, when this life is done, into a world where there are no bruised bodies, or crushed limbs. Often, while I conversed with them, and I forehead ed to him I time, he »> our sister ? re.' And e to read the four- d SQ often bers, after is writing, is mother ; esus, who and who )ue, into a bodies, or srsed with EoUdayt. 128 him, he would lay with closed eyes, from under whose long, fringed lids I could see the tears quietly steaUng. He would rarely make a direct reply to my occasional questionings, but when he did, I could find that he was thinking deeply of preparation for death and eternity. It became doubtful at last if his leg could be spared. The doctors came, and looked anx- iously at it, apparently dissatisfied with the way it was progressing. One morning, when I went in, he beckoned me to his bedside. « Oh, Miss Dora, I have been watching so long for you to come ! Don't you think, the doctoi-s are going to cut my leg off 1 What will become of me ? What will mother do now ? I was go- ing to earn money to pay for the farm." « The I^ord will provide, Willie, if we put our trust in him, and this may all be for your good. It is far better to lose your leg than to lose your Boul. Maybe, if you had been prosperous, yoji might have lost that, at last." " Oh, I am afraid I shall lose both ! God can- 124 One Quiet Life, not love me, or he wouldn't take away my health and make me a cripple, useless for life." **■ He afflicts, very often, those whom he loves. Every son whom he receives, he chastens." " Did he ever afflict you ? " he asked, with as- tonished gaze. " Yes, in a way that I should have thought far greater than the losing my right hand, or right foot. We must learn to trust God. I was a long time learning this, but I believe I have come to do so now, and what once seemed a burden too heavy for me to carry through life, I have come to find the means of procuring me my greatest earthly good." " Will you stay with me, vihen the doctors come ? I won't mind it so much if you are here. I wish you to pray for me while it's being done." He looked at me eagerly, almost imploringly, and then bui-st into tears. " I will come and remain with you through ^he operation, if I can control my feelings ; but j .»o will be unconscious." y my health B." m he loves. tens." id, with OS- thought far 1(1, or right [ was a long ve come to jburdeu too have come ay greatest he doctors u are here. 3ing done." iriugly, and hrough ^he i ; but J >7U Holidayt. 1S6 " I want you here when I come to myself, it will be such a comfort to see your face then." I gave him my promise then, certainly to re- main with him all the time, if the dootojs permit- ted. That afternoon the operation was to be per- formed, after the day began to grow cooler. I did not go home to dinner ; it was a long dis- tance away in the suburbs, and Willie was un- willing for me to leave him for an instant. I stepped into a restaurant, took a light dinner, and returned immediately. All through the dreary afternoon, I sat with his hand in mine, his patient, frightened face turned towards mine constantly. " Is it nearly four o'clock yet ? " he would ask, with a half-suppressed sob. Many times I was obliged to say " no," but at last the moment came, and with it the surgeon, and liis assistants. The attendants carried him to the room where the operation was to be per- formed, when the preparations were completed. 126 One Quiet Life. I had stood trial during some painful scenes, but had never witnessed anything so serious as this. " Will you be able to remain ? " Dr. Dowse asked. " I shall make the attempt for Willie's sake," I replied. " You look very pale, shall I get you a glass of brandy?" *' Thank you, I do not wish anything," I re- plied. Pretty soon the little patient fellow was un- conscious under the influence of ether, and the surgeon's knife was entering the tender flesh. I had sat with my back to the operators, but, when I heard the grating of the saw against the bone, a momentary dimness passed, like a cloudy film, over my eyes, and I felt myself surging for an instant, but a quick, gasping moan, as if of pain, from the boy, recalled my wandering senses. Soon all was done and he was laid upon his bed. I sat with him until late in the evening. " You will do him more good than I can," Dr. lenes, but IS OS this, 'r. Dowse j's sake," >u a glass ag," I re- was un- , and the flesh. I ut, when ;he bone, ady film, I for an ■ of pain, ; senses, apon his evening, an," Dr. HoUdayt, 127 Dowse, the surgeon, said to me when ho heard Willie faintly urging mo not to leave him. " If you will remain until I have completed my rounds, I will take you home." " I shall stay with pleasure, but shall not need to trouble you to go so far. I am not afraid to go alone," I said, gratefully. I remained until the late twilight had nearly faded from the sky. As I sat there thinking, — my poor boy was too weak to talk, or to listen to reading either, — pondering over the new work that had come to me, I wondered if 1 might not be more useful here than in the school-room. " If I were only rich," I murmured softly, " I should uot hesitate a moment." My peculiar training never fitted me to be a teacher ; I liked my liberty too well ; beside, I had rather be helping the poor and suffering who have so few to care for them, it was more like missionary work. :---,"-. '-■■ ^ -. ^ ; V '. I thought sadly of Willie longing to see' his mother, and her heart yearning for a glimpse of f^" One Quiet Life. her only son. Suddenly, like nn inspiration, the tliouglit ocourred : Could I not beg the necerisiiry sum of money from some of my friends, to en- able her to come ? If anything would bring back the rapidly failing health of the patient boy, surely, it would be his mother's presence and care. While I was pondering deeply over my newly planned scheme. Dr. Dowse came for me. I had forgotten his promise and felt reluctant to take him so far, when I knew he must be wearied with the day's duties. *' I shall feel distressed at having you go so far," I said ruefully. " I am perfectly acquainted with the way, and have no fear of the darkness." '* I shall certainly not aUow you to do so much for my patients, and then suffer you to walk such a distance, after night, when I have a car- riage at the door." I was not sorry, after all, for the drive, out through the cool evening air, was certainly very enjoyable. I was exhausted with watching and -WSiSWi^i^C^^i&'-A^^Jtlilf^^SW^^ ation, the necerisiuy ids, to en- uring back Jent boy, lenoe aud my newly le. I had at to take 3 wearied you go 80 cquainted larkness." } so much to walk ive a car- Irive, out linly very ibing and BoUdayt. 129 anxiety, and the easy motion of the carriage was grateful to my tired limbs. I found the doctor a very pleasant companion, and the drive seemed so short I was surprised when I saw the great gloomy walls of my habi- 'tation gleaming in the bright moonlight. " It is a very long walk for you, every day," he remarked, as we drew up at the door. " You should, at least, ride on your return home." " I am so accustomed to Avalking I think noth- ing of it." " May I ask if you shall continue your wel- come visits much longer? " " Not after the holidays, I shall resume teach- ing then." " Is this the way you are spending your holi- days?" " Yes, and I find it a very happy way. I like to be doing something, if it is ever so small, to help others." After a short pause, he said : " I wish there were more of your mind in our %pe to see nent and money," I die and " You are not going to die, darling," I said, more perhaps as a question than an assertion. '* I think I must die soon." " Why do you think so ? " I asked, tearfully. . He replied, more as if talking to himself: *'■ He said we might come ; he died for us." " What do you say, Willie ? " . _, , , *' Christ, the Lord Christ, died for me; you have told me so." *' Yes, dear ; and he loves you better than we can do, and I trust lie will soon make you well again." , . . . , . .^ ..?,.. ** I should be able to walk in heaven, wouldn't I?" he asked. I could still the rising in my heart no longer, and laying my head beside his on the pillow, I burst into tears. . ^ ^^ "Should you be sorry if I died?" he gently asked. , *, ^ ., *' O Willie, you must live for all our sakes." ''Fot if Jesus wants me in Heaven. He knows how hard it would be for me on earth ; Hannah and the others will cai*e for motb jr." 134 One Quiet Life. While we were talking, Dr. Dowse came to the bedside; I did not hear his footsteps and was startled by feeling a hand rest on my head for an instant. "What is the matter, brave heart?" he asked. I looked up, grieved to think I should seem so poor a nurse. "Willie thinks he is going to die," I said, suppressing a sob. " And you are going to help him." His voice was slightly reproachful. "Forgive me. Doctor, but I shall do better for the future. You cannot know how I have learned to love him." He looked at me a little curiously, I thought, and then said : " It is no wonder ^ loves you." The next morning I was early at my post; while the doctor went to the depot for Mrs. May. I found Willie looking weaker than he had yet done: my heart sank. "I fear his mother has only come to see him die," I thought, i^ zi^^^'M'^^^^^^li^i^- ' >e came to tsteps and ti my head eart?" he Id seem so I going to His voice better for r I have ' thought, my post; for Mrs. r than he fear his '. thought, I Willie's Death. «"»•., mw^m.^ 185 as I looked at his poov pinched face and bright eyes. When he saw me, he exclaimed: "Ohl I had such a lovely dream last night ; I thought mother came and staid with me for a while, and then I went away into a beautiful field, where there was a river flowing, and on its banks flowers were growing, far sweeter than those you bring us, while music seemed floating all around me. Ohl I was so happy! I thought it must be Heaven." " Perhaps it was, dear ; do you think, if I told you something in your dream might come true to-day, you could bear it ? " His face flushed with sudden excitement, " Is my mother coming ? " he cried. " Yes, Willie, I think you will see her in a little while." " When ? " and his voice sank to a whisper. « Perhaps to-day, but you must be brave." He turned so pale I feared he would faint; clasping his thin little hands and raising his eyes, he said reverently : 186 One Quiet I^fe. ^ " I thank thee, blessed Saviour, for thy good- ness." * I heard the doctor's footstep at the door ; I went to open it, and there behind our kind friend I saw a timid, gentle-looking woman with a face so eagerly anxious I instantly felt it was Willie's mother. I put my arms about her neck, feeling that she needed sympathy. " Your dear boy knows you are coming." The doctor held the door open for her to pass through ; we had rtmoved him into a little room by himself. When Doctor. Dowse found that I had begged money to bring Mrs. May, he said to me : "I shall do my part also," and so obtained for him extra accommodation. The door closed on the widow and her son and turning to my companion I saw, through my own tear-blurred eyes, that his own were moist. For a few days Willie seemed to rally, and we, thought, his mother and I, that he would cer- .■ ' ! ' J' r.-.i f»~ .j'f •.' tainly recover. I had more leisure now for my other friends 1 1 i s WUlie'a Death. r thy good- he door ; I our kind ig woman ntly felt it ) about her ling." her to pass little room und that I , he said to )0 obtained id her son v^, through own were y, and we, nrould eer- ier friends t \ 1 1 in the hospital, and received many a pleasant greeting from Alick Jones, who had complained of former neglect. - One morning, I was a little later than usual ; I had not been feeling well and the day was very unfavorable, raining and blowing with low, leaden skies, and I thought, that I should have a long day for writing my letters, of which there were a number due. ' ' While I was hesitating, I heard the door-bell ring ; my first thought was that possibly Mr. Wilton had come ; he had written me that he would be in town shortly ; but my pleasant ex- pectation was to be disappointed. Through the half-closed study door, I heard Dr. Dowse in- quiring for me ; in a moment I was in the hall to receive him. Immediately after-the usual greet- ing, he said : " Will you come with me, Willie is very anxious to see you ? " " Is he worse ? " I asked, anxiously. " Yes, he is sinking very fast. But you must not grieve, my dear Miss Thurston, we know it 188 One Quiet Life. "will be well with him ; you should be thankful for that." I could scarcely be thankful for anything just then. I had become so strongly attached to the dear, patient boy that it seemed I could not give him up. 1 was soon ready to accompany the doctor; with rare thoughtfulness he forbore to speak, but urged the horse to his utmost speed. As we en- tered the building I said : "Will he last long?" " Possibly until noon." " So soon ? " I whispered, and it was so, for at noon he left us ; but the summons came gently, for we scarcely knew when the spirit winged its flight to the paradise of God. I took Mrs. May home with me, together with the poor mained body of her darling child. " I must take him home," she said, with tear- less eyes and stricken face, "I shall have his grave beside his father's." She had hitherto refused my offer to share my i V • <» thankful ling just id to the not give I doctor; )eak, but LS we en- so, for at le gently, .ringed its Mrs. May ir mained with tear- have his I share my i WUlie't Death. 189 home with her ; she did not leave Willie day or night. In the early morning of the succeeding day Dr. Dowse came to drive her to the station ; as she bade me good-by tears, of gratitude stood in her eyes. " I can only pray for you," she said : " that I shall do so long as I live. May God reward you." *' He has given me already all the reward I fijsire," I replied, at the same time placing in her hand the remainder of the funds entrusted to my care for her and Willie, and then I kissed her good-by, just as the carriage was starting* On his return from the station. Dr. Dowse called ; he said : " I thought a drive would do you good ; will you allow me the pleasure of giving you one?" I think he seemed fearful lest I might refuse. Without a moment's hesitation, I said : "I shall be very grateful, and will be ready in a moment." He looked so gratified that I went to my |i tlHr ■-B.5^-.^if»-yv*p:s»*<. -■■ '.■■m-«wr- One Quiet Life. room feeling glad that I could confer a pleasure 80 easily. A moment after, I mentally shook myself as I said : " You proud, foolish creature, to think any one should care for your company; you, who never had a lover in your life;" and then I sighed, just a little sigh, but I could not dare to complain about anything now. j t >; ' ■; • \ ; :t,^..,,,,^-<., ■ ,;(; ^ ■ i>^^^ . r rw » -.rtJ^ ,.-.i;.*>l^v^4r!.'^^- "^^S ; pleasure yself as I Lhink any you, who d then I ot dare to I ;v»V CHAPTER XVI. * DOCTOR DOWSB. » 'N a few daya Dr. Kye and his family re- turned, and in less than a fortnight our school duties were tc be resumed. When Mrs. Kye witnessed my weariness after returning at night from a day spent at the hospital, she ex- claimed loudly against a continuance of such ex- haustive labor, especially as the school duties would so soon be pressing upon me. ' ." "You are unjust to yourself in assuming to such an extent the burdens of others, and if you won't think of yourself, I must think foi you," she said in her determined way a morning oi* 141 HI; 142 One Quiet Life. two after their arrival, as I was preparing to leave for the hospital. " You will at least let me go once more to suy good-by?" I askedlaughingly. "Well, I suppose you must be allowed that privilege, but remember that must be all." I felt a little sadly at the thought of ceasing my visits to my sick friends, for, without any undue elevation of mind, I knew that they would miss me. When I was telling them that day that I must leave them very soon, probably for good, in the midst of our leave-taking. Dr. Dowse came in. "What is the matter here, that you look so sober ? " he inquired. "Matter enough," my young Alick replied, " we are losing the sunshine of the house." " How so ? " As the doctor spoke, he glanced laughingly towards me. "That must be you Miss Thurston." "If so, there must be very shadowy sunshine '^^-i~r^ Doctor Dowet.. 148 paring to jro to buy iwed that 11." )f ceasing hout uny ibat they ay that I for good, r. Dowse lU look so k replied, ise." 16 glanced 3t be you Y sunshine M) here, I feel more like a cloud just now, and you will see the drops pretty soon if I don't leave." I started for the door, the doctor following me. '' You didn't mean that we shall not Ree you here again ? " he asked. "Our school commences shortly and thoy think I must take a few days first of entire rest, but I shall try to come somt anes." " Shall I drive you home ? " he asked. " I shall bo very glad to have one more drive with Gypsey," I replied. | " I hope you may have a great many more." "Thank you, I should enjoy it a great deal more than Gypsey, I dare say." "Not half so much as Gypsey's master, I fear." • I noticed, as he spoke, the same expression flit across his face that I saw when he found me that day in tears at Willie's bedside. I did not make any reply, but for an instant wished it were Mr. Wilton at my side, instead of Dr. il w i-i»imSmi ftSfflSS 144 One Quiet Life. Dowse. His nezL question startled me ; I need not add that it gave me pain. He said gently : "May I hope some day to have the right to keep you by my side untU death parts us, Dora?" Was he asking me to marry him, I wondered? I looked up into his face; it was all aglow, that still, self-contuined face with some deep emotion. He must havo seen a look of surprise in my up- turned face, he spoke eagerly : ' " You understand my meaning? I want you for my wife. You can never know how I have learned to love you." "Oh I" That was all I could say, but he fully understood, instantly, what that Uttle ejac- ulative implied. « I have surprised you," he said hurriedljr ; " I might have known; can you not learn to love me? I will be wUling to wait, willing to take you ^ith ever so small a share of your heart, darling." » Oh, my dear, best friend, I am so sorry, but 'I f> > .-_JSlSSi'Ei'*'f i '^H^i^sEiT Doctor Dotv^e. 145 ne ; I need aid gently : he right to a parts us, wondered ? aglow, that iep emotion. 6 in my up- I want you how I have say, but he kt little ejac- arriedl7 ; " I earn to love Uing to take your heart, so sorry, but m I love another; I cannot help telling you that which I had thought no one would ever know." « Is that love not returned? " «' Only the love of a brother is given." I felt my cheeks crimson under his gaze. " How can he help loving you as a man only once in a life-time loves a woman?" There was a suppressed passion in his voice that star- tled me. He did not speak again but urged his horse to her utmost speed. As I sat at hi^ side and thought of the new life I had but just re- fused—a life that might have been so full of love and usefulness, with a friend and husband whom scores of girls, as rich and beautiful as I was poor and plain, would gladly have accepted. I wondered if I was doing right, had I done right? Although my heart was aching for rest and af- fection I was glad I had said no, or, at least, what: was its equivalent. I had long ago re- solved that, so far as I was able, I should be true and honest in my intercourse with everyone, how much more so in such a case as this ; but, never- 14G One Quiet Life. theless, the wish did trouble me somewhat, as I sat by his side, that I could have honorably ac- cepted his hand and heart; a gift so great for one like him to give me. Garrulous nuree at the hospital had informed me of his wealth, and, what with persons of their class is so important, his anstocratic connections. How could I then doubt the reality of his afTec- tion in asking me, a humble, penniless girl, to share his home and fortune ? When we were saying good-by at the door, as I stood with my hand in his T said, possibly with a quiver in my voice ; "I want you for my friend, will you let mo love you as such ? " " I shall be glad to have you think of me in any way," he said as be wrung my hand. After I had watched him out of sight, I thought with a pang. " Is this the joy of having lovera, the pleasure of triumph I have heard the girls talk so much about? Oh I it is sadder far than Willie's death," I murmured. " What a S3S?S:i ewhat, aa I norably ac- o great for d informed ms of their jnncctions. f his afTec- 38S girl, to le door, as isibly with Du let me : of me in id. ' sight, I of having heard the ladder far 'What a I Doctor Dotvae* 147 dreary thing life is I I see there is nothing for me but Heaven and the rest from every sorrow that I shall find there." In the seclusion of my own room I asked myself: '' Could he love mo as I too love another, and would the burden of that unrequited love give him the same unrest of soul that I endure? If it were not a sin I would almost iather have married him to save so noble a heart from such suffering aa I have experienced." I passed a sleepless night ; like a tiresome re- frain the question would haunt me. Was it im- possible for two to think of each other as dearly cherished friends without one of them overstep- ping the bounds of friendship, and encroaching on that fairer field that liea within every other of human affection ? I could see plainly where I had, in the past, erred. I should have looked more to my own sex for companionship, but, alas I with the sterner sex I had found moro nobleness of character, and could I be blamed for my pref- erence? I determined then to look anxiously •^' - '--iiaafcyiie * ;gtirt$ iii ii i , j i "yii i t j i ia. i ifTi»rTiug« ii i i i sait ii i i 'i y i ^ • 148 One Quiet L\fe. among the fresh arrivala at the opening of the school for a friend, and one not likely to spoil it all someday by falling in love and marrying. The next morning, when I met Dr. Kye at breakfast, my pale face and jaded look alarmed him. "How thoughtless I have been to allow you to wear yourself out," he exclaimed. " You shall have your holiday, too. How would you like to gotoN.?" I thought, "Would the tired child lost in the darkness be glad of its mother's embrace? I quietly answered, " It is impossible for me to go anywhere now." " Why so ? " he asked, abruptly. I blushed painfully. Should I confess to my poverty ? I had not a dollar left ; he must have guessed the cause of my embarrassment. "You cannoi have expended much on your wardrobe ; I cannot discover even a new ribbon," he said, playfully. I did not make him Ai:y re- ply. "I am indebted to you for several favors," he said, kindly, "and I can remain so no longer." '%? Doctor Dowie, 149 ng of the to spoil it •ying. :. Kye at c alarmed I to allow I. "You ould you 38t in the •race ? I me to go 3SS to my lust have on your ribbon," i ary re- . favors," longer." I wondered at the time what he could mean, but had nearly forgotten all about it. At twi- light, that same evening, I went to sit for an hour or two with Mrs. Kye, and to have a romp with Frank and Lulu. They were frolicsome children and I enjoyed a half hour's fun with them now and then. While we were in the midst of a noisy game we heard the doctor's footsteps at the door, his entrance was generally the signal for a cessation of the game, whatever it might be. When he saw me he handed me a paper ; in the deepening twilight I was obliged to carry it to the window to discover its contents. How my heart jumped when I saw that it was a pass to and fro to N. " O Doctor I how shall I thank you ? " I joy- fully exclaimed. "By taking an installment on your salary," he replied, handing me my first quarter's allow- ance for the coming year. " The next question now is, how I shsill ever repay you for all that you have done for me, es- t^timmikammimmmmimsmmm ^ r 150 One Quiet Life, pecially this last act of kindness. I suppose Mr. Wilton has told you how troublesomely inde- pendent I am ? " ''Yes, and he has told me so many things about you I have been surprised that he has not come to claim such a treasure for his own." I was glad the darkness concealed my crimson face. It was not long until I was safe in my own room trying to measure the extent of my coming happiness, and trying also to plan for the few days among the scenes anU friends of my childhood so that every moment might be yielding its harvest of joy. ^ The pleasure of going to my home was greatly heightened by the unexpected prepayment of salary. I was glad to be able to show those who had befriended me that I was not forgetful of their former acts of benevolence, and although the gifts were pitifully small, I knew those for whom they were intended would appreciate them, not for their intrinsic value, but for the grateful spirit which prompted them. I resolved to take ppose Mr. aely inde- ,ny things lie has not )wn." ly crimson afe in my ent of my i phin for friends of might be as greatly yment of low those forgetful . although those for iate them, I grateful id to take Doctor Dowse. the noon train of the following day for N., and would, even then, have suflBcient time after its arrival, to make my way to Mi-s. Dutton's before nightfall. Among all the kind friends who, for my parent's sake, I knew would gladly welcome me for a week's stay, I felt more strongly drawn •towards Mrs. Dutton's beaming fireside than any, although the question of sleeping accom- modations perplexed me somewhat. I was awake the next morning at dawn, and had my valise packed, and room set in order, before the rising bell sounded through the silent building. How happy and light my heart felt as I went softly singing about my room that early morning ; over and over I asked myself if it could be true, that I should see the dear home before I lay on the pillow that night. But I was not sure, just then, of having a pillow ; I might be obliged to content myself with a rock- ing-chair in Mrs. Dutton's kitchen. Mrs. Kye noticed my poor appetite at break- fast, which drew the doctor's attention, and I was u 152 One Quiet Life. obliged to sustain myself against a good deal of good-natured raillery; I could, however, that day, have submitted patiently to anything they mi^ht hive said; it would have been next to impossible to haYe> raffled my serenity. I 'ooddcalof wever, that ything they >en next to ^' '* H CHAPTER XVII. HOMK AGAIN. soon completed all the purchases my means would allow, and was enabled to to pay a flying visit to my hospital friends. I feared Dr. Dowse would impute a long alisence to what he had said the day before, and I hon- ored him too highly to wotmd his feelings un- necessarily. I met him at the door, as I was leaving. I saw a flush come over his face at sight of me, for an instant, and then it was gone. i^^i 154 One Quiet L{fe. I' ^ " I have come to say good-by. I am going to make a visit to N., and I was afraid you would wonder at my absence." ♦♦ I am grateful to you for your thoughtfulness. I should have been pained to think I had driven you from here." *' I would only come all the sooner," I said ea- gerly. "I look upon you now as one of my best friends." " I shall bo glad to do all for you that the nearest friend can do," he said a little sadly I thought, then in a lighter tone he asked if he might drive me home. I was grateful for his offer, for I was really fa- tigued, and forgetting for the time that it was his busiest part of the day, I stepped gladly into the easy carriage, and soon found myself at home. After an early dinner I drove to the station. I was in quite a fever of anxiety, lest the train should leave me. As it was I had a good halt hour to wait ; but tlie time soon passed, and I mimttimtimmi^ ■ m going to you would • :. ' ' • ghtfulness. had driven ' I uaid ea- )ne of my that the e sadly I isked if he IS really fa- lat it was "m jladly into myself at le station. b the train good halt )sed, and I ., Nome Again. 156 found myself flying along towards the dearest spot on earth to me. When we reached the station, I found Mr. Wilton waiting with his carriage, to take me to the parsonage. He came in with such a pleased look on his face I could not hide the joy I felt for a few minutes. The warmtlj of his welcome scarcely exceeded the pleasure I manifested at seeing him. He said, while we were waiting for the crowd to leave : ♦' I have been waiting here these two hours for you. I could not rest until I came here, and then I was equally impatient for the arrival of the train." *' How did you know I was coming ? " I asked wonderingly. "I thought to take my friends by surprise." " A little bird whispered it to me," he replied with a smile. " I think it was a very large bird, whose wings won't have plumed for some time to come ; the same bird, I fancy, who bought me the ticket to ■5 ' Otu Quiet Life. come here." " Then it was not through your own free will that you came ? " « Yes, it was. If my will could have brought me, I should have been here long ago, but you know that won't pay one's passage." I sighed softly as I thought how nearly I had come to losing this great pleasure. He looked at me closely for a moment ; I could see that he took in at a glance my plain attire. It did not trouble me to acknowledge my poverty to him ; he knew me too weU to think that I did it for effect. " You should not rob yourself, Dora," he said gently ; " but I fear you spare too much for oth- ers, and care too little for yourself." "Do you think with our natures there is any danger of that?" I asked thoughtfully. «My fault has always been to think of self first, and last, too," I added after a moment's pause. " It is better to err as I know you are doing, Dora, but I do not like to think of you being de- own free will have brought ago, but you nearly I had He looked I see that he It did not 3rty to him ; I I did it for «a," he said ich for oth- bhere is any illy. « My If first, and luse. are doing, u being de- Mome Again, 167 prived of anything that would add to your com- fort and happiness." '* Weil, I am so happy to-night that I feel as rich as CroesuSi** For a while I could scarcely refrain from ex- hibiting the exuberance of my delight in some childish way. I enjoyed the drive along the ac- customed streets so supremely that I had foi-got- ten to tell Mr. Wilton that I wished to go di- rect to Mrs. Dutton's, until the horse was enter- ing the carriage -drive leading to the parsonage. " Shall I alight here, or will you take me to Mrs. Dutton's? " I iisked, somewhat uneasily. " You do not think of staying there ? " " It is nearest home, and I had rather go there than stay at any other place." •'I think Mrs. Dutton's sleeping apartments are already in an overcrowded state." He gave me an amused look as he spoke. . ..rw . >. -.. *' Oh, an easy-chair will be sufficient for me, until I get some better arrangement made," I ea- gerly answered. .t3^,i^i.y!j ;!«; .*^ / .^jsi„ 158 One Quiet L\fe. ♦* I shall not allow my little sister to do any- thing like that, when we have half a dozen un- occupied sleeping rooms." I only wondered what Mrs. Mounts and Jen- nie would say .to such a proceeding. WhUe I hesitated, he said : " We are expecting you here." My heart stood still for an instant. " Are you married, Mr. Wilton?" My voice sounded strangely even to myself. '' Would you congratulate me if I were mar- ried, Dora?" For an instant a film came over my eyes, but I held cut mj hand ; he was standing beside the carriage, waiting to lift mb out ; I was able to murmur half audibly, " I hope you will be happy." 'Just then, I saw a lady within the door, and a pleasant voice asked : " Have you come, Philip ? " *' Yes, we are here." He stood ready to lift me from the cair:;ge. to do any- a dozen un- ats and Jen- y. WhUe I " Are you ice sounded I were mar- ay eyes, but ig beside the cvas able to rou will be 3 door, and a ready to lift »» ". ' 7 ■ Home Again. 169 " Is that your wife, Mr. Wilton ? " I looked at him, I did not know my face was so ghastly. " What is the matter, Dora, are you sick ? " he asked huniedly. '■^ I was able to murmur an almost incoherent "no." Like a dagger, the question presented it- self to my mind : '' Can that woman love him as I have done ? May Ixod forgive me, as I do, now I " "Should you be sorry if I were married, Dora ? " Someway, from his manner of speaking, my mind felt relieved. " I should wish always, to see you happy," was my rather unsatisfactory reply to his question. " Ah, well, my child, you need not fear losing your brother. I am not married, and do not know that I shall ever be." Then he introduced me to the pleasant-voiced lady. How groundless my fear anU pain. It was oaly his sister I Her greeting jvas bO kindly her manner so cordial, that I felt instantly at < - i/l i m ' 9V- ''^^»i :f- ' MMH if One Quiet Life, eoBQ in her presence. She conducted me, her- self, to my room, which I found so comfortable, and cheery, the wish unbidden came that I could stay in it forever, or rather claim it for my own. When I glanced at my companion's rich even- ing dress, and contrasted it with my own shabby costume, I was tempted to wish myself beside Mrs. Button's homely fireside. But mortified vanity, unbecoming habiliments and all, I felt that I would still prefer having my earnings in- vested as they were than to have them expended in fine clothes. I consoled myself with the thought that ten years hence it would not mat- ter much how I was then habited, while the lit- tle I had been enabled to expend for others might 'still be benefiting some one. While I was arranging my hair, Miss Wilton said : .» " I am so glad to have you here, I get so lonely in my brother's absence." ; . iU i v ; ,^5 ; . " You have plenty of books and music," I re- marked. ■ ■... " - ".-■.■■ „: : '-.,i^> -c^ 1^ .;;..,-■ ;i:- ,4,u "-] me, her- afortable, e that I it for my ich even- n shabby If beside mortified all, I felt cnings in- expended with the not mat- te the lit- or others WhUe I id: -. ., ISO lonely lie," I re- *^ i- Some Again. 161 *' Ah, well, one needs something beside books for company. I had rather have you sitting near me than the presence of a hundred musty fo- lios." " Thank you very much," I laughingly replied, " I wish I could gratify your desire. It is so de- lightful to be here, I can scarcely realize that I am once more at home." " Why did you not come home then, directly, when school was done ? " I thought I migl\J; as well plainly confess to my lack of means, so I frankl}'^ answered her ques- tion. " I had not at the time sufficient money to pay my fare, without depriving myself of a few of the necessities of life ; and beside, I wished to be doing something for those who need our- help. I was enabled to see how selfishly I had been living, and I hoped to atone for the past." " And you remained in the city through all the heat, without a breath of fresh, pure air," she said pityingly. m One Quiet Life. " But I was needed there the most. Pec>plo leave the city just when the sick need care the most. I am young and strong, and can endure hardship, such slight hardships as I have as yet had to meet." " I should believe that, together with teaching all the year, you had very much more than your share." "Ohl it was pleasure compared with what thousands in that one city have to bear. I did not know until recently that there was so much misery in the world, and it does one good to find how much more others suffer." " You must be very happy living such an un- selfish life," she said wistfully. " I have scarcely begun to live that life yet. Here I liave left duties of my own that others will be obliged to perform, merely for my own pleasure. I do not know but that I am more selfish than most persons, but I cannot regret that I am here. It is compensation, a hundred fold, for all I have endeavored to do for others." •v^ Pec'ple . caro the n endure ,ve as yet teaching han your ith what r. I did so much good to h an un- life yet. t,t others my own am more ot regret hundred : others." •v? Home Again. 163 The tea-bell rang then, interrupting our far- ther conversation. When we went down-stairs, I found Mrs. Green waiting to speak with me. She expressed so much pleasure at seeing me, I was led 'to wonder if she would be willnig again to endure the excruciating sounds I used to make at the piano. I spent such a happy evening, the pleasantest I had known for months. I soon forgot my plain attire, both Mr. Wilton and his sister had such a happy art of making one feel so perfectly at home with one's self and all the world. He seemed gratified with the progress I had made in music. I had got so now I could trans- late those mysteries of sound much more melo- diously than when I used to give poor Mrs. Green the noises in her head. We retired late. I had enjoyed the evening so supremely I was incredulous, when Mr. Wil- ton said: " It is nearly midnight. We have been very forgetful of Dora's weariness." * :-i(f ■T' IWpiP||JI|JlU|llUl| i .[| i pil| i !| ^r< m One Quiet Life. " I had foi;gotten it myself," I answered. At prayers that evening, it was a psalm of thanksgiving Mr. Wilton read, and as I leaned my head back on my easy-chuir, I thought, with closed eyes but rejoicing heart, what a thanks- giving my whole life should be. I felt that God was giving me sunshine after the storm-cloud, just as it was needed. I believed then that I should never again yield to despairing thoughts, after the way in which he had led me. " How I must ever walk in the light," I only murmured, ** even until I reach the unclouded light of the hereafter, when we shall know even as also we are known." And then, there came a pain to my heart, so sharp in its bitterness that the teara stole down under the tightly-closed lashes. Sadly I recollected that it was not thus I was known in this home. When Mr. Wilton had finished reading the psalm, and said in those full rich tones that al- ways thrilled my heart so strangely, " Let us pray," I crouched beside my chair, glad to be 1 ■'iA Homp Again. 165 :ed. psalm of 1 1 leaned ght, with ^ thanks- tbat God rm-cloud, n that I thoughts, . " How urmured, ht of the s also we un to iny the teara 1 lashes, lus I was diug the s that al- , " Let us ad to be ■9? able to conceal the emotion I could not control. As he prayed, asking for grace to enable us to to live aright, for strength to overcome the world and our own hearts, and that we might live earnest, holy lives, my heart joined in a fer- vent amen, while soon I felt the peace entering my soul that always follows believing prayer. When we arose from our knees, I had regained my composure, and could say good-night as calmly as if there were no need of hiding a thought from either of them. =lf '■.^.g^iitju." I ^ imij i . Mjxisx :. m mmimfim. CHAPTER XVIII. . OLD FBIENDS. HE next morning I was awake at an earljr hour, anticipating a world of pleasure for that day. The sun was shining brightly, and through my open window the fragrance of a thousand blossoms was pouring in a dewy sweet- ness. - '■■"'■' As I gazed from my window through the clus- tering trees that adorned the grounds, I could gain glimpses of the surrounding landscape. It seemed to me then that if I could only live in that lovely spot I should have nothing left to wish for ; and then I thought, if I only possessed i66 ft If mmsimmmm •MM u4 an earljT* asure for itly, and ice of a ry sweet- the clus- , I could jape. It ly live in g left to possessed 'I I > 1; I •' If I could only live in that lovely spot." Page l(i«. ■I l> A., t >1 11 ^ i«MM ■tf\ LL •Jl**" ■ l l>P| .HI II ) fl ,. l l | i. l U f I Old Friends. 167 HI that pence that pnaseth xintlcrstniKling in nil its fullness, I could bo liappy anywhere on earth or in any society. I believe I waa that morning standing near the confines of that blessed border land which Bunyan describes, where the birds are always singing in the sunshine, and the river of life is sparkling in unclouded light, while, just a little way beyond, lies the city of the re- deemed. My heart was overflowing with thankfulness to the Father who loved me, and whose benedic- tion was resting upon me, and, as I glanced up through the rustling leaves that only partially concealed the blue heavens beyond, I realized that I might, with those I loved, in a little while be gathered there safe forever. " How happy are the sainted dead I " I ex- claimed half aload, when a voice within me seemed to whisper that I should be happy too. The same grace that enabled them to triumph was freely offered to me, while in addition God had called me to be a co-worker in the world's sass ^fi^WMMMI*^ 168 One Qwet Life. \ ripening harvest field. Already I had taken, with futiblc, trembling Imnd, the sickle and stood amid the waving grain. " Am I wearied of the work ? " I asked my- self. " Not wearied, no, anxious, doubly anxious to endure, even through the noonday heat, on to the eventime, when God might say, even to me, weak, and tempted though I might be, ' Well done, faithful servant.' " Whether it was the glorious morning-time, with the bird going wild with ecstacy of song, and tho balmy air redolent with the fragrance of the summer blossoms, together with nature's early matinals, no discords anywhere, the most distinct sounds I could hear being the distant melody of tinkling bells on patient cows as they wandered through the pastures' richness, whether it were these combined that thrilled me so I cannot tell, but, it may be, when we hold deep- est communion with his fairest works that God most plainly speaks with us. It was amid the T^ ad taken, and utood asked my- mxious to oat, on to iren to me, be, ' Well ning-time. "* y of song, fragrance h nature's the most le distant (vs as they 1 s, whether ■4 me 80 I lold deep- that God 1 amid the " Old Friendt. 160 overwhflraing grandeur of Sinai tliat Moaes lield liighest intercourHO with Jehovah. It was not so much prayer as praise I mingled with that morning's sacrifice which I offered kneeling in the ttewy air as it floated througlj my open window; for weeks the hallowed in- fluence of that morning's communion continued with me. I hoard the bell at last, and supposing it the sunmions to breakfast I went down to join my friends, feeling less anxiety about my costume than on the preceding evening. Mrs. Green met me at the foot of the stairs with a beautiful rose, the diamond drops still clinging to it. I fastened it among the braids of my hair and went out on the veranda to wait for breakfast. I had mistaken the rising bell for the call to breakfast. It was not long before Mr. Wilton came in search of me, und Mrs. Green soon af- ter summoned us to the smoking coffee, hot rolls, and other c Ucacies for which she was so famous. I was actually ashamed of my appetite, and con- m J 170 One Quiet Life, eluded for the future to beg a luncheon from Mrs. Green before coming to table. " Ah, me ! " my next thought was, " I am getting demoralized altogether, but I won't mar the blessedness of my morning's communion with de!?I)airing thoughts." After prayers Miss Wilton asked her brother his plans for the day's recreation. He turned to me, anr' said: "What would you like, Dora? we shall be entirely at your disposal for a week." " You must not saj' that," I replied, while I blushed painfully at the thought of having so much attention paid to my insignificant self. " I shall only be satisfied remaining here, by not interrupting your arrangements at all." " Mrs. Dutton must bo visited before any of your other friends, I presume," Mr. Wilton said playfully. " My mind leads me more strongly in that di- rection than any other," I replied. Miss Wilton said very decidedly : " You must stay away a very little while then, for I intend keeping you here most of the time." I ■t ■OR I .i',t . l .,l » ; ;heon from ■'Ah, me!" lemoralized Ineas of my thoughts." lier brother B turned to ike, Dora? jr a week." id, while I having so ficant self, ere, ]by not fore any of iViltou said in that di- ' You must >r I intend I Old Friends. 171 *• You did not know she fell in love with you at the examination, Dora ? " " It must have been on account of my cotton 1 dress," I laughed lightly to hide my pleasure at knowing she liked me. " It could not have been with yourself, I sup- pose. Ah I Dora, my child, you will never learn your actual worth, I fear." He shook his head as though my case were desperate. I went first that morning to see Mrs. Dutton. That good woman had heard of my arrival, and a general scrubbing cI chairs, and floors, and faces, had ensued. The children were arranged against the kitchen wall in higb-backed chairs. Mr. Dutton was in the house wben I went in ; I found him poring over one of his few books; whether he was searching for another name or not I could not tell. By the row of olive plants against the wall I thought the poor man had contributed his quota to the country's popu,' lion. lu an unusually long speech for him to make ' i, ■WMMMMMMNMWMltfta MHi \r 172 One Quiet Life. I he welcomed me home, at the same time making some flattering remark about the way they all had missed me. I could not help thinking Mrs. Button had prompted the speech in some recent curtain lecture. However that may be, she sup- plemented his few remarks in a most voluble manner, expressing both for herself and children their gladness at seeing me. To turn the current of her remarks, I ex- pressed my astonishment at the change they had all undergone, from Clementine, down to the latest nestling on her mother's knee — my own little namesake. They were beginning .to grow tremulous on their high-backed chairs, such long quiet being contrary to their custom, so, after I had shaken hands all around, and kissed each one of them, their mother released them from their high positions. " Where is Ashy ? " was my first inquiry. ' " Him gone to meet 'oo," piped little Seraph- ina. "Just hear the dailing," her mother raptur- I ■ iryn i qrm me making ly they all inking Mrs. lome recent be, she sup- ost voluble nd children irks, I ex- je they had )wn to the — my own ing to grow 3, such long I, so, after I kissed each them from iquiry. ' btle Seraph- iher raptur- Old Friends. 178 L ously exclaimed, as she lifted the little prattler to a seat on her voluminous lap. In a few min- utes Ashy came in. We had missed each other on the way. I was surprised to see how he had improved. "You have grown to be a real fine-looking man, Ashy." "I am scarcely a man yet, but hope to be someday, Dora." " He is beginning manly business anyway. I expect to see him at the head of a family before long." As his mother spoke I detected a flush, not exactly of pleasure, I thought, pass over his face. " It is what we must all come to, 1 suppose." I turned around as I heard Axy's voice, and found him the same stout, broad-shouldered boy I had left a year ago. As I sat chatting with Mrs. Dutton, I won- dered how I could so soon have forgotten how ■straitened were her accommodations. I soon asked for the key of the house I was so anxious -^1 HiiHi' 174 One Quiet Life. to revisit; the old home held far strougei' at- tractions than Mrs. ^Button's crowded house. Wishing to have a Utile while to myself first, and fearing that Ashy would wish to accompany me, I said as I was leaving : " Will you come up by and by, I have a good deal I want to say to you?" He readily promised. As I walked up the now grass-covered lane, how many memories were revived. There was the rustic seat Ash^ had rudely built for me, where I used to watch for the children with Marco lying at my feet, in those long ago days of childhood. Marco had been dead years and years ; how distinctly I rec- ollected the morning he died ! What a wretched day it was to us, and with what a full heart I helped Ashy bury him in the graveyard near the currant bush. There was Hill Difficulty, and the Enchanted Grounds and various other spots named from our favorite book of reference, an old illustrated copy of Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress. tmm * "■•*?*' ■-'? »— :;."- ry ;?^>. *Tli.' ■ " Old Friends. 175 rougcr at- ed house. Itself first, iccompany a come up ; to say to d up the memories seat Ash^y to watch ly feet, in larco had itly I rec- wretched 11 heart I 1 near the Enchanted ned from llustrated As I n eared the house I found things so uu-' changed, I could scarcely realize that a year had passed away, since I stood at the gate, look- ing over the green meadows that lay embowered as in a nest of leaves, and took a tearful farewell of the beloved spot. I unlocked the door ; the key grated harshly in the lock; as I stepped into the narrow passage, and saw the well- remembered furnishings, a hundred memories crowded upon me. I glanced into the low par- lor, almost expecting my father's voice bidding me welcome, while such a feeling of loneliness and awe came over me T could not endure the stillness, 1 ut stepped quickly out into the fresh, sunny air ; I opened the shutter, and then setting wide the door I crossed the parlor threshold, which was now flooded with the summer sun- light. I went through all the rooms ; the library was still remaining as we had left it after father's death; the books lying on the tables and shelves as he had last left them, with the unfinished manuscript where he had been writ- ing a few days before lie died, lying with the . «(''>•»• 176 One Quiet Life. pen rusting beside it. My mother never ^vislied the room arranged differently, and while she lived always cleaned and attended to it herself. The family Bible, which was older than myself, was on the table j I opened it and through the blinding tears I read those words which had so often brought comfort to my mother's bereaved heart, Christ's parting words to his disciples. I soon found the silence too oppressive, the recollections too painful, and gladly withdrew to what was our well-kept garden; the shrubbeiy. was still flourishing luxuriantly, although there was an air of dreariness about it. A few roses were blooming, and some hardy perennials that had maintained a desolate existence, amid the weeds and grass, were shedding their sweetness about me. Ashy soon after joined me, when we sat down on the shady doorstep and chatted for a long time. From his manner of speaking I concluded the f;;-st ardor of his attachment for the pretty schoolmistress had worn off and would fade entirely away, long before he would be in a position to marry. mgmmmamai •9 9 "iff p m i j j w » . ; - * " '' -''-^M '* -ij^ f A^w!y * »g ' . | ) i it'! c- tOld Friends. 177 ever ^vislied 1 while she to it herself, han myself, ihrough the hich had so •'s bereaved isciples. ressive, the vithdrew to 3 shrubbeiy. ough there \. few roses snnials that I amid the • sweetness !, when we chatted for speaking I Jhment for and would ould be in After we had been talking busily for some time, be said abruptly : " I shall not take any more of your money, Dora ; I have despised myself all the time for doing so, and I am working at anything I can find to do, in order to get means to repay you. I can make my own way in the world without being helped by anyone weaker than myself." " I should like still to help you. Ashy, work- ing for others seems to be nearly all that I have to live for now." " I am beginning to think there is little else worth living for," Ashy answered, rather gloom- ily. "Oh, no. Ashy I not when we have dear friends and relatives to love and to retui'n our affection ; but there are stray beings like myself sent into the world t© live for others far more detolate still then they. It is well if we learn to be satisfied with our mission," I said, a little bitterly. I was beginning to find, the last few hours especially, how difficult it was for me to learn that lesson. . ■ l u ai Mii naM itaidiiaw^^H ^ f* CHAPTER XIX. A SUEPRISE, remained away so long that Mr. Wilton came to seek me. I had been indulging in such melancholy thoughts my cheeks had caught their hue, and when he saw me, he said, with something of the teacher's command in his voice, which I used occasionally to detect, ** You must stay with us the remainder of the day, and we cannot allow you to come up here alone again." *> I willingly submitted to his command. Mrs. Green bad the table laid, and dinner was waiting when we reached the parsonage. I had never dined here since my mother's death. 178 Ir. Wilton indulging lieeks had w iue, he command to detect, ier of the le up here d. ■' inner was :e. I had ath. A SurprUe. 179 *' It seems as though mother should bd here," I said half-unconsciously. I had been thinking so much about her that morning it seemed she was about me. " You must not stay there alone so long again, you will get to be a spirit yourself," Miss Wilton said. *' I shall not wish to go away from here again," I replied, and I felt the truth of what I was say- ing. Every momeftt seemed precious. We dined in our morning-dresses, the day was so warm, and Mr. Wilton had come to conform to the country fashion of noonday dinner hour. We went up-stairs directly after dinner, to dress. Miss Wilton to take a short siesta first. My robing occupied but a veiy little while, and I was soon ready for a stroll tlirough the beauti- ful grounds, every year growing more beautiful, or for a chat with any one whom I might chance to meet. ; . As I passed the drawing-room door, Mr. Wil- ton called me. The blinds were drawn, and a very acceptable coolness pervaded the room. mmimimmmmmaimaam ' 180 One Quiet Lift. " You do not think of going out in this burn- ing sun ? " ho asked, as he saw me with a garden hat in my hand. " I came down-stairs ready for any enjoyment that I might meet," I replied smilingly. " Won't you come then and have an old-fash- ioned chat ? " He made room for me on the couch where he had been resting ; while I willingly responded to his request, and hung my hat" on the peg aj_'ain, and took the proffered seat. He asked, glancing quietly at me : " Docs it seem like old times to be sitting here beside me, Dora?" " It seems far better. I believe I have learned since I went away how pleasant those times •wert." My heart throbbed with pain when I recol- lected how quickly tliis delightful visit would be a blessed dream of the past. " I am glad that you like to be with us, that you have not forgotten your brother." " I told you once I could never do that." A Surprise. 181 * this burn- a gardeu injoymeut I old-fash- where he ponded to )eg ttj_'am, " Docs it :)e8ide me, ve learned .ose times 1 I recol- p would be ;h us, that do that." There was an undertone of pain in my voice. "Would that I loved him only as a brother 1" yet as I reflected in the few moments, silence that I nsued, I asked myself if I wished it other- wise. I could not but feel ennobled to have loved such a man ; I consoled myself with think- ing that it was impossible to love what was good ' and noble without coming to be like it. Mr. Wilton broke the silence at last, by ask- ing : » Have you found the woman's heart yet, Dora?" I wondered at the suppressed eagerness in his voice. The room was light enough for him to see the crimson flame that spread over my face. I did not answer his question. " You have the woman's heart, I see that now, Dora. Must I always remain your brother ? " His eyes were reading my face, but I could not answer his question, although there was a strange joy faintly implied. " I have been waiting for years for my little '=■=•.* • I 182 One Quiet Life. girl to find her woman's heait. Can that heart now belong to another ? " IIo was standing now beside me. After a mo- ment's silence, he continued: ♦' I shall never love any one, have never loved any one, as I do you ; my gladdest anticipation for years, has been the hope of claiming you for life. Perhaps I may lose you altogether by this * confession. I have hitherto restrained myself from speaking to you, only by a determined ef- fort of my will. I can only lose you, and I must know uiv fate." With a sob of joy I looked up for a moment in his flushed, eloquent face j he read my heart in that short look. " Is it true ? " he said, with his arms about me. I bowed my head. Someway I could not find my voice to speak even one short monosyllable just then. " When did you find your heart, Dorothy ? " "That night you kissed me in the hall," I that heart Lfter a mo- ever loved Qtioipation ng you for her by this eJ myself I'tniued ef- lud I must moment ia y heart iu 'ma about d not find nosyllablo jrothy ? " hall," I M ^'%, .^v^. W IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) ),' 1.0 I.I 1^12^ |2.5 ■50 ■^~ mWK 1.8 1.25 I U il.6 .y '-^r /2 / ^f^ % .1^^ i'^, Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 '^^^.^"'^f^ '«*.'■ t fi r s i. ^° ../^ip d ^5 CIHM/ICMH Microfiche Series. CIHM/ICMH Collection de microfiches. Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions / Institut Canadian de microreproductions historiques ^ '■;..*■ k A Surprise. 183 I k whispered. " Yes, and I have been hungering ever since for another of those rare kisses." We virere still sitting in a most exalted frame of mind, when I heard hia sister's footstep on the stair. "Will she be willing to receive me as her sis- ter ? " I had time to ask hurriedly. His answer reassured my frightened heart, and still more the fervor of her greeting, when he ex- plained the state of our affairs fully to her, satis- fied my most exacting desires. After we had chatted a little while, she said : " I have some calls to make this afternoon, so I won't intrude any longer on your first happy hours." " May I go with you ? I shall not begin my happiness by being selfish. I know you would like your brother to accompany you also." " That is true, but I will not be so exacting as to expect either of you to-day; I presume you have still much to say." She was correct, as we had only just begun to I I UJ.IJ. 1 1 J.iLHiUUIJHUUflU 1 *1 - u lil One Quiet Life. come down to things sublunary when she came " There will be time enough for that again," I replied, as I started for my hat and parasol. " You have not got permission to leave yet, re- member, you are free no longer." She looked mischievously at her brother. I looked too, and imagined he would have pre- ferred the afternoon spent with me in the shaded drawing-room. I soon returned equipped for the walk. We called first at Mrs. Mounts, I found her as cor- dial as ever. In the course of conversation, she was kind enough to say : « We have heard such good ac^-ounts of you as a teacher that we have thought it would be an excellent plan for you to establish a select school here. Don't you think it would be a good plan ? " she asked, appealing to Mr. Wilton. I blushed painfully, although I was eager to hear what he might think of the proposal. "Really, I could not advise." I saw a merry ■HI en she came hat again," I parasol, eave yet, re- ■ brother. I i have pre- n the shaded walk. We her as cor- ersation, she •unts of you it would be •lish a select Id be a good V\^ilton. as eager to :30Sal. saw a merry A Surprise, 185 twinkle in his eye, as he answered her question. " My wife likes to encourage home manufact- ure," the squire said. " I .expect she will have our Tom settle here, when he gets his profession, even if he should be in danger of starving to death. By the way, Mr. Wilton, do you know the magistrates blame you for the scarcity of lit- igation?" " ^ After this the conversation became general, and I was no longer fearful lest Jennie should discover our secret. She was scarcely more gra- cious than formerly, responding very coldly to any advances of friendliness I attempted. That evening, when alone, before retiring, I said to Miss Wilton : " I wonder why she dislikes me so ? " " Why, my dear, she is jealous of you. I fan- cied I saw it long ago. Slie has sharp eyes." " Well, we are even then, for I have been troubled because of her." ' I had found such hearty welcomes in all the homes, whether rich or poor, where I hud called that afternoon, that I said to Miss Wilton : s«iatt-T r itNsr -i y.T?rB i 7trrnr3gi3^ =jlg Wm 180 One Quiet Life. " I wish I could lengthen out my holidays six months." "Why do you not say sixty years? I hope they will last that long." ' " What do you mean ? " I asked wonderingly. •' Why, we shall never let you go back to that hard life. I assure you, my brother has no in- tentio5 of losing you again." " Ah I but I have given my promise, I can- not bi«eak that,"I replied with a feeling of glad ness, to chink I had so promised. I was next to penniless and in debt ; I could not think of com- ing even to my husband, under such circumstan- ces. " You will soon find, sister mine, those objec- tions overruled," was the decided rejoinder. I held my peace, but my mind was neverthe- * less firmly made up on that one point, at least. ■ I ly holidays six 'ears ? I hope « wonderingly. back to that ler has no in- romise, I can- jeling of glad 1 was next to think of com- li circumstan- I those objec- ejoinder. i^as neverthe- nt, at least. CHAPTER XX. MABBYINa. HAT same evening, at the tea table, Mr. Wilton asked me to take a short drive, of course, I readily acquiesced. In the early twilight we started for a leisurely trot across the long bridge, and into the next township for a little way. As we drove along he said : " I thought there might be sad associations for you if we drove along the accustomed lanes and streets of our tillage. I want our drive to-night to be all glad." -- "I would not but be happy anywhere with you," I whispered softly. 187 mAAmmtffmimtmiiitmitk iiJi^rf»wd 188 On, Quiet Life. " Then you must never leave me again," was the decided answer. • ♦' I have promised Mr. Kye to return. I must not forfeit my word." "I can easily make that all right. I know several ladies who will gladly take your situa- tion." ,. , ^ •' I have received my first quarter's salary ; I cannot be in debt any longer." I felt my cheeks crimson, I was ashamed of my indebtedness every time I caught a glimpse of the now neaily empty purse. " "My dear child, a quarter's salary is a mere nothing, I will gladly settle that ; I would con- sider it scarcely worth a thought given to a mere acquaintance, what will it be then, when given for you?" ♦' It is a great deal to me, and I must pay it myself." • . ^ "You will at least accept a loan from me, Dora? You may liave a dozen years credit." " I should only be getting more hopelessly in- volved all those years, I fear." Marrying. 189 me agam," was eturn. I must iglit. I know ke your situa- rter's salary ; I felt my cheeks indebtedness ihe now neai'ly [ary is a mere I would con- bt given to a be then, when I must pay it oan from me, ars credit." hopelessly in- "All that I possess would not equal in my estimation this, that you have promised me this afternoon," and he folded my hand iu his. See- ing that I was determined, *he said at last: " Will you let me come for you at the end of the quarter? I cannot wait longer than that for my wife." My holidays passed only too quickly. I spent a good many leisure moments with Mrs. Dutton, her rapidly developing children taxed her needle severely, while her mechanical abilities were none of the best. I met the object of Ashy's affection and found het quite pretty, but not the person I would have chosen for my boy. He saw that I was disappointed but it did not trouble him. A boy's first love generally wears off in a little while, and Ashy was not an exception to the general rule. I was only glad the glamour had passed from his eyes, and heart, before it was too late, as is so often the case. When I went back to my school duties I found them someway to be unusually light. I 190 One Quiet Life. found leisure every week to visit my sick hospi- tal friends. Before we had been an hour together, Dr. Dowse said : • "Allow me to congratulate you, my dear friend on your happiness. I see it in your face and I am glad for you." But I could not detect any gladness either in his face or voice. He invariably drove me home and was as kind as ever, but he never spoke of my ap- proaching marriage with Mr. Wilton. My one great perplexity during those weeks was, where I should obtain the really necessary articles to make me presentable as a bride. One day I was pondering as usual, only becoming the more anxious as the days went by, when it occurred to me that I might sell to some advan- tage a few of the many sheets of music I had been diligently composing for several months, and which had already received Professor Auhl- man's favorable commendation. 1 I selected a few of the best, and at the earliest . • • my siok hospi- together, Dr. |rou, my dear t in your faoo dness either in 9 and was as £6 of my ap- ;on. ^ those weeks ally necessary a bride. One nly becoming at by, when it some advan- f music I had veral months, rofessor Auhl- at the earliest Marrying. W opportunity started for the publisher. When I , was shown into his office and had delivered my manuscript, I trembled a little. I was promised an answer in a few days. Probably he saw I was anxious, and his heart may have warmed kindly towards me. At the appointed time I appeared for a reply, and was overjoyed to learn that my compositions had been accepted, and sufficient compensation awai-ded to procure a few of the necessary articles. I was obliged to make Mrs. Kye my confidante, I needed her assistance so greatly. Her manner led me to suspect that it was not news to her. " Did Mr. Wilton tell you ? " I asked. , " He did not tell me." •' Did he tell the doctor, then ? " " Why do you ask ? " she answered evasively. " Because I see it in your face that you know it-" " You cannot blame Mr. Wilton for telling his own secret?" she asked, smilingly. At the end of the term, by diligent persever- ance and the sale of a few more sheets of music. M One Quiet Life^ I found myself out of debt, and ready for my brother, that once was, when he might come to claim me. lie did come at the appointed time, and in the beautiful church, where his mother and sisters woi-shiped, and where he, too, in his boyhood had learned the way to Heaven, he received me ns his bride. In our peaceful home, in the quiet village, I find my days gliding evenly by. Among the friends of my girlhood, none are more highly honored than Dr. Dowse. Our little Meta seems the light of his eyes. Some* day we expect to call him brother^ when our dear sister will make his home as happy as our own has been. Ashy has matured into a useful and earnest man. Mrs. Dutton is still busy with her family caies, but there are no longer little children clinging to her knees. Alexandrina is soon to be married, an event which, in her good moth- er's eyes, is of vast importance. I find my life grows brighter as the years ad- * ff'iA,' Marrying, 103 ready for my liglit come to le, and iu the er and sisters I boyhood bad loeived me as liet village, I Among the more highly t of his eyes, jrotheri when e as happy as I and earnest ith her family ttle children na is soon to r good moth- the years ad- vance, and I am convinced it will continue t(» do 80 until my life on earth is merged in the upflnd- ing existence of Heaven, if I continue to live as 1 believe God has tauglit me. I do not find a state on earth free from care, and a meastire of imperfection, but I have found that our lives can be made very grand and lovely. I have proved the wisdom of my father's dy- ing admonition. My purest happiness has como from following that advice, by living not for my- self, but to make those happier and better who are about me, or at least to earnestly endeavor so to do. 'iiii r "■"^^^^ji;^ '::'59^g6S?3W!ESSjTJKB3tSi^^i=^'3sn3a'rs