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Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la m6thode. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 t®^ Mills Memorial Library MCMaster University THE STORV OF THE NEW PIUEST » CONCEPTION BAY. By ROBERT LOWELL. MTiivov, alXivov, iiTri; rd 6' si vixuro- Woe! woe! But right, at last, though slow. A NEW EDITION, WITK ILLUSTJtATIONS BY DARLEY. IfJt VOLUME I. NEW YORK: E. P. BUTTON AND COMPANY, 713 Bkoadway. 1873. Batered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by Phillips, Samvson and Oompant, in the Clark's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetta RIVEKSIDK, CAHBRIDOE: STEREOTrPED AND PRINTED BT B. 0. UOUaaiOH. One, to whom I owe au w»r h„ ^ "wii AH, wiLL He take this AT MY HAND, THE BEST I HAVE? August, 1857. Messrs. Poillips, Sampson & Co., in 1859, were about publishing a new edition of The Neav Priest in a popular form, when the two chief partners died, and the house was broken up. The plates, being the author's property, have since lain untouched, until now that an illustrated edition is pro- posed ; when certain changes have been made, that it may be easier to bind the book in one volume. Oct. 1863. CONTENTS. OBAP. I. 11 iir. IV. V. VI. VII. vni. IX. X. XI. XII. xiir. XIV. XV. XVI. XVII. XVIII. XIX. XX. XXI. XXII. A UARE mrnuDER • • • MRS. BARIIK AND MISS DARE A PRETTY SCENE AND ITS BREAKINO-UP . A WALK AND THE END OF IT . A FEW MOMENTS OP iwo YOUNG PEOPLE'S LIVES A WRITTEN ROCK, AND SOMETHING MORE . TRUE WORDS ARK SOMETIMES VERY HEAVY SKIPPER GEORGE'S STORY A MEETING . . , SOME GOSSIP AND SOME REAL LiFE TWO MEET AGAIN . A SAD YOUNG HEART . A GREAT LOSS . . • A NEW MAN TRACES OF THE LOST SEARCHING STILL . . ' * WHICH WAY SUSPICION LEADS . ' THE DAY FOR REST . SUSPECTED PERSONS AN OFFICIAL EXAMINATION, FROM WHICH SOMETHING APPEARS AN OLD SMUGGLER AN INTERVIEW OF TWO WHO HAVE MET BEFORE 7 14 20 32 87 41 49 57 75 84 88 97 102 114 121 136 145 152 159 167 179 189 CONTENTS. XXIII. TIIK NKW PRIK8T AT liAY-IIARDOR . XXIV. A CALL AT A NUNNKIIY . XXV. TIIK MAOIKTIIATK I>EAL8 WITH OTHKR BUS- 1MCIOU8 I'KHSONS XXVI. MK. 1IAN08 HAS AN INTKRVIEW WITH THE IIKAD OF THE MISSION . XXVII. ANOTIIKU UKLIC FOUND . XXVIIL MU. HANGS A NKOPMYTK XXIX. MISS dark's KJftMCDITION WITH AN ESCORT XXX. ACROSS THE DARRENS FA) IB 101 205 219 230 241 240 262 274 THE STORY OF THE NEW PRIEST. CHAPTER I. A UAKK INrUUDKR. ^HIRTY years ago, or longer, one bright day in August, the church missionary, the Reverend Ar- thur Wellon, wa? walking down Peterport, with strong step, and swinging his cane; a stoutly-built Eng- Kshman, of good height, not very handsome, but open, kmdly, mtelligent, and reverend-looking ; in dress just grave enough and just enough unlike other gentlemen to mark his office to those who would not know it from his face. He is the central person, though not the chief actor, m our story. He was a frank and kindly man ; straightforward, honest and, in a rather homely way, a little humorous. He had seen something of the world, in living thirty years, and to good purpose; had a mind large enouc^h (because it opened into his heart) to take in more thin^-s than the mere habits of his order or his social rank ; and while he loved, heartily, the faith and services of his church, he had that common sense without which the Reformers would never have got and kept our Common l-rayer. He was a good scholar, too, as well as a good parish priest. ^ This was the man then that had just left his house, fa comely white one, with two little wings,) and was walk ^ THE NEW PRIEST. ing down the harhor-rond, breaking forth, now and then, when the way wan elear, into a cheery snatch of sacred (or not profane) song. The first turn in the road brought him in sight of two persons walking in company in advance of him,— a gentle- man of about his own age, and looking like a clergyman, ftnd a tall, large, strongly-moulded fisherman of some sixty years. The former seemed to be listening, rather than talking, while his companion spoke earnestly, a3 appeared from his homely gestures. On the hill-top, near lieachy Cove, (named from its strip of sand and shingle edging the shore,) they stood still; and the Minister, who waa not far behind them, could scarcely help hearing what was said. The fisher- man still spoke ; his voice and manner having the gentle- ness and modesty almost of a child. One arm passed through a coil of small rope ; and in his hand he held, with a carefulness that never forsook him, a bright-col- ored seaweed. The gentleman listened to him as if he had the honeyed speech of Nestor. It was some story of the sea, apparently, that he was telling, or commenting upon. ** The Minister looked curiously toward the group, as they stood, not noticing him ; and then, after a momentary hesitation, went across a little open green, and into the enclosure of a plain, modest-looking house, about which creepers and shrubs and flowers, here and ♦here, showed taste and will more than common. His dog, a noble great black fellow, "Epictetus," who had loitered some- where upon the road, came to his master, here, and waited at his side, as he stood before the door, after knocking. The parting words of the stranger, thanking his com- panion for his society in their walk, and of the stout fisher- A RAHK INTnUDKR. » man turning meekly back (ho thanks, came through thf Btill air, across from wh'u-e i\wy .stood. " It wa.s very good of 'ee, ,sir," .aid the latter, « to come nlon;? wi • me," and hear my poor talk.-I wisii 'ee a very good mornin, sir, an' I '11 airry this bit of a thin.r to my maid,* please (iod. O,,,, o' the nighbors «en'd ft. She makes a many bright things o' such." When he had done speaking, his strong steps were hoard as he went on his way, alone; for the whole scene w«s as It had been for hours, still and quiet, as if, in going ^^ then- hshmg, the people had left no life behind them Ihere had been scarce a moving thing, (if the eye sou-ht one,) save a ligh, .-eek fron. a chimney, (a fairer thing, as it floated over the poor mnn's dwelling, ti.nn ducal or royal »"|"ner, and a h.ne white summer-eloud, low over the e«. th; where the wind, t.king holiday elsewhere, left it to itself. Imdu.g that Mrs. IJarre, Ibr whom he asked, had walked down ,he harlM)r with Miss Dare, the Minister went forth iigain, toward the road. At the top of the hill, where he had stood with the fisl.ennan, the stranger was still standing, now gazin.r over the waler, toward the hills in the far southwist; a very stnkmg a..d interesting looking person he was. It was impossible for the Minister to pass him without salu- ^^.un, rnul the dog loitered. The stranger returned Mr. Wcllons s.lent greeting, gracefully, and came forward ' ion were going down : may I walk with you as fur - our ways lie together ? [ am going to ' the Ha.k.side,' wherever that is," he .said, very frankly. "I know every sheep and goat tra.k," answered the Peterport Parson ;" and I won't scruple to make you '••ee of the place for the pleasure of your company " J| Ma,d is prououuced my,e; bay, 6ye ; p.av, ,lye ,• neighbor, „,.. •-.* r^ 10 THE NEW PEIEST. This hospitable speech the stranger accepted cordially. "That fisherman," he said, after they had walked a little while together, "has a very touching wav of tellin- a story, and draws a nioral Avondeifully." ' ' ° " Yes," said the fisherman's pastor, " G"or; an' so, when 'e'd agot back to the w'y, agen, an' thowt 'twas all easy, then God let un go down, and brought un up again, athout e'er a thin<^ belonging to un but 'e's life and 'e's son's.'— That moral was ^vonderfully drawn ! " While he was speaking and Mr. Wellon listenincr, they had stopped in their walk. As tliey moved on"a-ain, the lattct said : — " " Ay, the people all count him more than a common man. He's poor, now, and hasn't schooner or boat, and yet everybody gives him his title, 'Skipper George,' as they would the king." u A RARE INTRUDER. . -. His companion spoke again, earnestly : "Fe-vmen would have drawn that moral, though all Its %visdom is only seeing simply; indeed, most men would never have drawn any ; but undoubtedly, Skipper George's interpretation is the true one, ' God let him go down; and not for coming back, but for having gone astray.— ^e saved Jm life. It was not easy to draw that moral : it would have been easy to say the man might better have kept on, while he was about it." "Yes," said Mr. Wellon, "that repentance, coming across, would throw common minds off the scent; George Barbury isn't so easily turned aside." The stranger continued, with the same earnestness as before. " It was the Fate of the old Drama ; and he followed It as unerringly as the Greek tragedist. It needs a clear eye to see how it comes continually into our lives." " Skipper George would never think of any Fate but the Will of God," said his pastor, a Uttle drily, on his behalf. " I mean no other," said his companion. The Fate of the Tragedists-seen and interpreted by a Christian-is b^iipper George's moral. There might have been a more tragical il'ustration ; but the rule of interpretation is the same. Emerson's wreck was a special providence ; but who will try to wrench apart the link of iron that this downright reasoner has welded between it and the wilful- ness that went before ? The experience of paganism and the Revelation of God speak to the sama purpose. Horace s • Raro antecedontem seelestum, Deserui t-Pcena ' r/ f '. ^'f ""^'''^ ^°'^' (^" *^^ *^"g^'«»^ translation), Eva ,haU hunt th^ -wicked person, to overthrow him; 12 THE NEW PRIEST. come very near together. To see the illustration clearly, in a special case ; to assign the consequence, as in this case, to its true antecedent— not the near, but the remote — is rare wisdom I " " Oh ! yes," said Mr. Wellon, " only I keep to the old terms: 'providence,' 'special providence,' 'visitation,' and so on. It's good that Skipper George isn't a man to be jealous of, or your admiration might move me." The stranger smiled. As there was often to be noticed in his voice something like an habitual sadness, and as there lay sadness, or something very like it, in his eye, so his smile was not quite without it. Not answering, unless by the smile, he asked, " Is his daughter like him ? " " She's a marvel ; only, one who knows her does not marvel : every thing seems natural and easy to her. I ought to inquu-e whether you've any designs upon the family ? ■' " Not of proselyting. Oh ! no : none of any sort what- ever. I had heard of them from one wJio did not like them, and now I'm correcting the impression." As they passed the church, in their walk, the stranger- clergyman bestowed upon it a sufficient degree of polite attention to satisfy all reasonable requirements (for a parson with his church is like a sailor with his ship) ; and they went on, talking together. Often, as the conversation grew animated, they stood still, and sometimes were interrupted by a passing col- loquy bQtween the minister and members of his flock. They talked of many things and lands ; and the stranger's language made the readiest and most fitting dress for his thoughts. If he spoke of woods, — such as bristle this land, or overhang the sultry tropics,— his words seemed A RARE INTRUDER. 13 to rustle with leaves, or to smell of the freshness of the forest, or to flicker in light, and fleck the earth with glow- ing shade. The waves swelled . and sparkled in his speech, and there was sucli a wealth of illustration, that the figures with which he set off what was thought and spoken of seemed to light down in bright plumage to his hand continually, as he wanted them. Imagination, which is the power of embodying things of spirit, and spiritual- izing and giving life to material things, he was full of. The slight sadness, and a slight now-and-then withdrawal of manner, implied that he was not altogether taken up in what he spoke or heard. They passed, without remembering, the first and chief path leading to the Backside, and then, lower down, the second ; and, when they recalled the oversight, the Minis- ter turned back with his comi)anion and put him in the best way, and they parted with mutual pleasant words. Epictetus put himself forward for a share in this demon- stration, and was caressed in turn. "This. old fellow is friendly," said his new acquaint- ance; «perhai)s we shall know one another better, some day," ir u THE NEW PBIEST. CHAPTER II. ^ MRS. BARRi: AND MISS FANNY DARE. >^HE Minister, after leaving his companion, walked Hhjj fast; but he had walked for half a mile down the .t 7.. '''"'^'"° ''""^^ ^'^'^''^ ^^^ fluttering garments of the ladies were in sight, as they lingered for the loiter- ings of a little girl. He overtook them at a place where the hill IS high, at one side of the way, an-l goes down on the other, steep and broken, to the water ; and where' at every turn, there is a new and pretty outlook upon the' harbor,, or the bay, or the picturesque coves alon- the road. ° Mrs. Barr^ first heard his footsteps, and turned round with a nervous haste. Sadness, and thought, and strength, and womanly gentleness, mingled in her great dark eyes, and pale face, and made her very striking and interesting m appearance— an effect which was increased by her more than common height. No one, almost, could look once upon her, and be satisfied with looking once. Miss Fanny Dare was both handsome Ind elegant— rather paler than the standard of English beauty, but a fit subject for one of those French '^ Etudes ^ deux cray. ons," if it could only have done justice to the life of her fine features and glancing eye, and wavy chestnut hair. Little Mary Barre, a sweet child, threw her arm, like MRS. BARBf) AND MISS FANNY DARE. 15 a yoke around the great dog', neck, where it was almost hidden in the long black locks. The Minister, like one used t'o feel with others, spoke to ^le w do.,ed Mrs. Barre softl, and slowly, and mostly' in he Lord « own words, of her fair boy, lately dead, and of her Mil' r I'T^ '-"' ""' '' ^'^ ''^P« ^^^^ - - Christ Mks Dare led her two livelier companions on, leavin. the Mmister and Mrs. liarre to walk more sWly ; and the gentle wmd on shore, «nd the silent little waves in the water, gomg the same way, seemed bearing them company The child's voice was the only sound that went forth freely into the wide air. As the Minister came near with Mrs. Barre, Miss Dare invued them by a single gesture, to look from the spot where she had been standing. The place was like a balcony ; in front one could see down the shore of the harbor along the sea-face of Whit- monday Hill, anJ over more than one little settlement- and out m the bay to Belle-Isle and the South Shore and down towards Cape St. Francis. It was to a ne'aier prospect that she pointed. "Isn't she a dear thing?" she asked, after allowinc. them a moment to see the sight, which, as it has to d^ with our story, our reader shall see, by-and-by " Lucy Barbury and little Janie!" said the Minister looking genially down. "Yes; if any thing can mtke good Skipper George's loss, his daughter may." Mrs! "oMt'lvVn 'r ''' "''"'"' *^^^^""S '^^y eagerly, 01 t will break up my scene ; but musn't we get the 1 want her off my hands, before she knows more than I 16 THE NEW PBLEST. do. As for the schoolmaster and mistress, poor things, 1 fancy they look upon her performances in learning much as the hen r'id upon the duck's taking to the water, when she was showing him how to walk." "I should be very glad of it," said Mr. Wellon, "when she's old enough." " Ah ! Mr. Wellon ; her head's old enough inside, if not outside ; and what are you to do with her in two or three years' waiting? Besides, 1 want to see it, audi probably shan't be here by that time." (A graver ex- pression came near occupying her face at these words. She kept it out, and went on speaking.) " You must put the Smallgroves into the Newfoundland Society's school at Indian Point, and we'll support our own here, and she shall teach it." The Minister smiled. " He V would she take on the gravity and authority of it?" said he. " Admirably ; I've seen her at it. I caught her, one day, with her singing class, out behind the school-house, on that stony ground; about twenty children, of all sizes, so big, and so big, and so big," (graduating, with her hand, in the air,) « practising just like so many little regimental drummer-boys, but all with their hands behind them. Lucy's back was towards me, and of course the scholars' faces ; and so forty eyes swung riglit round towards me, and one little body wriggled, and an older girl simpered, and Lucy knew that there must be a looker-on; but, like . little disciplinarian, she brought them all straight with a motion or twoV her hand, and then turned romid and blushed all over at my formidable presence, as* if it had been his Reverence, the Parson, or her Majesty, the Queen." " Well, we must see what we can do about it," said the MRS. BARRii AND MISS FANNY DARE. 17 Parson, looking down again over the cliff. « And what's this about young Ursion ? " "And what makes you think of youn.. Urston !,".« now. Mr. WeHon?" asked Miss Dare, reflect g^^C *e sn,Je w..h which the Minister had uttered h s <,„^ ttu'ed:-'"' "' """"^ '■'■' "» "»'»■-■• *«<=»■>- fi.r .w' t' "" ^'"'''' P™^**' "' B»y^Harbor, have a fency that Luey s an emissary of the Chureh, ^ssuilU,! Popery m one of its weak point,,-the heart of heyo„„: candidate for the pHesthood-I don't speak by a , ho Ay » she added, " I don't think it ever came iu.o hfr hea^" '^' Assailmg Popery, in his pereon ?-Nor I ! •' answered the Parson sententiously, and with his cane unsettlinTa r" T' '"""' -"'^''.'Jo™ *e precipice atd ^ok a new place on a patch of g,^en earth below. L °,le Mary was cautioning her four-footed friend not to fall over ana watched the fallmg stone to the bottom. «No; nor assailing James Urston i " said Miss Dare srnihng agam , taking, at the same Ume, the child's ha^d " we"ii7f"; ?' r'^™ '"^° '■""'"'• - "» ~d!- certa nl; ,-though the head is not the only womanly o" gan that plot^ I believe.-But seriously, I h'lpe that girl's happtness wdl never be involved with Ly of 'them very seldom any good comes of it.« . ' ^ iwssible that h.s happiness could be involved or as if it fXw '"' Ttt """'™"^-' "'■'^ ^' '» ^- ^«>" --8 tellow, said the young lady. ** o I^^"^ ^ T" '^''^' ^^'' ^^* °°^^ * ^«»an CathoUc, but a candidate for the pricsthtidd." ' VOL. I. o Id THE NEW PRIEST. "No! I'm told the complaint ia, that he's given up aU thoughts of the priesthood." ^ « That leaves him a Roman Catholic," then said th^ JJlmistor, like a mathematician. niif Dare. """"'" ^''''''' """ '' '""^^^^^'" ^^J<^^"«^ "In a case of that sort it must be made sure, before- hand ;-.,f there ^. any such case,»-he answered. to tr° ^r """''"^f '''''• ^'"''^'^ •^^^^ *^^- -«-"tion to hei. She was still standing apart, as if to give free- dom to the conversation, in which she took no share; but he looked mucli agitated.-Miss Dare proposed to her that they should go home ; but she declined. Her friend turned to a new subject. "Have you heard of the American that intends setting himself up m Peterport?" she asked of the Minister ^ No, I haven t ; » answered Mr. Wellon, again lookin.. ca"" '^^ ''''''' ^"' '"^^ ^^^^ ^^^ --•• "- what I tlink 'h^"; "" ."!^''^^""°"^ eharacter,-chiefly as a trader, I thmk, but w.th a magic lantern, or some such thing, in reserve, to turn lecturer with, on occasion." "No; I hadn't heard of him; but I'm not sure that I haven t escorted in another new-comer that bodes les good. You know we're to have a Romish priest her " an'd v" ,?f ^^-" with a clergyman of some Tort,' t, but I can t thmk what else he is. He reminded me, too, of some one ; I can't think whom." " What soi-t of person is he,^Mr. Wellon? I nev^r saw one of his kind," said Miss Dai-e. "Very handsome; very elegant; very interesting : with one of the most wonderful tongues I ever heard.-I shall MBS. BAEB6 AND MISS FANNY DARE. j, t7L'°"V'- "'J, '"''' ■■-"P'^'^y "">" ""mier. of U tL/^lZy^"'^"' """"' •■» ^"'- <^'^°'^- eC Debl?. " '■' '°'" ""' ^"- B<--^'-"thati« Father Jhe was apparently endeavouring to keep down a very ■strong excitement. f "u » very Her two companions turned in surprise; Fanny Dare's ''f« bemg just on the point of speaking. ^ ' ' „ Y. i °° ^'"' ''"°'' ''™ ^" '^ked the Minister. fore ehhir 1", '" ~^''' ™' ^""^ ■""«'" "S"«'«d. Be- tore euher of her companions spoke, she added, "We're near^ related, bu, religion has sepa;ated us.'' eo„; ,".'?"■ ""^ *^'* """-^ ""y- '" *eir minds, have rX"'!;:!:™ ■"' ^'"•'"™-'' P-- ^rs. Barr. lea'™. Tno'tl^ ""7^' ''''"™'" ^"^ ^''' "' haven'. schoolmg. She called her child to her, and hurriedlv took leave. Miss Dare did not stay. ""^wHy ,h7'l°u'"' "'"' ™'^"^ "P ""= '»^. ™i* little Marv the eh,Id persuading her shaggy friend to go a few stl' m her company. Mr. Wellon continued his wa k and fto dog, shpping his head out from under Ma^^'a^ turned and trotted dignifiedly after his master^ ' 20 THE NEW PRIEST. CHAPTER m. A PRETTY SCENE AND ITS BREAKINO-UP. )HIS Whitmonday Hill, in Peterport, of which mention was made in the last chapter, is, on its travelled face, steep enough for a practised beast (if there were such in Peterport) to slide do\vn, and on the water side, stands up three hundred feet and more of al- most sheer precipice— gravel, and rock, and patches of dry grass. On that side, at the bottom, it has an edging of rounded detached rocks, with here and there among them a bit of grave! that has fallen down and lodged" This edging stretches along as debatable ground between the hill and the sea, to Daughter's Dock, (the little cove where a "Seventh Daughter" lives,) and, when the water is high, is plashed and played with by the waves, as on this summer's afternoon on which we bring the reader to it. With a fine breeze in froh^ the eastward, and the bright sun shining from half way down the sky, the waters came in glad crowds, up the harbor, and ran races along the cliffs. Here and there a little in-coming sail was rising and falling smoothly and silently, as the loaded pun't floated before the wind. The scene, to a sympathetic eye, was a pretty one of home life ; but the prettiest part of it was on the water- edge of Whitmonday HiU. At the upper end of it A PRETTY SCENE AND ITS BREAKING-UP. 21 (speaking harbor-wise, and meaning towards the inner paH of the harbor) stood a little stage-a rude house for head- ing and splitting and salting fi.h-whose open doorway showed an inviting shade, of which the moral effert was heightened by the s;ylvan nature of the house itself, made up as it was of boughs of fir, though withered and red A fisherman and his wife had just taken in the catch of fish from a punt at the stage's ladder, and a pre ty g,r|, of some seventeen years, was to-ving the uu- loaded bout along beside the hill, by a rope laid over her shoulder, while a little thing of four or five years old, on board, was tugging with an oar at the stern, to keep the boat s head off shore. The older girl was one whose beauty is not of any classic kmd, and yet is beauty, being of a young life, healthy and strong, but quiet and deep, to which features and form give thorough expression and obedience. She had a swelling, springy shape, dark, glancing eyes, cheeks glowing with quick blood, (the figure and glance ana glowmg cheek all at their best with exercise,) while masses of jetty hair were lifted and let fall by the wind from below the cap, which she wore like all girls in her country. Her dres3 was different from the common only m the tastefulness that belongs to such a person, and had now a grace more than ever, as it waved and fluttered in the-wmd and partook of the life of the wearer. She wore a frock .f dark blue, caught up a little in front, and showmg a wlHte woollen petticoat; a kerchief of pretty colors was fed very becomingly over her bosom, and a bngh red nbbon along the front of her cap lay among her black hair. Her shoes and stockings were rolled up m her apron, while her blue-veined feet-not C'^Z small, but smooth and well-shaped-elung to the uneven n J ! THK NKW I'KIEST. walkc.l aKannr ,1k, wind a.ul .pnu.. r,,„a ono rock to Uu^latlo w«vo.s splash., up. On. all, borlUiu. :; fl«.M-c was u grace of innooont, modest nmiv with finer instincts and quicker faculties than common, taktng, it seemed, f„,ni both parents, for the mother, also, was not only a fair Irishwoman, but one of feehng and sp.nt. She died early , and, while she was dymg, commended the fostering „f her child to an attached servant , and the two parents devoted him, if he Uved, to the priesthood. ' A PRETTY SCENE AND ITS BHEAKING-UP. 31 So ut the age of twelve or thirteen years, Father U loole had taken him into his own house, made him at first an altar-boy, taught him as well as he could and loved him abundantly. He had no dimculty in keepin.» the boys mind up to his demands: but after some time" (It must be owned,) it would have required an effort winch Father Terence would not make, to keep it down to Ins limits; for the boy was a very active fellow in mmdand body; and when he had gone throu-h all his spiritual and religious exercises, and when he had wrou-ht out all the work that his director could put before him, must, of course, do something. By way of vent, the good father connived at his reading any solid-looking books which he could borrow from friendly gentlemen in Bay-Harbor (and the youth did not fancy any thing lighter than his- tory); father Terence, also, did not trouble himself about his pupil's slipping off, in a blue jacket, to go out upon the water.— an indulgence understood to be an occa- sional relaxation for the mind. His own father refreshed the learning of other years, for his son s sake, and taught him as he had opportunitv At seventeen years of age, the young candidate was to have gone to Fran.e and Rome, to finish his preparation; but he was now a year and a half beyond that a^e; for just as he came to it, a new priest, whose learniW and ant in the Mission at Bay-Harbor, and, getting a good fiom Father Terence, under rule, with hard penances Suddenly, Father Nicholas went up to St. Johns ; was* away, from month to month, for many months; -and at a^t, young Urston withdrew, and said "he should s^ BU THE ^KW PKIEST. CHAPTER IV. A WALK AND THK END OP IT. )T was a delightful day, soon after, when Miss Dare, ' who was as much with Mrs. Bane as at her Aunt's, fr;. ^r ^"'•"^••'•^'^^^^-^ «he was living, persuaded her fnend to a walk ; and, once out, they kept on, without turnmg or flagging, beyond sweep of road, hill, cove, pass i^^the rocks, the whole length of the harbor, to Mad The two ladies did not talk much as they went, but they talked pleasantly, and what they said was chiefly of the beauty of the different views, which Fanny pointed out, on land and water,— and there are very many to be seen by an open eye, in walking down that harbor road The nearest house to the top of the slope in Mad Cove was that of Widow Freney, a Roman Catholic, and one' of Mrs. Barre's pensioners ; the next-a hovel at a little distance-was that of a man with the aristocratic nama of Somerset, who was, in American phrase, the most " shiftless " fellow in the harbor. The ladies knocked at Mrs. Freney's door, and the door swung open at the first touch. The widow, however, seemed surprised at seeing them and confused. The place had been tidied up ; the chil-' dren washed and brushed ; and Mrs. Freney wore the best dress that had been given her, and a ceremonious A WALK AND THE END OF TT. 86 face. She asked the ladies to be seated, less urgently and profusely than her wont was, and answered with some embarrassment. One of her children was sick. The ladies did not stay. "Oh, mother!" exclaimed a child, who had opened the door to let them pass, " he's here ! the Praest's here ! " Miss Dare was passing out, when, as the boy had just announced, a gentleman was on the point of entering. Seeing her, he silently lifted his hat and drew back. When Mrs. Barre came, he started in extreme astonish- ment, and was greatly— even violently— agitated. In a few moments, he so far recollected himself as to withdraw his astonished and agitated gaze from her, and turned away. Mrs. Barre's look wa^ full of the intensest feeling. Miss Dare watched the sudden and most unlooked-tbr scene in surprised and agitated silence ; Mrs. Freney and her family in wondering bewilderment. Mrs. Ban-e spoke to the priest ; her voice was broken, and tender, and moving. " Shall I not have a word or look of recognition ? " she said. He turned about, and with a look of sad doubt, asked, g^'. °ry earnestly, " Are you a Catholic ? " S;.-. red insta.itly, " Yes ! as I always was, and never i. o..sed to be for a moment." Perhaps Miss Dare started, but a glance at him would fiave assured her that he was not satisfied. The doubt m his look had not grown less ; the sadness kept its place. "No more?" he asked again; "not what I believed when we took leave of one another? Not what you were in Lisbon ? " Mrs Barre, with a woman's confidence and directness, turned to what must have been a common memory be- tween them : — vol,. I. ., 34 THE NEW PRIEST. No more than what I was when I was a happy wife in Jamaica, and had a true and noble husband and two blessed children I No more, and the same ! " She did not weep, though she spoke with intense feel- mg. He seemed to feel almost more strongly. He put his hand upon his forehead, pressing both brows. Neither seemed to regard the presence of witnesses ; yet when Miss Dare moved, as if to withdraw, the priest hastily begged her not to go away ; and then to Mrs. Barr6, who stood looking fixedly upon him, he said sadly :— ** How can I, then, but ^ay farewell 1" " How cjtn you not, when I come asking?" " No," he answered, " I follow plain du^y ; and not un- feelingly, but most feelingly, must say fareweU/" and he turned and walked away from the house, toward one of the knolls of rock and earth. "Then I must wait!" she said, turning her look up toward the sky, which did not hide or change its face. Then Mrs. Barre's strength seemed giving way. " Come back into the house and sit a moment," said Miss Dare, who had her arm about her; "and Mrs. Freney, will you get a little water, please ? " Mrs. Barre, though unable to speak, mutely resisted the mvitation to go back into the house, but persisted in go- mg, with tottering steps, up the hill toward the path, and still kept on, though almost sinking, for some rods farther, —until she had got within the pass through the rocks,—' there she sank upon a stone. "Thank you. Don't be afraid for me," she gasped- "I never fajnt." Then resting her elbows on her knees, she covered her face with her hands, and so sat, « Oh ! Fanny," she said, " you saw that he was one very near to me, though so utterly separated ! " A WALK AND THE END OF IT. 96 At the 8oun(' of a hasty step approaching, she started and looked forth. It was Mrs. Freney with a mug of water. " Here's some drink he bid me bring 'ee ma'am," she said, courtesying ; " an' sure I'm very proud to bring it to fiiich a kind lady as / are." Mrs. Barre thanked her, but declined the water ; and the woman, expressing a hope • t!;at ahe wouldn't be the worse of her walk," offered to procure a punt that she might be rowed back, "if she'd plase to let her get it." This offer, like the other, was declined, with thanks. The ladies walked back more silently than they had come, and more slowly, Mrs. Barre resting more than once by the way, and looking hurriedly backward, often. At home she threw herself down, and lay long with her face buried. At length she rose, and wiping away her tears, said : — " Ah Fanny, it isn't right that a bright, young spirit like yours should have so much to do with sorrow. Your day is not come yet." " You don't know that," said her friend, smiling, and then turning away. " Perhaps that was the very^thing that brought me to you." Mrs. Barre drew iier to herself and kissed her. The tears were falling dokvn Fanny's cheeks this time. A sweet breath of summer air came through the open window. " You brave, dear girl ! " said the widowed lady, kiss- ing her again. "Never mind," said Fanny, shaking the tears away; "but will you let me be wise— though I haven't had much to do with Roman Catholics— and ask you not to ex- ae THE NKVV PRIEST. poso yourself to this RomisJi priest, even if he's your own brother I Let him go, won't you ? You can't do him any good, and ho won't do you any." "Nothing can make me a Roman CatholicI " said Mrs. Barre, "and I can't help having to do with him. I wouldn't for all this world lose my chance ! " " Ah I but we think our own case different Vrom others," said Miss Dare. " If you knew what was past, Fanny, you'd trust me for what's to come, under God. If I come to too deep water, be sure I'll ask Mr. Wellon." A FEW MOMKNTS OP TWO LIVES. 97 CHAPTER V. A PEW MOMENTS OP TWO TODNO PEOPLE'S LIVES. ) WO or three dnya passed before our young people, who separated at Whitmonduy Hill, met again. The night had been rainy; but the morning was delightful. An occasional clou 88 THE NEW PRIEST. « It might have been something, though. You shouldn't have run the risk for such a trifle." " There was no risk ; and if there had been, it wasn't for little Janie only that I got the ' shawl.' " Lucy's bright eyes perhaps looked brighter. "Are you going out on the water to-day ? " she asked, changing the subject. " Yes, To-day, and To-morrow, and To-morrow, I sup- pose ; but I hope, not always ! " " Would you go to Bay-Harbor again ? " " Never on the old errand, Lucy ; I can have a place in Worner, Grose & Co.'s house; I think Miss Dare must have spoken about it." "Did you know," said Lucy, drawing nearer to the fence, and bashfully hesitating, " that she had spoken to the Minister about making me mistress in a school?" The maiden blushed, as she spoke, and very prettily. "And he will; won't he?" said Ursfon, interestedly, but rather gravely. "Oh! I don't know; he told me that he might be able to soon; but I don't think there's any place for me," she answered, busying herself with the garden. " Yes ; and more than that, by and by ! " said he, decid- edly. — A nice ear could have detected a httle sadness in the tone with which he said these words of happy augury. She looked hastily up. "And some of these days you'U be a merchant ! " she said. " Something, please God ; something, Lucy, that wants mind in it, I hope, and that one can put some heart in, too ; something that will give one chances to thmk, and learn, after having once begun as I have." A FEW MOMENTS OF TWO LIVES. 39 "Oh, you'll go on learning, I'm sure," she said; "you know so much, and you're so fond of it." The morning was fresh and clear, the water bright and living. " You think a good deal of my knowing a little Latin • but only think of what other people know!— this very Father Nicholas at Bay-Harbor. You know ten times as much that's worth knowing as I do I " "Oh! no," said the maiden, "it wasn't the Latin only—" ' «I know the 'Hours,' as they call them," he said, smihng, "and some of the 'Lives of Saints.'" " Oh, no ! all those books that the lawyer lent you." " If it hadn't been for those, I should have been worse yet;— Father Terence hadn't many;— yes, I've read enough to want to know more;-but the pleasantest readmg I ever had was reading your English Bible with you those two times." « Was it, really ? " the maiden asked, with a glad look, m her simplicity, and then she blushed a little. " Yes ; I've got every word of what we read, as if it were written in my mind deeper than ever those North- men cut their words in the rock." She was silent a moment, looking beautifully thought- ful out into the air; but then suddenly recalled herself and said, — " But they cut their words deeply, to stand till now ages after, with the sun shining on them, and the storm beatmg against them, and the ice freezing over them year after year,-if they are there, as people say." "There are writings in the rock ; but I don't know if there are any of the Northmen's. It doesn't matter much ; no one sees or cares for them." ■:]l| 40 thp: new priest. " Men oughtn't to forget them ! ". she said, with glisten- ing eyes. , "Poor men!" said Urston, in his turn, "they hoped for something better ! But hopes are happy things while we have them, and disappointed hope doesn't hu^rt dead men. It's the living that feel." The young man said this as if he had begun a man's life, such as it is, most often. Perhaps he thought only of one disappointment, that at Bay-Harbor. Lucy was busy again with the garden. By and by she asked, "What do you think they wi'ote ? " -'J "Perhaps only their names; perhaps the names of some other people that they cared for at home ; and the time when they came." "There may be grave-stones as old," Lucy said, "but this seems stranger, cut by strange men on a great cliff over the sea ;— I should hke to look for it." " You know they say it's somewhere on the face of Mad-Head,"* said Urston; then looking towards the ridge, he said, " Here comes my father !" and wished her hastily « Good-bye ! " * So it 18 believed, in Peterport, of a certain cliff; and, very Ilkelv. in other places, of other rocks. ^ A WIUTTEN ROCK, AND SOMETHING MORE. 41 CHAPTER VI. L WRITTEN ROCK, AND SOMETHING MOBE. )R. SMALL GROVE, not jealous, had invited Skipper George's daughter to come in, as often as she pleased, to the school ; and generally con- trived to make this something more than a compliment, by getting her occupied, when she came, with teaching the more advanced scholars, while Mrs. Smallgrove taught the younger, and he, with cabn authority, presided. This day Lucy Barbury had sought the scholastic hall, and there Miss Dare called for her, just as school hours were over. The haunts of childhood have an attractiveness of their own about them, for those that were children once, and*Miss Dare, as Lucy came bashfully out, pointed, with a silent smile, to the stain made upon the door-post by little hands holding against it while little feet were Ufted *o the height of the threshold ; and read, with a smile, a legend traced with tar upon a bit of board which leaned against the school-house. It was a timely moral for the young vota- ries of science, indicted by one of themselves, inspired:— " Yo that wool lam, Don fall Estarn." " I'm going down to make some drawings," she said, *' would you like to go. Miss Lucy ' -arbury ? " 42 THE NEW PRIEST. •' Yes, if you please. Miss Dare; if you'd like me ta Are you going to Mad Cove ? " "No; I wasn't going to Mad Cove, but I will go, if you'd like it." ^ "I think that writing must be so strange, that they say the Northmen left on the Head ages ago." " But why, out of all the ages, is it so^interesting to- day ? " ° ^ "I only heard to-day where it was. Do you think it IS then- writing, Miss Dare ? " " So it's thought; but it isn't always easy to make sure ot such thmgs. I saw an account of a stone dug up, the other day, in the United States somewhere ; and an In- dian scholar said that the letters were hieroglyphics, and meant that ' seven sons of the IMack Cloud made three hundred of the Wolfs cubs to fall like leaves of the forest;' and a great Oriental scholar read it, 'Here the Brothers of the Pilgrim rested by the graves of the dead; and he said it was a trace of the lost tribes of Israel; but a scholar in the Scandinavian languages, of Sweden and Denmark, said it was a relic of the North- men, who went from those countries and discovered North America; and that it meant, 'In the rolling fields we make our home that used to have a home on the rolling waves.' And there it is, you see. This writing on our rock is also said to be by those North- men." "And it may be by Captain Cook, who set up the stones at Sandy-Harbor," said Lucy, smiling. " Yes ; it may be," said Miss Dare, ass^enting to the possibdity suggested. " But it may be by those men," said Lucy again, return- ing to the other possibility. i like me to. A WRITTEN ROCK, ANl> SOMETHING MORE. 43 "Certainly," answered Miss Dare, assenting again; " and It may be by the Lost Tribes." Lucy kindled as if a spirit of the old time came over her. Her eyes swelled and briglitened, and she grew pale. "If it were, they ought not to leave it hanging out there over the sea; but I suppose they'd be afraid to move it," said she. "And if it were those Northern men had written there, I should almost be afr.id to look at it so long after they were gone ; it would be almost as if they had come back again to do it ; but they did some- times write simple little things like a man's name, didn't they, Miss Dare ? " " That's been a trick of the whole race of men in aU ages; writing their own names and other people's," said Miss Dare, « on walls, and trees, and rocks." It took them a good half-hour— though they walked well— to get to the mysterious rock, over Whitmonday Hill and by Frank's Cove and lesser neighborhoods; but pleasant talking about many a pleasant thing, and frequent greetings to the neighbors, as they passed, perhaps made the time short. By and by they stood on Mad-Head; the fresh wind blowing m from the bay ; the great waves rushin.. vo and falling back far down below them ; the boundless ocean opening forth, beyond Bacaloue Island ; this cruel sea close at hand being of the same nature as that with- out, only a little tamed. They both stood, at first, without speaking. At length xMiss Dare recalled the object of their visit, and said,— "Now, Lucy, use your eyes, please; and see which is this famous stone. I am rather impatient now we're so nG3.r it. ■ I: **i 44 TT!K NRNV PRIRST. Lucy, too, was quite excited. " Tliis is the very rock, I think," said she ; and she tlirew herself upon the ground, and liolding by an up- standing point of the rock, and by its edge, leaned over, bodily, and looked down the hollowing lace of the huge cliff. Steady as a girl of her life - ' > eye and hand, she did this with the same comp.. ^^ith which she would have leaned over her father's fence. Mi:4s Dare threw back her bonnet and let the wind do what it would with her hair, while she got down upon her knees and looked over also. These two pairs of bright eyes had looked some time when they began to make out something like letters on the great grained and wrinkled and riven surface, and about an arm's length down, and yet so hidden by the over- browing of the rock, as not to be seen without stretching far over. Fearlessly, and full of interest, they leaned over in turn ; each, also, In turn, holding the other. "If it should be Greek or Hebrew, it will be too much for me : Roman, or old English, or German Text, I fancy we may make out," said Miss Dare. " Stay ! I was reading upsidedown, like those inscriptions in the Desert Til begin at my end ; "—and she began drawing. " I'hat looks as if it would come out like the old Bla ' Letter, or German Text," " James Urston might have read it if he'd only looked ; he writes German Text 'beautifully, and knows all kinds of writing I suppose," said Lucy. " Perhaps James Urston never heard of it," suggested Miss Dare. " Oh ! I forgot ! he told me where ihey said it was, but I don't think he had seen it," said Lucy. "Ah?— Well," Miss Dare continued, keeping to her A WRITTEN ROCK, AND SOMETHING MORE. 45 work, "if we turn that uj^side down it looks like '% ' certainly; doesn't it? We must allow a little for the difficulty of cutting, and a little for difference of writing, and a little for age. Why, if it all goes as well as this,' we shall make a noise with it in the world. Now you get the next, please ;— very likely a date!" added Miss Dare, in fine spirits. « There must have been a letter before it, but there's no trace of one now." " Here are two out here by themselves, Miss Dare ! " said Lucy, who had been looking over at another place, while the drawing was made, and who was excited with her discovery. « They're very plain : ' I-V.' " " What can that be ? " said Miss Dare. " Four ? Four what? 'I-V.' it certainly is," she said, after taking her turn in looking over. " Well, we can't make any thing more of it just now. There are no other letters anywhere along. Let us go back to our fii-st work." The next letter they pronounced « n," after getting its likeness on the paper. " That's no date," said Miss Dare again : " * U ? ' " " ' 0,' " suggested Lucy Barbury ; « it may be a prayer." " Well thought again ! So it may be ! Let's see,— what's the next ?— ' r ! ^ Good !• But stay : this'll take down the age of our inscription, mightily, if we make that English. That other letter 's * U,' depend upon it. ' a= W=t^='— some sort of Scandinavian name — and ' J|) ! ' ' ^Lttrfi,' That looks pretty well and sounds pretty well. Why, that's a grand tld Norse name ! < Lury ! ' It sounds like Ruric, the Russian conqueror, and 'Fuur,' and ' LURID.' That's an old Viking." "How strange!" said the pretty fisher's daughter, thoughtfully, « that one name, of aU, should be there ; and just the name makes us think of a particular man, and 46 THE NEW PRIEST. how he looked, and care something about him— doesn't it? He was the commander, I aupposo." Miss Dare, full of eager discovery, was bending over, in her turn. It was slow work, stretching over, looking carefully, and copying a little at a time. " We shall have more trouble about the next word," said she, " for that won't be a name ; they only had one name in those days. It may be * somebody's son,' though ; yes, it may be a name." " And, perhaps," said Lucy, smiling, (for they really had but a mere thread of conjecture to walk upon, across a boundless d'^pth,) « perhaps this is no man's name. It may mean something." " We haven't got that third letter exactly, after all," said Miss Dare, comparing and correcting. " It's * C/ not * t,' It doesn't make a man's name now, certainly." " There's a Saint Lucy, among the Roman Catholics," said her namesake. " I suppose they landed on her day, just as they did at St. John's, and St. George's, and St. Mary's, and the rest." " This is a Lucy that hasn't been canonized yet, for there's nothing before her name ; and I've got a key to the other, so that it doesn't give me as much trouble as I expected. I believe it does ' mean something: " Lucy Barbury leaned over the rock again in silence, but presently drew herself up as silently ; and as Miss Dare looked at her with a smile, she said, (and no pencil could have given the prettiness of the blushing cheek, and drooping lid, and head half held up,)— " I'm sure I don't know what it is." " But I do," said Miss Dare : " ' 3B=asrsfi=Usr=S.' That's more familiar than one of those hard old Norse names, isn't it ? It seems to be a woman's name ; but if * -doesn't it ? A WKITTKN KOCK, AND SOMETHING MORE. 47 mHk(,3 you 'think of a particular man,' perhaps, as you sa.d 'and how he looked, and care something about him? " ° yh ! Miss Dare," said Lucy, quite overcome with confusion, « I didn't know it was there." "Nor I; but since it's there, somebody put it there; and somebody that understands German Text. But T was only in fun, Lucy. Don't mind it. You didn't cut it." Lucy would not have minded it, perhaps, if she had cut It herself. "I'n afraid somebody '11 see it," she said. There was, indeed, more than one body (female-^and, mdeed, an old man too,-) hastily getting up along the chff s edge, looking over, all the way along. Few people were m the Cove at the time, and the greater part of the ^^v^ had been busy ; but still the long sitting, and above all, the strange doings up at Mad-Head, had not been unobserved, and at length it was impossible for the beholdens to keep away. "I don't believe they'll see it," said Miss Dare, as they came near, « and if they were to they wouldn't make much ont of It; not many of i\,^ worr^en understand Geman lext. There are tho^e Roman letters, beyond, that could be made out more easily; but there again, unless they were pretty familiar with such things, ,hey wouldn't be the wiser. •• r wondor what they mean," said L,„.y, who, after the reve at,on of the B.a,* Letter, might be glad of a »afe subject for speculation. ^ "I fancy that they might be interpreted by one who unde-,t^mi, all kinds of writing,'" said Mi.,s Dare, with smue,-but speaking so that the approaching neighbors 48 THE NKW PKIEST. sliould not hear,— but I and J used to be the same letter, and so did V and U." Lucy blushed more deeply than ever at the intelligence that lurked in this sentence. « Oh ! don't tell them, Miss Dare, please," said she. " Did 'ee loss any thing, Miss ? " said the foremost of the advancing inquirers. " Yes ; I'm afraid we've lost our time ; haven't we, Lucy?'" "I thought, mubb'e 'ee may have alossed something down the rocks." " No ; we were looking for the old writing, you know, that they say is cut in. Lucy here, had read about such things and she was very anxious to see one." As Miss Dare said this, she looked gravely at her com- panion, but that pretty maiden was, or seemed, altogether taken up, with the tie of one ^f her shoes. " Did 'ee find 'un," inquired another of the curious, as all their eyes wandered from one explorer to the other. " No ; we found some marks, but they don't look like old letters. — How do the fish go to-day ? " " They'm ruther sca'ce Miss, but the bait's plenty." As Miss Dare and her scholar went home, they said nothing more to each other of their discovery. The neighbors, dispersing slowly, wondered " what made young Lucy Barbury look so frustrated like," and concluded that it was because of her not being " so sharp about they things as Miss Dare, and how could she ? " TRUK WORDS ARK SOMETIMKS VERY HEAVY. 49 CHAPTER YIL mvr. WORDS ABE SOMETIMES VERY nEATT. pan of the harbor, might have «en young Ura- . _ ion standing under the CVoss-way-Flake whioh »ver, with thick shade a pan of the .J ey 'd 5^ r' trZ<:^r "" "'""°"^- '° '"= °" -painted ho , J .om where the young „»„ stood, th,> fair blue heaven over the top of which .nclosure had now begun to oour Z nlif irt ""7 T ' """' --p4 awayT' airy »alls,_the fresh and glorious day. youn?:,n7eTt h""";' T- "'"' ""^ "^ '"^ «'*^- »^ the Tha K,::;:ittft"f,T'''" "i "^"' '""•• ^' ™ some fish whrsh: wa? "?'■ "''° ''"'"' '"'°™' '"* he saluted resp c tfu iHirT""", '" ''""^' ■""■ '''«"" u respectfully, giving her the title of " Aunt " she contiCd htr worL ""' ^"'^''^ '"^ ^'^'"' """« u'!:;*'''' " ""^ ^^ S"- "P heing a .riest, Mr. ;„.. " '"* ^''"'S h« coming life, like a quoit-caster, 00 THE NEW PRIEST. to see how far the uttered word would strike ; then, turn- ing to her, and in a lower voice, added, " I've left that, once and forever. — But why must I be so strange, that you call me ' Mr. Urston ? ' " She looked at him searchingly, without speaking. He kept hia eyes fixed upon her, as if expecting her to say more ; but as she turnc '. ! f ' ^ li ' 11 1- ^ li Tho voico of the fiithnr was very tender ant\ touching; but he (li«i not give wivy to trars. " So, sir, that young n\an hmi done 'is part, and sculled 'cm safe right along wi' the tarril.le cruel gale, aw'y over n tAventy miles or more, to a sai\^ cove, an' his hand- wristes wer.! all worn aw'y wi' workim at the oar ; but 'o never thought of a cruel gate of ice right afore the cove ; an' so wo made no doubt when 'e found that, in dark ni-ht, and fou.ul 'e could n' get through, nor 'o coul.l n' wiilk over, then 'e gave hisself up to his (iod, an' laid down, an' piit his tired arm round his brotlier ; an' so there they were, sir, in short afl(!r that, (it ouldu' ha' been long,) there was four dead men in their boat, awaitun, outride o' llroad Cove, tuU some one 'ould come ftu' take then- poor bodies, an' strip aw'y the ice from 'era an' put 'em in the ground, that comes more nafral, m a manner, sir ! .*_Theydid n' find e'er an oar,— whatever becomed of 'em; but they found tlieir poor guns, mi' the two or- phans had their names cut 'John Barbury,' an' ' George Barbury,' an' one of 'em had ' Pet-' for Peterport, an' couldii' cut no more, for cold— an' death. "There was three guns cut; an' one liad 'James Barb—,' that poor Maunsell must ha' cut, poor fellow, afore the deadly cold killed un. So the kind people that found the poor boys, they thought James was a respectable young man, an' when they comed to lay 'em out, m the school-house, (they were proper kind, sir,) they put a ruffle-shirt on him, o' linen. " So, sir, the Minister comed over an' buried the dead. Four Collins were laid along the aisle, wi' a white sheet over every one, because we had n' palls: James, an' Maunsell, of George, an' John, an' little George, of Izik; tfi SKIPPKR GKORGE. 71 nn' wo put two brothers in one grave, an' two brothera in juiotbnr, side by side, an' cov(irc(l thorn I " Th(!n) was two thousand at the funeral ; an' when the Minister couldn' help cryun, so I think a'most every one cried, as ef 'twas their own ; an' so we hard that people that lived on Kelley's Island hard singun goun by in the dark, like ehantun we haves in church. They said 'twas beautiful, (H)inun up an' dyun aw'y, an' so, goun aw'y wi' tii(! wind. It's very like, sir, as Paul an' Silas sang in prison, vso they sang in storm ! " Then Milly, poor thing, that never good back to 'or father's house, took a cold at the funeral, seomrnly, an' she died in James's bed a three weeks after I She was out of her mind, too, poor thing!" After another silence, in which Skipper George gazed upon th(! r(!st.l(!ss deej), he said, " I brought home wi' me the best stick from the timber, and laved the rest, an' no one ever touched it, an' there it staid. So next winter, sir, my tother poor young man died in the woods, o' masles ; (—thank God ! we never had to move in * till I lost my fine boys,) an' the next sixteen day of Januai-y I set up my pillar, as Jacob set his pillar, an' this is my pillar, sir. I said the Lord gived, an' the Loid have tookt away; blessed be the name of the Lord.— All the riches I had I thought 'twas gone." " You said riches came again," said T^r Debree, deeply interested and affected. "Ay, sir. My maid is gone back to the house. I can' tell 'ee what she is, sir. There's a plenty in the harbor will speak o' Lucy Barbury, sir. I hope 'r-'^ll excuse me for keepin 'ee so late." "I thank you, with all my heart, for that beautiful * Into the woods to be near fuel. !i!5.1 1 72 TITE NEW PlilEST. Story," said Mr. Debree, shaking the fisherman's hand. '' Good night, Skipper George ! You have learned a lesson, indeed, and, with God's grace, it shall do me good. It's a noble lesson ! " " The Lord showed me where to find it in my Bible an' my Pr'yer-book, sir. I wish 'ee a good evenun, sir." So there was a historic beauty (to those who knew them) about the girls in that house. They were the only remaining children of George Barbury. Skipper George, as he was called, though he neither own me „„„g,, ,„d ,,„, ,„ ^^^^ jj.^^= made m , h ot her, ,«>; talked with her, and listened to her, and en- U^iTin-^'-r "1"'* ''-' »''l^-rS-w.as,on. ' .■'hmgly m wtsdom and even in what is learned from This night, within the house again, for a while, Lucy Ba-bury sate looking, with absent eyes, at her fathjr, who \l^ m n 1 4 11^ H ), I 74 THE NEW PRIEST. himself sate late ; then she trimmed the lamp, and busied herself with paper and pencil. It was all silent till their evening prayer-time ; then, late as it was, Lucy read the New Testament lesson for the day; and the father used the evening collorts of the Common-prayer-book, holding little Janie again m h.s arms ; and then the little gathering was broken up. It was the parents' way to leave their daughter to her own times, and she trimmed her lamp and sate in the chimney after they were gone to bed. The next morning they found her lying, in her clothes, upon her bed, burning with fever. . , , , Dr. Aylwin was sent for, from Brigus, and said that «it was severe, and would not be over in a day— or two. *-.* t , I II' ii . 4liionLlr A MEETING. 75 CHAPTER IX. A M£ETINO. j AYS, fair and foul, went by ; the fever kept about 5 Its slow work in Marchants' Cove, and Skipper '-^eorge s daughter was siek. There came a verv beaut, . , afternoon, on the twelfth of that August. AU was fan., as ,f there were no provision in either sea or sky for rain. « J^^d"h^'""'°'" ""Tl""^ '"""P'-g »'eadny over the goald bushes on the Backside, the sky overhead was dear and ,f a cloud floated, it was above the wind- Zd there ,t sailed slowly, as if it were a barge from .vhich s me lovely spirits gazed upon the happ? earth. The imle breakers played quietly, (at this distance no' sound 7" "P f™" "■«-.) --ejoicing, apparently, among hem- Ch-:;!::^:^ "^- -- "-^^ - <">- -m hvmg hfted up .he,r heads among the bushes, but scarcely yet above them, and swept on toward the &rther woods .^d nn r barrens, there to ky by what it was bri„ny stir of human life, and birds and insects avft not fniquent here. The paths are travelled most in winter; for they lead over to the woods, crossing some swamps and ponds, perhaps, in the way ; and these are frozen at that season. They can be traversed, however, (some of them,) at other times, by those who are familiar with them, will' no worse ri^k than that of getting a wet foot at f» cureless moment, and they are shorter ways of communication between ihe houses on the harbor-road in Peteri)ort and the next settlement, towards Bay-Harbor, than is the main highway. Some simi)le flowers grow here among the stones and shrubs, and berries in their season. The Unncea borealis puts up its pretty pinkness, (confounded with the blossom of the cranberry by the people ;) spiked willow-weed ; golden-rod ; the sweet flower of the bake-apple, and other pretty things grow quietly upon this ground, which is scarce habitable for man. The graceful maidenhair, with its pretty, spicy fruit-; plumboys, bake-apples, crackers, partridge-berries, horts, and others enrich the barrenness, and make it worth the while for women and children to come and gather them. On this particular day, at this particular time, the single figure of a gentleman in black dress wa-^ crossing the surface of the shrubbery, just about midway between the harbor's head and the outer point. He wa-* walking moderately, and any one, who saw him nearly, would have seen his hands clasped before him, and a thoughtful, serious look upon his face. Whoever- knew him would have known afar that it was the new Romish priest. Just as he turned a short corner, where the growth of little firs was rather thicker than elsewhere, there started up at his step a pretty thing ; no bird, but a sweet little A MEETING. 77 girl, with the flushed face of one who had been stooping long, and the loose locks, that were a fairer covennf; for the lovely head than the atraw-hat which hung adown her shoulders. The little thing, before collecting her- self,— before seeing fairly the person who had come so suddenly upon her,— said in a startled way, " Who are you ? " After looking at him for a moment, however, she came straight up to him, ; :th her eyes fixed on his face, and said, " I've got a great many berries." At the same time she held up, in a sweet way, still looking straight upon his face, her apron, heavy with the load that she had been gathering. "Thank you, my little child; I don't want any of them," answered Mr. Debree, scarcely heeding the child, who was looking up so steadily upon him. Then, as the little creature was about to turn away, rebuffed and dis- tanced by his manner, he recalled himself from his ab- stractedness, and, condescending to her, asked, " Do you wish me to take one of your berries ?" " Yes, if you please, a great many. Were you looking for me when you came here ? " " No, my child," answered he again kindly, " I didn't know that you were here." " Oh ! yes. I've been here a great while ; I've been here a great many hours ; I don't know how long I've been here. Do you know my mamma ? " " No. I don't know our mamma," said he, patiently keeping up the conversation with the talkative little thing, whose voice was as pleasant as her look, and who evi- dently wished to become better acquainted. " Does your mamma let you come and stay here sc long all alone ?" inquired he on his part. 78 THE NEW PRIEST. « Why, no ! I'm not alone. Don't you see ? " said the young thing, with that directnoss and satisfaction of hav- ing the advantage of a " great .. an," which also grown-up children show in the same way when they find themselves better informed in some particular than some others As she said these words, there rose from the near bushes a merry laugh of little ones, who had been hearmg all, unseen, and had been, very likely, on the point of breaking out before. ^ « Don't you hear those children ? They are with me ; and there's a woman over there, with a pink ribbon round her neck, sitting by that rock ; don't you see her ? She U see that we don't get into any mischief." Mr. Debree smiled as she reported so glibly these last words, words which sounded as if they had made a part or the whole of the request or injunction given when the children set forth from home. In the direction to which his eye turned, as she spoke, the woman "with the pink ribbon," was plainly to be seen at no great dis- tance. , These are tenacious little things these children ; and a kindhearted man, though he be a childless Romish priest, . cannot rudely break away from one of them that wishes to detain him. Father Ignatius, though a little reserved, was very gentle in his manner, and his voice had no repulsive tone in it; the child seemed, as children do, to draw towards him. She took his hand, although he had several times turned to go on his way, and prepared to lead him back again over his steps. He gently resisted. " Where do you mean to lead me ? " he asked. She hesitated for a moment, as if abashed, and then, loosing her hold of his hand, and turning one httle foot A MKFTING. 79 round upon it's toe, swaying her body, at the same time a little away from him, asked timidly, " Don't you want to go and see my mamma?" " Hut I don't know your mamma, my child," he an- swered, taking this opportunity to effect his purpose of keepmg on his path ; so saying « Good bye I » he walked away. He turned his head ere long, and saw the child unsatisfied standing still upon the same spot; her hands holdmg up her loaded apron, her head bent forwards, and her eyes fixed upon him. He stooped hastily, and has- tily came back, saying: "There's a pretty little flower for you that I found under the fir-tree yonder." " Mamma said I was a little flower that grew in the shade," said the child, and then, as if trying again to establish an intercourse between herself and her chance- companion, asked him suddenly, "Are you a minister ? " " Yes. What made you think so ? " " Do you know Mr. Wellon 1 " continued she in her course of interrogation. " Yes, I know him," he answered, once more turning to be gone. ° "Do you love Mr. Wellon?" she went on, following out her own little train of thought. "I know him, and I love him very much ; do you ? " She put the second mierrogative at the end of the sentence, to compensate ior the diversion, in the middle clause, from the openin.^ question, as one brings up, to its first level, a rope thai has sagged in its length midway. " Yes," said he, as kindly and quietly as before, and not persisting now in going on. " Mr. Wellon hasn't any little children ; have you got any little children ?" she asked. i' I 80 THK NEW PRIEST. *' No," answered he, turning away. "Are you a Romis' pries'?" was her next inquiry, using the words (except for childishness of pronunciation) as familiarly as if she hud been reading and spelling out of a book of controversy, the little thing ! Seeing the gentleman change color slightly, or noticing, perhaps, some other slight change which a child's eye so readily detects and a child's mind interprets as well as it knows how, she hastened to ask him, looking abashed, " Is that bad ? " " Oh, no. But what made you think of it ? Where did you hear about Romish priests ? " " I don't know where I heard it. I heard it some- where," answered the little one, in her simplicity. "I heard mamma say it, and Mr. Wellon." " Did they say that I was one ? " said he, in a lower voice than before. « No ; they didn't say you ; they said some men were that." " And what sort of man do you think it is ? " " 1 think it's a man like you." " And why do you think it's a man like me ? " he asked again, smiling. I don't know ; I think it is," the little thing said, giv- ing a child's reason. "And is it somebody like Mr. Wellon, do you think?" " Oh ! no. It isn't a man like Mr. Wellon," said she, decidedly. " What is Mr. Wellon, then ? Do you know ? " « Oh, yes ! I know Mr. W<;llon is a minister of God,'' she answered, laokin*r iif> to him. • . " Who i.s vour m lui na r' " A MKETINQ. 81 "Hor name is Mrs. Barre, and my name is Mary Barre. I'm her little daughter." " And how old are you, child ? " he inquired, looking away, over the water. " I shall be a big girl pretty soon. I'm going on six. That's pretty big, isn't it? Mamma says I shall be a woman pretty sooii, if I live, because my papa's gone." Mr. Debree, at these words, looked back at the child, and said, « Where is he gone ? " She answered as if she were sure of having made a friend of him, " I think he's gone up in the sky ; for my manrima wears black clothes, and cries sometimes ; and that's what people do when some one goes up in the sky. I think he's been gone about thirty years." This last she said with the same innocent confidence as the rest; lavish- ing the time like any other treasure of unknown worth. Her companion did not smile, but stood and looked at her, and then turned again and walked away ; and the li«tle thing, as if satisfied with having established so much of an acquaintance as to have let him know who she was, and how old, turned up the path, without looking back. Presently she was singing at the top of her voice, m she sat upon a stone : — The iceberg f oats, all still and st'ong, From tlie land of ice and snow: Full fifty fallom aoove the sea, Two hundred falloii below." Then aa if her little rhyme had been a sacred hymn, from Holy Writ or the Church Service, she added, " Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost,— in the beginning,— ever shall be, world avout end. Amen." The children, who had been playing or picking berries, VOL. I. Q iir 82 THE NEW PRIEST. close at hand, started up like a covey of birds, and joined little Mary, and the " woman with the red ribbon," who was not far off, came at almost the same moment. « What was 'e saying to 'ee, lovey ? " and " what did 'e come back for?" and "what did he tell 'ee about a praste ? " " Do you know him ? " and other like, were the cloud of questions thp.t swarmed about little Mary from the woman and t'>' , aildren ; the woman not forgetting at the same time, u ,;<.. the straw hat which had been hang- ing, as we said, from our little acquaintance's neck, into its proper place upon her head. From amidst this swarm of sharp interrogatories, Mary started off to flee. She fell and scattered a good many of her berries before she got far, gathered up as many as she could, before the company, which followed slowly, overtook her, and then managed to keep in front of them, and then of such as were left of them, (for they dropped off by degrees,) until she reached her home. Mrs. Barre, in receiving her, thanked the woman who had kept her in sight, and bought, at the same time, some quarts of berries, by way of returning a favor ; then took Mary up in her arms, and hurried to hear her account of her doings. " Please ma'am," called the worthy neighbor after her, « there was a gentleman stopped and talked wi' she some while. He said no harm, I don't think, for I kept anighst 'em, but 'e was this 'am' handsome-looking praste that's corned, as they says, to live in the harbor ; 'is name's somethin, I don' rightly mind ; and he gave her bit of a posey, ef she's a-got 'n now." The mother thanked her again, and for informing her of the child's talking with that gentleman, saying she would ask about her afternoon's adventures. A MEKTING. 88 To this the little adventurer herself, fresh from the ex- citement, assented very cordially. "I talked very kindly to him, mamma," said Mary, when they were alone together, inside. "I told him I was your little girl, and he wanted to know what a Ro- mis' pries' was, and I told him I thought he was a Romis' pries' ; and he asked me wlfether my papa was gone up in the sky." " Are you sorry that your papa is gone ? " asked Mrs. Barre. " Yes, I always am sorry ; why do you ask ^^ that a great many times, mamma ? " " Sometimes I forget ; and I want you to love Heav- enly Father very much, and pray to Him. Where is the flower he gave you, darling ? " " There it is, mamma, and I'll give it to you," said the little one, dragging it forth from among her berries. " Thank you, love," said her mother, kissing her, and taking the flower, which she did not return. 84 Txiii .SliW Jr'iOiiSJr. lit. «W i;l,|.| CHAPTER X. SOME GOSSIP AND SOME REAL LIFE. r^ F an outlandish frigate had come in and furled hei broad sails, and di-opped her heavy anchors, and I swung round to them, with her strange colors flying, and lowered away a half dozen black boats, and held them in tow at her side and astern, and lay there, with foreign- looking marines pacing in her main chains, and a crowd of foreigners swarming on her decks, there would have been some stir in the quiet little town of Peterport, and its quiet neighborhood. The people would, probably, have managed to go out to the ledge to fish, and the women would, probably, have contrived to spread and turn their fish on the flakes, and hoe their gardens, — all besides gratifying their curiosity ; and those who might come from afar to gaze upon, and ask, and talk about, the outlanders, would, probably, get through their usual day's work besides ; but, far and near, and for a long time, the thing would be in their thoughts and in their talk, on land and on water, at flake and at fireside. So it was with the coming of the Romish priest to Peterport. The people talked, and wondered, and feared ; and some one or two of the warmer-spirited wives pro- posed to have him driven off. Mr. O'Rourke, the Roman Catholic merchant, was irled hei ors, and PS flying, eld them foreign- a crowd [lid have port, and probably, and the read and ens, — all [10 might ,bout, the ual day's time, the talk, on priest to id feared ; ives pro- lant, wa3 SOME GOSSIP AND SOME REAL LIFE. 35 either seen more, or more observed, and the remaining j)eople of his persuasion, planters and others, were thought to have (very naturally) an air of more than common confidence and satisfaction. Still more was this supp(,sed to be the case in Castle Bay, where, though the place itself was Jess considerable, the nunrber of Roman Cath- olics was twice as large. Young Urston's case, and the epidemic that had settled Itself in Marchanfs' Cove, and seemed, now, to have laid hold on Lucy Barbury, divided, with the other topic, the pubho mind of Peterport. There was a general wish that the Minister were in the harbor, as well for the sake of the sick, (of whom, though none died, yet several were affected with a lasting delirium,) as for the safeguard of the place against the invasion of the adverse Priest. The upper circle was a small one:— The Minister, the widowed Mrs. Barre, the Wornors, and Miss Dare ; the merchant-stipendiary-magistrate-and-churchwarden, Mr. Naughton; Mr. Skipland, a merchant; Mr. McLauren, the other churchwarden, living near P>ank's Cove,— a worthy Irishman,— (the three latter being unmarried men,) and, lastly, the O'Rourkes, Roman Catholics, made the whole round. The members of it had some subjects of interest beside, but they had chiefly the same as those that occupied the planters. Of course the harbor heard, from open mouth to open ear, the story of the widowed lady's strange interview with the Romish priest ; nor was there little speculation about the unknown tie that bound, or had bound, them to each other. The;r had m^i ,r.,o^ again, and he was seldom seen by day ; sometimes, at n'jht. Some said, of course, that «he walked in darkness." She, too, was not seen often. 86 THE >;!:w puncsr. Miss Dare came and went as ever. Only what followa of what was said and done between her and Mrs. Barre, concerns our story. As .she came in, late on the afternoon of little Maiy's walk, her friend answered aer first question, which was rather r^nxious, — " Do you know, my dear Mrs. Bane, how yon'vt. changed within a few days ? You must try to rest ; cer- tainly not undertake new labor." " I don't know," answered Mrs. Barre, " that I'm not as well as usunl . " but there was an anxiousness in her eyes, and a careworn look about her face, as well as ft nervous agitation in hrr manner. • "You won't insist, i.ow, upon watching with Lucy Barbury ? " " Yes ; I would really rather. It would be a relief, as well as a satisfaction to me," said Mrs. Barre. " Well ; then, I'll go back to my aunt's, and come down after tea." So saying. Miss Dare took her leave. Late in the moonlight evening, she walked with her friend (there is no danger here) towards Skipper George's. There were no people in the road ; but as Miss Dare felt a quiver in the hand that lay on her arm, she noticed, a good way off, a man whose gait and figure were remark- able, and, as they drew nearer, recognized him as the Romish Priest. No greeting or sign of any sort passed between them. As the lady came, pale and thoughtful-looking, out of the night into the house where Lucy Barbury lay sick, the father, with his manly and dignified respect, welcomed her from his heart. The mother, overwatched and over- wearied, was persuaded to go to bed ; but Skipper George kept his place, quietly. NI>1IK GOSSIP AND SOME REAL LIKE. 87 ma^en, who very constantly spoke or strove to sing. As onee a light was carried in and used about her, it was a toueh,„g s.ght to see the girl who lately was so glrf. A wet eloth commonly lay on her forehead, shading her eyes and h.ding a good deal of her face. When ft w- taken off, it could be seen what work the fever 1 J been do.ng. To be sure, her rich black hair poured o^ f.om under her white cap like a stream, and the soft, long ^»ges of the lide spread over her half-closed eyes Uke I oft fern-spray over the little pool at the tree's foot , and the bending neck and sloping shoulders, over which her sTill te?. ft'r "'? '™™ ""^ '«=■'' '>y « •>"'«'". were stdl beautrful , but the eyes were deeply sunk, and the face was Ihtn, and the lips chapped and parched. Her kerchief and other things, that had looked so Cd! upon her, lay with her prayer-book on a chair at During the night she dozed, sometimes, and generally her votce was heard in the low raving of half-sleep. It poured forth as steadily a, water in a stream, and a chang,„g ,„d a. formless; bright thoughu and s.mnge fances, and sweet words; being and hope, am', beauly and happmess and home and sadness; pmyer, son,., chant; thtngs far olf and things near, things [igh and low. So the slow hours of night passed; and the pale, sad Wy, the body of whose child had been so Jelv laid deep m the earth, ministered. In the eariiest morning, about four o'clock, a neighbor. She slept late into the day. Mi li 1 1 1 1 i 88 THE NEW PRIEST. CHAPTER XL TWO MEET AGAIN. RS. BARRE had rested, after her watch, and early in the afternoon she walked out, down the harbor ; this time alone. She passed Mar- chants' Cove, and turn, and hill, and narrow way, to Franks' Cove; and crossing the stile, and going along the meadow-path, and through the gorge r^ the mountain of rock, she stood in Mad Cove. The stony slope went steeply hollowing down to the little shelf of land at the water-side ; the ridge of rock went along to the left, and endod in the tall cliffs at the sea; near her was the widow Freney's house ; a little farther down, to the left, the hovel of Tom Somerset ; and down at the bottom of the slope were the eight or ten houses of the other people, and the flakes of the whole colony. What difference there is between yesterday and to-day ! The great earth has turned over its twenty-four thousand miles of land and sea, cities and woods and deserts, be- tween ; twilight, darkness, day, have come between ; where a breath would have reached yesterday, there raay be, now, wide waves and storms between. Mrs. Barre stood thinking or remembering at the verge of the cove. By and by she drew near to Mrs. Freney's house, and knocked. TWO MEET AGAIN. 89 The priests of the Roman Catholic denomination do not visit generally among their people, unless to adminis- ter sacraments; but as the door opened, Father Debree was standing facing it, as pale and sad as the pale sad lady who unexpectedly confronted him. She started at the suddenness of the sight, closed her eyes fox- an instant, but stood where she was. There was a likeness of face and expression, beyond that of the sadness and paleness, and of figure and bear- ing, also. There was the same high forehead, and (except that hers were darker) the same full, thoughtful, feeUng "Must this be? " said the Priest. " It IS ; beyond all hope ! " she answered. " How can you hope it ? " " How can I any thing else ? " she said ; « I have but one chief object in hfe." " But what should bring us together, if there be no longer a common faith ? " " That there mat/ be ! " " I did not know that I must meet this, in coming to this far-off place!" the Priest said. «I cannot feel the drawing of old tie? !— -I cannot see you ! " . There was nothing like sternness or hardness in his way of saying this, but of gentle, fixed resolve. "I must! I must, while I have life!" she said, not loudly but most earnestly. Mrs. Freney stood, a silent and amazed listener ; and the children looked up, wondering. "I beg pardon, Mrs. Freney,»°said the lady; « I came to ask about your child." Mrs. Freney was so )ewilder(2d, that she scarce knew what to answer : — 90 THE NKW PRIKST. " She's doing well, thank'ee, Ma'am ; — I mean, he's much the same." Father Debree said, turning to her (not without agita- tion) : — " If you can send your eldest chill with m* , I will send back by her two or three little things for her brotherl" Again Mrs. Barre spoke : — " And I shall not follow you farther than just outside the door ; but I must say something more, now God has given me opportunity." • " Certainly," he answered ; I cannot be harsh or rude to you. I will hear, this once, and bring all to an end. Come, child ! go on ! " The girl opened the door and passed out; the lady gravely bowed to Mrs. Freney and followed, and Father Debree, leaving a blessing in t\n: house, went last. He bade the girl sit down upon a stone, and walking a few paces onward, stopped to talk with Mrs. Barre. " Why should we meet ? " he asked. " Why should we meet ! How can we help meeting, if there be heaven and hell hereafter, and if our Life and Death depend upon our duty done or undone ? I have not changed ; what I was, I am." " All human ties are loosed from me," he said. " To do a priest's work is my only dufy, and my only wish. T cannot, even in memory, recall any other tie." "What! is all common life and happiness and hope and duty — is every thing that bound us together, perished forever ? Can you strike it away, because you will not have it? — It all lives, here," she continued, laying her two hands on her bosom, " and will not die ! " " But it is dead with me ! " he answered, A pang, as from a winged arrow, seemed to shoot li 1 TWO MEET AGAIN. g. • iTef '" ■ '"' """' "" '^''- "" ^'-^ ™ 'i"1' " It may be so ! » ,he said. ■• O Walter ! I claim no lo«. I do not ask .or it. I „n,y „,k .,,, .,™-;j yon will hT.r „„ 1 ^ ,"' "'■ """^ '° ■>"'"• ""'' """ To tX" rr.- ' Tl,a. is not mnel. --no. '-t yo„ JZuerTwaL'r "" "" ^°" "''^' " -"■"" Her eyas were only full of tears. His fac, quivered ; his frame was shaken. »I""""^-''''^^^'^'"^^--^-^»>eI It is in,. . "f "^ ^ ^^^^««^ y«"» for God's sake !" she said clasn- mg her two hands to him. ' P" ;• No ! " he answered. « For God's sake, I must not I " 1 ears .00 m his eyes ; how could he hinder them I her ?L ""'' ^^^^'"^ '^^ ^^^^' -^ -ting down ^'' Even as a priest, you might grant me this ! " As a pnest, I cannot do it I Oh ! do not think it cruelty or hardness of heart; my very he^t i " eaten out;-but I cannot I" ^ ^^^^^ ^^^^ . bemg away.' '"'' '"' "'''"^'^' ^"' "''^''^^^ ^^^ hurriedly On on, on she went ; up the harbor, as she had come • Tmber" '''''' '''' '^''^ ''^^ ^- ^--' "P toTer' stopped ; for her mother was kneeling at a chair, holding The child went down upon her little knees at another ^: .%. V^.;^ ^o.. S>^%^^\% IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) A €o A^ ^ o ^'h v- % «> » THE NKW PRIKST. chair, laying her cheek down upon her arm, with her face touard her mother, and pretty soon beginning to play gently with the coral beads about her neck. As Mrs. Barre rose, she came across and set her lips upon the forehead of her pretty little daughter, and smoothed her hair. " Now, darling," said she, " do you think you can do an errand for me exactly as I tell you ?" As she spoke she folded the letter in white paper. '< Oh yes, mamma ! " said Mary, eagerly, " I'm sure I n." " There's a gentleman coming along, and you're to run after him and give him this, and tell him it belongs to him ; and then you're to run back as fast as you can ; and don't stop for any thing. Can you ? " The little ambassadress was sure that she could do just as she was bid, and Mrs. Barre reiterated her instruc- tions : — "Mind; you're not to stop for any thing. If he speaks to you, or calls you, you're to run back to me as fast as you can.' The child assented, and repeated her mother's words. " It's a costly thing ! " said Mrs. Barre, looking forth, as if from the quay her eyes were following towards the far off, fateful ocean, the full-sailed ship that bore her all in one venture. " Now, dear ! Quick ! There he's going— don't for- get ! " she exclaimed, breathless. " Run ! and come straight back ! " The priest whom she had met in Mad Cove was just passing. Little Mary van down stairs, and then out upon the road, with her golden curls shaking and shining in the sunlight. The gentleman turned and took the parcel TWO MEET AGAIN. D.T from her hand ; then, having opened it, looked after her, as if he would call ; but presently he turned again and walked on. Little Mary only varied a little from her orders. Hav- ing run away from him as fast as slie could run, she stopped, as a bird might stop, and looked back ; but he did not turn again, so she came in. Thi.3 time, too, as before, her mother was upon her knees, and the child stood looking out of the window. As her mother rose, she said : — " That's the same one I saw the other day, mamma ! " Her mother was thinking her own thoughts. Mary had a child's way : <' Why do you cry so much, when my papa's gone up in sky, and brother Willie ? " she asked. Mrs. Barre wept silently. The little prattler went on prattling " If I !ould go up there, I'd ask Heavenly Father where my papa was. He'd know, wouldn't He, mamma? Heavenly Father would know, because He knows every thing. He'd show me my papa ; and I'd go up to him and say, 'I'm your little girl Mary, that you left at mamma's house when you came up here,' and then he'd know me." The little thing was not satisfied with the silent acqui- escence that she got. « Mamma ! Mamma ! " she exclaimed, " I saw little brother Willie ! " "When, dearie?" asked her mother, now heeding her. "Just now,— a little while ago,— and he leaded me by my hand near to where Heavenly Father was sitting on his great chair. Then Heavenly Father got up imd 94 THK NKW I'lilKST. ■I opened his closet and took down one of our little boy's playthings, and gave it to our little Willie ;— (He didn't give any to me ;) but He looked at Willie's little sister as if He was glad to see me. Little Willie knew who I was, mamma, because he saw my paper." « What paper, darling ? " asked her mother, entirel)' occupied with the child's story. "My paper— don't you know? That you wrired * Mary Barre ' on, for your little girl. I throwed it away up in sky, and wind blew it away up, so WiUie could see it ; and Willie knew what little girl it was." " Come with me, you dear little dreamer! " said Miss Dare, who suddenly appeared at the door; and, snatching up Mary, she carried her off. She set the child under the boweiy branches of a seringa, and stood among the shrubs and floating sprays of creepers, which she had a year before gathered about the house, a fairer thing than the sunshine that was play- ing among them ; and she sang for the child's pleasure a song broken into pauses now and then, much as the sun- shine WH£, here and there, broken into shade. Perhaps our readers have seen or will see how the song may have been suggested. " Woe for the brave ship Orient! Woe for the old ship Orient! For in broad, broad light, With the land in sight,— Where the waters bubbled white,— One great, sharp shriek !— One shudder of affright I And— di wn went the brave old ship, the Orient! " Her voice was a fine, full alto, never needing any effort, but now apparently kept low, for Mary's ear. The air which she very likely adapted to the words, was TWO mki:t again. „» oubh rt,e same in general as that of the ' Bonny house o' An he, and her voiee Ho.n „p„„d and fli„ -, Lm It opart among the words, as a bW from b ., o l^h but the song all lived in the singing " ^ ' The shriek seemed to split the air, and the shudder ,„ over heTe' ''T ''7'^' ""' " ™« '" "»*' ^ over the sea, where the good ship had foundered SI,. .^;;e:astz"-"^'^- ------ " It was the fairest day 1„ the merry month of May And sleepiness had settled on the seas- ^' And we had our white sail eof >,• u ' And « ,,,,, ::^^^::;- -1^,;-^^^^ --- O^th^h^tld^dn^nL^^^^^^^^^ Had flamed, tl.e world over, on the breeze." However it was that she fitted the music to the words t seemed n;uch as if every hne took its own fZt leaving the smger's lips, in the fittest melody. " Ours was the far famed Albion And she had her Dest look of might anc'. beautv on As she swept across the seas thafday. ^ °' The wmd was fair and soft, both alow and aloft And we wore the idle hours away " ' tfte little gu-I clambered to the ton nf th. e ,' seated herself there. ^ ^^ ^^"^^ ^"'^ " Please sing, cousin Fanny ' " ^h(. c:,;^ i, seated m;.c rk ^' ^^^"' ^^^n she was seated. Miss Dare sang again :— ' " The steadying sun heaved up, as day drew on And there grew along swell of the sea; (which seemed to grow ,„ her singing, too,) im THE NEW PRIEST. And, first in upper air, then under, everywhere, ' From the topmost, towering sail, down, down to quarter-xufl, The wind began to breathe more free. ' Ho ! Hilloa ! A sail ! ' was the topman's hail— • A sail, hull down, upon our lee ! ' Then, with sea-glass to his eye, And his gi'ay locks blowing by. The Admiral guessed what she might be; And from top and from deck, Was it ship? Was it wreck? A far off, far off speck, Of a sudden we found upon our lee," " Here comes Mr. Naughton ! " said the child from her perch, like the topman from his lookout; "and somebody's with him, — it's James Urston ! " Miss Dare hastened to take the little one down ; and as she was retreating into the house, the voice of the mer- chant-churchwarden-and-raagistrate Avas heard, urgin'^ upon the young lover, who had abandoned his preparation for the Romish priesthood, the excellence of, a life of celi- bacy; and regretting that Mr. Wellon (though he was unmarried, certainly) was not under the obligations of a vow. Miss Dai-e's song was broken off. A SAD VOUNG HKABT. 97 CHAPTER XII. A SAD rODNG HEAKT. *E) came alone along the oTtr/T' ^'''°'' *a. oft ;t:.:: r r 1 ''r "''^'^^ ™'-' ■■•^» head, saw that he «a. U^/ta ' ""'' '""""« '"^ old women, who v,erT J^T^ '"'" " S™"'' »'' ""> chafflng about .h~ "l^lTr " '"^^^^ P™"^"^ memories of the time when h! .,7' "^ ™"''"g "«' were the youns tL ^ ^°''' "'*«'''"1 bodies !) here than an^w'here a "? """ "' *"^ •"" P-P' score years an"^ ten 'oie "'I "7 °™'"^^ "'^ *-- K'ehard, a woman who e ';!,'' "'^ ''^ "^^"^ not exhausted yet by a tn f' ""'' """"'^ ''"'^ changing season' 'a'rJ"r::f:f""'"^T ^^"' "^ o.her gossip „a, "Old" gZ! T? ""''"■ ''""^ called, though younger th,„ ^ ^ '' "' '''^ *as yea... l^e,itfe"G:^ *;"''" '""'''''' "^ f"" ^even well a medical and p^SnaTd'T" •" """" "^ ' '^ - land, as one implyf„r„T et '°^: '" '''^''""''- 'his moment a pit^h^erln^; ha^ Z„T"' ■""' '" ^-outora h„„d.d,-a mt,e;r'„::;;:isT: «' r IWi 98 'IHK NKW I'STEST. slender line of bluc4ilong the brim. At least he might have known it, and what fair hand had often borne it. " Goou morning, Granny, and you, Granny Frank," he said, rather impatiently, as if he did not wish to stop. When we have met with such a thing as had lately hap- pened to young Urston, and wish to be alone, we have at the same time (at all events the young have, if not all of us) an apprehension that it is all written in English on our faces, or has been overheard, or carried by the wind or winged birds ; perhaps James Urston thought so. " Thou'rt goun up over, Mister Jemmie Urston, I think," continued Granny Palasher, (this was her vernac- ular name,) in pursuance of her object in addressing him, " and 'ee'il most likely want to stop and hear for 'eeself ; and so Missis Frank says I'm wantun up at Rivci'hfad, she thinks, and 'ee'll plase take this pitcher up to she. It's a marsel o' water out o' Har-pool she wanted," (It will be remembered, as James, no doubt, remembered, how he drank out of that spring that morning.) " and I've abin and got un. 'Ee see he's so fresh and clear as the blue sky, in a manner. I wouldn' lave her, only the mother '11 be up, in short. I s'pose 'ee baint afeared to see her lovie ? an' nobody wi' her but the tother lit.tle one ? Lads didn't oose to be fear'd o' maaids, when 1 was one." Old Granny Frank, at this allusion to young days and their doings, gurgled in her throat with a cracked laugh, and, when she could recover the poor little wheezy re- mainder of her voice from its employment in laughing, uttered a few shrill and grating, though not loud, words with it, in confirmation of the last remark of her com- panion. These came, one afler another, as if they were stamped and thrown out. f A SAD YOUNG HEART. The more vigorous Trln T "^'"P^^'ons. J m in n great hi„Ty. Grannv •' ,„. ">«", not cLangin.. color „T """■™P"«1 ""= young -i". a look of gr^vo del " . '".""'"S "i-concerted, b„I -" call there t,l elnlng- """""' """" ' -"'' very "Oh I 'Ee hnvo,.' . old woman, L^e p,„td T r '"'™ '""'" -'^ «"» '"'tor urged another lau»h un h„ -i . '"'" "'"<-■'' ">« more words. ° "^ """^ '^'■•>' ""wt, and a few ;'Mm! So-IVe-^h„rd!» %."';■: tl„:r;:;:^:>™"f ^-.ks are, „„„.a. Mister James U.tln "e td r " 'k' "'^'' "«"'• ge^another ,ou„g man I uJtfX a min^:.."'"'""' ^'" TWo™g.a„did„„.,.a,fo;par,er m the bearer's hand he m/ '. , 7 ' '''''"^ ^^^ Pitcher Ti.e grann, 2 th s Zl ' „' "l" " '"' '^ '»«>- " Tk:»'„ . comment on his sdppoIi • J-nisam vouno- p)ior^ fi,' t , "» apeecn : — anstrr ''' ''"'■" ''-"-^' ->- Grann, Pah^her if ii' McMASTER UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 100 THK NEW PRIK6T. "'Is; but there's no danger o' she." He hurried on, and left the old gossips to themselves. Up the path he hastened toward the ridge bounding the meadow, at the farther side of which stood Skipper George's house. Mounting, as the sun mounts up, seems fit work for the morning. There is a spring in the strong, young body, that almost throws it up into the air; and airy wings seem to lift one at either side. But it was evening, and this young Urston had been, and was now going, through a terrible trial, p.nd there was a heaviness about his mo- tions, and a sad paleness about his fuce, that did not belong to him. As he got up to the edge of the little meadow, and it lay before him, with its several less-distinguished tracks, — looking not so much like different ways, as the same one unstranded,— and the house, backing against the little cliff, he paused ; and it is no wonder. They say that on some table-land, among the mountains of Quito, lies a gorgeous city, in which the old Indian race still holds its own. The roofs and battlements glitter with gold; for the people nave kept, from father to son, the secret of richer mines than any that the whites have found in Cali- fornia. Now, fifty yards across the meadow, at the edge of which James Urston stood, gli^'^ered with many sheets of glowing gold, the house in which Skijjper George's daughter was lying sick. It was a plain, unpainted house, and, at any time when the gold, which the morning or evening sun laid on it, had been taken off, was but the dwelling of an honest, poor man. Yet he looked long ; and it seemed as if he dared not set foot upon that mea- dow, any more than if it and the house were an enchanted scene. There was not a hundred yards of space between A SAD YOUNG HEART. ^^^ liim and the house; but what a worM nf f :'"" «}"-> of ..,„ ,„„„g,,. f^„, .;f"» • J -very and passed on. ' '° """""'^ <=™"*'' 'i« ^'fee. 102 THE MSW PJUJiST. CHAPTER Xin. A GKKAT LOSS. !. . 1.1 f .N the nigl.t of the day of which we have hovn ^J wni.n.r, (thatfineenth day of August,) Mr. Wcllon, \/ who had come across, ia his way home, from l^or-' tugul Cove to Sandy Harbor, in a boat oeiongin-r (o the latter place, was sitting Lite in conversation whh Mr Kewers, the clergyn.an of Sandy Harbor, when suddenly the ♦ Society •* schoolmaster, a man of an inquiring, and excitable turn of mind, came knocking at the door, and announced, eagerly, that some strange work seemed to be going on in Peterport. He said the lights were movin- about, and there was an unusual noise; something mus° be the matter there. ' ° At this intelligence the two clergymen hastily started torth m company with the schoolmaster, for Blazin- Head,-the lower and back part of Sandy Harbor,_from which a view of Peterport (when it was to be seen) could be had. 1 hey readied, after a few minutes' walk, a hic^h point, and saw the lights, like running sparks in chimney soot, and heard plainly, over the water, in lulls of the wind the sound of human voices. At this hour of night, and With the wind bringing in. the great murmur of the sea, the far-off sound of human voices was far more than com- nionly impressive. • * Of the Newfoundland School Soniety. A OKEAT Loss. I US Hi. .,.l„«|„„Hter, wl,o l„d be.„ i„ ,U .„,| fo, . '\-""; '''■ ■ •> '" «" I-"" "» fi... „M ,,.„;i,k: „„,, ,;; -:;::«;: t;:;;:cv <"■ "» -^^^^^ - ->.., wiijiiii „„ li„„r,tli(.,- were crossing Com ll„ck C^ve .,„ ,. „ .end,. r..i„, wi,„ ni,s..,. «„a „i! .„„, Jp. us who l,.rry d,a.,ce.p«s»«,sc.rs from thn. .i,l,.. i, „,^- "" ''":* "'"' " e™«'. """d. peely hill of ro,.k wl,i,.|, fo™ one s„l,. „r Uack Cove-.,ose to which ,hey wei^l^lw not be see,, They set ,.,eir l„„,e,^ i„ L b,„v of . « pun^ and w„l, „ strong, and steady, slow ,„.„ke the L^ ".«n „.,„ onsi, felt their wayalon.f The Mini ^ ee^^^" he 8el„H,l,„as,e,., by way „f ,„„Ui„„ ,,:„,,.»• „,ef„, ^he. «k to „»v, a way of being nseful, which, after several n,es . eaiclnng c-abs," as sailor, call it, „„d o„ee nearTv de,„ol,s „,,g ,be lantern i„ falling over backwards Tet ehange.l tor that of holding ,he light „„d looking .,1 Ihe .-ain ,K>u,ed straight down, d,-enchingly , and ( hough „ good, „,i,k „,„„„,^^ ., ^,^^_^^ ,,„,,;^f;™ steady lalhag br„„g„t „„ „,,„,„ „„,^^ | ') - had already deadened the wind, and Loothed .he wa e down „ the gronnd-swell. I„ about three „„ar.ers of an hou,. the, made the .shore of Pe.erport, below their In o( dest.nalion, and worked up to it. Marchants' Cove was -ill e*:,, „ i , , m Mr. O'Koui-ko's house- the lin.|,,„ „ a ','='" f„„,i, , , . """■'' "'e lights and sounds were further down the harbor. The Ministe,- left l • ions l,„,v. ^.1, ^i. , Juinislei left his compan- o,,s h ,e (the Schoolmaster keeping the boatmen's com- I- V. » be sure of his passage baek,) and alone went •I""., the road, and took the first eonshlerable path "v!^ 104 THE NEW PKIEST. to the Backside, tne place to which they had some J,ours before been straining their eyes so eagerly, from Blazin^- Head. *=> On the road he met no one as he had met no one in Marehants' Cove ; but as he drew near the meadow in which Skipper G urge's house stood, he heard women's voices, and by-and-by came upon a company, whom by the ear, not by the eye, he could distinguish as Old Granny Frank and others of the neighbors. They recognized him, and announced ar.ong the.aselves, as he drew near, the Fareson ! " ' People in this country take no heed of weather, (when ras'c^f ";f'"^'" '"^-^ Readdressing the eldest, (as CEdipus addressed the old man of the chorus,) but turning or answer to the others, « what has happened .P" The old woman was doubtless making up her mouth to^speak, but, happily, her grandson's wife spoke for thats Lucy Barbury,-how she's beei. atookt out of ier fathers house ever sunce last evenun, and never a wo^d corned about her, sunce, whatever ? " "Taken away !" exclaimed the Minister, turning from one to another in amazement, " How do you mean ?» -ls-sir,-an'-her--bed_wi'-her ; " gurgled the branny, gtnnmg her speech. I '^;n., an Sk:pper George 's inside now, w'itun for " Let me see ! » said the Minister, staying for no further talk, but hurrying towards the house. i A GRKAT LOSS. j,^,, TJie old and young women, and others, loitered for a little gossip, and to hear the end. "Did 'ee see the Pareson, Grannie, when I told un? Did ee see un shake his head ? " " To-be--su.e_'e_would,» answered Old Granny Frank oracularly. vrrannj " ;E did then ; shookt it just this w>," continued Patience. « What do 'ee think, Granny ^ " way^ ^-^?-V-'-o-shillun-worth-o'-:good — wi -a— pr'y'r-e'— made— t'oth-er— d'y » ^'' Did um, then ? I shouldn' wonder ! " " Wull I — some — savs — an-crfils „«' /. . . , •' 't'J-geiis — an — some — savs "All 80, Granny!" assented Patience, who, if she hould hve .,0 long, was in a fair way to ^e as ^L 'I thinks gezac'ly the same." ' ^' Ay,_ child,- it-'U _ be _ sid _ a-fore-ma-nv- dys- e-up," and the old body hn^ed away, wh,^ she had her mystery entire. • ^' "° As the two speakers separated , the little gatherin.. drew nearer to the cottagcdoor, with new food L spec^IaZ n the gunny's utterance, which had, sotnehowfTnts "d the subject ,n a more ominous perplexity than bef"^ the !ffl .TrT """""* *"'■''" '°"'»<*i'»ney, where th :n!:r h riiiThrt ""^"^ """'- '-''-'' ^"' ui mem all. ihere he was; not even smokino- «.e accustomed pipe, but with his hands upon h s k„ e! ad >..^cb,n buned in his breast, looking up'on the kitchen uolhr. t "' ■'"'P""''''""/ and slouchingly, bu. "pnght Itke a man , and like a man who, having don. 31 4. r 106 THE NKW PmivST. whatever could be done as yet, was waiting to set forth again and do whatever might be left for man to do. A crowd of neighbors made their way in after Mr. Wellon. All rose, except the father, at the sudden entrance of the Minister; the father did not notice it. At the sound, however, he immediately turned round ; and a more honest, manly, kind, true face than his, has seldom met the open air, and the broad sunlight, or fi-onted tearing wind, or drenching rain, or driving snow ; had seldom met warm welcome from the wife, as it was seen through the half-opened door, or beamed complacently upon the frohc of the children at the hearth ;— but it was clouded now. He took off his weather-worn straw hat, in jising to receive the Pastor. " Sarvant, sir; you're very welcome home again," said he. "Why, Skipper George ! " said the Minister, « what if it my good friend? Do tell me!" Then pressing him silently to a seat, the Minister sat down to listen. "Ah, sir," the father said, « I've a-sid heavy misfort'n sunce the last sun as ever rose. It's my Lucy, sir ; you know'd her sir,"— his voice breaking,— " so well as I a'most, and oh ! how she did love the Minister to be sure ! well, sir, she was sick from short after you laved the harbor tull this evenun : that's 'isterday evenun, I should say."— He «ighed as he thus reminded himself of the time already gone, by which the separation ha'd been so much widened.—- She was goun through the worse of it, and we thowt, naterally, that as she didn^ get no worse she would get better, if it was His will, and so the doctor said, (that's Dr. Aylwin, sir, of Brigus.) So when I turns out in the mnrnin 'isterday,— which I doned nearly about wi' the first sun,— after I'd said my bit of a pr'yer, I says A GREAT LOSS. 107 through flstung, and get a .na-sel C «g,. „r Lh-Hk ,?:.! ■ny poor, dear maid, hopin, mayhap, ,he fuver raV tie a ..,r„, and .„en .he/d help her to g^ a bi,; anllt! how I had a .wo and sixpence .ha. Fd ..kep .lis ™any^ the dy agau,s, 1 may wan. i,, and a body likes .0 do snmma. eheery for a sick da«er when he 1 , so I " „1 and I looks upon her, and, .„ my seemin-, she ookedC gal look, and her face, and her hair. She looked so afearcd .0 k.ss her ; but I did, sir, thank God ; I did sir and ,t seemed in a manner, to bring my darte back 2 she says, very low like, • Father ! • she says, • What 10,;^"- -ys 1; Dear father ! ' says she, and no:hin' more L 1 ^uldn help „, but I cried much as I'm doin' nov,:, s"r but I do'no why Tm so long a tellin' it, on> I'm afeared o ge upon the rest of it. However, I ,^ent on. Id corned home w,' my few flsh, and hurried and got off and wen. over .0 Backside, and got myself pa. over to Br ad he ^ v"". ™' r' ™ '"'™""^<' "•■-' '"« -' pa" o- Cattle B y nver-head. I s'pose I might be gone a matter mZrX'T '■''"^^ "■''"" ^ «™ *" 'l-.op'o.he Ml by .he church and sid ,l,e house, I s'pose I might 'a felt u was empty; but I didn't, sir. It seemed, in a ".anner, as ef strength Mowed out of it, somehow, .0 me I growed so much livelier; and I slowed awV my little parcels m my pockets, thinkin>, perhaps, she'd feel in 'em, P^ymg hke, OS she'd «>se to do, when she feeled herself l«t.er. So I walks up .0 the door, and lo and behold it * Id common parlance this word mean, raisins. ! ! 1 i t|: «4 irg TIIK NKW PKIKST. was open; b.it T thodjrhf nolliin' sfraiifro mid T wont in, nnd rifrht into the- |,l,i..<, whoro IM aMi her, sir, and she' wasn't there. ' Mother ! '-snys I ; h„t, n.y missis wasn't there : ♦ Granny ! ' says I, but she wasn't there ; then my t'other h'ttle gal that was sittin' down by the door, tryin' to tie her shoe, and eryim', said, 'Daddy, she's gone aw'y, Daddy,' she said, « l^a.ldy, slie's {rone aw'y, Daddy ; ' an,l my heart went onee jest as a fish would jro, and 1 never nsked her who she muned, but I .id th.re w.i, soinethun tarnble strange ; and so I sat down on the bineh and gave one great sigh like, that seemrd to ase me; and then I got up an.l tookf my poor little papers and put them on tlie bed, and tbliyed right out to see ef I eould find what had becomed of her. So we sarehed all evenun, mid we've asarehed all night; and so-I'm sittnn here, aa I be now, sir,-'Twas a bad night for she !-Ah, well! God knows." As he said this the bereaved man sat and wept, openly and steadily, in silenee. Not a motion was made nor a word said until he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and turned his honest, manly face again, and said :~ "I found my mistress; an' I found Granny Palasher ; an' I sid JNIiss Dare that was just comun up ; I could find every body ; but we never found my dear young maid ' It isn' like we woul', sir. God's will be done, however. E 11 do what 'E sis best." The simple story ended, he turned quietly away from his hearer, as if there were nothing more for him to say, and he would listen now. The Minister came up and took his hand in bolii his, and said " Amen ! " There was a general. motion among the company, and many repeated the word. The Minii- ter's voice trembled as he said— A (JKEAT LOSS. 109 •' Go(i hic... you! Skipper George ; we must find her, or find » He paused. The fisherman made that mo.t expressive gesture of heml and Jiand which is read in all languages, and touches any class of men, meaning " Ah ! you needn't say it, sir! I know." " L(M'.s see where we are," said the Minister, and he f^nHHl toward the company, among whom was the con- Hahje. " Mr. Gilpin, you know all about it ? " he asked of th,s worthy man, who was, also, one of the two smiths of the place. Charles Gi!pin_« Mr. Galpin," " Mr. Gul- pm "Skipper Charlie," as he was variously called, was an Englishman, middle sized, with a face dark by nature, and a ways wearing a shade of grime from his "forge." and shghtly pitted by the varioloid. His right eye was wantmg, having been destroyed by an accident in firing a salute onMhe king's birthday, in one of his own younger • hours. The remaining orb in that firmament seemed as much bnghter as if the other had been absorbed into it, and had joined its fires. He was an intelligent, pleasant < lookmg fellow, wnh that quick modon of the muscles about the eye Tf.at marks the possession of humor "I've done my best at it, sir," answered the constable, with modest brevity. " Who saw Lucy last ? " ".I can tell 'ee, sir, ef 'cell plase to let me," said the brave old fisherman. " IVe got it all by heart, in a manner. Twas Granny Palasher happened to be bidin w. her, (for we didn' oose to have reg'lar watchers d'y- t.mes sir, only we never laved her long.) a: ' so Lucy waked up and called for a drink, granny says ; an' she a- Jn want tay, an' she did'n want spruce,* an' she wanted * Spruce beer; a common bevemge. no THE NKW PRIKST. a dnnk from the Karpool-that's it in the hollow under the bank, t'other side o' the church, you know, sir; an' so the granny went aw'y to fetch it, never thinkun o' naw- thun, of course, an' nobody's sid a sign of her sunce, only poor httle Janie said she goed round the corner." " Mow long was the granny gone ? " '' I can' be exac'ly accountable, sir, how long she was aw y ; she m'y ha' stopped to pass a word wi' a nighbor sartamly, but 'twouldn' be long, it isn' likely." " Who lives nearest on the Backside ? The Urstons I think." " is, sir; Mr. Urston that married my missis's niece." " The father of the young man that was going to be a Komish priest?" asked the Minister. " 'Is, sir ; but 'e've knocked off beun' a good while sunce, and e s a good lad," said the father, shutting off all sua- picion in that quarter. " How do things stand between your family and their's, now?" asked the Minister. ^ "Mr. Urston's wife was my missis's sister, 'ee know, 8ir,--that IS, half-sister,--and then my missis i's a good oit younger, and was abrought up in Etigland, mostly, tull she was a woman. 'Twas Mr. Urston an' his son put me over from Backside to Bread-and-Cheese Cove I maned to ax Tummas Turtas,^lives a bit beyond they- ^^hen they were goun down to Avateiside, and offers m.' a passage, an' I could n' deny 'em. Ah ! " he said, coming back to his great grief, « she's alossed now, that I would n' loss for all the fish in the sea, and swiles on the ice, and fruits o the land! Thank 'ee, kindly, sir; I ax pardon for bem so troublesome. 'Ee'll plase to excuse me, mghbors." So saying. Skipper George prepared to go forth again. * A GREAT LOSS. Ill oT,f;'"" "^^^ 8°""' »'• "'" "'°"ght of sadness pe en or .0 come, aga,n overcame hto, „, also his words and 1 c„„d,,,o„ „e.e „ore than so.e of Ms s..d, ne.^t: -";ers.::r:itr-'"-»-''- ^-.o„k.w,s.,(^;:r.e.sirrast,^r: inoch, m a manne,, because o' what Jesse sid ( Ws my ncvy, Jesse of Abram,-hves under ,hl ■! -T hilJ -_7e,se Hiu ,. '"" ''"'"' o the n.«, Jesse Hdl, we calls un ,) I didn' tell 'ee sir -P Backside-wV. and ZT , °"°''' S""" '»'«■• aWy like. 'E T,^,at' If ^"'f"'' ^"^ '"^ ^°- "gl^' parted under her *„:',!, "f ^U """ T' "' gone right aw'y, an' .hc/nev: si'd her ol:! '" sir; is there? o?' ""''""^^ *'«■■'' ^ -awthin' in that, back." ^ ^ ^^'^^ '^'^"^^ never come JJhere maj be a good deal in it," answered the Min- * Catching a fish that serves for b*it. T Vision. i :| 112 THE NEAV PRIEST. The eyen of all were intently fixed on him, and the father, even, lifted hi, fiom the fire. " I don't think it was any spirit," continued their Pastor. " What clothes had Lucy on, most likely ? " * " Oh ! nawthin', sir, but just as sfie was in bed. It 'ud make a strange body cry, a'most, to see 'er poor frock hnngin' up there, and 'er two shoes standin' by the side o' the bed, an' she aw'y, an' never comun back, most likely. Muny's the time I've alooked at they, sunce, an* cried ; it looks so heartless, like." The people about Skipper George were no " strange bodies ; " and some of them could not help doing as he had done, and as he did. " Now, sir," said he, rising to depart, and holding his weather-worn straw hat in his two honest hands, « I think 'ee knows all." " I wouldn't have you go out again, Just yet," said the Minister. "I'll take my turn, now, and any fresh hands that I can find." " Here's one, then, sir," exclaimed the constable, start- ing to his feet. "Haven't you been out all night?" asked the Min- ister. " Yes, sir, but not all day yet ; we've got the day be- fore us. I can sleep when we've got done." ♦ "Then I'll be back, God willing, in little more than half an hour ; and, if you please, we'll go as far as we've any thing to guide us. I wish to go over the ground, at least, if nothing comes of it." "I'm sure 'ee woul', sir," said the father, in a very kindly way. " It's no use ; I can't lay out plans now. I've got my handes, and something to make 'em work;'- (one might almost see a great, grieving heart heave, as A UHEAT LOSS. 11.1 ''" ,;""' """■> " ™ tale 'E Will , a„. of I „evor „■, .„ A8 he .spoke of no, afjain .ooing her, ih ,he body h„ brought „,,, „i,h „,„ ,„.„„ „,„„,„.,, -^.^ h^ne., hanf L, whose finge,., „ero bent will, Ion.. yea,v"o 1 „!;^ , «init:t:rt"i:r'"''^'^™"'---'-™"^ He 8,ood s,ill with his grief, and, as Mr. Wellon o T r- r"'' ■'"■•'' '""■•'• '- ""■^'l '» his Pastor o™ of those dnldhke looks th.at only come out on the fl rf *e true man, that has g^wn, as oaks grow, r 2„ nng, addn.g eaeh after-age to the childh;od Chas "ever been lost, but has been kept innermost. TuC rT erman seemed like one of those that plied thei r!de" and were the Lord's diseiples, at the'sea of gI Uee' eighteen hundred years ago. The very flesh and btod nelostng such a nature keep a long y' "l-'^'ion i., w,,ic.h wayd'd •n ^h!; -po.: zr^::vzr '° ^^-^ ^'^ '^--'^ 'vore je,t f .alk it over « L"' " '"^ "'"" "' '' "' had found a pi fo" , "'™""' "'="""' '° """'' """ '"= fldentlj. than iZl 2 ".T")'"]'' """ "" '""'" «-»■ «> who. .e eh I'ta," d In r "' ^""P""' ^-^-^^e, him. ^ ^' ''"' ''"''"'<' '» ">e left hand of The father regarded hi'm «rin. constable, afte/fl^ „„"",;; 0^: ^L""'"^* ^''^ watehed, curiously, ,I,e „ew inf^ '''""" **""■"'> nei.hho.„.e„ed^i;%X-tr;:^^^^^^^^^^^^^ wha.^i4;r::^:re::ri^: -'■-"'¥ '"'^'■" •n Peterport, bea here wele ^ " 'm"',"^'' '' '"'™ «aid, " I^ ,ir ,h " t; • ^ '"'°'"= "' *^ "^''-™an, who Chan's' Cove there •» , ^ ' '""■ ''<'"'" '" ^ai- "o. re,.,ar hoppia^ad't t' J ^ tlue?.:''!'^ '■^'^' ™g.o„, , .,, 3a,i„. is. Wa>,,„o.,t'lho''."Z: :i:.' I" m 116 THE NEW PRIEST. •bn, 'I \l muke her strong.T, un* when her mind 's out o' the way, yo see, 'twould, likely, umke her want t' try an' do soinclhin'." The interest with which his hearcrd luul been listening was evidently not llajj^ging. " It's Mister IJanks, the American marehant," said Pa- tience Frank, (for she was there,) to a nei«,'hbor-woinan. "Wall, then, (luestion comes: what tvoiitd i^hc do? Why, 'eordin' to. She wanted a drink o' water, f one thiu^r ; wall, s'pose she 'as very dry, sh' might go o9 -. git some, likely. 'F all she wanted was water t' cool her, sh' might take 't into her head to git into the water; but, then, bein' crazy don't make a fool 'fa gal, 'f sh' wa'n't one b'lbre ; and they wa'n't any thin' lik' that 'bout this young lady. Then, don't ye see, the' was lots o' folks, by all 'counts, on the flakes, (ye call 'em,) an' round, an' one of 'em 's her mother ; so she didn't go down that way, whether or no. Wall, then, again, 'tain't likely she was all thust ; she had some notions b'sides that: (we ain't all Hesh and blood, I guess.) Le's see." It was strange to see the unflagging attention of the au- dience to this lengthened argument, given, as it was, with no attractions of oratory, or enforcement of gesture, except an invariable sticking of the thumb and forefinger of the right hand into the palm of the left, (much as we have known a good old Greek professor to practise with his pencil and a hole in his i Oi^taud ) There was a persist- ency and push in the argn?r - voi-^, and ar, alhesiveness in his expr-ssions, thai Laiiied iiis reasonings in, and made them stick. So there was a general assenting in words, besides silent affirmations and negations of the head, as he affirmed and denied. " That's a dear case ! " " Surely ! " « All so, sir ! " and ] I ( \ T t I ( S I A NEW MAN. 117 the like, refreshed the speaker much as the parenthetic •hear" and cheers of the rioii.se of Cotrimons, or as the pUuidits of (he Athenian-' gralificd Demosthenes. The eonstabh;, as if his cue were only to keep oflieial eye and ear ui)on the speaker, let him go on, without meddhng with him, and ke|)t silence. The father heard Mr. Bangs with steady attention. " Wall ! " eontimied the reasoner, " then comes ques- tion again ; which way ? Sis' says right, no doubt. Sh' went right round the corner o' the house, an' down to- back part o' the place, here—" " 'Is ; Backside, sir, we calls it," says a neighbor. " Wall, 't's a good name, no doubt. The's two roads goin' 'long, up an' down, 1 believe—" " 'Is, sii*," said one of the neighbors ; " there's the sumtner w'y and the winter w'y, by Cub's CovB, and the Cosh, and so into the woods." "Fact, r ben on both of 'em myself," continued the speaker. " Then the's a path goin from Skipper George's (s'pose I ought to call him)—" " It's a compliment they pays un," said the constable. " Don't heed it, sir," said the stout fisherman ; " George is plenty good enough for I, alw'ys ; and, most of all, now. If the kindness that lies in such compliments embellishes common times, there is no danger of times of sorrow wanting them. The reasoner resumed, keeping the title ■now that he had got it. " The's a path from Skipper George's right acrost these two roads, (that is, ye call 'em roads 'n this country) wall, I guess she kep' the path t'll she got to these two roads, Cf ye call 'em so,) f 'r 't's plaguey hard makin tracks out- side of a road, here— (fact, 'tain't al'a's the easiest trav- 'i! fi iW I fi"! I' ' i| I' 118 THE NEW PRIEST. ellin' in 'era, b't that's 'nother question,)--she kep' the path t'l she got t' these two roads, an' then question is, which way ? She'd take some way certin. I guess ye'U think we miglit 's well try t' hetir 'era 'lectioneerin' 'r talkiu' politics 'n the raoon, 's try t' guess wliat was in her mind ; but look a' here, now ; s'posin' she'd heard o' the old gentleman' goin down t' Bay Harbor ; she might want to go after him ; but then, here s this story o' Jesse Hill— 'f that's his name. He saw her, accordin' to his story, (f'r, I take it, th'r' ain't 'ny reas'nable doubt b't 'tivas the gal he saw,) where she raust ha' ben on t'other path. Now I understand gals sometimes take a notion t' care f'r other folks b'sides their fathers ; 't seems to ha' ben the way with 'em, by all accounts— f'm Grandm'ther Eve, 's fur 's I know. I don't say how 'twas in this case, but she raust ha' ben a takin' piece herself, b' all accounts —an' then, if the' was a k'nd 'f a runnin' idea 'f someb'dy 'n her mind, why, somehow 'r other, she'd be very apt to folia that idea. She didn't show any sensitive feelins, did "le?" " I don' rightly understand 'ee, sir," said the father, " I ben't a larn'd man 'ee know." " Sh' didn't feel 'ny tender 'motions, I s'pose ? That is, she hadn't taken a notion to one more'n another ?■■— young man I mean, livin' somew'e's round ? " The father answered gravely, but with the same hearty readiness as before — *' I know a ftither can't, mubbe, feel proper sure, al- w'ys— to say sure— of his darter's heart ; but so fur as a man can be sartain, I'm sarten sure my Lucy would never have agrowed to e'er a body, knowunly, athout my knowun it, as well. There was a neighbor's son, surely •—that's young Mr. Urston we spoke about— mubbe there i I' A NEW MAN. 119 might have somethun' come out o' that; but thej'm Ro- mans and my poor, dear maid loved her Savior too much to hoar to e'er a Roman. She'll folly her own church, thank God, while she's livin', or ef she's dead, as is most l.ke, she 11 never change now, to ought else, only better an more." "No more she woul'. Skipper George; that's a clear case, said Zebedee Marchant. "AVall,on'y jest started proposition; 'hope 's no harm done. Ye think the' wa'n't forbid to keep company ; do ye ? Wall ; on'y 'f 'twas my gall, (but the' ain't 'ny Miss Bangs, yet, I guess,— but if 'twas,—) should be wiUin' t' bet a tourp'ns hap'ny-('t's a coin ye hain't got 't's equal to,— wall, 't's a small sum o' money, b't if bettin's t' settle It, should be wiUin' to bet)— they know som'th'n 'bout her •i. that family. Ruther think the folks 'n that house — (called in there, a minit, an' as'd f'r a drink- o' water seem' the' was a light burnin ; didn't see anythin^^out c' tl.' way, p'tic'lar, 3«0 -ruther guess, 'f they were put to't. theyve seen or heard of her, one o' th' two. Ye see there's that punt, 's ye call it, 't the ca'p'n the brig, there] •saw 'th th' nuns, or what not, in't ; rfact, I saw 'em m'self' —that is, I saw one great black one, 'n' a couple 'f other women,"— here there was great sensation amon- the hearers,— «w'n I's peekin' round the house, to see what's goin on ;) should like, pleggily, to know what the nuns were up to, 'th their punt, an' what 'twas they kerried d(,wn Wall, 'f those folks do know, it's pleggy strange though ! Wh', anybody 't had got the fcelin's 'fa man, "'d go on h.s hands 'n knees round all outdoors— wall, he'd