IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 ifia itt I.I M 22 2.0 1.8 11.25 1.4 ii.6 % Va 7 ^ "% 's> ^^i ^ ^^^ y ">^^^' ^ />.. V •% y m-A Q: CIHM/ICMH Microfiche Series. CIHM/ICIVIH Collection de microfiches. Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions Institut Canadian de microreproductions nistoriques 1980 Technical Notes / Notes techniques The Institute has attempted to obtain the best original copy available for filming. Physical features of this copy which may alter any of the images in the reproduction are checked below. □ Coloured covers/ Couvertures de couleur Coloured maps/ Cartes g^ographiques en couleur L'Institut a microfilm^ le meilleur exemplaire qu'il lui a 6td possible de se procurer. Certains ddfauts susceptibles de nuire d la quality de la reproduction sont notds ci-dessous. 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The following diagrams illustrate the method: Les cartes ou les planches trop grandes pour etre reproduites en un seul clich6 sont film^es d partir de Tangle sup6rieure gauche, de gaurhe d droite et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre d'images n6cessaire. Le diagramme suivant illustre la mdthode : 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 1^ I I tJ* f1 \ i L/^ THE PATH OF DUTY, AND OTiER STORIES, BY H. S. CASWRLL, PS UtotttraJ : JOHN LOVELL, 23 AND 25 ST. NIC 110^, aS STREET. 1874. ^ > CONTEXTS. Page. 1 Clara Roscom ; or, The Path of Duty; — CHAPTER I. A Sudden Bereavement CHAPTER II. Success at School G OIIAPTEil III. Clara at Mrs. Went worth's Boarding School 12 CHAPTER IV. Goveruess i 1 Mr. Lolghton'.^ Family 18 CHAPTER V. Willie Leighton's Return from England 2G CHAPTER VI. An Evening P'U'ty 32 CHAPTER VII. Failing Health of Clara's Mother 39 CHAPTER Vm. A Bright Dream and Peaceful End 45 CHAPTER IX. Friendly Attentions 56 CHAPTER X. A Surprise GO CHAPTER XI. Embarrassing' Interviews Go CHAPTER XII. A New England Home 76 CHAPTER XIII, New Occupations 83 ;CHAPTER XIV School, at Mill Town 91 CHAPTER XV. A Happy Re-union 96 iv CONTENTS. Paob. CHAPTER XVI. Mi83 Simmond'3 Story 105 CHAPTER XVII. Penitent and Forgiven 117 CHAPTER XVIII. A New Joy 123 CHAPTER XIX. Uncle Charles 127 CHAPTER XX. Lights and Shadows 132 CHAPTER XXI. Reconciled 140 CHAPTER XXH. Clara's Marriage 145 CHAPTER XXm A Pleasing Incident 148 Terry Dolan 151 The Faithful Wife 163 Emma Ashton 175 Thoughts on Autumn 199 Wandering Davy 205 Looking on thbi^Dark Side 215 Edward Barton 223 The Weary at Rest 233 The Rainy Afternoon , 239 The Student's Dream 251 Uncle Ephraim 257 Story of a Log Cabin 265 Hazel-Brook Farm 281 Old Rufus 301 The Diamond Ring 3ll The Unfortunate Man 323 The Old Schoolhousb 329 Arthur Sinclair 335 The Snow Storm 355 The New Year 361 Earnest Harwood ; or, the Adopted Son 367 .J Pagh. ... 105 ... 117 .... 123 ... 127 .... 132 .... 140 ... 145 .... 148 .... 151 ... 163 .... 175 ... 199 ... 205 ... 215 ... 223 ... 233 .... 239 ... 251 ... 257 ... 265 .... 281 .... 301 ... 311 .., 323 .... 329 .... 335 ,... 355 ... 361 ... 367 ciiiVrTER r. A SUDDKN BEKEAVEMENT. WAKP]j my dear cliild, avvako !" These were the words I l)eard. I started up, gaziji<»' in a bewild- ered iiiaiiuer into the face of my mother, who had, with some dilRcidty, succeeded in arousing me from tlie sweet, healthful sleep of childhood. My mother drew iiigh to me and whispered, ^' My dear Clara, your papa is dying." With a frightened cry, I threw my arms around her neck, and begged her to tell me what had haj^pened. I was unable to comprehend the meaning of her words. Since my earliest recollection, my father had never experienced a day's illness, and so the reader may be able to form some idea of tlie shock occasioned by her words — littered, as they were, at the hour of midm'ght. When my mother had succeeded in soothing me, in some degree, to calmness, she informed me, in a voice (^hoived with sobs, which, for my sake, she tried to suppress, that my father had, two hours since, been stricken with apo- plexy, in so severe a form that his life was despaired of. She further informed me that his attending physician thought he would not li /e to see the light of another n 2 cLAiiA uoscoM ; on, the path of duty. uioniiiig. AVell do 1 rciiu'iiiIxT the nervous inroi- willi vvliicli 1 clung to imy inothor <'is we riitci-rd my liitliov's apartment, and the icy cliillwliicli dilliised ilsr'U'over my body, as I gazed upon the fearfully cl tanged features oi' my father. I had never before seen death in any form. I believe the first view of deatli is nion' or less terrible to every child ; it certainly was teirible foi- me In fnsi view deatli imprinted upon the countenanei* of a fond father. I luive ever since thought Hiat my fallier recog- nized nie when my mother led Jiie to his ))ed-side; Init power of utterance was gone. If was a leai-ful trial to me, who had seen but ten years of life. After the lirs(: shock, a strange calm took possession of me. Though many years have passed since that period, I reuxMnbei', as though it were but yesterday, how I sat during tliose long hours, scarcely for an insti nt removing my eyes from n'v father's face, but shed not a tear; for, after the lirst burst of grief, tears refused to come to my relief. Just as the day began to dawn I heard the physician say, in a whisper, to a kind neighbor who stood by, I think ho is going. At that moment my fatliei- opened his eyes, and, looking upward with a pleasant smih^, (^xpired without a struggle. I could never clearly remendjer how I passed the intervening days between my father's death and burial. I have an indistinct recollection of the hushed voices and soft footsteps of friends and neighbors, who kindly came to aid in performing the last offices of lo\'e and friendsliip to the remains of my d<»parted fith.'T. I li A SUDDEN BEREAVEMENT. 8 iils(j rcJiiL'iiibcr being led l)y my Jiliiiu.st hL'art-l)rokoii niotlier into tlio (l;irkt'iu'(l room, where l;iy tlie lifeleKs biidy of my tjitlier, now prepnivd for the grave; hut I lmv(! a moi'e vivid rccollectioii of st;iiidiii'r witli my molher beside an open grave, and iieariiig our [laslor, in a solemn voice, utter tlie words, '^Eaiili to tarlh — ashes to ashes — dust to dutst." Oli ! the falhng of tliat firsi eartli upon my fatlier's collln, shall I ever foi"get the sound ? Cliild as I was, it seem^id to uh\ that my heart woidd break; but tears, the (ii-st Iliad shed since my failicr's death, eame t(i my relief. Tliose blessed tears. I may well call them ble;-^>sed, since the physician afterwai'ds told my molher that they saved eith(>r my reason or my life. Kind fi'iends besought my moth 'r and me to allow ourselves to be conveyed home, and not await the filling up of the grave. ]]ut no. We coidd not leave the spot till the last earth was thrown upon the grave, and a mound covered with grassy sods was to be se(m, where a little before was only a mournful cavity. Then iud(?ed we felt that he was gone, and that we must return to our desolate home — the home which ever before his presence had filled with joy and gladness. I must pass over, with a few words onlj^, the first year of our bereavement, as even now I shudder to recall the leehng of loneliness and desolation which took possession of us, when we found ourselves left alone in the liomo where everything reminded us so strongly of the depart(Ml one. There was a small apartment adjfvining our usual i^% CLARA KOSCOM J OR, THE I'ATII OF DUTY. ir sittini'-rooiii vvliicli my fjitlinwas wuiit to c H liis study, aiidj iM'iiig ioiid of ))uoks, Ik; iist'd tliiTc to i-iiss iiiucli cd' Ids loisure tiino. Jt was <(idte ii long tiiiicnlU'r Ids dt'idli l)tdbro my mother could cidtT tluit a})iirtmi'ut. 8Jio said to mo OMo dry/'Will you go witli mt', Clara, toyourfatlit'r's study?" I replied, ^H^m you go ^/y;. Mamma f ^^Yes, dear," said my mother, and led the way to the door. No one had entered that room since my father left it on the last night of his life, the door having been lock«'(l on the day succeeding his death. As my mother softly turned the k<'y and opened the; door, it seem ,1 almost that we stood in my fatlier's presence, so vividly did tlu>surromidingsofthat room recall him to our minds. There stood his talde and chair, and his writing desk stood upon the table, and seve- ral books and papers were scattered carelessly upon the talde. The last book he had been reading lay open as he had left it ; it was a volume of Whitfield's sermons ; it was n book which my father valued highly, and is now a cherished keep-sake of my own. My mother seemed quite over- come with grief. I know she had stnven daily to conceal her grief when in my presence, for she knew how I grieved for my father ; and slie was aware that her tears would only add to my sorrow, so for my sake it was that she forced herself to appear cahn — almost cheerful; but upon this occasion her grief was not to be checked. She bowed her head upon t}ie tidjle, while convv^^ive sobs shook her frame. I tried, in my childish w\ny, to comfort her. I had never seen her so much moved since my father's fV-f A SUDDEN DEREAVEMENT. death. WlicMi she bocamo inoro couipo.sL'd, she rose, a..(l I assisted her in dustiii«i^ and arranging the f'uniiture of the room ; and after this lirst visit to the room, we no longer avoided entering it. Since <|uite a yonng man my fatJKM- had been eni[doyed as book-keeper in a large mer- cantile house in the city of Philadelidiia, where vv(} resi- d("l. As he had ever proved trustworthy and faithful to ti.- itcn'ests of his em^doyers, they had seen ht, upon his m;. iiage, to give Inm an increase of salary, which en- aMed inm to pui-chase a small, but neat and convenient dwelling in a respectable street in Phihulelphia, where we ii.id lived in the enjoyment of all the condbrts, and with many of the luxuries of life, to the time of the sad event which lell me fatherh^ss and my mother a widov/. I had never, as ytit, attended any r^ciiool. IMy mother had been my only teacher, and as lier own education had been tiiorongh, she was amply (puditied for the task. CHArTKlJ II, SKl'ESS AT SniOOl.. |ptl*r<, BOUT a your afier iny lavoii years of au'c. .1 had iicvi'r hccn very famihar with the ijeiglil)oiu"in,L;' chihh'eii ol'iiy own age, and after the death of my i'ather I cared still less for their companionship. IMy chief enjoyment was in the; socieiy of my mother, and as we kept no servant, 1 found many ways of making myseU" useful to her ; and every afternoon she devoted two or three hours to my hjssons and needlework. I'luis passed away the lirst year after our great sorrow, wlien, as I have already said, my mo- ther decided upon sending me to school. It seemed to nu*, at the time, rpvite a fonnidal)le undertaking — tliis going to scliool. I liad never been separated from my mother, and the five hours to be spent daily in the school-room seemed to my childisli mind a very long time. I liay iMiss Echnonds. j\[y mother accompanied me to re- heve me from any awkwiunhiess 1 might feel in present- ing myself for admission. It was a select school for girls. As my education had tlius far been entirely conducted by my mother, I Isad of course, never been subjected to the rules of a school-room; audi must confess that I had Conned an idea of school teachers in general that was not at all llattering. I fancied them all to l)e old, sour and cross — a mere walking bundle oi' rules and regulations, and I was (piite unprepared to see the sweet-looking N'oung lady \vlio answered to my mother's summons at the door. Surely, tliought 1, tliis young lady cannot be ]\[iss Edmonds; and wiien my mother enquired if such were her lunne and she replied in the affirmative, I thoujiht c'oini*' to school niiiiht not be so bad after all. After giving Miss Edmonds my name and age, my mother held some conversation with her regarding my studies, and left me with an encouraging smile. I felt all my timidity return when I thought of entering the school- room with Mm Edmonds, but lier kind and friendly manner reassured \\h\ T\\o school consisted of about thirty girls, many of them older tlian myself. 1 had 8 CLARA ROSCOM ; OR, THE PATH OF DUTY. iiii ilij i Hi m feared tliat my {ittaiiiiiienis would be inferior to tiiose of the youngest of the pupils, and I wiiseipially pleased and surprised when JVIiss Edmonds, aft(!r a long niid careful examination in regard to my ac(piirements, placed me in one of the higlier chisses. There was to ine an irresisti- ble attraction in the countenance and manner of my teacher; and, from the first moment I saw her 1 loved her. Although her home is now fir (listnut from mine, and we have not met for m;iny yciirs, I love lier ns denrly now as when she took me by tlie iinnd when a child of eleven years. SIh^ conducted lier school in a very sys- tematic and orderly manner, juid wjis very piirticidnr to rerpiire perfect recitations from her ],)upils; but ;is I pos- sessed a retentive memory, 1 found my tasks much lighter than did many of my classniiites. When I had been about a year at scliool, ]\liss Edmonds oflered a prize, in the class to wiiich I ))elonged, to tlie young lady who should write the most able comj)osij,i()n upon a given sul)ject. Tlie ]M'i/e was 1o ])e a small gold pencil-case, and was to l)e awarded at the close of the sunnner term. The closing day at lengtli came; there was nnich suppressed excitement when we were called to order that njorning. As we exjx'cted no visitors till the afternoon, we spent the morning mostly in reviewing our various studies. By two o'clock our school-room was crowded. We first i>assed a very searching examina- tion in the diflerent studies we had pursued during the past year. I ])elieve we passed onr examination in a manner creditable ])oth to ourteachei" and to ourselves. SUCCESS AT SCHOOL. 9 The re.'Hlin- our assend)ltMJ friends: but the proudest moment of all, tome, was when I gained my mother's side and she said to me in a low voice, " My dear Clara,, this seems to me a token tiiat you will prove a blessing to your poor widowelease my dear mother, who often said to me, " Voii mnst, my dear Clara, make the hest of yonr op[)orrnnities for improvement, as the time may come when yonr e(hi- cation may ho your only means ol' snpport.'' ^\y mother often r(\^rettod that we did not own a [>iano, for she was very anxious that 1 should study nnisicj hut oiu* means did not justilly i\io, [uu'chase of an instrument, and she thought that lessons without the necessary pnictice would be useless. The parents of INIiss Edmonds resided in tlii^ city. They had once been wealthy, but owing to those reverses to which all are liable they had become reduced in circumstances, so much so that INIiss Edmonds gladly turned to account tlie superior education she had received in their prosperous days, and she had for some time been a teacher when I became a inendjer of her school. ]\[y mother happened to mention to ]\Iiss Edmonds one day her regret that I was unable to take nmsic-lessons, for want of opportunity for the needful practice, when she informed my mother that she still retained her piano out of the wreck of their former alllucnce, and that, if she wished me to take lessons, I was at liberty to practice daily upon it. My mother acce[>ted for me the kind oiler, and 1 at once began taking lessons. I remained SUCCESS AT SCHOOL. 11 luiir yoiiiN iiiKlcr tlu, iiisdiu'tioi, ,,r ,AIiss Kdiuoiids, willi iimeli profil, to jiiysclf. At tlir v\u] of this time, Mv. KdiJiouds r(Mii!>v<'(l with his t'lmily to ilic city of New Vork, hiiviiiL' ihnmnh ihc iiidiiriicc of jVinids, obljuiiiMl th(> situation olt'tisliirr in out; .,!" the h.inks in tliat city. It, wjis ;i Si'v.-re trial lor Mi.ss Kdmoiids to vvs],rn 'dm school where she \v;is so much heloved hy her [)iii>iis ; hut she tiioiij>hl il her dmy to accoiiipaiiy her [)areiits 1o their new home. r'TlAPTEK III. CLAUA AT MRS. WK., i WOKTll's IJOAHDIXC; .SCIlUUL. II s it was luy inoilicr's lujciilioii to give mo a tho- roughly good education, slie ln'gaii, after thrincipal remained untouched, my motlK^" having ol)taine(l needle-work to eke out our small income; but, in order that I should finish my education according to the wishes of my mother, ns well as my own, a portion of the principal nnist >)e withdrawn. After some rellection upon thc^ subject, my mother decided tliat a good education might prove of more value to me than money, so a portion of the money was drawn, and we began the preparations for my (h^parlure from home. CLARA AT MU8. W'ENTWOKTll'ri UOAKDING SCHOOL. 13 ll \v;is the )iiy to fill a mother's place to me, so long as I shoidd wish to remain at school. 1 should Iiiivt' l)e(Mi miu'h elate Ise any plan to avoid so doing. My mother would have rented a jtortion of our dwelling, but it was not adapted for the convenience of two families, neither could she endure the disrpiiet of keeping boarders. ^' Clara," said my mother one day, as we sat at work, '^ I think 1 will send for Aunt Patience to come and stay wit- me during your abseuce." kSIr! laughed outright at the look of dismay with which 1 regarded her, occasioned by the recollection which I retained of a visit she paid us when I was eight years of age. She was a maiden lady somewhat advanced in years, possessed of a very kind heart and many excellent qualities j l)ut tne name of Patience seemed to mc a 14 CLARA hoscom; '^Rj the r tii of duty. I'tfl i* m 1 ;i inisiipplic'jtion in licr ciisc, lor slic ccilaiiily i>o.ssoss(.'(l but a small ([luiuiil y ol' that valiial)lc article Early in life she hfid passed through many trials, which might have tended to sour her disposition. I remember that during the visit referred to, my mother had occasion to spend a day from home, leaving me in care of Avmt Patience. If seemeu to my mother and Annt Patience, to go into the world alone. ]\Iy mother had ).>efor(^ given me many kind counsels regarding my future conduct, now she only said, as she end>raced m<^ at parting, ^^My dear daughte'r, I trust yon will improve your time and talents, and conduct yoiu'sclf iu ii manner tliat will not disappoint your mother." As Aunt Patience l)ade me good-bye, she said, with a countenance of nmch solenmity, " You nnist remend)er, Clara, all the advice I have given you." Sad as I felt, T could not repress a smile, for during the past week lier advices regarding my future conduct had been so mnnerous, that it would hav(i re([uired a memory more retentive than mine to have remend)ered them all ; but I knew they were intended for my good, and I readily promised to try and observe them. I wish not to weary the reader by giving a detailed accoimt of my journey. I arrived salely at my destination, and met wiih a very 10 CLAllA llOSCOM ; OU, THE I'ATII 01-' DUTY. I I 1 1 4 -. <*oi"any, and means of jsence my st year at id illness, lost kind- ler being ossible to it of her g in the enjoying LK'li elose for one seemed y arrival, less, and as now ( l\\\.\ AT MIIS. WKNTWullTlfri rOAUDINU SCHOOL. 17 ! H h it my «!iiiv l<> lurii the »'(hic;iti()ii whicii my m(»th«M" h;i(i htTii ;it no much [)iiius to give iiic (o account by IciH'hiiig, ill oiuh'r to assist lier, and also to ol)tain a sup- jiorl lor myscH". We iiad decich'd to olli'r Aunt I'atience ;i hoiMc Ibr the i'emain(h'r of hei* life, indeed I felt tliat I owed her a (K'Itt of graiilude for iier j>ast kindness to my iiiolhci'. We liu'i'efore told her that so long as \v«* possessed a home, we woidd gladly share it with her, |irovi''- ■ A.MILY. \r¥pk*'K^W^' ^^''^ ^^''''' " '*'''''".^' "*' In'p'hliirKni, siicli jis I '^'^ |^|l iicviT bd'orc ('.\[»('rii'iK'«Ml, tlml I nsct'iMlcd tlio fet=^v^ll steps of ilio s[)l(Mi(li(l ivsidciicc ol" IMr. Leiiilitoii. Wlion I fomid iiiysclf jit the door, my ('oiiriiij:^ well iiiuli fiiik'd ]iM', hut witliont ,i>'ivi)in' myself imich time for ivllt'ction, J rang tin* door bt'll. After some liltle delay tin; door was opened l)y a domestie, of whom 1 empiired if 1 could see Mrs. Leightoii. The servant replied that she did not know, but that slie would see if her mistress was disengaged. ^^ What nauH* ?" eiu|uired tlie servant, '' ]\Iiss lioscom," I replied. The servant ushered iiu^ into the iiarlor, and lelt the room. Being left alone, I amused myself by taking a survey of the apartment. Jt was evident that 1 had entered the abode of luxury and wealth. Tlie sofas and eliairs were covered with rich velvet, while satin curtains draped tlu^ windows. An elegiuit and costly piano occupied one corner of the room ; the walls were adornr'd by costly pictures, and on the marble centre-table were many books in elegant bind- ings ; and rare and excjuisite ornaments were scattered with lavish profusion. Upon the entrance of a tall, and. (50VEUNRSS IN MR. LEKHITOn's FAMILY. 19 siicli JIS 1 L'lult'd tlu; LL'ii;lit()ii. well iiiuli fiiii(» (()!• ittio (Irjjiy «'ii(|iiiiV(l plied iluit r mi stress 5 servniit, licivd ]ii(^ a 1 01 10, I U'llt. Jt xury and kil]i rich ws. All le room ; d on tlie it bind- icattercd all; and, ;is I llion,i>lii at (lie iiino, rallicr liaughty-looking lady, 1 rose, bowed and continued standini^', as she Siiid, — '^ My servant inlorms me your name is IMiss Koscom." I replied in the allii-mative, iind added, '' I have the pleasure, I pn'sunie, (►(' address! nu; Mrs. Leii^iiton T' The ladv aekno\vlely (or the situation." 'I'lie lady bent upon me a searching look, as she replied, — " J'ray be seated j\Iiss, and we will converse upon tli(? mailer." J gladly ol)eyed her re(|uest that I should be seated, for I Celt nervous and agitated. Alu.'r a moment's silence she addressed me, saying, — '' Vou look rather young tor the res^' onsiblt; duties of a governess." J i'e[»lied that I was not yet nineteen years of age, that r ha■'■' i'i ( ;i 20 CLARA R08C0M ; OK, THE PATH i(lding her U'ood morniuff, set out on my return home, nnudi elated witli tlic success of this my lir.st application. The salary ollered by Mrs. Leighton was a weigldy eo'i- sideration to me, and although aware that my ''uties woidd often prove unpleasant and irksome, I felt that I could endure much with the consciousness that I was assisting my dear mother. My mother advised me not to 1)0 too sanguine as 1 might not obtain the situation ; but, on the tiiird day after my application, my suspense was relieved l)y receiv- ing a note from Mrs. Leighton, saying that she would gladly engage me, if I still wished for tlie situation; and she named an early day when she wished me to enter rv. 'lid consist n years of liad alijiost 'Hmvucos i;" r qualifica- eft sc'liool. ri-s. Wimt^ VL'W known make any ilio replied ijie, l)nt tJK^ conrse iddini*' her Lieh elatetl ylily eo'i- y ''nlies It that 1 tt I was in)(» as I hini day >y rec(M'v- le won Id ion; and to outer (lUVKllNliriS IN MH. LKKIHTON's FAMILY. 21 M iijKMi my dniies. I re[died that 1 uladly accepted llie ■-iniation, and wonld he ready fo heuin (h'ties at the day appointeth Now that I had acceple*! the po^iition, I hej^an to i'\[)erience many (h)n])is as to my snccess in the nnder- takinir. 1 had no knowledue as yetolihe (hspositions (»r ihe children that, were to h<' committed to my care, not havinii' even seen them; hnt my mothrr told nie I was wi"onL»' to allow snch tlionuhts to tronhle me, and I hat iln' Messing ol" (lod wonid sorely rest npon my lal)ors so long as 1 contimn'd ni llie path ol' (hity. I HuM'etore cast away all my desponding Tears, and hastened ihe [(reparations ibr my de[>artnre to tlie iiome ol' ilie Leigidons, 1 was kindiv received hv ]\Irs. Leiulitun niton niv ari'i- \al ; and, when we were seated in th(^ parloi'^ she snni- moned the el ihh'en lor ihe j>ni'pose of" int rochnanu' ihrm !o me. '^ My dears/' said she, addrt'ssinu' the chihh-cn, 'Mhis is Miss Iioscom, yom* governess." Tlien, tnrning to me, slic introduced thiack eyes and hair, and had, as it seenKMl to me, rather a for- hidding expression of conntenance. She also gave me, as T thonghf, rather pert rt pli(>s [o the few remarks I addressed to her. There was not the slightest resem- 22 ('Iw\i;a i;osc'om ; oii. 'yuk i-atii oi' i»ijtv. Miiiicc Ix'l wcni lirr iiiid lici' yuiii mcr sister ; her ii.iiiu' \\;in ( i('(tl'L:;illi;i, Tlicl-c w .IS sdliH'l liiiiu |t('Cllli;trl\' ;it t Tiicl i\ (' ill llir (-oillilcll.'llH'C ;illir(||r, ,'is she \\ ;is r.'illc;! |»y ;i!l I lie liiiiiilw Shew. is iiwlrrd ;i cliild iol'l 1 1 rd I () ;i 1 1 I'll el I lie .'idliiir.'i I ioli ;i lid |()\'r of .'ill \\ lio s.iw lirr. Ilcr ('(»iii|>I('\i()ii Would ii.ivc ;i|»|)(';iii- lil'id eyes (»j ;i d.iik blue, iiiid licr snl'\ hrow ii ii.iir (cil in liiMiiiiiiil curls ii|»oii her slioiildri's. She r.iinc (orwiird iis \\\'\- iiioliii'i' (';illrd lici' ii.iiiM' :iiid |»i,'i(-(Mi lirr li.iiid in lllilic. ! l!ioii';lil ,-il lli(> liliii' lli;il I li;id never heCore seen so lo\('l\' ;ilid einjMuinLl .1 cliiid. The lillle l>o\-^ I-rv\is, Wiis I ni,;iil\ lool-""! Ill lie (eilow (or liis imc, .•lllliolllill I (ciired, Irolii eoiiiileil.llice lliiil lie Iniulil jiossess ;i leiiij»ei' .'Hid ;i will liol e;i->y lo lie eoiil rolled. lie soiiie\\li;it resembled Ids sisl er < leor'j.iiiiii, ;is liiseom- jilexion .;iid e\-es were n( lie lud ;i nmre |d '.isiiej e\|iressioii oC eoiinleirinee. W'lieii All's. Lei^liloii li.id dismissed (lu; eliildreii (i'oiii liie i'(to!ii, slie luriied (o me. reiiiiirkiiiu (li.'d j>roi».ild\' I would 'ike (o I'el ir{' Cor ;i (ime lo Jii\' o\\li room, she e;illed one of llie ser\;iiils mid re(|iies(ed jiei' jo show me (o my .iit.iri iiieid . As I w;is le;i\iiiU lilt' |>;irlo!' she in(orii'<'<| me lli.'il |e;i would hi' re.'id\' ill li;d(-j>;is| six o\doek. The I'ooiii ;i|>|>ro|)i'i;iled l(» my use w';is \{'V\ |deiis;iiit, ;ind w;is idso l;isle('iill\' jiir- nislied, A( (he (e;i-t;ihle I w iis iiil rodiieed to Mr. Lciu'll- loiij whom I li.'id iiol heloi'c seen. I w;is very mneli jdriised h\ hi,-; iniimier, w liieli h;id none o( Ih.il |>;drS IN Ml!, M;i(iHToN S FAMILY 2:5 ii' llillllr W.'IS \' ;il lr;icl i\<' I' iJirdic, ;is lr;iii~ li.'iir Irll ill Mic lorward Im'!' Ii.'iimI ill (•\('r Ix'dtrc lilllf l"»\-, »i" liis ;ii:(', I lie liii'4lil <'(»lit rolled. IS Jiis <'()iii- rr j>l '.'isiiiL:- 'ililoii li.id I'd f iiic, or ;i I iiiic i\;iiils ;iiid As I w.is would he |>roi>ri,'ilcd illv 1 III' |lr. Lcitili- 'ry iiiiicli i>;i| roiii/- W ill'.; r<»lid< --rrlisioli wIMi \\ liicli llir ri<-|i -.0 ollrii ;iddri'ss J^ ill,. iMior. I loillid liilll ;i LM'lil Iriihiii, ill tin- IriirsI sriix' vi ()( I lie wold. * xi Allt'r !<'ii Mr. I .t I'.diioii rc«[ii( >|i'd inr (o l,i\or ilirm ,;| Willi soliM' liliisi<'. Accordiliuiy I sc.'ilrd lii\ sell' ;il ilic M Iti.iiio ;ilid ld;i\rd scvt'l'id idccrs, willi w liicli lie srcliird ■M iiHlfli lii'';i->rd. I|i' rrlii;irl\»'(l tli.il llir\' wcri' (iililr ill ii •^ ... . :| lo^s lor liiiisir since llieir eldest d.iHLdiler, l.;iiiril, ielt § liMliie lor school, ;i> I lieiri wo \ (Hiiejol d;iii<;lit ers jijid hill 4 lecciil l\' <'(Hiillieiii'ed liikillL: lessons. As I rose Irolil ihe M iiiioio, Mrs. Leiuliloii en(|ilired if I s;ili<.!. I rejdied I !i;i( M, I soincl iiiics s;iiiu joohliuc iny (rieiids. She ;iske<| iC I % would l;i\or llieiii \\illi;i soinr. IN'siiiiiiiiL:iiiy se;il I I hc'jjii llie (irsi soli'..' which <»cciiri'ed lo iny iniiid. Il I cliiiiK ed io he lliiil iiMicli-.'idniired soiiLi, hy l"\»sler, c;illed If " Willie, we li;ive missed \oloL•.^■, tli.'il I heir eldesl son's iMliie Wiis Willie^ jtid lli.'ll he li;i^\\i' re|died lliiil I he soiiu' hud iilliti'ded her ;i |de;isnre, idthonuh, siiid she, "I could iiol rerriiiii IVoiii le.'ii's while t hinkiiiLior my ahseiil Willie."' In order loch.iiiLie the siil>)('cl , Mr. I.einhlcni reiii.irked I hill ili<'y were lorhiiiiile in seciirinii ii «:ovrni('ss who cniild bulli jsiiij: aiid|d;iy^ as hi' was very luiid of iimsic. 21 CLAllA llOSCOM ; UK, TllK I'ATII OF DUTV. AN'iu'ii I It'll Mrs. \\\'iit\v(jri li's sfliuol I Wiis {'.incil .iii (wcrllciil jM'iioniU'r on ilic pi.-inoj ioi' I \\;is very loud oC iiiiisic, .'iiiil liiid (l<'\(>Itsl iiiiicli tiiiir to )ir;u'Hc('. We jilso ('iij(»vo(l soiiii' \('i"\' [>I(';is;iii| i'oii\('i"Siit ion diirinu llic rvt'iiiiiLr, iiiid ilk' iiioi'c I s;i\v of Mr. ;!iiil Mrs. Leiuhloii I li'Il (lis|M)s[iy. It is not mv intention lo i^ise a (klaik'd ai-eoind olllie ('V«'nis oC the next two vears; aiiil a lew words mnst snlliee for t hal period oi'l ime. 11 I had ti'ialsol' temper to endm'e liom mv jin|>ils, — and who (ncr yet was a u'o\'erness and Ijad not, — I als<» enjoyed nnndi pleasni'e in t heir sociel \', Thetddest of my }Hi[)ils uave me nior*' 1 roid>ie than did hotli I he others, liei' memory was not retentive; she had ah;o a eeiiain list- lessness oi' maimer dnrinu' lessons whieh wasal limes \ ery amiovinu-. \\\\\ it was a very |>leasanl task to insirnet ])irdio; she draidv. in knoulediic eaucrly, and possessed ;m ; xeedlenl meimu'y. In mnsic she made astonishinu- ])rogresSj for a child of her yeai's ; and slu^ was of a, mctst all'ectionale disposition, wliiidi madelho dnty of inipaii- inu' knowledu(» lo lun* (loul)ly pleasanl. Thv. progress of little Lewis was eqnul to that of most boys of his age. I found less trouble with liim than I had at first anticipated. I fomid him lo b(- a child that would never be coiilndled ]>V har'^hness, bnl he was easily resi rained by kindness. 'UTV. vi'i-y loud ()(■ •'•'♦•lice. AVc " diiriiin' llic ^- Li'iuliioii j lf» iii_v own KltiKT lid- ''<'f (if iicill'.- CfOVERI^^ESS IN MR. LEIGIITO.Vs FAMILY. 25 ^^ often as I .ould do so conveniently I visit . 1 "•orher and Annt Patience Annt ' f "'^ "^Pi>-- H.n I ,.ad ever hL.^: ,;:^7;^ .^^^ 'I'lH't of her home tended to«nfv/i "^^ ^'^^ f eniper. '''^^'" ^'''' ^^^"ewliat irritable I'OIIIlt ((fill,. ^\<'l"ds iiiiisl V |H||>iIs, '('<,— I a Is,, 'Idesf (iriii\ 'IIk'I-s. II,.,- ■<'iiaii) h"s(- (iiiies ^('^■v lo instruct l>osse.ss<'d -itonishiiin' <»f a in(»sf )f impart- 'I'ogres.s (,»f lis age. 1 tici2)ated. ^onlndled ndiicss. D Ii» CHAPTER V. !l WILLIE LKKSHTON S TiETrRN FROM ENTiLAM), OOX after I becnine a reHideiit in tla* dwclliiuz: of Mr. Loiffliton, they received a letter from Willie, iiifoj'iiiiiig them that the estate of his decensed relative could nut be finally arranged in less time tluin a year, perhaps longer ; and he thought thnt instead of returning to Philadelphia he would enter a College in England, and devote the intervening time to study. His parents could not object, knowing it to be for his interest, as he had not, when a bov tnken verv kindlv to study, A year passed away, and AVillie did not return, but they received fretpient letters from him. Xear the close of the second year he wrote, informing them th;it he intended leaving England on the tenth of the montii following, as the matters pertaining to the property left him were now satisfiictorily arranged. About this time Laura returned home from school, having finished her term of study. Mrs. Leighton in- tended sending Georgania to the same institution where ijaura studied, but she was not to go till the coming autumn. She wished, however, that I should remain with them till Birdie and Lewis should be old enough to niliLlE liHhiMTON's RETUllN J'HOM EXGLAND. 27 XI), (Iwt'llillL!: of roiii Willi 0, is deconsod :iine tlitm a iiistoul of Collciic ill tndv. His lis interest, kindly to lot retiiri), Near the them that the month :)peity left Im school, liiihton in- ion wliere [«' coming Id remain 'iiougli to scud from home. 1 had b<'en very, rcnj kiinlly trented ill the home of Mrs Leigliton, and liad become srroiiiily attached to my ]»ii{tils, especially the two yoimuer of theiii ; and 1 was glad of the (tp[>ortiiiiity of remaining near to mv mother. As the time drew near wlien they looked for the return iff Willie, all the family were busy with tlu'ir [jrepara- tioiis forgiving him a joyous welcome. When I observed tlu^ eagerness with which they looked forward to his return, I could not at times ludp feeling- a paiiu' of regret that 1 had neither brotiier nor sister of mv own. liiid it not beni for my surviving j)areiit, 1 should have felt entirely alone in tliewtu'hl. Not that 1 rii\i('d the Leightoiis — far from it — but 1 cdiild not help sometimes contrastinn; my [)osition in lib' with theirs. 'I'hev Ix'ini; blessed with the love of fond parents, brothers and sisters, along with tlm })ossession of almn- dant w»'alt!i, and every comtort vvhh'h tends to form a happv home ; while I was a poor, fatherless girl, obliged to labor for my own support and that of my mother. 1 could not help thinkitig howMlillerent all might have been had the lif«? of my fatherbeen spared. I do n(»t think that [ was usually of an unhappy disposition ; on the contrary, T was inclined to bo hopeful and clieerful ; but I believe; with the best of us, the happiness of others more favoured than ourselves will give rise to a feeling of sad- ness. The tiiuc soon arrived when, according to the letter 'is CLARA ROSCOM ; OR, THE PATH OF DUTY. ill ! tlu'y Ji.hI iTt'cived from Willie, they iiiiuiil daily ex})t'('t his arrival. None of tlio family wcro ablt) to settle their minds upon any employipent, and \t was with the irrent- rst dilliculty that I could obtain the Jittention of my pupils during the time appointed for their daily lessons, and, beinjj: aware of the cause, I could hardly blnme them. Their suspense wns at length endi'd hy tiie arrival of Willie. Never shall I foriret the joy which was depicted upcm the conntenrmce of litlle Lewis wlu'u suddenly he burst into my room, exclaiming, *^0h! Miss Roscom, our dear, dear brother AVillic has come at last ! Don't you wish you had a brother Willie too V Had he knovn the pang which his childish reiriiii-i^ occasioned nu^ he certainly would never have mad<' it. With much dilliculty I kept back my tears and tried to appear as much pleased as the child evidently wished me to be. I had been accustomed, since my residence in the family, to spend my evening tnostly with them in the parlor; but on that evening I remained in my own room, feehng that I should be an intruder upon that family reunion. I took up a book nnd endeavored to interest myself in its pages. I could distinctly hear thc^ joyous munnur of voices from below, varied by bursts of laughter, not h)ud, but strikingly mirthful. I soon heard light footsteps ascending the stiiirs ; the next moment Birdie rushed in, exclaiming, ''Mamma says she has been so nnich occupied that she '^ AVILLIE LlilOIlTON S llETUKN FROM EN*ILAND. 20 ;tl<' tlicir II of uiv k'ssons, y bhiine by tlu; >v which lis wluMi r AViUic hrotht'i' reirinrk iH.'i(h' it. trii^l t(» ' wished (>si(l('iic*e tlieiii ill iiy own oil that ovod to icar t]io bursts I SOOH c next hut slio hiid iihiiost fori^ottcii you ; but slu' says you must coinp down at once; you iiiustii't sit here ahuic when wc arc all so liapi)}'." I bcuijcd wn, sayiiiu' th;it lliey would prob.ibjy pretVr beiuu: left to tliciiiselves on t. lis evening of Willie's return. " Oil !'' s;iid she, " Pupa and nianiiiia l)otli cxjjcct you to go down." Fe.irt'id of giving oirence, and after inaking some shglit alleijitions in my dress, I acconipanicd liirdie down stairs and (Mitered the parlor. 1 believe most persons feci a kind of eml)arrassinent when meetiiiii: for the lirsi tirin' one of whom they iiay«; long heard much. I was sensible of this feeling wlion 1 entered the parh)rthat eyening. Willie rose as I entered the room, and Mrs. Leighton, coming forward, said, — '^ ]\[iss Koscom, allow nie to introduce to you my sou Willie.'' I telt much relieyed by this unceremonious introduc- tion. For a time we engaged in general conyersation. The manner of Willie was so genial and pleasant that I at once felt at ease in his society. I had often thought that Birdie resembled no other member of the family, hut that was before I saw V/illie. He had the same complexion, the same cast of countenance, with the same smile, only in a more mature and masculine form. Alter an hour spent in social conyersation^ he said 30 CLARA ROSCOM ; OR, TItE PATlF OP DUTY. .i|: li 111 soiiif iiiusic would he very wclroiiir to liiiii, il Wiis so loDiX hIiu'c he liad enjoyed ihiit pleasure in their own home. Laura innnediiitely went to the [>iano, and sinig- two or tliree sone tavourit«'s oi" liis. WiUie invited me to play, l)ut I ln'uiicd liini to ex- cuse me tor the time heing, as he had three sisters present, who all played more or h;ss. After his sisters had eaeh in tlu^ir turn favored him with somemnsic, he rose, and takini; the vacant seat at the piano, asked if we wouhl not like to hear an Knylisji sonu:. llif^ sisters lanuhed heartilv, thinkinL!,' him to he only in jest ; but their amusement chanued to wonder and admiration when, after running his iingers lightly over the keys, ho l)(\ixan playing a soft and melodious pndude. It seemed that when a boy of lifteen, he had as a sort of amnsement learned the rudiments of mnsic, but he had not l)egun with any settled purpose of making progress in the study, and had soon become tired of it. AVliat then was their surprise to hear him sing with much tast, iUu] s;ino- 'VO)iri(<',s of I liiiii to r\- ivorcd Jiijii lilt scat ill an Kiii-IisJi Jn'jjj to I),. 'oudcr ii]\(] tlhtly over 'si>r('Iii(]('. ■* a sort of »ut he hiul >J"()t;r('ss ill \']jat JJicji taste ,'111(1 i noble-lookinjr young man^ could not wonder at their aireetion foi- hini. WIhui he rose froni the piano, Ih'idie and Lewis l)ei»oed for one more song, hut Mrs. L^'ighton reminded them that it washite, and that their brother must he fatigued And soon after prayers, the h.ippy family se[)ariited for the night. s-mat(» of him fes- y tbnd of rs. olized by m could Hid they h 1 ! \ A ii CHAPTKR VI. AN EVENINU r.UiTY. REVIOUStotlien'tuni lioiiioof Laiim jind Willie, the Leiglitoiis lijul h«hmi l)utlittlecoiu|»iniy tor a family of their wealth and social position ; hut now, instead of the heretofore quiet evenings, their su- perh parlors were thronged with ac([uaintaneesand friends, for both VVillit; and Laura had been favourites with both young and old. Laura liad intended giving a large party, but had de- ferred it till Willie should return home ; and soon aft<'r his arrival the invitations were sent, and preparations were commenced for the contemplated party. I did not expect, neither did I wish, to be included among the guests. I had never attended a fashionable party in my life ; and I thought, even were I favoured with an invita- tion, that I should feel strangely out of place amid so much display of wealth and fashion as I should be sure to meet with at a party given by one of the most wealthy and influential families in the city. I was much surprised when I received from Laura a very cordial invitation to attend her party. I at first de- clined the in-'ntation, saying that I was unaccustomed to AN EVICNINU I'AUTY, 3a .iiiy lliiiigof llu'kind, {iik1 tlml. iis most o\' iIk^ iriicsts would be strnnm'rs (o mo, 1 wliould |nvl(M' not utttMidiui,^ ; Imt wlu'ii .Mr. tuid Mrs. T.riulitoii rxpn'sst'd tlu'ir wish that 1 sliould attt'iid tlie l'J""^Vj 1 overcame my reliictaiiee ted. ,111(1 coiiseii The eveniiiu; at length came, and althoiiuli T aiiti('i|)at«Ml hut litth' pleasure from the party, I felt a degree ol'ivstless- nt'ss and expeetatioii when tliea[)poiuted evening arrived. My wardrobe was not furnished with any su[)erlluities in the way of (h"ess, and my eonnnand of money was not sullicient to allow of any extravagance in aj)i>arel. Laura kindly ollered to jiresent me willi a beautiful silk dress for the occasion, but 1 delicately, though fu'udy, declined tiit^ gift, for I wished not to appear otherwise than in my true position. I therefore selected the most approi)riate dress I possessed for tlic occasion ; it was (piite plain, though of rich material. The only ornament I wore was a pearl necklace, which had been a bridal gift to my jiiother. Laura assisted me in making my toilette, and insisted tliat I should allow her to place a few natural flowers in my hair, and to please her I consented to wear them. Laura looked very lovely in the costly dress purchased for the occasion ; she also wore a set of diamond orna- ments, which her father had presented to her on her re- turn from school. As soon as wx had finished our toilettes, w'e descended to the drawing-room, where Mr. and Mrs. Leightoii had mimmmmmmmmm I! i 1 M 1 )!;• i If! ■f 1! ^Ji Ifil .■( u CLARA ROSCOM ; OR, THE PATH OF DUTY. jilrc'icly tuk»3n tlieirplaeoSj ns it was near tlic lioiir wlicii they iniLrht expect their guests to b(;giii t'> assejn])le. 1 went down thus early 1o avoid the unpleasantness of erterinc: the brilliantly liulited drawinn-rooni after it should be iilled ^vith guests. 1 had requested of the Leigh- tons that I might receive as few introductions as possible under the circumstances. Truly it was a brilliant asseiu- bly which soon iilled those spacious apartments. Among the guests who first arrived weiv a ]Mr. and iNfrs. Lawton, with their daugiiter, to whom Laura gave me an introduc- tion. Their kiud attentions and lively conversation soon dis- pelled the feeling of embarrassment with which 1 first found myself in the com])an.y of so many wealthy and distinguished people. Dancing was soon introduced. Dancing was an ac- comidishment which I had never learned, as my mother disapproved of tlie amusement. AVillie seemed disap- pointed when he invited me to become his partner for the quadrille then forming, and 1 replied that I did not dance. When he learned that 1 did not dance he intro- duced to me a young gentleman by the name of Shirley, who was seated near us, and who, for some reason oi' other, did not join the dancers. Mr. Shirley's conversa- tional powers were extremely good, and we engaged in conversation for some time, in the course of which 1 eii- (juired why he I'efrained from dancing f A shade of sad- ness passed over his countenance as he ivplied^ — IL'TY. ♦ ' lioiir wlicii !SiMii))]e. cnsaiitness of ooiii Jiftcr it of llu'Lc'i;;!!- ■* .'IS possibL; Jli;iiitns8oiu- iits. Aijioiiff h's. Lawtoii, aij iijlrotluc- ioii soon (\k- vliicli 1 first woalliiy niid was an ar- my niotluT nncd (Jisap- liner for tlit? 'j 1 (lid not ce lie infro- .' of Sliirley. lU' reason or 's convorsa- enaaiicd in wliic'h I 011- ]aut it is an amusement which certainly has a tendency to evil. I know that you very much enjoy it, but yon arc now capable of serious reflection, and allow me to ask vou if vou feel in a suit- able frame of mind for prayer and meditation when you retire to your room after luivirig spent tlie evening in the frivolous anmsement of dancing V This was an argument which I could neitiier gainsay nor resist, and coming as f 3G CLARA ROSCOM ; OR, TJIE I'ATIl OF UUTV, ii i '1 I iff 't*'?li it did from fii«' li[)8 <»f my dyiiii; mother, I wiis miicli atlt'cicd ))y it. lidure Ic'iviiiij: my m(>tiier's room, i solemnly [)romise(l liei' tli;it 1 would never iiu'.'iii. p.irtiei- [);ite in the amusement of danciiiij:, and tiiat promise I have most sacredly kept. I now often wonder thai 1 eould ever have been so loud of an anuiscmeul whicii at the best alfords so little real enjoyment to its votaries. 1 trust you will ]>ardon tiie lihei'ty which 1 liave taken in talkiuii' so louij: of myself to you, an entire' stranu(M'; hut when you en((uired my reason for not joininu' in the danee, somelhini'' in vour countenance imix'Iled me to he thus cam lid m my answer ?j AVe remained for somi'time longer in con\ crsation, and I really ))eiian to enjoy tlu; party. Tiiere were several ladies and ixenth'men seated near us, cnaaii'ed also in con- versation, and I could not avoid hearing much that [)assed among them. Presently I heard a lady enquire of a ]\Irs. Kingsley, a lady to whom 1 had been introduced in the early part of the evening, — '^ Who is that young lady with whttm ^Ir. Shirley has )een so long conversmtj: ■i^V ^' Oh !" she rej)li(Ml, '' shi? is niili/ the governess in Mrs. Leighton's family. A 2)trsony as 1 am informed, of good education, but very poor, and oldiged to teach asa means of support for ln'rself and mother, who is a widow Why sh(udd I have felt so indignant at those woi'ds, which, if maliciously intended, were certaiidy true; ? 1 V SUl) ppose the attentions ] was receiviiiix at this my lirst f AN EVENING PARTY. 3? h.iiTV were cjiiisiiiir iiit' fo forirct my ti'iir jtosirion. Tlic. 1;i(1v\v]m) 1i;i(1 firsf sp world I should better have understood the matter, knowing as I did, that ]\[rs. Kiugsley had an unmarried laughter presiuit, of luicertain age, with a fair prospect dtnunainiiig for some time longer in her state <»f siugh* lilcssedness. I forbear descril)ing Miss Kiugsley, and will milv sav that if ^Irs. Kinirshw tlKMiLjht meconmion-look- ling, 1, on I he contrary, thought her diiughter, Miss Kings- lev, to ho verv unconnnon-lookini:-. U HI ft- f I'il' l;ii 38 CLAUA llOSCOM ; <.)ll, I'lIM I'ATII 01 Dl TV '; i; r'l Alter the rciiiJirks to wliicli I lind Itceii ;iii iiir.\ illiiiu lisloner, 1 dorivod vory little pleasure troiii the party. I nioutally said, it' iny po'-erty is to be made a subject ol convorsatioti in parties like this, I wish never to attend atiother; and 1 was heartily glad when the gay assembly d(»partedj at two oVloek in the morning. Tiius ended my first }>arty, which V(mi]t with wliicii Willie Leighton listened as I related the circumstance: ]>ut he made no remark, as he kiunv ^Irs. Kingsley to be one ot ids mother's m<>st intimate tri<>nds. ]\Irs. Leighton remarked that ^Irs. Kingsle}' possessed many good <|nali- ties, although she was sometimes inclined to make mali- cions remarks. -I I :i;!; ini'.\ illiiiM |>.nty. I Jo .-ittrnd asseniblv .'I 111 »r(],'(| ll(»S<' ;n|- iicccrdcd I'o sc- is, wliicli iio iiiorr .'n;if ions, loiii Mrs. i- sll.'lll I •li Willie : ))iif l)«' •<> <)llt> of ^♦'iglifoii k1 <|u;ili- kv iiiiili- ('iiAiTi:i: vii. 1 AILINO IIKALTII OF CLAUA's MoTMHK'. f--*?rf| SOON hiul a far inoro sorioiis cause for (lisiiiiici i^^^ik*-^ 'I'aii the rcniarkH of Mrs. Kiiiixslcy or any oiin i^^^=^^ t'lso could have occasiont'd. J iind niiiiiy times (|uite well ; only it miuht he a litlh^ fitii!iied. J)ur the truth could no Ioniser he concealed. .My mother was ill, and that seriously. She still attend- ed to her daily occupations, l)ut she was greatly clianu^ed ; she seemed during the past few weeks to have grown thill almost to attenuation. 8he was very pale, except at rimes there was a feverish glow upon her clieeks. 1 was then too young to detect, as I should now do, the insidious approach of that foe to human life, consump- tion. Going one day to visit my mother, I was so struck l)y the change so visible in her countenance, 1 privately asked Aunt Patience if she did not feel alarmed for my mother '! She hurst into tears, and was for some time unable to reply. I had never before seen Aunt Patience i I 40 CLARA ROSCOM ; OR, THE PATH OF DUTY. « HiJ SO niiH'li aHbcU'd. J hcugt'd ol' her io tell itir it" there was iiiiy real cause for alanii, lor I liad liojx'd she would be able to dis])el all niv fears in reirard to iiiv mother. Regaining her composure, she told me that comsumption was hereditary in my mother's family. I had never before chanced to hear it mentioned, but Aunt Patience now iidbrmed me that several of" the fiimily had fallen victims to that disease, and that she feared it had already fastened upon my mother. '' I am glad," she said, '^ that you have spoken to mc npon the sid)ject. I have long wished to make known my feelings to you, but I shrank from giving you pain, 1 have been unable to persuade your mother to call a physician. She imagines lierself better ; but I can sec but too plaiidy that sucii is not the case." I forebore nu^ntioning the subject to my mother at. th.'it time ; indeed I could not have done so. 1 was now thoroughly alarmed — almost terrified, and it w\is with a heavy heart that I returned to the dwelling of jNlrs. Leiarhton. I had frequently spoken to Mrs. Leighton of my mother's failing health, and I now felt it my duty to resign my position as governess, for a time at least, and return to my mother, that she might be relieved from all care. When I returned to Mrs. Leighton's on the evening in (pu'stion, I again spoke to her upon the sub- ject, saying that, I feared I should be obliged to resign my situation in her family and return to my mother^ who ■i KAILIXG HEALTH OF CLARA'S MOTHER. 41 »' iC then dlO \V(l!|](| y iiiorlicr. si]iii|)rioii ad never I*atieii('o lad fiilloii (1 already Cli to 1110 .e known :oii pniii. to call a . can see lother at was now s with a, of ;^rrs, of niy dntv to 'ast, and froni all on the Ihe siib- o resign icr^ who •^ evidently needed my attention. ^Irs. Leighton expressed much synii>.*ithy for nie in niy tronhle, saying that I oiiLrht by all means to hasten to my mother; but add»'d thai she did not wish me to resign my position, as she was willing to wait for me for any length of time I might find it necessary to remain at home. 8he said, turther, that Laura would be quite willing to give some attention to the children during my absence ; and she tiied to cheer me up, saying that she' trusted my mother w(»uld soon be better. I too tried to be ho| eful, but the impression that my mother was ro die had taken dee^. hold of my mind. I visited my mother the next evening, and, to avoid surin-isinii: her by suddenly returnino- home, I informed her that I intended spending a few vveeks at home, as I needed rest from teaching, and that Laura would attend to the children during the time I should remain at home. My mother seemed so cheerful that evening that I began to hope that I might have been too much alarmed ; but, when I had opportunity for speaking privately with Aunt Patience, her words confirmed my w^orst fears. She informed me that at her earnest solicitation my mother had that day summoned a physician ; that he had pre- scribed some medicine for her, and given her some advice in regard to diet, walking or riding in the open air, &c. She further informed me that she had herself spoken privately to the physician, recpiesting him to tell her candidly what he thought of my mother's case. He replied, — E 42 CLARA ROSCOM J OR, THE PATH OF DtlTT. ; I: i '! ii :! i ^^ As you have asked me a plain question, I tiiink it my duty to give you a candid answer. I ktiow not," continued the physician, *^ iiow it might iiave been liad I been called six months ago, but now I fear the case of Mrs. Roscom is beyond the reach of medicine. I will gladly do my utmost for her, but 1 fear that a few months, it may be a few weeks, will terminate her life." This was fearful tidings to me, as I had strongly hoped that the opinion of the pliysician would have been more favorable. AVlien I became outwardly composed, I rejoined my mother, in company with Aunt Paticuice. My mother was not aware that Aunt Patience had held any conversation with the physician regarding her illness. She seemed much pleased at the prospect of my retiu'u home. I informed her, before leaving, that she might expect my return in the course of two or three days. She failed rapidly from this time ; and, shortly after 1 returned to my home, was obhged to give up all employ- ment, however light. We often reminded her of the physician's wish, that she should walk in the open air; but it was seldom she felt equal to the task of walking even a short distance. Mrs. Leighton and Laura otlen called, and brought many little delicacies to tempt the appetite of my invalid mother. Mrs. Leighton told my mother that she would be happy to send her carriage as often as she felt strong to ride out. My mother replied that on fine days she would gladly avail herself of her kind offer j and^ so as long ■■'.« KAILINO HEALTH OF CLARA'S MOTlIEll. 43 rv. , I think it ^now not," e been had tlie case of 10. I will 3W months, iii^ly hoped been more 11 posed, I ; Patience. B had held her illness, my return she might e days, •tly after 1 dl employ- ler of the open air; •f walking 1 brought my invalid she woidd felt strong B days she so us long as my motlier was able, tlie carriage was sent every fine day to give her the benefit of a short ride in the open iiir. I presume that, on ordinary oeeasions, I should liavo felt some end)arrassment in receiving a visit from Mrs. !, eight on and Laura in my honu^, which appeared so liiimhle compared to their own eh'gant residence ; but now it never cost me a thought, for, in the presence of a ureat sorrow, all trilling considerations vanish away. It was in tlu^ month of May that 1 returned home, mid by the last of .Tune my mother was entirely confined to her room, and much of the time to her bed. She Nutlered much from nervous restlessness, and at times her cough was very distressing. She would allow no one, aa yet, to sit witli her during tlie night, but I gained her consent that I might sleep on a lounge which stood in her room. There was no end to the kindness we received from the Leightons ; no day passed without some one of the family calling to encpiire for my mother. Soon after this time my mother appeared much better. Srie was able to sit up more th.an formerly, and her cough was flir less troublesome. 1 remember one day sapng to Aunt Patience, when we chanced to be alone, that I began to think my mother would yet recover, she seemed so nuich better. *' My dear Clara," she replied, "I hope your mother may recovery but you nmst not build hopes which I fear I i ■( III u CLARA ROSCOM ; OR, THE PATH OF DUTY. will iit'vev be reulint'd. This Heciiiiiig chaugo lor llic better is only one of these deceitful turns of her disease by which so many are deceived. I do not wish to alarm you needlessly, but I dare not cherish any hopes of her recoverj'." The idea that my mother would die had been impress- ed upon my mind from the hrst ; yet, when I observed her hjiproved appearance, I thought that the physician, as well as ourselves^ might have been deceived. 1] CJIAITKU VIII. A lUUlHIT DHEAM AND I'EACKI'TL END. HE seeming favorable turn of Tnyin()tlier''s di- sease proved, as Aunt Patience; had feared, of but short duration. She was soon atriiin almost entirely confined to lier bed ; except [that, in the after-noons for the sake of the chanu(», slie would recline for a short time upon the sofa in the parlor. But this was only for a few days, and then slie was unable to leave her own apartment. As I have said so little regarding my own finilings, in view ofmymother's death, tlie reader may be led to tliink .that I felt less keenly than I might have been su])posed to do. If I have said little, it is for the reason thnt 1 have no words adequate to describe what my feelings were at the time. I felt stunned as by a heavy blow •, and it seemed tome if my mother died I certainly could not live. I had yet to learn that grief does not kill — that is, not suddenly. I have often since looked back to that time, and f -It deeply humbled, while thinking how little 1 felt resigned to the will of heaven. I could not then, as I hnve since done, recognize the hand of a kind and loving Fatlier in !| ti I t I 1 [ i' 1 ' i ^ 1 ! » ' 1 16 CLARA llOSCOM J Oil, THE PATH OF DUTY. tlio stroke. J ('oiild only feel thnt my iiiotlier wns leaving luo, and all was darkness beyond. 1 now senrctdy ever left my mother's room, exce[)t wlien Annt ParieLce would almost compel me tor a short time, to retire to my own apartment, that I might obtain a little rest. But the thonght tliat soon T would have no mother was ever [)reseiit to my mind, and I wished to remain with her as long as sh(^ might be spared to me. About three weeks ])revious to my mother's death, Aunt Patienc(5 urgently requested me one afternoon to retire to my own room and seek some rest, saying I look- ed etitirely worn out. After obtaining from her a y>yo- mise that she would not allow me to sleep too long, I (•()m[)lied. My room seemed very cool and refreshing that sultry afternoon, and, lying down upon my l)ed, I soon sank into a profound slumber, which continued for three or four hours. Upon my going down stairs, I was 8ur[)rised at the lateness of the hour, and enquired of Aunt Patience why she had not called me? She replied that as my mother had seemed quite comfortable, she thought it best to let me enjoy a sound sleep. I persuaded Aunt Patience to retire to rest soon after tea, as I intend- ed watching that night by my mother. Thus far we had ourselves been able to attend to the wants of my mother, without assistance, as it pleased her better that either ^ lint Patience or I should attend to her; but we had lately allowed a friend to sleep in the house, as we did not like to be left alone. That evening, after m^ mother A BRIGHT DllEAM AND PEACEFUL END. 4? iuul pintakt iK'jir- lly two hours, when she awoke, and requested me to give Iher a drink. I supported her upon my arm as 1 held to [her lijjs a glass in which I had mixed some wine and wa- ter. Tiaying her gently back upon her pillows I encpiired if I could do anything further for her comfort ? She re- plied tliat she felt quite comfortable ; and, thinking thnt she might again fall asleep, I resumed my rending. After remaining quiet for sometime she softly called my n;ime. As I stepped hastily to her bed-side, she said, — " Come and sit near me, Clara, I have sonu'thing to say to you." Obedient to her request, I drew^ my chair near to her bedside, and seated myself. 8he clasped my hand in both hers, i\H she said, — ^^ My dear Clara, I lia\ e long wished to ask you if you ari; aware that I must soon leave vou ?" As she said these words the grief of my overburdened heart defied control, and, hurrying my face in her pil- lows I sobbed convulsively. This sudden near approach to death sent an icy chill over my whole being. '^ You must endeavor to compose yourself, my daugli- ter," said my mother, ''and listen to me.'' m m :i m It] rr i r ,1 '1 •If I ■ >i 48 CLARA llOrfCOM ; OR, TJIE I'ATII OF DUTY. I ti'it'd to restrain luy tcnrs as my mother coiitimied. " I have long wished to talk with you, l)ui have defer- rehysieian left us, saying to Aunt I'atienee that sli(> must try and induce me to sleep, as that would liel[) to restoi'c lu}' shiitlered nerves. Aunt Vatience sat hy nie during the long hours ot"lhat night, hut it was not until the day Ix'gan to(hi\\ii that I sank into a heavy slundx'i', from which 1 (hd not awak(» until a late hour in the UKMiiing. ( )n first awak- ing, it siM'med to me that 1 had had a IVightfnl dream; i)Mt, as mv uiind Jx'canu^ mor(^ ch>ar, 1 reali/«'d the sad truth that uiy mother was no nioi'e. 1 heard a lootst«'p enter my room, and soon a familial" voice addressed me, saying, — ^^ My dear Clara, T have come to see it 1 ciin he of any assistance* to you in your sorrow." ItwasjMrs. Leighton who had thus entered my room, she having hasteiUHJ to our dwelling as soon as she learned of my mother's death. 1 could not at hrst I'eply to her kind words j I covdd oidy weep. She did not force me A I'.iv'Kiiir i>i;i;a.\i am> i-kackki i. i;m), iu) to l.ilk, lull, li'tMilly .'IS ;i iiiol licr could Ii.ivc doiu'^ did slic li.illic my li'vorrd Ih'ow .iiid llirohldiiu' l('Ui[d('s. Tflliiiii- iiH' to rciiiiiii) (piit't lor;! lew iiioiiiciits^ slu' Icit the room, ;iii(l soon ret iiitR'd, ln'.'iriii'j; ;i Clip <•(■ tcii, which she insist- ed upon my driiikimr. She iissistcd mc to (h'css, iiiid o[tt'iitMl ;i window to iieen IowchmI into the earthy 1 almost wished that I too were restintr by her side. Since that [)erioerienced other sor- rows ; but the sharjH'st paiiu' I have ever liidt, was when J tiiriu'd away Irom the uraves where rested the remains ol" both lather and mother. ir , ii 1 i\ ; i^ i ■ 1 V » • 1 J ■> .. ', i ■ \ 1 |;, 54 CLARA 1103COM ; Oil, TilE I'ATII OF DUTY II ,f: ft As 1 li.ivr hrCoiT iiiciit idhr.l, Aiiiil riitiriicc li.id, in llu' coiii'sc <►!" 1m r lill', jKisscd linunuli iiuiiiy Iiviiiiz' vicissi- IikIcs, jiikI, ]»r»'vi()iis 1o licr dcjilli, my iiKtllirr Ii.kI «'()1i- sidcrcd lluii we cuidd iiiiikc ii«i Ix'tlrr I'ciiini Iui'iIh' dt'l>t of uiMliliidr we owed licr tli.iii by iiinUiiiu' j)i(»\ isioii lor lici" <»ld ;int'. I sii\', W'itli uu(»d rciisoii, lluil we owed liri' .'I debt osii('(l for lirr liiturc hciH'lit. In makinu' this arrani^cmcnt, my motiiri- \visli(>d me to Jicccpt of a |KHlion of the iiioncv \\hi<'h the sah' ol llu' lioiisc would ln'inu ; hut I drcliiH'd, saviiiu' that, as she had i:i\«'n me a lioinj rdnt-ation, 1 was amply ahlr lo sii|»[>ort mysolt", so lonu' as I was Idcsscd with hrallli. My niothor asscntrd to tlir arraiimMiuMil, saviiiu' that I could draw nioiiry iVoin I he deposit should I cvci' have occasion so to do. W'c iTtnaiiicd for two monilis in (.iir loiiclv liomc, attt'r the death cd" my mother; at the eixl of which time tlu' new owiKT to(d\ [)oss<'ssion oC tiie dwellini:. Aunt Patience had decided upon noiiiu' to reside with a relative who lived in Massaidiusetls, and tlu' interest of lh<' money, deposited Cor her use, was to he I'eiiiilarly remitted to her. We disposed (d' tin- riuuituri', with A BRIGHT DREAM AND TEACEFUL END. 55 the cxocption of n few clicrislKMl articles, wliich I ivscrvt'd lor iiiyscH'; tlicse the piircliaser kiiully allowed iiic to leave in one of the ui)})er rooms till I might wish to remove tliem. Tiie same day that Aunt Patience set oiiton her journey to ^Massachusetts, \ returned to ^Irs. Leiiiiiton. j 1 • I CHAPTER IX. FlilENDLY ATTENTIONS. T was well for nic that my iii'mv striviiin to do iiiv diitv in tlic posiiiini in wliicli 1 Wi'is [>hu't' enable uu' to follow the counsels I iiad so ofteu received from those lips, uow sealed in silenct;. It seeuied to uie, at such times, that I almost held com- iiiunion with the spirit of my mother. 1 experienced much kindness from every memlx-r of Mr. Leighton's family. I s[>ent uiy leistu'e time mostly ill my room. They did not, of course, invite uie to join parties, hut they would often urge me to join a few friends in their own parlor; l)ut I always rej)lie(l that my deep mournin<2: must be uiv excuse. I had no taste for com- pany or mirth. One afternoon the Leightons had gone to join a picnic party some two miles from the city. They had invited me to accompany them, but as usual I declined. I felt sad and lonely tliat long a+'^ernoon, and, being left entire- ly alone, I could not preveh iuy thoughts from recurring to the past. I thought of all the happy, careless days of my childhood ; then my memory ran back to the nigiit, when, at ten years of age, I stood by the death-bed of my father. With the eye of memory, I again saw my 68 CLARA ROSCOM ; OR, THE PATH OP DUTY. . iiioHmt, iis slie s\(uh] 1)o\ve(l willi grief at llie griivo of my falljcr; iiiid now I wjis U'tt aloiio to uioiini for bolli father .'111(1 uiollicr. iMciiiory also fondly tunit'd to Miss Kdnioiid.s, my first tfacluT. 1 li'it lii.it to s«'o luT auain would iiidct'd 1m' lia[>[»iiirss ; Init 1 knew not where Miss Edmonds then resided. The last time 1 had heard from her sin; conteni[dated going South, as governess in a, gentleman's family. Then eiime the memory of Iho ha[)i»y years I passed in JNIi's. Wentworth's sehool. Where now were the many friends I had then known and loved ? As these thougiits passed in ([uiek sneeession through my mind, 1 eould not refrain Irom WGe[)ing •, and, as I wa»j under no restraint from the presence of others, my tears seemed almost a hixury. I know uofc how long my lit of weeping might have continued had not one of the domes- ties entered the room, and ird'ornied me that a poor woman was in the kitchen seekinii: chftritv. "1 thought," said the girl, ^'as the other ladies are all away, yon might give Iuh' h trille, for she seems wry needy." Hastily drying my tears, I went down to tho kitchen, where I found a young woman, who woidd have been very pretty but for the look of want and snflfering depicted npon her conntenance. It was evident, from her up[)ear- ance, that she was not an habitual beggfir. As 1 ap- proached her, she seemed nuich endiarrassed, a^she said, — ''Sure an' its mesdf that never expected to come to this at all, at all" FRn TDLY ATTENTIONS. 59 li My [)()or woiii.'in," suid I, ^^ yo" ii[»}><'iU' to hnvc boeii iiiitoi'tiiiinrc V '^ All' its iiK'silf llmt hius l)(^s. Slu «-(>llt IIIIUM I,— '''riicrc \v;is iM'vcr ;i li;ip|»!t»r coiiiilc t I'.'^n Diimis ( )'FI;ili('r1 y jiii' I tlu? Any the pnisto made us oiio. liiil, .iricra while, the Wiiifcs tfot low, and tht) iinn's wtTchnni w id us. ' lV>lly,' siiys Dimiis to luc oru* day, ^ will you he aftliur i;()iu' to Auicriisy wid luc '•' 'Diuuis,' says I, ' wlu'rever it plases you to go its I, Tolly ]\r»'r)riu<', tliut's I'cady and willin' to tolh>vv.' Wo sailod in the >S7. 7V/A- ric/,\ aud tin days ai'thor 1 saw njv darlin' Diiniis hurird ti ui tn(^ sa It '^y- Ho fi'll sick wid a tav^'r, and all nic pmyors tor his life could not save him; an' liere I am, a lone widily, in a slitrang(^ huid, without a jiiMiny in nic jxK'ket, nor u place to lay uie head. lien? tlu? l)oor woman's grief choked her utterance and, coverinu" her face with her hands, she wei)t aloud V ng P 1 re(|uested the domestic to bring her some fooil, which slie ate like one famishing. I placed in her hand money siiflicient to secure her from want for two or three days at least. 1 did not in the legist doubt her st(»ry, for her countenance bore the impress of sincerity. When slu; left, 1 re({uested her to call {igain in two or three days, as r telt certain that Mrs. Leighton would assist her in o))taining some employment. She h'ft mv. with many thanks^ and Idessing lue aftei' the mamiei- of her country. ;i I I ■I CIIAITKi; X. ,!■ i. «u A SrKIMJISK. 'asoii A .srni'iiisK Gt jiiirciits ; ImiI, siii'cly, iftliry ;irt' [)rniii(tt';ist n|Mni vonr r«'t nrn iionic" ()ii onr \\i\\ home 1 conld no! licli).-! li'i'linu' of niicisi- n( < lest Wi line's iiticntions to me slionld displcjisc tlic I'nniily. I li;id .'dlowcd liini to ii('('oni[>,iny ww home, )is I conld not liiive done ollierwise withont ahsolnte rnde- ness ; yet I fejired that, in so doini!', 1 shoidd disjdejise his trieiids. My nneasiness increased as, npon entei'ing tli(! iKUise, I thonuht 1 detected a shade of ie. If A\'illie noticed anything of the kiml, he svcninl niiconscious of it, for he made several ellorts to enuai»e ns in conversation : hot. for some reason or oilier, no one, except hmisell, seemed in(dined to he social that evening. 1 lelt very nnicli de[»ressed in s[)irits, for 1 attribnted their silence to (hs- pleasnro because Willi*' had accom])anied me home, and, al an earlv hour, I !>ade them uood niulit, and retiivd to my own ap u'tment. Aft"v readinii', as was my custom. a cliaptev in my liible, and connnending myself to the c.irt' of Heaven, I sought my }>ill(7W ; but hour after hour passed away and sleep refused to visit my eyes. Again a.iid again I mentally asked myself what had T doiie to merit the coldness \vliich i\lrs. Lei<>hton had shown in her manner to me 'I Jt was not my fault that A\'illie had m 02 CLARA UOSCO.M I Oli, THE I'ATll OF DVTY i I i ■ soiiuht 111*', iiiid ill ji kiiul iiiitl liciitlt'iiuiiilv iii.iiiiicr t'scoricd iiic lioiiu' ; iiiid I only allribiitcd 'lisallciilioii to Unit rosptH't wliic'i llio real 'ivntlvMUiiii ever nccords ((» ;i Lulv J ? \ni slio iicii or noin 1, 1 lOWOViT, ( Irci.l (>(i i ii<-il III t'liture I sliould receive no ;i1 tent ions IV<»ni Willie. 'V\]v, Lt'iiilitoiKS were kind, Inil exlreinely |H(Mid, ;iiid ! rc;ir((l that the jdeasnn^ Willie had lately e\inced in my society liad (hspleasi'd iheni, altlioiiuh his attentions had heeti iiothinu' nion' than a n-Tson socially inclined iniuht l)(> oxpcctod to sho\v to one d\yellins»' heneath the same roof. Aiiaiii did the remark niadt^ by Mrs. Kiiinsh'y occur to my mind, and I lirnily decid<'d that, it'.Mrs. Leiuhton was dis[)h'ased, slie should hay*^ no t'lirlher cause for disph'a- .snre, tor I too was possessed of a proud spirit, 'i'lie dawn of tlu' new day lilimmered in the east 'ere sleep closed my eves, and then my slumherswcre distmhed hv niroleasant dreams. Ont^ dream, in particular, 1 'I renieinovM 1 setMiie 1, in my dream V tol SI )e a homeless wanderer I know not whither. I had left the limits of the city and was walkinu' in the o})eu country, on a road that seemed strange and unfamiliar to me. At lenutli siuth : feeliuii' of loneliness and misery oyerpowered uie that I felt unable to proceed further. Seatinii' myself by the roadside, I burst into t(\irs. jxaising my eyes, I observed ii female liuure ap2)roacliing me, \yhich 1 soon recognized as my mother, She drew near, am I, I lyni! her hand s npon my liea;!, as il in Diessmg, said, bl( u Fear not, my beloved daughter, only continue in the path of duty and all will yet be well, 11 A S UK PRISE. l>.) With ;i rrv <>1" ,)<>y, 1 spi'iiiio' liu'Wiiid l(» t'iiiln';i«r in-r, iiiid ;i\vi>k<' io lin my not. >>Iie kindiv ollered to excuse me liavm g sle})t we I III from attending to my j)U})i]s that morning, luit 1 told her I felt (piite able to attend to my usual duties, in the course of the day I nu'utioned to her the case of the poor woman who had called the day ju'evious. She replied that, after seeing her and making some en(pnrics regarding her capability, she would speak to a i'riend of hers, who was in want of a servant, and she had no doubt she could iidluence her friend to ( nuau'e her, should she consider her a suitabh' [>erson. Accoi'dingly, when jNFrs. O'Flaherty called, two or thiVM; days after, l\[rs. Leightou r|u«'sti(Mied lier in ivgard to her ca[)abilitv as a servant. She I'eplied thai she had had considerable i i i r.i s G4 CLARA ROSCOM : OR, THE PATH OF DUTV i i I '-.; I (!\[M'i'i('ii(*i' ;is ;i scrv.iiit ill ^ciifccl l;iiiiilics, pivvloii.s to lior iii.ii'i'i.'mc ill tliccldcoiinlrv. ]\Ii's. l.ciuiitoii nMiiicstiMl licr to ('.ill iiu^.iin sliorfly, s;iyiii!;' th;il sli«' liopcd to he Jiblc to liiid luM' ii situjitioii. ]\li's. I.ciiiiitoii I'lirtlicr inrormcd litM' tliiit, if tlie lady eiiUii,U'<'d her, it iiiusr he ciitirt'ly on ii rt'coiiimi^iidat ion : ami tiiat s!u' hoped slic her ()\v V would prove herself faithful and tnistwortliy. Slie replied, — ''All' its iiii'siU thafll he aftliei' (Ujiif me hesl to pla/e the leddy, iiieiii." And, with many tlianks, she \vi\ tlie lioiist'. Mrs. Leiiilitpea ranee, she was tar from being a pleasant ('((inpanion. ller manner, to me, was exceedingly haugh- ty, almost contemptuous. She seenuul to liave entirely (oigotten my unwearied pains in laying the foundation of her education. I could never understand the reason of her dislike to me. The I'eeling must always have existed, though kept in check during the time she had been my pu[)il. I think the rest of the family must have noticed her unpleasant manner to me; and, I have no doubt, remonstrated with her upon th'3 subject. I was of a proud, sensitive nature, and the many slights, in an indirect way, which 1 sutlered from her roused my indignation, and I was revolving the idea in my mind of seeking another home, when an event occurred which caused my departure from the home of the Leightons sooner than I anticipated. On the morning of the day of which I speak, Laura was unable to get out, as she was sutlering from a cold. She was very anxious to a V, 1 it:. m M i i I 1 II " I fi r ' ; M 1 1 1 1 f 1 1 j ' 1 h ee CLARA llOSCOM ; OR, THE PATH OF DUTV execute some slio[)piiig tliat iiiofniiig, and asked me if 1 woul niid inio an'ectioii. Will you not Ik'coihc iiiy wife, and tliereby reu(« advised by me and never allude to this subject again. 1 can be your friend, but not your wife. I intend, as soon as circumstances permit, to seek another home. Remember me as a friend only, and what- ever my own feelings may be, I shall at least have the satisfaction of knowing that I luive acterrssc(l rxlreiiic.'iuitntioii, iis, risiiiu', lie s;ii(lj — '' VdU linve iii;iMt go not away from here, as that would destroy my only lioi)e." When I entered the honse, J heard the excited yoices (»t']\Irs. Leiuiiton, Lanra, and Georuaiiia in the parlor. I heard Mrs. Leighton say, as I pnssetl the door of the par- lor, — "" Are vou snre, Georuania,t]iat yon iniderstood ariuht T' '' Quite sure, niajnnia," she replied ; ^' 1 plainly heard Willie ask her to become his \yite; how 1 lidfc hei'; and the thought of" Willie's loying her almost causes me to liiite liim." 'Mlush!" exclaimed i\Irs. I.(Mghton ; 'M will inyesti- gat»; this matter myself."' I hurried up to my room. I kne\y there was troulde ill store for me, and J felt strong to meet it; for my own ([uitted me of any \yrong-doing. After ne Ijad i)assed, I heard the l"ootstei)s of jNFrs. ^H conscience ac( hing 1 some little tim kc a 1 Leighton asce I r;ipped at my hide 1 to entcir, and I your 1 tor some mome seek 1 lioth sorrow a .-hat- 1 thiit j\Irs. Lei e the 1 Leighton to 0[ d for 1 b ion gilt her t( 1 p nding the stairs ; and a moment after she door. I opened the door and inyited her je seated. 8he tiien seated lierself, and sat Mits in silence. 1 ler countenance expressed nd anger, for, u[) to this time, J helieyed ii'hton had loyed nie, 1 waited for ^Irs. x'n the subject, for I well knew what had o my room, and I cared not how s(K)n she ill il I ¥: .11 .'I I ]n ; '0 CLARA ROSCOM ; OR. T[IE I'ATfl OF DUTY. El (,; iiijidc known tiic (jJjjiH't ol' Iut visit. At longth shi* sjiid, — '' It .si'tMHs to mo, Miss Kosconi, that you liavo rondorod il von' base rotiini for my kindness." As slu^ seemed waiting my reply, I said, — " Will you have the goodness, Mrs. Leiiiliton,to explain your words, for I am unable to comprebend tlieir mean- ing ?" Her voice i'xpressed mucb dis[deasure as sbe answered : '' I was not aware tbat my words re([uir(M] any expla- n.ition ; but, if tliey do, it sliall be given in Itnv words. How dare you so tar forget your own position, and ours, as to entice my son into making a proposal of marriage to one so nmcli bis inferior as you nuist know yourself to ■VI 8bould I live a bundred yenrs I can never forget tbe sbock ber words gave me. 1 fiii'ly trembled witb anger. Jlising to my feet, 1 looked ber steadily in tbe face, as I said, — " Tbat your words are false, as well as beartless, I need not tell you, as you are already aware of tbe fact. I appeal to you if I bav eever in any way courted tbe society of Willie. If be bns asked me to become bis wife, is it tbrougb any fault of mine? But you need give yourself no uneasiness n})on tbe subject, for I bave already told \Mllio tbat I will never become tbe wife of any man wbose friends would look upon me as tbeir inferior. For, tbougli poor, and obliged to bibor for my bread, I possess a spirit erpially proud witb your own, and tbat spirit your EMI3AIIUASSIN0 INTEUVIKWS. Tl iiisultiiii'' words liiive roused. AN'licii you jicciisc me o( eutirini; AVillie into mid^iiiu" <> i>n>pos,'d of jiiiirrijii»(', you well know tluit your accusjiliou is Udse jiud without luuiidation." '' 1 suppose," said j\[rs. Leiglilon, after a sliort silence, '• that you will seethe propriety of seekiiiu; another home." ''You might," I replied, "have saved yourself tin; trouble of reminding me of this, as I intend, tliis uight, to leave your house. I intend to show you that I shall l)rove no hindrance to your son's marrying in accordance with your wishes. Allow me to exprt>ss my heart-telt tliaid\s for your past kindness to nu" ; hut we musi now 1 )art V i\rrs. Leighton's auger, hy this time, was heginnlng to cool. " 1 am perfectly willing," said she, "tliat you sliouhl remain here till you can (jhtain another situation. When 1 spoke of your seeking another Iiouk*, I wished n(>t tliat vou should understand that I wished you to leave imnn'- ilialel V J tiianked her, but said '' I jneferred going at once." She enquired whither 1 intended going t 1 re})lied that there were several fauiilies residing in the city who had known and loved my mother, wluj would gladly shelter her orphan daughter. Mrs. Leighton owed me, at the time, one hundred dol- lars of my salary; as 1 had not re(piired tin; money, T had left it in her hands. Leaving the room, she soou 1 !■' ^;' i I 72 CLAllA iiUSCOM ; OK, Tllli; PATH OF UUTV. p ¥ 1 1 rcliinicd willi tin* money in lu-r Iiitiid^ iiiid [>r('.MS(!(l me to ji('('('[)t ot lilly (lolliirs ovtT niid above wliat, was owiii^ me. 1 iliaiiked lier, but isaid 1 vvislied to accept only of" what, was niv inst due. As slie reliised to receive; l)ack the money, I laid it upon llu" table, and be^aii inakini;' my |H'<'|>arations Ibi" leaving her house. In less than an hour my trunks were packed, and 1 was reidy to iro. J^aura and (Jeorij;ania, 1 think purposely avoided me, tor J did not see, them bel'ore leavini>. I I'elt grieved when 1 parted with liirdie and Lewis, tori ha«l become strongly attaeiied to them. Lewis used ol'ten to say that boys never oujiht to cry ; crying, he sai.i :fll ill] ': if; ill 78 CLARA UOSCOM ; OR, THE PATH OF DUTY. the liomo of my uncle witliout further delay. After ncconipauyiMg Mrs. Egniontto their friends, Mr. Egmont returned to the hotel, where I awaited him. I was seated near a window, in the sitting-room, and heard him making enquiries of one and another for Mr. Wayland my uncle. No one seemed to know anything of the person he sought. As the landlord passed that way, he turned to him and enquired if he knew a fanner in that vicinity by the name of Wayland ? lie n^plied that, having resided only for a sliort time in Littleton, his acquaintance did not, as yet, extend beyond the limits of the village, and that he knew of no such person. I was begining to fear that my uncle had removed to some other place, as I had not licard anything froTn him for a considerable time, when a ragged-looking boy, appa- rently about twelve years of age, made his way up to Mr. Egmont, and said — '' I can tell you where ]\[r. Wayland lives. He lives about three miles from here, on the Waterford Road. I knows you see, for I worked for him tliis fall, pic kin' pertaters.'^ Giving the boy a piece of silver as he thanked him for his information, Mr. Egmont came to inform me that, when I had partaken of the dinner he had ordered for me, he would accompany me to the home of my uncle. The lad before mentioned had given Mr. Egmont so accurate a description of my uncle's residence that, when I fl n i A NKW ENGLAND HOME. 79 .in' for hat, for my wf. oniiie ill view of the square, okl-fashioued farm-house, described by the boy, we at oiiee knew it to be my uncle's home. As we came in sight of the house, tlie (|uestion — how will they receive me ? — arose in my mind ; but the recollection which I retained of my imcle was of so pleasing a character that I had little doubt of meetimi; wMtli a cordial welcome. As we drew near, 1 observed nn elderly-looking man in the yard, en- gaged in mending some farming implement. From the iippearance of the place, it seemed that the front entrance was but little used, the front door and blinds being closely shut. I was at that time wholly unac- ([uainted with the habits and customs of country people. As we drove up to the gate, the man I had before observed, paused in his employment, and regarded us, as I thought, with no little surprise. Surely, thought I, this man cannot be my uncle Wayland, At the time of his visit to my mother he was a young and fine-looking man ; but the man I now beheld was bowed as it w^ere by age, and his hair was nearly wdiite. I should have remembered that since I had seen him he had laid both of his loved cliil4i'en in the grave. True it is that sorrow^ causes premature old age ; but, upon a second look at his countenance, I could clearly trace his resemblance to my mother. His ev es, when he raised them to look at ns, so strongly resembled hers that my own filled with tt^ars, which I hastily wiped away. ! !'■ i '■-»■ •r T IW t ;. i , : f\ i i f m ' l.t ! r , '1 It ' 1 :i : ^ i i jj 'l ^ i ^ \ I : rf l1' li i '! 82 CLAllA UOSCOM ; Oil, THE PATH OF DUTY, (loatli marked him for his prey; niid consumption, vvliich was hereditary m his father's family, soon laid him in the crrave. Three months after the ii:rave had closed over their beloved son, Walter, their daughter, Caroline, fell a victim to n malignant fever, which jit that time pre- vailed in the neighborhood, and they saw her too laid in the grave, at the early age of twelve years — thus leaving them childless and sorrowing. AVe shed many tears while conversing of our mutual sorrows ; and it was quite a late hour for the simple habits of their household when we separated for the night. i (iiAPTr^? xiir. N K W OCC U PATIO XS. IIKN i^oint!^ down stiiirs tlio next morning 1 wmvS snrprised, tlio hour was so early, at tinding my uncle and aunt, witli their two farm servants, already seated at the breakfast table. I must confess tliat these two farm servants seemed to me strangely out of place, sitting thus familiarly at the same table with their master and mistress. iSIy uncle introduced them to me, by the names of Mr. Barnes and ]\[r. Hawkins, tlieir Chris- tian names being Solomon and Obadiah, and by those M.'unes they were mostly called in my uncle's family. Solo- mon was a good Inimored looking man of some thirty years of age ; he had, I afterwards learned, been for some years in my uncle's emjiloy. Obadiah was a youth of about seventeen years of aire. His extreme bashfulness in the presenceof strangers in general, and of ladies in particular, caused him to appear very awkward. Added to this, he was, to use a connnon term, very homely in his personal appearance. His hair was very light, ahnost white ; his eyes too were of a very light color, and uncommordy large and prominent. He was also freckled, and very nnich sun- burned. He seemed very much over-grown, and his 't I: ^'■W ,1' I l.i :l M I, !Ki 'W iilRP ■Mi mmm J 1 1 3 I J I i S I ii I - '1 !, 1 ^ s' ! ii ^ • 84 CLARA HOSCOM ; OR, TTIE PATH OF DUTY. moiHTjil M2)|)(','iniii('(' suii'gcstrd tlic i(!<'a tluit lioimisi be in his own way — a position of wliich he stUMntMl painfully conscions. lie liail a most nnjjleasant liabit of keeping liis eyes constantly in motion. As I was seated directly opposite to him at the breakfast table, I found it very dillicult to restrain my inclination to laughter, for I could not raise my eyes without encountering one of those fur- tive glances. The idea occurred to me that he was med- itating on some means of escape from the table, and it was with much diihcnlty that I maintained a beconnng gra- vity. I was very glad, however, when my uncle made some remark which provoked a general laugh ; but I am ashamed to acknowledi»:e that I looked to see what eflect a smile would have upon the countenance of Obadiah ; but my curiosity, however, was not to be gratified, for, judging by his appearance, his thouglits were of too seri- ous a nature to admit laughtei-. I was glad when break- fast was over, and I am certain that Obadiah was mon; than glad. My aunt, like most of the farmers' wives in the vicinity, had no assistance in performing her household work, ex- cept in very busy seasons. I begged of her to allow nw- to assist her, although I feared that I should appear very awkward in the performance of duties to which. I was so little acciistomed. ]\Iy aunt at first refused, saying I was not accustojned to kitchen-work. But when i beg- nd in assistinc: her, she ged my brought me one of her large, checked aprons, which she IH :it '"?< NEW OCCLTATIONS. 85 advised me to put on. Thus attired, I waslied and wiped the breakfast dishes, and arranged them in her spotless cupboard, saying to her that, while I remained an inmate of her house, she must allow me to assist her to the best of my abihty, adding that I should be much happier if allowed to assist in her labors, than otherwise. Seeing me so anxious, my aunt allowed me to take my own way in the matter. I succeeded much better than I had feared ; and when the morning's work was finished, my aunt laughingly said that, with a little practice, she thought I should make a veiy useful kitclien-maid. In the afternoon she invited me to accompany her to the room w^hich had been her daughter's. The room was tastefully, though not richly furnished. "This," said my aunt, " was Caroline's room from her childhood. I have never allowed anything to be disturb- ed in the room since her death, except that I occasionjjly air and dust it. I suppose I am somewhat childish and fanciful; but it would pain me to see this room occupied by another." Over the mantel-piece — for almost every room in my uncle's house contained a fire-place — there hung a picture of my cousin Caroline, taken six months previous to her death. I drew nigh to look at the picture. One glance told me that she had indeed been a beautiful child. The picture was enclosed in a beautiful frame of leather- work, w4iich had been the work of her own hands. I gazed long upon the fair picture, fondly hoping that the loss her ^1' I If ! ( \ 86 CLARA R03C0M ; OR, THE I'ATII OF DUTY. If ll I S R i I i 4. Vi friends had sustjiiiicd, l)yli('r dcjdli, was Ikm* eternal uaiii, by being tiius early removed Irom a world ol" sin and sorrow to her home in Heaven. Openinii' «'i drawer in a small bureau, my aunt told me to look at lier school-books. By exanuning the books I was convinced that she must have been a child of no ordinary capacity, for her age. I also examined some of her apparel, with many other articles, which had been presents to her from friends. Seeing the tears, which I found impossible to re- press, my aunt became so nuicli aflected that I made soi>ie pretext for hastening our departure from the room ; and, when we went down stairs, I endeavored to turn our conversation to some cheerful subject, to divert her mind from her sorrow, wdiich had been vividly recalled by our visit to that lonely room. The view which my uncle's residence aflbrded of the surrounding country was very pleasing to the beholder. AVhatever way the eye turned, it rested upon well-cul- tivated farms, on which were erected comfortable and, in many instances, handsome and commodious dwellings. In the distance, tlie sunnnits of the White ]\rountains were distinctly visilde, tlw.y being jibout twenty miles distant from my uncle's residence. Mr. and Mrs. Egmont, according to promise, paid us a visit before leaving Littleton. My uncle and aunt were much pleased by their friendly and social manner ; and when they took their leave, we parted from them with sincere regret. They left Littleton soon after, on their homeward journey NEW OCCUPATIONS. 87 or. ul- liiis iles Tlirco weeks liad now pnssed sijice rny arriv;il at my uncle's home, and 1 I'ouiid mysell' daily hecomini^ more and more attached to my kind uncle and aimt. Ohadiaii iippeared to feel nnich more at his case in my presence than at the first. When I learned that he was an orj)haii- boy and had no home, I felt a deep sympathy for him ; but still, when I encountered one of those glances, I often found it very dillicult to avoid laugliter. I learned from my aunt that he, being left an orphan, had been put to work at a very early age ; and, conse([uently, had had but few advantages for study and im2)rovement. He could read tolerably, and write a little. My aunt was of tlu; opinion that notwithstanding his peculiarities, he was possessed of good common sense, and would make good progress in study if he had any one to render him the necessary assistance. I at once olfered to assist him in his studies, and proposed to him that he should spend a portion of the long evenings in study. He seemed at the first to be somewhat startled by my proposition ; but, seeing that I was in earnest, gladly consented, and forth- with commenced his studies. My aunt cautioned me about laughing, if he should chance to make comical blunders; and it was well that she did so, for some of his blunders w^ere laughable in the extreme ; but '' forewarn- ed is forearmed." After a time I learned that he really possessed an intellect of no mean order. He soon made rapid progress in study. He seemed fully to appreciate the pains I took in teaching him, and endeavored, by many little acts of kindness, to show his gratitude to me. i IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) !.0 I.! 11.25 ■a m III 2.2 It Ui III 20 I I I 1.8 1.4 ill 1.6 m ^ /a v: >^ r r />^/ r v\ i 1 l! 88 CLARA ROSCOM ; OR, THE PATH OF DUTY. Soon after my arrival, my aunt, one day, said to me, — ^^ I hope you will feel happy with us, for I wish you to consider our house as your home for the future. You know not," she continued, ^' how glad I am of your com- pany, and how your presence cheers us ; we will gladly adopt you as our daughter, if you can be happy with us." I thanked her with tears in my eyes, and added that I was very happy in receiving so warm a welcome to their home, and would gladly do my utmost to fill a daughter's place to them. I further informed my aunt that I should be very happy to consider her house as my home, but that I should prefer teaching, as soon as I could find a desira- ble situation, as such had been my intention when I left Philadelphia. But when I mentioned the subject to my uncle, he seemed much hurt that 1 should think of such a thing. I told him that the wish to teach did not pro- ceed from any feeling of discontent in my home, but that I thought it wrong to remain idle, while possessing an education which qualified me for usefulness. He replied that if I felt anxious to teach, we would talk about it the following spring •, but, said he, you must think no more about it for this winter, at any rate ; and so the subject was suffered to drop. We led a very quiet life at my uncle's that winter. We saw but little company, except that occasionally the wife of some neighboring farmer would drop in to take a social cup of tea with my aunt. !i iJEW OCCUPATIONS. 80 ! >7 bter. ly the lake a 'There was a maiden lady residing in the village of Lit- tleton who was always a welcome visitor at my uncle^s residence, — her name was Miss Priscilla Simmonds. She was somewhat advanced in years, and of a very mild and prepossessing appearance. Upon the death of her parents, which took place many years before, she was left the own* er and sole tenant of the house in w^hich she lived. She lived entirely alone, and was considered a very valuable person in the village. She seemed, upon all occasions, to adapt herself readily to surrounding circumstjinces. At merrymakings, no one was so lively or social as Miss Sim- monds : in the chamber of sickness, no hand so gentle and no step so light as hers ; and when death visile J a household, her services were indispensible. Although occupying a humble position in life, she was very much respected by all who knew her. Very few there were in the vicinity but could recall some act of kindness from Miss Simmonds, rendered either to themselves or their friends} and many there were who could remember t^^e time when her hands had prepared the form of some loved relative for its last resting-place in the grave. Thus was Miss Simmonds bound to the hearts of the people of Lit- tleton, as by a strong cord. In person she was tall ; she had fine dark eyes, and her hair was hghtly sprinkled with grey. From the expression which her countenance wore at times, I gathered the iden that she had, at some period of her life, experienced some deep sorrow. I one day enquired of my aunt if such were not the ca8e> She , 11 ' i I !■' I- '31 . i i.S 90 CLARA ROSCOM ; OR, THE PATH OF DUTY. gave me an evasive reply, and, perceiving that she wished to avoid the subject, I made no further enquiries. I trust the reader will pardon this digression from my story. In the course of the winter my uncle gave a party, to afford me an opportunity of becoming acquainted with the young people of the place. If the party lacked some of the forms and ceremonies practised in the city draw- ing-rooms upon like occasions, it certainly was not want- ing in real enjoyment, f to CHAPTER XIV. SCHOOL AT MILL TOWN. Mi BELIEVE there is no season more favorable to sober reflection than when we find ourselves alone, after mingling for a time in a scene of mirth and gaiety. After the departure of our guests, and my uncle and aunt had retired to rest, I indulged in a long fit of musing, as I sat alone by the kitchen-fire. In the silence and loneliness of the hour, my thoughts turned to my former home, and to the circumstances which had caused me to leave it ; and although I had resolved to think no more of Willie Leighton, somehow or other, on this occa- sion, I found my thoughts wandering to him and to the seeming fatality which had separated us. The oidy living relatives of whom I had any knowledge were my uncle and aunt, and the before-mentioned aunt of my mother. But a circumstance which I had heard my father men- tion in my childhood had of late often recurred to my mind. I recollected often hearing my father speak of a twin-brother, and that thay had been left oi'phans at the age of eight years ; also, that he, my father, had been adopted by a gentleman residing about fifty miles from tlie city of Pliiladelphia, who had given him a very good iH H 'ii ,*' 92 CLARA ROSCOM ; OB, THE PATH OP DUTY. ) f i business education, and had procured for him a situation in the city when he became of suitable age. But the case had b^en different with his brother Charles. lie too had been adopted, but by a very different kind of man from the one who had received my father. He did not give him sufficient education to qualify him for mer- cantile business, and at the time that Mr. Williams pro- cured a situation for my father in the city, his brother Charles was apprenticed to learn the art of printing. He had, it seemed, entertained a dislike to the employ- ment from the first, which increased to such a degree that he ran away from his employer; and instead of returning to his former home, he left the city He was then fifteen years of age. My father had never been able to gain any tidings from him, and at length came to the conclusion that he must be dead. I know not why it was, but of late this circumstance had haunted my mind continually. The idea seemed to fix itself in my mind that I should yet see this long-lost uncle. I tried to banish the thought as an absurdity, but was unable to do so. As ihe idea returned to my mind with such frequency, I ceased trying to banish it, and prayed that what I now thought to be an idle fancy miget prove a happy reality. How cheering to us is the return of spring, after the deep snows and severe frosts of winter. I very much enjoyed the sugar-making season at my uncle's farm. I derived all the more pleasure from its being to me such a novelty. SCHOOL AT MILL TOWN. 93 of re a the |ray its Although quite happy in my nncle's nomo, I still wislied to carry out my former design of teachingj and as tlie season advanced, I again spoke to my uncle and aunt upon the subject. They were at first very unwilling to yield their consent ; but, as they perceived that I was really anxious about the matter, they yielded their assent to my wishes. About five miles west of my uncle's farm was the small village cf Mill Town, so called from tlie mnnber of different mills erected on the fine water-privilege it con- tained. As the village was small, it conlanied but t^vo schools ; one a public school, and the other a select sciiool, which had for three years been taught by a young lady from the State of Maine, w4io had relatives residing at Mill Town. But Miss Landon, for such was the lady's name, intended returning to her home in Maine in the month of June. I had formed a very pleasant acquaint- ance with this young lady during the winter, and she strongly advised me to secure her pupils, if I wished to teach, promising to use her influence to aid me in obtain- ing pupils ; and, owing to her kindness, I had no difficulty in obtaining a sufficient number of pupils for opening a school. I was very glad to obtain a situation so near my home, that I might be able to visit my uucle and aunt at least once every week, and spend rny Sabbaths with them. '^ After all," said my uncle, ^^ I don't know but you are right in wishing to teach, and I dare say, will be happier thus employed than otherwise." i oiijoy the lefroHhing coolness of the evening air, al'ter an intensely hot day. I noticed a carriaae approaching in which ;everal persons were seatt d. 1 did not at lirst pay nuich attention, as the ari'ival o*^' strangers was a matter of very frequent occurrence ; ]>ut, as the carriage drt!w nigh, my attention was riveted by ahuly seated therein. She made some smiling remark as one of the gentlemen stepped from the carriane and assisted 'ler to alight. That smile was sufficient — it was the very smile of ]\[iss Edmonds, the same happy smile which Iiad so pleased my fancy years nao. The seven years which had passed since I had seen her had somewhat changed her countenance ; but her smile was the same. As she took the arm of the gentle- man who accompanied hci', and ascended the ste2)s of the piazza, I stepped forward ; m] spoke to her as any stranger might accost another in a place of public resort. 1 wished to see if she would recognize me. She I'eplied to me only as she might have done to any other stranger, hut without the least si«ni of recoiinition. rerceivini*' that she did not recognize me, 1 went near to her and said, — '^ Can it be possible, JMiss JMhnonds, that you have forgotten your old pupil, Clara Koscom f' In a moment 1 was clasped in her arms and ielt her kisses upon my cheek. Turning to the gentleman whose arm she had left, she said, — ''Allow me. Miss lloscom, to introduce to you ^Ir. llarringford; my husband.'' K y i ■ n Ill 98 CLARA ROSUO.M ; OR, TIIF, I'ATII OF DUTY. a w I iickiiowlt'dged tlie introduction ns \volla>* my fi't'linu^ of joyful exoitenunitwoidd admit of, fori knew cf no ollnn* fi'ituid whose presence woidd aifuvd me somiicli lia)»])iness as she with whom I had so unexpectedly met. Heeintj tliat she looked ve^y much fatigued, I conducted lieratonce to my owm apartment. 8hc was very anxious to learn all that had l)efalleii me since we parted in Pliiladelphia, but I insisted upon her resting helbre entering upon the long conversation which we aiitici])ated enjoying together. AVheii IMiss Edmonds, or ]Mr,s. llairingford as 1 n-ust now call her, had somewhat recoven^d from her fatigtie, we derived mutual satisfaction from a long and confi'OV<'i'tn'ss lor licr three little diiiii'litersj wiio would l>o williiiu' to i-eiiiiiiii lor some yejirs, and the siilary she od'ei-ed was veiv Uherai. Itistaiitly uiv lesohitiou to uo South was taken. As I had ant iei[);ded, I had some diMieulty in ohtaininu' the consent oi'iny parents to mv u'.!d<'rtakinii' hut, wheMlhey found my heart was really set on li'oini*', tliey at lenutli eon- ;ited. I felt no tears reiia rd i n <;• I he journey, as 1 was to aeeompany Mr. and .Mrs. Carlton on their homeward joui'uey, aid llu'y [)romised to :^<'e me safely <'d my new li<»nie. It is needless liu" me to dwell u[»on pai'tieulars. I spent more than four yea ri> in the liimily of .Mr. I^eslie, where 1 went as governess. 1 was kindly treatey them, and shall ever remember them with nratitud<'. Duiini;- the hist six months of my residenee with the Leslies, I became aequainted with jNlr. IIarrin<4ford, who is uitw my husl)and. lie was transacting' some business in Ureenville, which detained him for n consi(hM*able time. I often met him at parties. We were mutually pleased Mith each otiier, and, when he left Greenvi lie, 1 was his pv 01 nised wite. My home is no w at Jackson, in Tennessee, where IMr. llarringford resided previous to our marriage. ^*I felt a. strong desire to visit my parents, at New York, this sunnner; and, as Mr. llaningford had heard 1 ch of the beuutifnl scenery of tlie AMiite jMountains, he persuaded me to accompany hha to New Hampshire for the pur purpose of visitinii; theui, and to that circumstance I « i :S t ^r^^T^ ! ^1 ,i \\\% 100 CLARA ROSCOM J OR, THE PATH OF DUTY. o\veili<' li;i]>piii('ss of nu'.'iiii iiicriiiiu willi yon. I \\x\\v fvcr rciiicisibei'ed von as llie hiishiiil school \n\\ I left in Pliiliidclphia, jukI wlicu 1 fonnd you so inucli changed von cannot wonder that 1 failed to recoiiiiize yon." In juy turn I narrated to Mrs. Ilarrinuford the events of my life since we parted. Her tears llowed often as slie listened to tlie particulars of my mother's death, for slie had much loved my mother. 1 kept nothing back, not even llie circnmstance which had cansi'd mt; to leave ^Irs. Leighton. Tlie intimate friendship existing Ix^tween ns ma(U' it easv for me to si)eak freelv to Mi's. Ilai'i'inulord. k^iie informed me that she intended visiting IMiiladelphia ))efore retni'iiing 8ontli, as s!ie had many old friends resid- inii' there. As she contemnlated visitini>' tlie Leialilons, 1 exacted from her a pi'oniise tliat slie wonld conceal from tJiem her knowledge ofmy residence. J iiad nevei' o'ice heard from them since leaving Philadelphia. ]Mrs. Burnslde was the only one with \\ liom 1 had corres- ponded: and 1 had requested her to avoid mentioning the Leightons in her letters to ine. But of late 1 had telt a stronir desire to hear from them, and J reciuested JMi's. Ilarrhiaford to a'ive me some account of the familv in the letter she proposed writing from l^iiiladelpliia. The party of young friends who had accojupanied me from Littleton were ([uite ready to return at the expij-a- tion of a week; but ^Irs. Harringford intended i-emaining a week longer, and she was ^.ery anxious that I should remain with her. I therefore allowed m\' friends to return MtMNB A HAPPY RE-UNION. 101 [■OS- he I il i-s. the Hit* ira- "llHg )uld I urn witlioHt Hie. I wlslied fo oiijoy the society of Mrs. irju'- viHU't'onl lis loiio- iis possible, I'of I tlioHiiiit it (piile [»robii- l)le tlint we miulit never meet iiuiiiii. Wv spotii ,1 liiippy week louetluM" al'trr Die rctiirii of Hiy Iriends to Uttiehm. Tlie only shadow ii|m)Ii our lia[>- [Hiiess was llic ihonuht — liow soon we mnst he parted, j>erlia[>s (Iti- lili'. From all 1 ohsei'ved of Mr. Iharrinulbrd I tlioiiuht him to he worthy, in every respciM, of the hi'ide he had won. Hap[»y days [>,iss swiftly ])y, and the nioi'ninii' soon arrived when we mnst l)id each other adieu. Uefore we parted, Mrs. Iiarriniif(H"d drew a costly diamond ring from her linu'ei', and, placing it njMm min(», saiil, — " Wear this, my dear Clara, i'ov my sak(^ ; and, when you look u[)OH it think of me, who will often think of yon, and will pray for your happiness l)oth here and here- after." The moment of parting had arrived. We parted on the piazza «tf the Profile House ; tlu^v to proceed on tlu'ir jonrney, and i to n'tni'ii to my nn(de and annt. I have never since n"u>t with Mrs. llarringford. T\\o ring she gav(^ me at parting still encircles my finger, .and when I gaze npon it I often think of llie lo\cd friend who placed it tluMV. I receivcMl an atlectioiiate welcome from my ninde and annt npou my return, and I was truly glad to lind myself once more at home. jMrs. irarrhigford had promised to take an earl}^ op[)ortHHity of writing to me, and I had |i i i: ;; I 102 CLARA ROSCOM : OR, THE PATH OF DUTY. releasure l)y so doinu'. When Icalled (HI Mrs. I,i'iuh(on, I was struck witli surprise at her clianu'e(l ap[)eai"anc<'. ^'ou douhth'ss reniend)er, Clara, what l)eantiful hair ^lis. ].<'iLihton had. You will scarcelv criMfit me when 1 inloi'in you that it is now thick- ly sprinkled w itii urey. She appeared like on<' w ho strnu- Ji'led with some secret soii'ow. An aii'of s.Khiess secni« d to reiun in the homts where fot'nieii\- all was joy and ha[)piiiess. i\lrs. Leiiihton so strongly nrycd us to spend the iiiulit witli tluvm tiiat we citidd not I'efnse. Liiura was absent, visit iniisome friends in the country. Georu- nma and liertha were both absent, att' s(diool. Lewis has not yet been sent from Innne, but attends i^ciiool in the city. lie lias urowiwa line, inanly-lookinu l)oy. He made many en(iuiries of me, if 1 had seen or heard from you f 1 was sorry tliat 1 was not at liberty to tell him how lately I had seen you, for 1 am sure that it would have afforded him much plensure. ]My enquiry for Willie caused a pained expression to cross the eouiite- mmce of both Mr. and i\Irs. Leightoii. Mr. Leigliton .^" "'rr"if"r'iriiit' T A HAPPY RE-UNIOIf. 103 »>rii- liooi. Itkiii.ii' I'll «>i' ity lo ;it it piiry nito- •htou replied brit'lly hy sayinc, ' Willie is at [)re.seiit in England.' Later in the evening when the gentlemen had gone out, I\lr8. Leighton said o me, — ' As you are an old friend, Mrs. Ilarringford, 1 will e\[)lain to you the cause of Willie's al)sence. You doubtless remember Clara Koseom who was a former prpil (*f yours. After you left Phila- delphia, she eomplett'd her education at a distant board- ing school, and sooi after her return home I ensaii'ed o"r' her as governess in n v familv. We soon learned to love and respect Tdiss Ro-scom, on account of her many excel- lent qualities, and wt- treated her very kindly. 8he left us to attend to her mother during the illness which ter- Hiinated in her death, and after that event she again re- turned to us. l)ut, to tell you all in u few words, Willie fell in love with her, and asked her to become his wife. When 1 first h'arned the fact 1 suppose 1 made nse o\' some rather stronii' l.Ulli' uaue to Miss lioscom, so much so that she left mv house that verv night. She remaincMl for a short time with a ]\rrs. Buiiiside, who resides in tho city^ and then lel't l*!iiliid;'l[»hia, and we liave never since been ublo to gain anv kno\ h'dge of her residence. If Mrs liurnside knows anything flur she gives no information u[)on the subject. 1 have no doubt that she is governed l)y jMiss lloscom's direction, for she possessed ti proud spirit. I regret some things I said to her, but the thougiit of Willie, our pride, imiring himself by marriage to our governess put me almost beside myself with indignation. But Willie was so blinded l)v his love for her that all I i I ; : 101 CLARA ROSCOM ; OR, THE PATH OF LUTY. roiisidcM'ntioiisi of fiiniily or wo.'iltli \v(MV ns iiotliini^ to liiiii. AVluMi lie Ic'inicd tliiit ^Iis8 Koscoiu had loft tlir >y, jiiid ho Coimd liiinselt' i!nn]>le to Icani anything of lier, he Ixranie (Miihirteivd towards ns all. He soon after le to ciK'ck. Von ninv believe me, (Jlnra, when 1 tell yon thiit yon jo'e h;i[)[>ier tod;iy, while attending to the dnties of yonr scoool, than is.Mi's. Leight(Mi, in her hixurions hotne." Sncli wns, in substance, the information which ]Mi's. Ilarringford's letter afforded me. I almost regretted having sought the information, for it made in(» very nn- . happy. It grieved me much to learn that Willie was self- exiled from his home and friends. nn ciiAi'Ti:;{ XVI. MISS SI MM ON PS STOltY un- li^ J I' T^^Fs^^^ir- IIK lif'toontli of S('pt(Miil)(M' (oiiiid iiic ;iii;iiii in- stnllod ill my position sis tcnclici' in my school }it Mill Town. \ .still contimu'd to bonid in tli<» iinnily of Pni'soii Xortliwood. T rotciined nW my fornKM' pnpils. with ihc ,'iddition of scvniil now ones. JMiss Simmonds h.'i(l often invited me to pny Iter ji. visit, in her home at Littleton, hnt 1 had as yet fonnd no con- venient opportunity for so doing. One, Friday evening- I decided to pay the long promised visit, and remain over the Sabbath with i\[is3 Simmonds. She seemed very glad to see mc, and gave me a friendly welcome to her humble home. But, humble as it was, it presented a picture of neatncwss ar ^ cozy comfort. After tea, and when her light household duties had all been carefully performed, we seated ourselves by a cheerfid fire in her little sitting-room, and prepared to spend the long evening in social conversation. I had always been very fond of the company of Miss Sinnnonds. Her conversa- tional powers were very good, and she wns sulliciently well informed to render her a very agreeable companion. As the night closed in, one of those violent storms of II * s f %■ !M 100 CLAIU ROSCOM ; OR, THE PATH OF DUTY. wind iuid mill cniuc on, wliicli are so t'reqin'iit in the Kasteru States tliiriiii^' the iiioiitli of NoveiulxT. The heating of the stonn witliuut caused unr warm and well- lighted roijin to seem all the mon; elie .fnl. As the evenini>' advanced 1 ohserved that Miss Sinmionds grew thoughtlid ; and, although she endeavored to be social, it was evident that her mind was occuj)ied by something else than the subject of conversation. After a short silence, she addressed me suddenly, saying, — " 1 feel inclined, Clara, to relate a story to you, which at least has the merit of truth; for it is a chnpter from uiy own life.'' I gladly assented to listen to her story, ior since I lirst met JMiss Siminonds 1 had entertained an idea tliat there was sometliing ol' romance attached to her life. "Tliirly yenrs ago," begnii ^lissSimmonds, " 1 was not the faded, care-worn woman which you now see before you. I was boi'ii in this vill.ige. J\ly parents were poor but industrious jjeoph'. They were blessed with two children, myself, and a brother ,wii(» wastwo years younger than 1 ; hut, ere he reached the age id' ten, we were called to lay him in the grave, leaving me the sole comfort and joy of my bereaved parents. They had very mucii loved my litth; brother ; and, when death claimed him, all the love which he would have shared with uie, had he lived, was lavished upcui me. Tliere is little in my child- hood and youth w'orthy of notice, us we occupied an humble sphei-e in life. I suppose you will iiardly credit mmk v' ll.'d fori lich n\\ lie Lili- an rdit MISS SIMMONDS' STORY. 107 11U3, ('l;ir;i; ulii'M 1 It II you lli;it, iit the .'ile of the village, and we stxm louiid him to he a very agreeal)le additi(jn to our pic-nic excui-sioiis and other parties for ])leasure and annisement. lie paid marked attention t«» me from the tim;; when we liist became acquainted ; and, to shoi'*"n my story, after an ac(piaintance of six months, he asked me to become his wife. J am now an old woman, (lara, aud need not blush to tell you that 1 had learned to lo\e him with a (U'ej) affection, and I yielded a willing assent, provided that niy parents apj)roved. True, I had no knowledge of his connections or former life; but since his residence in our villag«s his conduct had been irre- proachable, and he was fast gaining the respect and i ! I : H: \ i •I! ^11 108 CLARA nOSCOM ; OR, THIO F'ATIf OF DF'TY. ooiifidtMU'C ofnll wlu kiu'w liiin. Tlirrc wjis soiiM^tliino; very attmctive in liis pi'rsoiuil ji^>|)('iiiiiii('(' ; he scriiicd to liav(^ seen iimcli of tlio world, Torso yoiinu .-i iiiiiii, Cur Ik^ s|)ol\«^ ilia iJiiiiiliar immiiiut oriiiaiiy distinii scnics and niacrs. When lie soii:»lit: iiiv liaiid in iiianiau<', iiiv parents did not ohject. lie; was i;ainin,n' (|nlh' a Ineia- tive pi'actice l)otli in Liltleton and adjacent places, and lie deelared liis inteniioii ol' inakinii' Littleton liis pcr- inaiient lionie. Doubtless, this inlliu'iieed my [>areiits to fnvor liis suit, as the thought of my seliliiiu in my native villaue was very [)leiising to them, lie was very rniieh flattered by society, and 1 was all the more pleased (O lind iiiyseU' the object of his choice. When onr eniiau'enient l>ecaiiie known, I had uood reason tor believing myself to be envied by many of my female acquaintanees. Neither they nor I were aware how soon their envy was to be turned to pitv. i\n eailv day was ap})ointed for our marriauc, and my poor parents exerted themselves to yivi' me a suitable wcddiiiii' outfit. About this time, Mv. Almont liad business which obliged him to leave Littleton for a, short time. AVhen he bade me adieu I felt a foreboding of (nil ; and, after he had gone, I experienced a depression of s[)irits, for which I could not account. J)Ut, wiien he had been a, week absent, and I received from him a cheerful letter, informing me of his return in a lew days, 1 strove to banish my sad thoughts and busied myself in preparing my wedding outfit. Going one (hiy to the Post Otlice, mmmmm MTSS SIMMONDS' STORY. 109 lit. to with th(M'.\p('('t.'t< ion of liixliiiu' tliero ii IuiUm" Ironi Mr. Aliiioiil, 1 jvccivcd tiiis iiistt'.id." As slic s[)ok(% WiHs Siimiioud.-. uufoldt'tl fi Irltor, vvliicli I Imd o])S('rve(l her t.ikc! t'roiii .•» driiwtM" bt'l'oro t'oiiiiiiciu*- lni>' lier storv. It \viu\ thus : — " Boston^ Juno lili, Js — . '* Tj ^liss Priscillii .siiiniioiids : vVltlioiiii'li ycm ,'ii"('j pv'rsoutilly, a strjiugrr to me, 1 iK'vritlu'K'Ss tako I.h' lii)('itv of addivssiiiu' you. By tlie Jiicrt'st t'liaiH'o I U'ai'iJt'd your name and rt'sideiice, also, that yon arc shortly to hv iinili'd in nijii-riaiic to jMr. (leoru'c AInioiit, a law Ncr Iroin the citv ot" Boston. '' I felt it an ini[)('rative duty, het'ore that eyent sliall take |>la('e, to inl'orni you that I am the wedded vvit'e ol' the same (}eorue Almont, whom \(>sh)ii wo \v(M*(^ iiuu'ricd. Wr soon loiiiovcd to (ti:r own (Iwclliiig, wliich \v;is ji wi'ddiiiy yil't to iii«', lV(»iii my tiitlior. For a time lio trcntcd iik; vvilli I lie iitiiiost kind- noss jiiid alU't'tioii. IJut you iiuiy hclicvo iiu', Mis.s Siiii- iiioiids, when I iiilonii yon tluit ha lias been u dissij>art'd, iiii[>i-iiici|>lod mail from liisyoiiiii. liis sccminuh- correct habits liJid merely been put on, lor tli(! [nirpose of yiiin- itig liim an entrance into rcsjtiMtabiv' society. When he began to treat me with indilli I'cnct! and neuiecl, lora lon,o- timsliii(', iiiid iilso of liis approjioliiiig nwirrijige. Nothing- but a stMiso of duty would have iuduot'd lue to umkv this romnuiiii- tion to you. I would savetiuotlicryoiuig life fromlK-ing sliadowtMl by tlio same cloud wliicli has dark : i • 1 112 CLARA llOSCOM ; OR, THE PATH OF DUTY. coiitt'iits of tliiit letter oxiispcnittMl liiiii Ijoyoiul control. He used many hitterwords, iiiid threatened dire vengeauee upon youn<;' Alinont, sliould he ever again enter our dwelling. My mother hegged of him to de.si.st, saying that if he were indeed gnilty, i the letter proved him to ])e, his sin would certainly bring its own punishment. When we had succeeded in quieting the anger of my father, we were able to converse upon the matter in a calm and rational manner. AVe linally decided that my father should read the letter toJMr. Almont upon his return, and see what ellect it would produce upon him. Three days later he came, lie entered our dwelling and accosted us with his Tisiud bland and smiling manner. In u sliort time, my father turned and said, — ' During your absence, ]\lr. Almont, my daughter has received a most unaccountable letter which 1 wish to read to you, hoping you may be able to explain it.' The paleness which overspread his countenance on herring my fa thei''s words ])ut to [light the ho[)e I had cherished that he would be able to prove the letter a falsehood. Without any I'urther remark, my father read the letter to him, word for woi'd, Ashe concluded he said, — ^And now, Mr. Almont, uidess you arc pr(!j)are(l to prove the information contained in this letter to be untrue. 1 wish you iiinnediately to leave my dwelling, and, if you take my advice, you will also leave this villagt.^, for 1 cannot abide tlie sigiit of a wretch such as this letter proves you to be, and your silence be as testimonj to its truth, Begone ! I sav; from the MISS SLMMONDS STORY. 113 humble, Imt, liort'toforo, li<'ipi»y lionie, vvliich your ])ns('iu'Ns li.'is (liirkoiied by sorrow.' As iny Utlier uttered these words, he stiuiiped uath his f'o(»t, aixi pointed to the door. Without a. word, Mr. Ahiioii h'fr the lionse, nud ou the diiy tbllowinj:, we kiiiiiied thjit lie had left Littk'tou, nud goiiy no one kninv wliiiher. ]\rjiny siu'uiises nrose conceruiu j; liis sudden dejKirture, tor it vvjis well known that we were (*nuTi!j;eii i;o bt niarri(!d,l)ut no one had any knowledue of tht^ iaci-^ of the matter. When the woudtn* had subsided, v'lic.h wiy miusual event oecasions in a snudl village, the -ubject was sutl'ered to rest. T felt stricken as 1 y a sidden blow. I felt no interest in life, but I end avorcd, when in the |)res<;nce of my parents, to nss^u'tie a elieerfulness which was far from bei ig the real state of my mii:d. '^ To a few and tried friends onlv did we make known the real truth of the ci rem n stances atven(^iing tlie departure of ]\[r. Ahnont from Litth ion. Time passed on. Those who knew my sorrows re -pected them, and the name of George Ahnont ceased o be mentioned umcng our acquaintances. But it v. is something wjiicli I could never cease to remember. I had loved George Ahnont as one of my nature can love but once in her hTe, and. when I learned that I had been deceived in n^gard to his true character, the know edge was very i)itter to me. I loved him still — not as le really was, bu- I istiJl loved the memory of what I ha I supposed him to be, when I gave him my affection. There ai'e few lessons in life more '4 I I- 114 CLARA ROSCOM ; OR, THE PAXH OF DUTY. ^i ii t i' fii ])itter to either lU'tii or woman than to find thoiHselves deceived by one 'o wlioni they have given their best afiections. For a time I yielded to a ])itter and desponding spirit. 1 excludei- myself fi'om rdl society, and brooded in solitude over :iiiy sorrow\ I so far yielded to this unhealtliy tone of aind that 1 gave np attending clnirch, and I caused my parents nnich grief and anxiety by the sullen and apathe-ic state of mind in which I indulged. '' During the v/inter \\'hich succeeded the events of which I have spoken, there was a series of special meetings held in the Congregational Church in this village. A general interest was manifested in the sulyec^s of religion by botli old and young. Many of those \A\o had been my former companions were hopefully conve.ted. 1 had formerly bet n of a gay and lively disposition, fond of dress and amusement. The subject ot religion was one to which I had scarcely ever given a thought. The world and its pleasures occupied my whole heart, and, when the world disappointed me, I knew not where to turn for comfort. True, I had, from a child, atinided to the outward forms of religion, but my heart was untouchejl and I now see that it required a great earthly sorrow^ to turn my thoughts heavenward. I at first refused to attend the meetings of which I have spoken, though often strongly urged to do so, but, one evening, my parents so strongly urged me to accompany them to hear an aged minister from another State that I at length consented to go. It is a matter of thankfulness to me this day that I ^^ISS SIMMONDS' .STORv " lit otteiKle,] that meeting. As n,„. •, , something remarkaijy pjej " ;'\™"'^^'- ^l.-re waa "PO" )"-s miM co„„teM,..e t -l" T'T ""■' «''^^"^ I'^'nocI to a good ,„,..,, ,)„r n.H ,- ''""'^' "'« «""V -••^"".g, my heart ! .ca. « " f '^ '"' P'"^-"' "" «".t -'^«« '- gave out In/^^C; "':';;"' '''""'"-i, ««! :'ttention. It ,ee;ocI al L^t "I '" ''™ "'"' "l.t "'-'ividma case. Intle^" T- " "'"'^''-'tood ny 'J l>'esu„>e t),ere are few • «,"' '""^"■'"'"'' "«-iJ :- "ot some burden of sorrow wi ^ f"""''''?''*'"" who have ■■™>oved. Shall I tell o« , o '^' "'""''' »'»'"y i'ave f e yo,. pray for the Sll!" ;,'';':'"" '^ """ a h'-m resclve, i„ the strength o 'f^' t ^ " "' '""* ""'' '""''e '!'« *^U bo given to rser'r ' ''?■"''■'"*"- .^.ncenty, you shall s.n-ely fi„, ' '' ,' ' ^"" '^° «>is with "eed have no fears that you w 11 ' ™"'' '"'*• ^ou tbe Saviour said c-riin t ■ ! P"^'^''' '<"• ''«"' >'«' "0 wise east out. Yornn « " ' ""*° '"'' ^ ^"" *" >■'""• b-n-den of s! . and so " I "' /'"''^ "'fe'''^' ««hange «-< the burden which i.:,;!;;!/"'' *'" ■'"'^'' «•''-'- i^ eafy "'««« «or,ls, and ■> ,-. a „1 Tl '""" '' ''« ""^'•'■■'l -----verxhe::;tL:ii;:72- If \ w IK) CLARA ROSCOM ; OR, THE TATII OF DITTT. first guided my wniidcriiig feet iiijo tlic pjitlis of pojiro. AVlieii I n'tnriK'd to iiiv Ijoino tlie \V(»i'ds of thnt t'<)od man I'ollowcd me. i tliongiit mucli on tlie words of liis text. Snroly, tlionglit I, if ;dl are invited to come to tlie Saviour, I must l)e included in the number. AVhy may 1 not go now f With these thoughts in my mind, 1 kneeled in prayer. I prayed earnestly for the })ardon of my sins and resolved, from that moment, to begin a new life. Before rising I'rom my knees I experienced a sense ot' pardoning love, and 1 was happy. '' It was now tliat T became sensiljle of tlie wrong I had been guilty of, m allowing my sorrow to cans< > to neglect my duties, for there is no one in any sta. n of life but has clahns of dutv. T n'xmn enuaued actively in the duties ot life, with a feeling of thankfulness that I was privileged to cheer the declining years ofmy panMits. Year after year passed away. I still remained with my lather and mother; and I felt no wish to leave them, although I had more than one opportunity for so doing- My mother died at the age of siv:ty-five. I nursed Ikm' tenderlv throuuii a long and iia'nful illness, and closed her eyes in deat]i. My father and I were now left a'.one in our home, lie was several years older than my mother. The infirmities of age were coming fast u[ion him. i i. 'A imamitmmmiim ClIAI'TKi: Wll. i'i;\ii'i:\r, and i'niMivi: 118 CLARA ROSCOM; OR, THE PATH OF DUTY. ■ U nir, iiiiulit liave boon briiilit niifl joyous. It is too much for uic to exiK'ct your t'oi'ijivcuoss, yet I \youl(l hear you pioiioiiiu't! tlmt l)lt'ssod word l)('f"or(3 I die. You may lunr l)e]ieve iix' w lieu I say, tliat it was uiy loye for you which led me to deceive you. Kiiovviug my wife's di;Nieen but mockery. I novy speak truly wlien I say to you, I nin^er loved my wife ; I married h( r for mon<>y. As 1 hiid no all'ection for her, my former luibirs of (Hssination soon reiiained their hold on A. ~ me. It will allbrd me some comfort to know that I have made strictly true confession to you. I have not? to my knowledge, a living relation in the wide world ; and, till I met with you, I knew not the meaning of the word love; and 1 still l)elieye that, had I met you earlier in life, your inlluence would have caused me to become a iisefid ]nan nnd an ornament to my profession. But it is useless to talk now of what cannot be recalled. AVlien I lel't this village, years ago, I was equally indif- ferent as to whither I went or what I did. I felt no wish to return to my wife ; and, had I been then iuidined, I well knew the just contempt and scorn I should meet with, although I believe she had once loved me. Ihit I knew them to be a proud family, and T felt PENITENT, AND FORGIVEN. 110 ocrtniii tlu'V won 1.1 iicvrr ovcrlooK tlic (lisoriico nii sorrow I luid hronghr upon tliciii. I luivo iu'vcr sine*' seen iiiy wite, luit 1 lately leiii'iied tliiif slie, wiili (he fcst of her iiunily, removed to a western citv some venrs auo. Sinee leaving this j)laee 1 have wandered tiir and wide, never remaining long in on»' [dace. My nnnd has never been at rest, and, t'oi' that reason, 1 have Ihmmi a loiieU' wanderer all these years. Ihil my dissijuiU'd li;d»its liave done their work, and 1 leel liiat my «'arlhly eonisc is well iiiu'h ended. 1 liiive drauiicd ni\ li'ehl)' hod\ 1o vour dweHinii:, with the hope ol" ohtaininu' vour loruiN-e- ness 'ere 1 am summoned into eternity.' '' While listening to him, I had seated mysch' at my laiher's side. As he eoniduded, I said to my fallier, in a low voiee, — ' It' we forgive not our lellow-moi'tal, how eau we expect the Ibi'giveness of our Heavenly Fatlier for our many sins?' I rt)se from my seat an'v of hcjivcn ^ni tlu» soul lh;il was ('c[)in'1 iu'i. J could not hear that he should le.ive the world wiihout oiiti word in reuard to what w<'re his teeiinus in the near prospect ot" death. Going Ui'ar, I said, — ' Do you I'col wililnu' to trust yourselt' to the Siivioin"'s meicV to juniitout sinners i II e i-ave u siuii ot assent, and a more peai'olui expression se i\ 'ttled on MS countenance, Ik now sai deeplv injured, gives nie a hope that ('od will also forgive the sins, ibr which 1 now trust 1 feel deeply penitent.' After ih's, he hiy for a short time in a kind [)y and contented," she replied, '^and have no wish to leave my present home, till you marry and jjossess a home of your own, when I should be very glad to make my home with you." I replied that 1 had no intention of marrying at present but that if that event should take place during her life- time, I should be most happy to receive her into my home. The village of Woodville was not large; but its location was romantic and pleasant, being bounded on one side by a range of high hills, and on the other by a beautiful river. I was highly pleased with the place, and with the kind family with whom Aunt Patience resided. When I had spent about ten days at Woodville, I received a PI, A NEW JOY. 125 ■ho I ml nut .(llv her I J to ere- I vvns ioor- I the tnV>ly Liuily, rt'd oi' II you ;h(»ul(l H'oseot ir life- Ihome. Icatiou le sicl«3 lutiful ith the [when feived a letter tVom uiy iiiicic, rcMjUostiiig my return lioiiie witli- ont debiy. In a postscript he informed me that I need not be alarmed, as both he and my mint were in good health; but that he i\u\ not wish to jisslgn a reason for requesting my return. J eould not inmuine what had caused my uncle to snnnnon me home, as lie was aware that I had intended spending several weeks with my aum ; and I naide all possiljle hiiste to set out on my homeward journey, and left AVoodville tlie next morning after re- ceiving my Tuicle's letter. A\'lu'n my uncle and aunt met me on my return, I knew by their manner that some- thing unusual had taken place in my a])sence', but 1 judged from the coimtenance of both that, whatever tlie event nn'glit be, it was one of joy rather tlian sorrow. My uncle soon said, — •^ ^' Can you bear good news, Clara ?" I rephed that I thought 1 could. '^ Then," continued my uncle, '' I have the happiness of informing you that the hopes you iiad so long cherish- ed of seeing your uncle Ciiailes will be nmlized, for he has arrived." 'Ere I could irame a re[)ly, tlie door of the adjoining room opened, and my new-found uncle came hastily forward. He evinced nnich emotion as he tenderly em- braced me, saying, — •' Your face strongly reminds me of the twin brother from whom I parted so many years ago. You know not how happy I am in fmding the daughter of my dear brother." % \f 1 120 CLARA ROSCOM; OR, THE PATH OF DUTY. T coiiin trace in tlio font .ivos of my nnclo Charles a resoiH])lauce to iny dear liitlier ; Imt, r<^ my father liad (lied wliih; quite a youmj man, the reseinldance, at my iiiiele's time of life, was h*ss striking vtiian otherwise it niiuilt iiave l)een. Aly inicle Ciiarh's was now sixty-five years ohl ; but travel and exposure caused liiin to look much ohier than li(^ really was. He informed me that he had (irst visited IMiiiadelph.ia with the hope of fmdinu; my father; and, when he learned that my father and mother were both dead, lie next en((uired if they left any children ? He learned that they h'ft one dauniiter, who had resided for some time in the family of the Leijiiitons, as governess; but had left Philadelphia three years since. He next sought out the Leightons, hoping to learn my residence; but they of course could give him no information upon the subject. They directed him to l\Irs. Burnside, who at first was reluctant to give the information h.e sought ; but, when he informed her of the relationsliip I bore to him, she directed him to my nncle Wayland, in New Hampshire, at whose residence he arrived one w^eek previous to my return from ]\Iassachusetts. He soon after gave us the following brief account of his life, since he left Philadelphia, when a boy, which I reserve for the succeeding chapter of my story. CHAPTER XIX. FNCLE CHARLES. iSOOn Isince r the Y nncle begnn his story as follows : — ^* When I left Philadelphia, I had no definite object in view. I lefi without seeing my brother, to avoid the pain of parting, for we tenderly loved each other. His disposition and mine were widely different ; he was quiet, industrious, and very persevering in whatever he undertook ; while I, on the other hand, was rash, impulsive, and very impatient of restraint. My adopted father apprenticed me to learn the art of printing, without in the least consulting my wishes in the matter. It seemed to me that he might have granted me the privilege of choosing my employment ; and, his failing to do so roused my indignation and doubled the dislike I already felt to the occupation of a printer. It was very heard for me to leave without seeing my brother ; but ^ decided that, as he was very well contented in his situa- tion, I had best go away quietly, so that, whatever might befall me, I should not be the means of bringing trouble to him. I had decided to leave my master the first oppor- tunity that should offer for so doing. He one day gave me a sharp and, as I thought, unmerited rebuke, and ended by striking me a blow. That blow caused me to ^ 128 CLARA ROSCOM; OR, THE PATH OF DUTY. ■ ^ ^ ii M I form the decision of leaving him at once, and tliat very uight I left Philadelphia. I made my way to the city of New York, where I managed to live for a time by selling newspapers ; but my profits were so small that I soon became disgusted with the employment, and I obtained the situation of waiter in a large hotel, where I remained for some time. I often thought of writing to my brother ; but I was aware that the knowledge of my employment would be painful to hhn, for he was of a nroud and sensitive nature. Time passed on, and I at length sailed as cabin-boy in a vessel bound for Liverjiool, in England. I followed the sea for many years ; and, in the bustle and turmoil of a sailor's life, I almost forgot my brother, from whom I had been so long separated. Yet sometimes, in the lonely hours of my night-watch on deck, w^hen out in mid-ocean, would my thoughts turn to that once-loved brother, and tears would dim my eyes as memory recalled the days of our early childhood. " I rose in my profession till I arrived at the position of second mate. It was at this time that, during a stay of some weeks duration in an English port, I met with one who won my aiiections ; and, one year after, we were married. My wife resided with her friends in England, while I continued to follow the sea. My wife was to me an object of almost idolatrous attachment. Each time I visited England, I found it the harder to bid farewell to my wife, and again embark on the ocean. We had one child, a beautiful boy. I named him Henry, after my UNCLE CHARLES. 129 brother. When we had been two years iiiarrietl, 1 made a voyage to the Indies, and w^as absent nearly tw^o years. When I returned, I learned that my wife and child had both been for some time dead. When I learned the sad truth I was hke one bereft of reason. I could not reconcile myself to the thought that, in this world, I could never again behold my beloved wife and child. The very darkness of despair settled on n;y niiud. I luid not then, as I have since done, looked heavenward foi' consolation amid the sorrows of life. '^ I can dw^U no longer upon this dark pei-iod of my life, but hasten onward to the close of my story. I continued to follow the life of a sailor for aome years after my bereavement. The hurry and bustle attenthuit upon my calling served in some measure to drive away thoughts of the past ; but, after a tinu; I even grew weary of the sea ; and when I heard of the famous gold regions discovered in Australia, I felt a strong desire to visit the place. The desire of niakinm money had less to do with my decision of going there tlian had tiie wish for change and excitement of some kind. AccorcHugly, I abandoned my sailor life, and made my way among the hundreds who were crowding to the gold regions of Australia. ^^ At that time I was poor, for I liad never possessed the faculty for saving money. I was unaccustomed to the labors of mining, and in iiiany instances, the know- ing ones took me in, and for a long time I realized but \1 IS*!! * 130 CLARA ROSCOM ; OR, THE PATH OP DrXY. little from my Inbors. But, as I persevered, against many discouragements, year after year, I at length began to be successful. I finally bought a claim, which, quite unex|)ecte(]ly to me, yielded a golden harvest, and I soon found myself rich beyond my most sanguine expectations. '' Year after year 1 determined to re-visit Philadelphia ; but, by this time my mind had become much engi'ossed by money-making, and each succeeding year brought fresh claims uj)on my time and attention. '^ Time passed on, till I foimd myself fast growing old. 1 felt nu intense longing to return to the land of my birth, and spond the few years which might remain to nu) of life in my native city. During my residence in Anstndia I met with a man who informed me that he was in Phil.idelphia at the time of my brother's marriage; and it was a severe triid when I found, upon my return, that my brother, and his wife had both been many years dead. During my homewfird journey, I had formed the decision of spending my remaining days in the home of my brother, as I wished for quiet and repose. When I learned that they were botii dead, all the attection of my worn and world-weary heart turned toward their orphan daughter.'' Turninc: to me mv uncle said, — '^ AVill you go, my dear child, and make bright the home of your aged uncle f I was about to give a joyful assent, when the thought of the kind uncle and aunt I must leave, caused me to hesitate. It seemed to me that they possessed a claim he fit Lie i UNCLE CHARLES. 131 upon my nflfections siipoi lor to any otlior, nnd [ was at a loss to decide as to what was my duty. 1 therefore rf>mained silent, not knowing what reply to make. ()1)- serving my hesitation, my nuele AVayland said, — ^* Lonely as we shall be without you, my dear Tlnra, I yet think it your duty to go with your uueN' Charles, who is still more lonely than we. We must not be sel- fish ; and I think we should feel willing to give yon up." I was nuich relievx'd to know that my uncle iiiid aunt Wayland wcyg willing that I should go, although F wril knew their willingness was caused by what they con- sidered my duty to mv aged relative. Till I prepared to leave my uncle and aunt, I knew not how tenderly I had learned to love them. J resigned my school at M\\\ Town, with nmch sorrow, for 1 had become strongly attached to my pupils. As uiy nncle and aunt tenderly embraced me at parting, my uucle said, while the tears coursed down his furrowed cheeks, — ^' Eemember, dear Clara, there will ever be for you a daughter's welcome, both in onr hearts and home." Ill H 'I I if ^ll ! 'jfi 'I I « PI ^ '^' n ; I ClIAPTEK XX. LKJllTS AXD SHADOWS. A\^\S Jigitatod by inuiiy contar- Ithe [rs. Leighfon. TTnsHly bn'iiking Hio sonl, I rfiul the following linos : — ^'E]M Sti{i;kt, Nov. 2.5tli, 1S_. '^ To j\Iis8 Clnva Roscom : *' I am extroiiirly anxious for an iuh'rvi<'\v wiMi yon ; but my state of liealth will not jillow of ui}- Irjiving my own rositlence. I theroforo earnestly nM|uest yon to accoui- pany Lewis upon his return liouie, for 1 )^///.s'^ see you. 1 am sensible that I have no right to ask of you this f'lvor; but I trust that the kindness of 3'onr heart will induce you to comply with my request. *' Yours truly, *' CyNTIIJA T.KUiUTON." When I had finished reading the r.ote I could not forbear from questioning Lewis as to its meaning ; l>ut he refused to give me any information upon the sul)ject, saying he was not at liberty to do so. All he would say of the matter was that his mother had requested him to give me the note, and await my reading of it. For a few moments I felt undecided as to going to the house of IVIrs. Leighton ; but, the thought that she was ill, and had sent for me, caused me to come to the decision tiiat I would grant her request. I feared not to meet INIrs. Leighton, for I had done her no wrong. I therefore told Lewis that in a few moments I would be ready to accompany him. My uncle wished to send the carriage with me j but I told him it was quite urmecessary, as the distance was short and the evenining was very fine, 112 CLARA ROSCOM ; OR, THE PATH OF DUTY. k^'j imd Lewis had said lie woidd accoinptiny me when 1 wisiied to veturu home. A few miiiiiles' walk broiiiilit me to tlie dwelliim' of Mr. Leightoii. Lewis eond'aeted me at once to Ids mother's apartment. 1 saw as yet no other member of the family. Alter usherinii mt? into the room, he withdrew, and left me alone with ^Irs. Leiuhton. I ([iiietly advanced into the room and paused belbre her. k>he was recli)iing in a large easy chair, and I \\'as nmch sniprised by her Ciianged appearance. She was very thin and pale, and appeared to l)e wviik and languid ; and Mrs Harringford's h ter was recalled to my mind when I observed how gray was her once beautiful hair. She extended her hand to me; but, for some moments, was nnable to utter a word. AVlien she reruK^uislied the hand I had given her, she motioned me to a seat. She seemed agitated by some painful emotion. I was the iirst to break the silence, wiiicli I did by saying, — '' Whatever may have been your object, Mrs. Leighton, in seeking this interveiw, you will see, by the readiness with whicli I Lave responded to yoiu" request, that I cherish no resentment toward you." Becoming more composed, she replied to nie in a low voice savin"' — '^ As I was unable to go to you, I sent for you, that I may humbly ask your forgiveness for the injustice you have sutlcn'ed from me. 1 now acknowledge, what you ai'c probably already aware ot^ that it was a foolish and RECONCILED. 143 her and a low that I [e you it you Ih and false pride wliicli iiifliuMiced my coixhict toward you, when you left my house long ago. it requires revt'rses of fortune to convinee us of i\w vauity of all eartldy things; and reverses have overtaken me, and more than this; my fading healtii ariiig all tli(> time that has passed since we have met, my mind has never been at rest; for though too proud to acknowledge it, I have ever been sensible that I treated you with cruelty and injustice. But my pride is now Inunbled, and I beg of you to forgive me ; tor, believe me, I have suH'ered even more than you." I extended my hand to her, saying, — ''I freely and fully forgive all the past, Mrs. Leighton, and I trust we may be friends for the future." After sitting silent for a few momeui , Mrs. Leighton again addressed me, saying, — ^^Were it in your power, Clara, would you make me entirely happy ?" I replied that certainly 1 would. 8he regarded me earnestly as she said, — '^ WiU you become Willie's wile ?" I knew not what reply to make to a question so unexpected. At length I said, — ^^ Willie has been a long time absent. lie may have changed his mind ; or, he may be already married." *' I will answer for all that," replied Mrs. Leighton, 'A r • 1 ' t } 1 H i f 1 H , 1 ■ 1 , \ 144 CLARA ROSCOM : OR, THE PATH OP DUTY. ^' Willie is here, lie cirrived two dnyb .since, and would have called to see you ere this, l)ut 1 begged him to defer calling till 1 had seen you, and acknowledged my former injustice to you ; for I am now sensible that I \vron13ed a worthy and noljle girl." Remember, kind reader, that, although I had ex- pected never again to meet with Willie Leighton, I still loved him with all the strengtli of a Hrst love. Before I couhl frame a reply to the last remark of IMrs. Leigluon, the door opened, and Willie, accompanied by his father, entered the room, I pass over our meeting. But ]Mr. Leighton, soon after, placing my hand in that of Willie, said, — '' God bless you, my children ; may you be happy." When I returned home that evening, it was Willie not Lewis, who accompanied me. i I CHAPTER XXII. Clara's marriage. ILLIE was anxious that an early day should be appointed for our mariage ; but I was unwil- ing that our inariage shoidd take place until the ensuing spring. I wished not so suddenly to leave my uncle for tiie long wedding tour which Willie had in contemplation. Laura and Georgania, accompanied by their husl)ands, came at Christmas to visit tlieir parents. It was indeed a joyful family reunion. We accepted our present happi- ness, and made no unpleasant allusions to the past. If Georgania retained any of her old ways that were not agreeable, I wastoo much occupied by my own new-found happiness to be annoyed by them. Willie generously urged his father to use a portion of the wealtii he had inherited from his deceased relative in settling his deranged business aflairs, and j\[r. Leighton finally accepted the uoble otfer. Accordingly, he paid off the debts, and again started a business, which, if on a smaller scale than formerly, rested on a firmer basis. During the winter, my uncle made a will bestowing the chief part of his wealth upon me. The house in which we resided, he intended as a wedding-gift, saying \ '■' ; i 146 CLARA ROSCOM ; OR, THE PATH OF DUTY. that we must accept of the gift encumbered by the giver, as he wished to reside with me during the remainder of his hfe. '^ I hhxe reserved enough," said my uncle, '^ for my own private use ; and who has so rightful a clahn to tlie wealth which a kiiid Providence has bestowed upon liie, as the daughter of my twin brother f From the time of Willie's return the health of ^Irs. Leighton slowly, but surely, improved ; and, wdien winter softened into the balmy days of spring, her health became fully restored. We were married on the twentieth of May •, and, as Willie had decided upon England for our wedding tour, we sailed immediately after our marriage. We returned to our home, in Philadelphia, in October. We isoon found ourselves permanently settled in our own home, to the great joy of Mrs. O'Flaherty, who still retained her position as house-keeper. '^ Indade, me daar misthress," said she, ^^ an' it's good to see yees at home agin ; for wasn't this the lonesom place whiles ye was absint." Soon after our return, I mentioned the promise which I made long ago to Aunt Patience, that if I ever should possess a home of my own, I would receive her as an inmate of that home. '^ I well remember," replied Willie, ^^ the kind aunt who attended your mother during her last illness, and I will gladly do my utmost to render happy her declining years.'^ ' i. i i i r t CLARA S MARRIAGE. 147 as ill an I luul secH'Tly A'lt some fears that my iiiirle n.iifht (►l)ject to our receiving Aunt Patience to our lionie. A siiort tiuie after, I menlioned the matter to mv uncle. telHng him of my mother's dying injunction to.ije, tliat I sliould not neglect Aunt Patience in iiei" old age. His reply [>ut ail my fears to (hglit. " I am glad, Clara," said my Miicle, " to see tlial you respect the vvisiies of your deceased motlier. Our dwell- ing is large, and we can surely find ro(»m for Aunt, I atience. 1 will go for her myself, as I am at h'isure, and wtudd enjoy tlie journey." With Ji light heart, I wrote to Aunt Patience, informing her of our intentions ; and a few days later, my uncle set out on his journey to Massachusetts. When he returned, accompanied by my aged relative, tears mingled with my welcome, so vividly was my mother recalled to my mind by the meeting. 1 4/, * mg ir i^ ill!- ■*l it; ■ ii \ 1 I : 1 ^ 1 m\ Ml ■ 1 CHAPTER XXIIl. A PLEASING INCIDENT. [GAIN it is tlie twentieth of May; and, this flay five years ago, was my wedding-day. Two years since, and the fountain of a new love was stirred in my heart, namely, the love of a mother for her first-born son. One year since, I was called to stand by the dying-bed of Aunt Patience. Her end was peace ; and her earthly remains rest beside those of my mother. My uncle still lives with us, a hale and vigorous old man, over seventy years of age. The parents of Willie still reside in the city. Birdie and Lewis are both at home. Lewis assists his father in their business, which has again become very prosperous. I bring my story to a close by relating an incident which took place the summer succeeding the date of this chapter. I had long wished to visit my friends in New Hampshire : but my own cares had hitherto prevent- ed me ; but this season I decided to pay the long-deferred visit. Willie was very glad to accompany me, having long wished to visit the Eastern States. Birdie and Lewis also bore us company. As our way lay through a portion of Massachusetts, I determined once more to i A PLEASING INCIDENT. 149 lit llt- urn to visit the small village which formerly had been the home of Aunt Patience. We arrived at Woodvillo late on a Saturday evening, and on Sabbath morning were invited to hear a talented young preacher, who, we were informed, had lately been called as pastor to the Congrega- tional Church in that village. As the young minister ascended the pulpit, his countenance struck me as being strangely familiar. As I was endeavoring to decide in my own mind where I could have before met liim, it suddenly occurred to me that the young preacher was no other than my old friend, ()l)a(liah Hawkins; and when, upon again raising my eyes 1 encountered one of those old-time furtive glances, I felt certain that I was right in my conjecture. The rough-looking youth, whom I had once thought so uncomely, had changed to a really fine looking man. When the services were closed, I at once made my way to him ; and, as he had already recognized me, we soon renewed our former acquaintance. I introduced him to Willie, also to Birdie and Lewis. During the few days we remained at Woodville the young preacher called frequently, lie soon evinced a marked partiality for the society of Birdie and, strange as it may seem, I observed that she was deeply interested in liim. I know not how the matter may end, but I do know that, since our return home. Birdie receives frequent letters, addressed in a gentleman's hand, and post-marked '^ Woodville." Who knows but Obadiah Hawkins may yet be my brother-in-law ? \ ih 1 1 ( 1 : ;| '."^: 150 CLARA ROSCOM ; OR, THE PATH OF DUTY. In taking a retrospective view of the past, and con- trasting it with the happy present, I feel tliat the consol- ing words which, in a dream, my mother uttered to me, years ago, lia\'e been more tiian verified, — '^ Fear not, my beloved daughter; only continue in tlie patli of duty, and all will vt\t he well." THE END. i ■ Il iiii li TERRY DOLAN. H)^IE years since rirciimstaiiccs eaused me to spend the summer months in a farming district, a few miles from the village of E., and it was there J met with Terry Dolan. He had a short time previous come over from Ireland, and was engaged as a sort of chore boy by Mr L., in whose family I resided during my stay in the neighborhood. This Terry was the oddest being uath whom I ever chanced to meet. Would that I could describe him ! — but most of us, I believe, occasionally meet with people, whom we find to be indescribable, and Terry was one of those. He called himself sixteen years of age; but, excepting that he was low of stature, you would about as soon have taken him for sixty as sixteen. His countenance looked anything but youthful, and there was altogether a sort of queer, ancient look about him which caused him to appear very remarkable. When he first came to reside with Mr. L. the boys in the neighborhood nicknamed him ^^ The Little Old Man," but they soon learned by experience that their wisest plan was to place a safe distance between Terry and themselves before applying I] u- R ! ) 154 TERRY DOLAN. tlmt iiniiic io liini, On- the iiiipli«.Ml iiiiiit n'[)ear{mco enraged liiiii beyond iiieasure. Whenever he entered the room, specially if lie ventnred a remark — and no matter how serious you might liave l)een a moment l)ef'ore — tlie laugh would come, do your best to repress it. When I first became an inmate with the family, I was too ol'ten inclined to laugh at the oddities of Terry — and I believe a much graver person than I was at that time would have done the same — but after a time, when I learned something of his past life, I regarded him with a feeling of pity, although to avoid laughing at him, at times, were next to impossible. One evening in midsummer I found him seated alone upon the piazza, with a most dejected countenance. Taking a seat by his side I enquired why he looked so sad ; — his eyes filled with tears as he rephed — '^ its of ould Ireland I'm thinkin' to-night, sure." I had never before seen Tei-ry look sober, and I felt a deep sympathy for the homesick boy. I asked him how it happened that he left all his friends in Ireland and came to this country alone. From his reply I learned that his mother died when he was only ten years old, and, also, that his father soon after married a second wife, who, to use Terry's own words, '' bate him unmarcifully." " It's a wonder," said he, " that iver I lived to grow up, at all, at all, wid all the batins I got from that cruel w^oman, and all the times she sint me to bed widout iver a bite uv supper, bad luck to her and the like uv her !" He did livC; how- i .11 I .lauiiiMiibi^'^ TERRY DOLAN. 155 tn'er, but ho ccrtjiiiily ( it till I was fourtoon years of'a<;'o, when one day says I to mosilf, ' ilosh and blood can boar it no longer,' and I ran away to the oity iiv Dnblin where an aunt ))y me mother's side lived. Me amit was a jioor woman, l)nt she gave a warm welcim to her sister's motl. "less boy ; she t rated me kindly, and jdlowod me to share her homo, althongh she could ill atlbrd it, till I got a place as sarvant in a gintleman's family. As for my father, he niver throubled his head about me any more ; indade I think he was glad to be rid uv me, an' all by manes of that wicked woman. It was near two years afdier I lift home that I took the notion of going to Ameriky ; me auntadvi«;d me against going, but,, whin she saw that me mind was set on it, she consinted, and did her best, poor woman, to sind me away lookin' dacent and respectable. I niver saw me father or me stepmother agin. I had no wish to see her •, but, although I knew me father no longer io^ed me, I had still some natral-llke feelin's for him ; but, ch I had run away from home, I durst not go back, an' so 1 lift Ireland wid- out a sight uv him. But I could not lave it foriver, as i t might be, widout one more siglit nv me mother's grave. I rached the small village wdiere me father lived about nightfall, and lodged in the house nv a kind neighbor who befriuded me, an' he promised, at my earnest wdsh, to say nothing to any oneuv my wish. Early in the morn- ■I i' '1 156 TERRY DOLAN. M'\ f ing, before any one was astir in the village, I stole away to the churchyard where they buried me mother. I knelt down, I did, an' kissed the sods which covered her grave, an' prayed that the blessin' which she pro- nounced before she died, wid her hand restin' on me head, might follow me wheriver I might go." The boy took from his pocket a small parcel, carefully inclosed in a paper, which he handed tome, saying "I gathered these shamrocks from off me mother's grave, before I lift it for- ever." ]\Iy own eyes grew moist as I gazed upon the now withered shamrock leaves wliich the poor boy prized so highly. Would that they had proved as a talisman to guard hijn from evil ! I listened with nnich interest to Terry's story till our conversation was suddenly inter- rupted by Mr. culling him, in no very gentle tones, to go and drive home the cows from the pasture. To reach this pasture he must needs pass through about a quarter of a mile of thick woods. He had a great dread of walking alone in the woods, w^hich his imagination filled with wild animals. When he returned that evening he seemed very much terrified, and when questioned as to the cause, he replied that he ^Miad met with a wdld baste in the woods, and was kilt entirely wid the fright uv it." We endeavoured to gain from him a description of the animal he had seen, but for some time were unable. "What color w\ns the anirnalf" enquired Mrs. , ^' Indade Ma'am^ an' its jist the color uv a dog he was," TERRY DOLAN. 157 answered Terry. This reply was greeted with a burst of laughter from all present, at which he was highly offend- ed. In order to pacify him I said, ^' we would not laugh at you, Terry, ordy tliat dogs are of so many different colors that we are as much in the dark as ever regarding the colo; of the animal you saw." '' Well thin," replied he, " if you must know, he was a dirthy brown^ the varmint, that he was." From what we could learn from him we were led to suppose that he had met with one of those harmless little creatures, called tlie ^' Wood- chuck," which his nervous terror, aided by the deepening twilight, had magnified into a formidable wild beast. A few evenings after, two or three friends of the family chanced to call ; and in course of conversation some one mentioned an encampment of Indians, who had recently located themselves in our vicinity, for the purpose of gathering material for the manufacture of baskets, and other works of Indian handicraft. Terry had never sen an Indian, and curiosity, not unmixed with fear, was ex- cited in his mind, when he learned that a number of those dark people were within three miles of us. He asked many questions regarding their personal appearance, habits, &c. It was evident that he entertained some very comical ideas upon the subject. After sitting for a time silent, he suddenly enquired, " Do they ate pratees hke other people f A lady, present, in order to impose upon his credulity, replied, '^ Indeed Terry they not only eat pota- toes^ but they sometimes eat people." His countenance ■' 3 m 158 TERRY DOLAN. i.1 I expressed iiiuoli alarm, as he replied, '^Faix thin, but I'll kape out o' their way." Alter a short time he began to suspect tliey were making game of him, and a}>})lied to nie for information, saying, " Tell nu^, sir,ifwhat Mrs. says is true !" " Do not be alarmed, Terry," I replied, "forif you live till the Indians eat you, you will look even older than you now do." This allusion to his ancient a[)[>earance was very mischie- vous on my part, and I regretted it a moment after ; but he was so much pleased to learn that he had nothing to fear from the Indians that he reacUly forgave me for alluding to a subject upon which he was usually very sensitive. I remember taking a walk one afternoon during the haymaking season to the field where Terry was at work. ]\[r. liad driven to the village with the farm horses, leaving Terry to draw in hay with a rhemiiatic old animal that was well nigh unlit for use. But as the hay was in good condition for getting in, and the sky betokened rain, he told Terry, upon leaving home, to accomplish as much as possible during his absence, and he would, if the rain kept off, draw in the remainder u})on his retiu'n. As I drew nigh I spied Terry perched upon the top of a load of hay holding the reins, and urging forward the horse, in the ascent of a very steep hill. First he tried coaxing, and as that pioved of little avail, he next tried the etfect of a few vigorous strokes with a long switch which he carried in his hand. When tlie poor eld horse had dragged the heavy load about half ■■r^ TERRY DOLAN. 159 way np the bill, lie seemed incapable of fiirtlier exertion, and horse, cart, Terry and all began a rapid backward descent down the hill. Here the boy's patience gave way entirely. '' Mnslia thin, bad Inck to ye for one harse," said lie as he a^jplied the switch with renewed energy. Jnst then I arrived within speaking distance and said, *' Do you think, Terry you would be any better otfif you had two of them." '' Not if they were both like this one," answered he. I advised Terry to come down from his elevated position, and not add his weight to the load drawn by the over- burdened animal. He followed my advice, and when with some difficulty we had checked the descending motion of the cart-wheels, we took a fair start, and the summit of the hill w^as finally gained. '^ Its often," said Terry, ^' that I've seen a horse draw a cart, but I niver before saw a cart drawing a horse." There was one trait in the character of the boy which pleased me much ; he was very grateful for any little act of kindness. He often got into difficulties with the family, owing to his rashness and want of consideration, and I often succeeded in smoothing downi for him many rough places in his daily path ; and wdien he observed that I interested myself in his behalf, his gratitude knew no bounds. I believe he would have made almost any sacrifice to please me. He surprised me one day by saying suddenly, 'VDon't I wish you'd only be tuck sick." *' Why Terry," replied I, *^ I am surprised indeed 1 11 II H' \ ^. J ,i 1 IGO TERRY DOLAN. that you should wish evil to me." ^'Indnde thin," answered he, '' its not for evil that I wish it, but for your good jist to let ye see how tinderly I would take care uv ye." 1 thanked him for his kind intentions, saying that I was very willinor to take the will for the deed in this case, and had no wnsh to test his kindness by a fit of sickness. He came in one evening fatigued with a hard day's work, and retired early to bed. His sleeping apartment adjoined the sitting-room. I had several letters to write w^hich occupied me till a late hour ; the family had all retired. I finished writing just as the clock struck twelve. At that moment, I was almost startled by Terry's voice singing in a very higli key. My first thought was that he had gone suddenly crazy. With. a light in my hand I stepped softly into the room, to find Terry sitting up in bed and singing at tlie top of his voice, a song in the '^ Native Irish Tongue." By this time he had roused every one in the house ; and otiiers of the family entered the room. By tlie pauses ,'hich he made, we knew when he reached the end of each verse. He sang several verses ; at tlie time I knew how many, but am unable now to recall the exact number. He must surely have been a sound sleeper or the loud laugiitev which filled tlie room would have waked him, for the scene was ludicrous in the extreme: Terry sitting up in bed, sound asleep, at the hour of midnight, and singing with a loud voice and very earnest manner, to an audience who were unable to understand one word of the song. TERRY DOLAN. 161 good M case lers of li he erse. ii.'iny, iinist filter r the up in 5ong. At the close of the last verse he lay quietly down, all unconscious of the Musical Entertainment he had given. Tiie next morning some of the family began teasing him about the song he had sung in his sleep. He was loth to believe them, and as usual enquired of nie if they were telling him the truth. " I'll believe whatever you say,'' said he, " for its you that niver toult me a lie yet.'' '^ You may believe them this time," said I, '* for you certainly did sing a song. The air was very fine, and I have no doubt the words were equally so, if we could only have understood them." ^^Well thin," replied ho, "but I niver heard more than that ; and if T raaly did sing, I may as well tell yee's how it happint. I dramed, ye see, that I was at a ball in Ireland, an' I thought that about twelve o'clock we got tired wid dancin and sated ourselves on the binches which were ranged round the walls uv the room, and ache one was to sing a song in their turn, an' its I that thought my turn had come for sure." " Well Terry," said I, ^^you hit upon the time exact at any rate, for it was just twelve o'clock when you favoured us with the song." Soon after this time I left the neighbourhood, and removed to some distance. Terry remained for a considerable time with the same Itimily ; after a time I learned that he had ob- tained employment in a distnnt village. The next tidings I heard of liim was that he had been implicated in a petty robbery, and had run away. Ilis impulsive dispositioti rendered him very easy of j)ersiui8ion, for either good or fill .1 1 ^1 ' f ir>2 TERRY DOLAK'. evil; and he seldom pfmsed to consider the consequences of any act. From what I could learn of the matter, it seemed he had been enticed into the affair by some designing fellows, wlio judged that, owing to his simpli- city, he would be well adapted to carry out their wicked plans ; and, when suspicion was excited, they managed in some way to throw all the blame upon Terry, who fearing an arrest, fled no one knew whither. Many years ha\^e passed since I saw or heard of Terry Dolan ; but often, as memory recalls past scenes and those who parti- cipated in them, I think of him, and wonder if he is yet among the living, and, if so, in what quarter of the world he has fixed his abode. m lb» 's-'^^> < (fl Pi: ff M THE FAITHFUL WIFE. T is a mild nnd boautifiil evening in the early aii- tunui. Mrs. llarland is alone in lier home ; she is seated by a table upon whicli bnrns a sluuled lamp, and is busily occupied with her needle. Slie lias been live years a wile ; her countenance is still youtliful, and might be termed beautiful, but for the look of care and anxiety so plainly depicted thereon. Slie had once been happy, but with her now, happiness is but a memory of the past. When quite young she had been united in mar- riage to Wm. Harland, and with him removed to the City of R., where they have since resided. He was employed as bookkeeper in a large mercantile house, and his salaiy was sutticient to afford them a comfortable support, — wlience then the change that has thus blighted tlieir bright prospects, and clouded the brow of that fairyoujig wife with care 'f It is an unpleasant trutl^, but it must be told. Her husband has become addicted to the use of strong drink, not an occasional tippler, but a confiniied and habitual drunkard. His natural disposition was gay and social, and he began by taking an occasional glass with his friends — more for sociability than for any love o the beverage. His wife often admonished him of the danger of tampering with the deadly vice of intemper- n Hi- ^1 if l1 If i: i* \' IGG TlIK FAlTIirUL WIFE. niico, l)Ut ho only liiiiiilicil iit vvlmt. lie tennod lior idle fejirs. Well had it been for them both had the fears of his wife proved groundless ! It is needless for me to follow him in his downward path, till we iind him rediieed to the level of the eommon drnidxard. Some three months previons to llie time when onr story opens his employers were foreed to dismiss him, as they eonldno longeremploy him with any degree of safety to their bnsinesss. It was fortunate for ^Mrs. Ilarland that the dwelling they occu- pied I)elonged to Iter in her own right — it had been given her by her father at the period of her marriage — so that notwithstanding the dissipated habits of the husband and father they still possessed a home, althoug-h many of the eondbrts of former days had disappeared before the blight- ing influence of the demon of intemperance. After being (hsmissed by his employers ]\[r. Ilarland seemed to lose all respect lor himselfj as well as for his wife and children, and, but for the uneeasing toil of the patient mother, his children might have often asked for bread in vain. So low luul h(! now fallen that almost every evening Ibund him in some low haunt of drunkenness and dissi- pation; and often upon returning to his home he would assail his gentle wife with harsh and unfeeling language. IMany there were who advised Mrs. Ilarland to return with her children to her parents, who were in affluent circumstances, but she still cherished the hope that he would yet reform. '^ I pray daily for my erring husband," she would often say, ^^ and I feel an assiu*ance that, sooner TIIT3 FAITHFUL WIFE. 1G7 <»r ]i\for, my prnyors will ho nnswoivd ; mid F cnnnot fcol it my duty to forsake him." lint on thiscvmiinir, ns slip sits thus iilono, bor mind is lilled with tlioiiL,dits of the pnst, which she cannot lielp contnistimj: with the miseraljle present, till her reverie is interrupted by the sound of .'ipprofichini!; footsteps, which she soon recooni/csjts those of her husbiuid: she is much sur[)rise(l — for it is lonir, very long, since he luis returned to his home at so early an hour — and, as be enters the room, her surprise increases when she perceives that he is perfectly sober. As be met her wondering gaze a kind expression rested upon his countenance, and be iiddressed her sa)nng : '^ 1 do not wonder iit your astonishment, dear IMary, when I call to mind my past misconduct. I have been a fiend in human shape thus to ill-treat and neglect the best of wives ; but I have made a resolve, ' God helping' me, that it shall be so no longer." Seating himself by her side, he continued: ''If you will listen to me, Mury, I will tell you what caused me to form this resolution. AVhen I went out this evening I at once made my way to the public house, where I have spent so much of my time and money. Money, I had none, and, worse than this, was owing the landlord a heavy bill. Of late he had assailed me with duns every time I entered the house ; but so craving was the appetite for drink that each returning evening still found me among the loungers in the bar-room trusting to my chance of meeting wuth some companion w^lio would call for a treat. It so happened that to-night none of my it ? t il I.: I- if r 168 THE FAITHFUL WIFE. cronies wore present. When the lancUord found that I was still unable to siittle the ' old score,' as he termed it, lie abused me in no measured lertns; but I still lingered in siijht oithe coveted bevera?^e ; andkiu)vving my inabil- ity to obtain it my appetite increased in proportion. At llength 1 approached the bar, and begged him to trust me for one more glass of brandy. I will not wound your 'ears by repeating his reply ; and he concluded by order- in ^^ me from the house, telling me also never to enter it again till I was able to settle the long score al re 'idy against me. The fact that I had been turned from the door, to- gether with his taunting language stung me almost to madness. I strolled along, scarce knowing or caring whither, till I found myself beyond the limits of the city ; and seating my self by the roadside I gazed in silent abstrac- tion over the moonlit landscape ; and as I sat thus I fell into a deep reverie. Memory carried me back to my youthful days when everything was bright with joyous hope and youthful ambition. I recalled the time when I wooed you from your pleasant country home, and led you to the altar a fair young bride, and there pledged my- self before God and man to love, honom* and cherish you, till death should us part. Suddenly, as if uttered by an audible voice, I seemed to hear the words ' William Har- land, how have you kept your vows 'i ' At that moment I seemed to suddenly awake to a full sense of my fallen and degraded position. What madness, thought I, has pos- jsessed me all this time^ thus to rujn myself and those dear THE FAITHFUL WIFE. 100 U> WiO ? And tor vvlint ? lor tlu; more iiidiilmMico of ii (Icimsiiio i>[»)K*tito. I I'osn to my feet and my step grew li<'lit vvitli mv new-formed resolution, that I tvoiihl lu'enk the sl.'ivisli felters th.it Imd so long held me eaptive ; and HdW, my deiir wife, if you can forgive the past and aid me in mv resohijions for amendment there is hope for 1110 yet." Mrs. llarland was only too liappy to forgive her erring but now truly penitent husband ; l)ut she trembled for the future, knowing how often he haiHorm- crly made lik(; resolutions, but to break them. Slu5 endeavoured, however, to be hopeful, and to encourage him by every means which all'ei'tion could devise. Through the influence of fritMids, his former employers were induced to give him another trial. lie had many severe struuules with himself ere he could refrain from iigain joining his dissipated companions ; but his watch- ful wife would almost every evening form some little plan of her own for his anmsement, that he might learn to love his home. In a short time their prospects for the future grew brighter, his wife began to smile again ; nnd his children, instead of fleeing from his approach as they had formerly done, now met him upon his return with loving caresses and lively prattle. Some six months after this happy change, ]\Irs. Harlandone evening notic- ed that her husband seemed very much downcast and dejected. After tea, she tried vainly to interest him in conversation. He had a certain nervous restlessness in his manner, : n 170 THE FAITHFUL WIFE. which nlwiiys troiihh'd her, kiiovviiiq-, ns sh<> (\'u\, tliat it was cniis(!(l ))y tlio criiviii^ii^s of iliiit njUK'titc for stroii,; (h-iiik, wliicli ill (iiiics still rciiinuMi witli jiiiiKtsi owv- whchniii"' lore*'. Alxml, eight o'('h);'k \\v, took down his hat [>n'|);iratory io going out. She (|iM'stioinMl him ;isto when' ill' w;is going, hut could ohliiin no sntislJictory reply; her heart sank within hej- ; \}\\i she was jiw.'ire tli.'d reinonstrnnce won hi I )e useless Mie reiUinntM 1 1 or a few ni(»nients, jilh'r he left tin lious«\ in deep thought, I lien suddenly rising she excltiinied jdoiid, "I will ;it, least niJike one ell'ort to sjive him,' SI nne W( ■II new that should he inke but oik; gltis.^, idl his fornuT resolves woidd be Jis nothing. As she gained tlu' street she ob- served her husband a shoi't distance in ad\ance of 1km, and walking hastily she soon overtook him, being carefid to keep on the op}>osite side of the street, that slu^ might be unobserved by him. 8he had formed no definite pur- pose in her mind ; she only felt that she must endeavor to save, him by some means. As they di'ew nigh the turn ol" the street she saw two or lhrer(!Ssion of iiijucr upon his counteu.'UKtt' su(hh!idy giive [dacM! to one ot sliiunt; jind huuiiiiiiliou when lie saw h.is wife staiKhny: lu'jore iiim, pide but nssolute. In a sid)dued voice h(3 ;i(l(lr(!ssed her, saying, ^^ ^Fary, liow came you here!" " Do not bhune me, WiUijini," she rephed ; ^4br I could not s(H! you iigain go ;isiray without, at least, making an rlfort to siive you. Aud now will you not return with lilt' to your home ?" TIk; otiier occupants of the room liad tlius fiu* remaiiKMl sikjut since the entrance of Mrs. Ihirhiud ; but when they saw tliat Mr. ilarland was iihout U) h'ave th- vious to his death he was unable to attend to his busi- ness. The term of the mortgiige was five years, which time expired soon after his death. During the tew last weeks of his life his mind was very much disturbed regarding the destitute condition in which he must leave his beloved wife and daughter ; for he was too well ac((vtainted with the man who held the claim to expect any lenity to his family when it sliould become due, and he was sensible tliat the hour of his own death was fast approaching. His wife tried to cheer him b}' hopeful words, saying : '' Sliould it please our Heavenly Father to remove you, fear not that He will fail to care for the fatherless and widow.'' A short time before his death a sweet peace and hopeful trust settledover his spirit,and the EMMA ASIITON. 179 KMit to rchiise .1 willi Vj ill 1(1 wlit'ii, nil l>e ti liii'm; lie li;i(l tin nuy clniin. ) iiioci nearly rs prc- s biisi- wliich nv last tur)>e(1 It leavt^ well 'xpt'ct le, and hs fast bpeful 'atlu:r )!• the kith a 1(1 the M reiiuioii he hadsoiiuhl in health alloided liiin a lii'iii sup- port in the lioiir of death. W'Ihmi all was over, and tin; mother and danuliter tonnd thenis(dves left alone, their fortitude well-nigh forsook them, and they felt almost like yiel(hiii» to a hop(dess sorrow. Kmma was at this time hut lifleeii years of au'e, possessed ol" miieh personal l)eaiity, and also a \ ciy aniiahle and atleetionate disposi- tion. Since the aj^c (►!" six years she had attended seliool, and nia(h^ rapid progress in her various studies till the sad period of iier fatiier's death. As Mr, Ashton had foreseen, j\[r. Tompkins, the man who held the mort- gage, soon ealled upon the widow, infornring her that the time had already expired, and unless she tbiind her- self able to meet the claim, her dwcdiing was legally his [>roperty ; but, as a great favor, he granted lier permis- sion to occupy the iiouse till she could make some arrangement concerning the futin-e, giving her, however, distinctly to understand, that he wished to take posses- sion as soon as she could tind another home. I\Irs. Ash- ton thanked him for the consideration lie had shown her, little as it was, telling him she would as soon as possible seek anotiier home, however humble it might be ; and j\[r. Tompkins departed with a polite bow and a bland smile upon his countenance, well 2)leased that he liad got the matter settled with so little dilHculty. I presume he never once paused to think of the grief-stricken widow and her fatherless daughter, whom he was about to render homeless. Money liad so long been his idol that tender . ■■ i'i h yi .1 'rtr 180 KM MA ASUTON. I' I S ' t and benevolent emotions were well-niuli extinguislied in his world-liiinh'ned lie.'irt. For ji Ions;' time after Mr. Tom[)kins lel't the lionse ]\Irs. Asliton remained in deep thonght. There are, dear reader, dark periods in the lives of most of us, when, turn whicli way we will, we find ourselves surrounded, as h}' a thick hedge, with dinicidties and troubles from which we see no escape. At such periods it is good for us to call to mind the fact, that the darkest cloud often has a silver lining, and that if we dischnrued, to the best of our ability, our duties for the time being, the cloud, sooner or later, will be reversed, and display its bright side to our troubled view. The time had now arrived, wlieu ]\lrs. Asliton must come to some decision reuardiim* the future. 8iie had no friends to whom she could turn for aid or counsel in this season of trinl. AVhen quite yoimg she had emigrated from England with her parents and one sister, and settled in Enstern Canada. A])out the time other marriage and removal to W. her parents, w ith her sister, removed to one of the Western States : and it may be the knowledge that she must rely solely upon herself enabled her to meet her trials with more fortitude than ndght have been expected. Some fifty miles from W. was the large and thriying village of Rock- ford, and thither I\lrs. Asliton at length decided to remove. One reason for this decision was the excellent institution for the education of younc ladies, whicli vyas there located. She was very anxious that her daughter KMMA ASIITON. 181 »li(»iii(i ol>l;mi n good I'diicntioii, Iml wns soivly [niz/lt'il aM to raising tlu3 noiioy netMlf'iil for drlVayinglKM' expenses. Tliore were a few dehts due lu-r Inishand at the time ot ills deat'i : tliese she collected witli little dillicidtv. Tlieir dwclhng had heen handsoniely t'uniished, and she decided to sell the furniture, as she could easily, upon their ari'ival at Jiockford, purchase what articles were necessary for lurnishing their new hrniie^ which nuist, of necessity, l^e hunihle. One article she felt they must reta'n if possible, and that was the piano given her by her father at the period of her marriage. She did at; first entertain the idea of i)arting with it, thinking how far the money it would bring would go in defraying the expenses attendant n[)on P^nnna's education, but npon second considei'ation, she resolved that they would not part with her father's parting-gift to her, unless compelled to do so by actual want ; and so when their old home was broken up the piano was carefully packed and forwarded to llockfoi'd. The home where they had resided so long was very dear to them, and it would have grieved them to leave it at any time ; but to leave at the glad season of spring, when the trees which sliaded their dwelling were beginning to put fortli their leaves, and the flowers which adorned their garden were bursting into bloom, seemed to them doubly sad. But their pre- parations for removal were finally completed, and they left their home followed by the good wishes of many who had long known and loved them. Upon their arrival at I'll II' i IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-S) 4 // (./ A i. €o A % 8 1.0 I.I 9-121 • 50 ™"^ t 1^ 12.5 22 20 1.8 11.25 11.4 il.6 V] <^ 7^ 7 >!^ L<9 \ \i II 1 i i' r I ' I ' I 182 EMMA ASHTON. Rockford, IMis. Asliton hired a chejip tenemeni in a respectable locality, which she furnished in a phiin but decent manner. AViien they became settled in their new home they had still in hand money sufficient to secure them from inmiediate want, but as ]\[rs. Ashton wislied Enmia to enter »t once upon her studies, sht; was veiy anxious to devise some means of earning money to meet necessary expenses. There was one family residing in Rockford with whom JNIrs. Ashton had several years before been intimately acquainted : tlieir name; was Lebaron, and they at onetime resided in the sajne village with the Ashtons. JMr. Lebaron had 0}>ened a store upon removing to Rockford ; the worldiiai smiled uj»on him, and he was now considered one of the most wealthy and influential men in the village. It has been often said that '^ prosperity hardens the heart of man," but if such is the case in general, Mi'. Le- baron proved an exception to the general rule. He had heard with much sorrow of the death of IMr. Ashton, and also of the other misfortunes which had overtaken the family ; and no sooner did he learn of the arrival ot the widow and daughter in Rockford, than, 'u-companied by his wife, he hastened to call upon tliem to renew their former acquaintance, and in a delicate and considerate manner to encjuire if he could assist tlu'm in any way. Mrs. Ashton thanked them for their kindness, saying that although in no inmiediate need of assistance, yet she would be very thankful if they would assist her in ob- EMMA ASIITON. 183 taiiiiiig ♦MiiployiiH'ur. '' If such is the, case," replied Mrs. Lebaron, '^I can easily secure you employment, as T am ac((uainted witlimany ladies who give out work, and will uladly use my inliuence in your favor.'' '^ You wiU con- fcra favor upon me by sodoing," replied ^Irs. Ashton, '4"or I must rely uj)()n my labor for a support for the future." 'flirougli the intluence of these kind I'riends Mrs. Ashton soon abtained an abundant supjdy of work ; and, when she l)e('ame somewhat acquainted with the people of h'ockibrd, lier genth' ami unobtrusive mamier gained her iiiau} wai'm friends. Agreeable to her mother's wislies, Kniiiia soon became a pu[)il in the seminary for young ladies, wiiich was at that time under the direction of ]\Iiss Hinton, a lady wlio possessed uncommon abilities as a teacher, and was also aided by several competent assis- taiits. JMrs. Lebaron had two daughters attending the institution at the time, and this circumstance, in a great measure, relieved Emma from the feeling of diffidence she might have experienced in entering a large school a stranger to both teachers and pupils ; but her modest and unassuming manners, added to her diligence in study soon caused her to become a general favorite with her teachers. In schools, as well as other places, ".ve often meet witii those who are inchned to be jealous of merit superior to their own, and the seminary at Rock- ford was no exception in this matter. Mer teachers were guilty of no unjust partiality ; true, they oftener com- mended her than some other mcndjers of her class, but it i i' 184 EMMA ASIITON. 1" I !l , Ml. not oftener tlian her punctual atteiidancc, pcrft'ot recita- tions and correct deportment generally, justified tliem in doing. But it soon became evident that, if Ennna was a favourite with her teachers, she was far from l)eing such with many members of her class. At the tinie she entered school Miss Hinton found, after examining her in her various studies, that her attainments were already superior to those of several young ladies who had been for some time members of the school. Among tlie pu^nls who at the time attended the institution was a ]Miss Carl- ton, from the distant city of II. She uas the petted and only child of wealthy parents; and, as is often the case, her disposition, whicli, under proper training, miglit have been amiable, had been spoiled by nnwise indul- gence on the part of lier parents. Her capacity for learning was not good ; she was also sadly wanting in application, and, at the time Emma entered tlie school, although Miss Carlton had attended for more than a year, her progress in study was far from being satisfactory to her teachers. She was at much pains to inform her classmates of her wealth and position, seeming to enter- tain the idea that this w^ould cover every defect. Owing to Emma's superior attainments, compared wntli her own, she soon learned to regard her with a feeling of abso- lute dislike, which she took little pains to conceal ; and many were the petty annoyances she endured from the vain and haughty Julia Carlton. She soon learned that Emma was poor j and tliat her mother toiled early EMMA ASIITOX. 185 and late to defray the expenses of her education ; and more than once she threw out hints regarding this fact, among the other pupils, even in hearing of Emma; and, as often as opportunity offered, she slighted the unoffend- ing girl, and treated her with all the rudeness of which she was capal le. ''Let those who wish associate with Miss Ashton," she would often say to her companions ; '' but I am thankful that I have been better taught at liome than to make a companion of a girl whose mother is obliged to take in sewing to pay her school bills." These and other remarks equally malicious were daily made by Miss Carlton ; and I am sorry that she soon found others in the school who were weak enough to be influenced by her also to treat Emma with coldness and contempt. Emma could not long fail to notice the many Blights, both direct and indirect, which she endured from many members of the school, and she taxed her memory to recal any act by which she might have given offence ; but, finding herself unable to recollect any thing on her })art which could have offended any member of the school, she was not a little puzzled to account for the rudeness with which she was treated. It happened one day that during recess she remained at her desk in the school-room to complete an uniinished French exercise. Several of her comjianions soon .ifter entered the adjoining recita- tion room, and, as they were not aware of her proximity, she became an unwilling listener to a conversation which ])ained her deeply. As Surtih Lebaron entered the room M A ir ^ I 18G EMMA A3IIT0N. one of tlio girls addrosstMl Iht, Sfiying : — '^ When yon first introduced Miss Aslitori among us, I supposed ln»r to be at least a coinpaniorialde girl, but I have lately beeii informed tlait she resides in a cheap tenement, and, fur- ther, that her mother takes in sewing, and, if such is tlie case, I wish to cultivate no furtlier acquaintance with her." '^ But then," added another girl, '^ ]Miss Hinton thinks her almost a saint, and sets her up as a model for us all ; if there's any tiling I do detest, it's these model gills, and I don't believe she's half as fond of study as she pretends ; and, in my opinion, its only to hear the com- mendations of the teachers that she applies herself with such diligence ; but IMiss Kiiiton is so taken with her meek face and lady-like manners that slie places her above us all, and, I suppose, we must submit, for as the old song says : ' Wliat can't be cured must be endured.' " ^' Well, I for one shall try some method of cure, before I put up with much more of her impudence and assump- tion," chimed in the amiable Miss Carlton ; '^ pay atten- tions now, girls," continued she, " while I take my place in the class like Emma Ashton ;" and separating her- self from her companions, she crossed the room to one of the class-seats, with such a ludicrous air of meekness and decorum, that the girls were almost convulsed with laughter. Starting up and tossing her book from her liand she exclainied, ^' It is so disgusting to see a girl in EMMA ASlirON. 187 //(■>• position put on snrli airs." Miss Lobni'on liad not before spoken, but, wlien at length there was silence, she addressed her companions, saying, ''if no other young hidy present has any further remarks to make, I will myself say a few words if you will listen to me. 1 must say, I am surprised at the unkindness, even rude- ness, which many of you have exhibited towards Miss Ash ton. If she is poor it is death, and other misfortunes which have caused 1 er to become so ; and this circum- stance should excite your sympathy, but surely not your contempt and ridicule. Poor as she is, she is my friend, and I ain proud to claim her as such. As to her being companionable that is a matter of taste j I shall continue to follow mine, and each young lady present is at liberty to do the same ; but be assured that unless you can fur- nisli some more satisfactory reason for your disparag- ing remarks than you iiave yet done, tliey will bear no weight with me." With much iroi.y in her voice Miss Cnrlton replied, "Really, M'ss Lebaron, I am unable to reply to your very able defence of your charming friend, and will only say that I shall avail myself of the liberty you have kindly granted us, for each to follow her own taste in the choice of associates, and avoid Miss Ashton as much as possible." " As you please," replied Miss Lebaron, " it is a matter of perfect inditference to me;" and just then the school bell put a;i end to further conversation. As may be easily supposed, the delicate jmd sensitive spirit of Emma was deeply wounded by i 11 r i li 188 EMMA ASIITON. the nbovo ronvorsntion ; and it was witli nnicli (lifTu'iiUy that she maintahied her composure for the remaining portion of tlie day. For once her lessons were imper- fect ; and with a heavy heart she returned to her liome. That evening she, for the first time, mentioned to her motlier the daily annoyances she suffered from her com- panions at school; and conclutled by rehiting the con- versation she had that day chanced to overhear. INFrs. Ashton could not feel otherwise than grieved ; but as nnich as possible she concealed the feeling from her daughter. '' My dear Emma,'' she replied, " their un- kind words can do you no real harm, although, they may render you unhappy for the time being. But keep the even tenor of your way ; and they will, probably, after a time become ashamed of their folly. Siiould they make any further remarks regarding my laboring to give you an education, you may tell them that I esteem it as one of mv chief blessinijs that I have health crranted me so to do." Time passed on ; and the invariable kindness with which Ennna treated her classmates finally gained her sc\eral warm friends; and some of them even apologized for their past unkindness. JMiss Carlton still regarded her with a feeling of enmity and dislike; but as Emma seemed not to notice the mnny annoyances she txperienced she was at length forced to desist, althougli the same resentful feelina remained in her heart. When Emma left the seminary, after attending t EMMA ASIITON. 180 if for four yonis, her di^pjirturo was deeply ivgivtted by both teachers and pupils. As slic had [MU'sued her stu(Hes in a very systematic maimer, she had acquired, before leaving school, a thoroughly good educatioii, whicdi she intended turning to account by teaching. Miss Carlton also left school at the same time to return to her ch^gaiit home in the city of H. [t was fortunate for her that she was not oblicjed, as was Emma, to teach as a means of support ; for, not- withstanding the unwearied pains of her teachers, her education, when she left school, was ver}'- superficial. Emma soon obtained a situation as teacher in a small village some twenty miles from Rockford, where she remained for two years. During her absence, her mother, to avoid being h'ft alone, received as boarders two or three young ladies who attended school in tlie village. Emma's success as a teacher become so well known that she was at length oflered a high salary to accept of the position of assistant teacher in an academy in the city of IT., the same city where jMiss Carlton resided. As the salary offered was very liberal, she decided to accept of the position, and as the situation was likely to prove a permanent one she was very anxious that her mother should accompany her ; and after some deliberation upon the subject, Mrs. Ashton consented, thinking they would both be much happier together than otherwise. Emma proved quite as successful in thus her second situation as in the first j and ownng to her position as teacher she U m f. ! m u ■A^ * l\ 190 EMMA A.SIITON. soon fornird «'H'(|iiaiiitanco witli .several families of cultivated tastes and high respectability. She often received invitations to parties; but her tastes were quiet, and slie usual^ preferred spending her evenings with her mother a the quiet of their own home, to mingling in scenes of mirth and gaiety ; and it was only upon a few occasions that she attended parties, that her friends might not think her unsocial. At one of these parties she chanced to meet her former school mate, Miss Carlton, whose only sign of recognition was a very formal bow. This gave her no uneasiness ; she cherished no malice towards i\Iiss Carlton •, but her ideas and tastes so widely difteied from her own that she did not covet her friendship even had she been inclined to grant it her Meanwhile, with the widow and her daughter, time passed happily away. Emma's salary was more than sufficient for their support and they were happy in the society of each other. There was one family, by the name ofjMilford, who had treated them with much kindness since their residence in the city. IMrs. Milford at first placed two little girls under Emma's instruction, and thus began an acquaintance which soon ripened into intimate friend- ship ; for, although occupying a high position of wealth and influencce, Mrs. Milfcrd was one of the few who place ^^ mind above matter" and respected true worth w^herever she met with it. Her eldest daughter, having finished her education at a distant boarding school, re- turned home about the same time her two sisters were ISMMA ASIITON. 191 placed in cliiiri'"e of Kniiiia ; juid flu; little girls were so eloquent in their prise of their teneher, that their eldest sister became interested, and decided to call upon her at her home; and the lady-like appearance of both mother and daughter, together with tlie appearencc of good taste which their home exhibited, strongly interested her in tlieii favor. Soni J six months previous to the period of which I am writing a young physician from the Upper Province locat- ed himself in the city of H. for the practice of his profes- sion. According to connnon report, he was wealthy, and the study of a profession had with him been a mat- ter not of necessity but of choice. Owing to his pleasing manners, as well as his reputed wealth, he soon became an ol)ject of much interest to many of the match-making manmins and marriageable young ladies of the city of H. ITe was soon favored with numerous invitations to attend parties, where he formed acquain- tance wnth most of the young people in the fashion- able circle of the city ; and he soon became a general favorite in society. Among others, he attended a large party given by the Carltons, and by this means became acquainted with the family. He had called occa- sionally, and during one of those calls Mrs. Carlton very feelingly lamented that her daughter was often obliged to forego the pleasure of attending concerts, lectures and other places of public amusement for want of a suitable escort J and courtesy to the family would of course allow I ' I I i 192 EMMA ASIITON. liirn to do no less than oiVvr to become lier utteiulant upon such occasions. Mrs. Carlton, however, put a very dif- ferent construction upon these slight attentions, and already looked upon him as her future son-in-law. When Dr. Wintlirop had resided for about a year in the city, the Milfords also gave a large party, and Miss Ash- ton was included among tiieir guests. The party was a ])rilliant affair, for the IMilfords were a family of wealth and high social position. The young physician was among their guests ; and Miss Carlton managed some way or other to claim his attention most of the evenii' . There was the usual amount of small talk, common to such occasions ; about the usual number of young ladies were invited to sing and play, and, as usual, they were either out of practice or were alHicted with " bad colds." ]*.ut it so happened that several young ladies who at the first begged to be excused, after nmch persuasion allowed themselv;3s to be conducted to the piano, and played till it was evident from the manner of many that the music had become an infliction instead of a pleasure. When after a time Miss Ashton was invited to play, she took the vacant seat at the piano without any of the usunl apologies ; and began playing the prelude to a much admired song of the day ; and before she reached the close of the first verse there was a hush through the room, and the countenance of each evinced the plea- sure with which they listened to her performance. As ^he rose from the instrument Dr. Winthrop addressed ■•*??• Il EMMA ASIITON. 193 Miss 'arlton, saying; "Can you iiifonii iric who is that youujo; hidy ? I never met her ])efore ; but whe has fiu'ored us with the first real music I have listened to thisevening.'^ Tlie young physuian was )iot wanting in politeness, and he certainly must have forgotten that Miss Carlton occupied the seat a^ ^he piano a short ^ime before. Tiiat young lady cob with anger as she replied : '^ Her name is ^liss Asluon, and I understand slie is engaged as an assistant teacher in one of the Academies in the city." *' It is singular/' replied Dr. Winthrop,, ^' that I have never before met her at any of llie numerous parties I have atteuded during the past year." '' Tliere is nothing very singular in that/' replied Miss Carlton, *' for I presume she is not often invited to fashionable parties, and I suppose it is owing to Mrs. Milford's two little girls being her pupils that we find her among their guests ; but as you seem so much interested, I will tell you all I know of the person in question. Wlien I attended school at Rockford, Miss Ashton was a pupil in the same institution ; but, when I learned tliat her mother, who is a widow, took in sewing, to pay her school bills, I did not care to cultivate her acquaintance. She left school about the same time with myself, and I heard no more of her till she obtained a situation in this city." '' Pardon me," replied the young physician ; ^' but I se^ nothing in what you have stated that is in the least disparaging to the young lady ; and I should be much pleased to make her acquaintance." " Our ideas ;l .A % m 'U i ; I I i Hi ' % 194 EMMA ASHTON. slightly vary in these matters," rephed ]\riss Carlton, with a haughty toss of her head ; " ))ut I will not detain you from seeking the introduction for which you seem so anxious. I am sorry I cannot oblige you by introducing you myself; but as I did not associate with her when at school, I am still less inchned to do so at the present time ; I hope, however, you may find her an agreeable acquaintance^ " and with a haughty manner she swept from his side in quest of companions whose tastes were more congenial. Dr. Winthrop obtained the desired introduction ; and if Miss Carlton indulged the hope that he would find Miss Ashton an agreeable acquaintance, there was soon a fair prospect that her wishes would be realized; for the marked attention which Dr. Winthrop paid the lovely and engaging Miss Ashton soon formed the chief topic of conversation among the circle of their acquaintances. For once, public rumor was correct. Dr. Winthrop was very wealthy ; but when a mere youth he had a decided taste for the study of medicine; and his parents allowed him to follow the bent of his own inclinations, in fitting him- self for a profession for which he entertained so strong a liking. He had an uncle residing in a distant city, who was also a physician of high reputation, and, after pas- sing through the necessary course of study, he had practiced his profession for two years under the direc- tion of his uncle, before removing to the city of H. Up to the time when we introduced him to the reader matri- k EMMA ASHTON. 195 mony wa6 a subject to which he Iiad never given a serious thought, and until he met witli Miss Asliton he had never felt any personal interest in the matter. From what I have already said- the reader will not be surprised to learn that the acquaintance begun at l^Irs. Milford's party terminated in a matrimonial engagement j with the free consent of all who had a right to a voice in the matter. When the matter became known it caused quite a sensation in the circles in which Dr. AVinthrop had movied since his residence in the city ; but, happily for him, he was possessed of too independent a spirit to sutler any annoyance from any malicious remarks which chai-ced to reach his ears. When Miss Carlton first learned of the engagement, she indulged in a long tit of spiteful tears, to the imminent risk of appearing with red eyes at the forthcoming evening party. In due time the marriage took place ; and the young physician and his lovely bride set out on their wedding tour amid the congratulations and good wishes of many true friends. After their departure Mrs. Carl- ton remarked to several of her '^dear friends" ''that she had long since discovered that Dr. Winthrop was not possessed of refined tastes ; and for her part she thought Miss Ashton much better suited to be his wife than many others which she could name." Had the doctor been present to express his sentiments regarding this matter, they would in all probability have exactly agreed with those already expressed by r: i ■:^. I I I" I:: I 196 ENMA ASHTON. Mrs. Carlton. During tlieir wodcling tour, vvliioh occupied several weel\s, tliey visited many pliu-es of note, both in Canada and the United IStates. Upon their return to the city Dr. Winthrop purchased an elegant house in a central location, whicli he furnished in a style justified by his abundant means ; and with his w^ife and her motiier removed thither. In conclusion, we will again bestow a passing glance upon this happy family after the lapse of some twenty years. We fmd Dr. Winthrop now past the meridian of life surrounded by an interesting family of sons and daughters, whom he is endeavoring to train for spheres of usefulness in this life, as well as for lia])piness in the *Mife to come." His graceful and dignitied wife still gladdens his heart and home. Time has dealt very gently with her ; she is (piite as good and almost as beautiful as when we last «aw h(»r twenty years ago. The two eldest of their family are boys, ami this is their last year in College. Mrs. Winthrop has thus far attended herself to the education of her two daugh- ters. Along with many other useful lessons, she otten seeks to impress upon their minds the sin and folly of treating with contempt an-f*t wmw^m ^r mvi^v^nw-T"^ " MB^i J m fc»:i ^^ f"-* :in •5 1 1 1 ( 11 h s si tl 01 tl e P P n tl d WANDERING DAVY. T was while I was spending a few Jays in tlie dwelling of Mr. C, a Scottish innnigrant, that he received a long letter from his friends in Scotland. After perusing the letter he addressed his wife, saying : ''So auld Davy's gone at last." '' Puir man," replied Mrs. C. '' If he's dead let us hope tliat lie has found that rest and peace which has been so long denied him m this life." " And who was old Davy ; may I enquire," said I, addressing Mr. C. '' Ay, man," he replied, '' 'tis a sad story ; but when my work is by for the night, I'll tell ye a' that I ken o' the life o' Davy Stuart.'' I was then young and very imaginative j and a story of any kind possessed much interest for me ; and the thought that the story of Old Davy was to be a true one, rendered it doubly interesting ; so I almost counted the hours of the remaining portion of the day ; and when evening came I was not slow to remind Mr. C. of his promise. Accordingly he related to me the following particulars of the life of Davy Stuart j which I give, as nearly as possible, in his own words ; for it seems to me that the story would loose half its interest were I to reri* der it otherwise. i ''}:. 1 3 H t.^ i I ifP 208 WANDEKING DAVY. '^ Davy Stuart was an aiil' man when I was a wee boy at the school. I had aye been used wi' him ; for he often bided wi' us for days thegitlier ; and while a boy I gave little lieed to his odd ways an' wanderin' mode o' life ; for he was very kind to mysel' an' a younger brither an' we thought muckle o' him; but wlien we had grown up to manhood my father tell'd ns what had changed Davy Stuart from a usefu' an' active man to the puir demented body he then was. He was born in a small parish in the south of Scotland, o' respectable honest parents, who spared nae pains as he grew up to instruct him in his duty tobaith God an' man. At quite an early a^e he was sent to the parish school : where he remain- ed maist o' the time till he reached the age o' fourteen years. At that time he was apprenticed to learn the trade o' shoemaker, in a distant town. It wad seem that he served liis time faithfully, an' gained a thorough knowledge o' his trade. Upon leaving his master, after paying a short visit to his native parish, he gie'd awa' to the city o' Glasgow, to begin the warld for himself. He continued steady and industrious, and was prospered accordingly ; and at the age o' twenty-five he had saved considerable money. It was about this time, that he was married to a worthy young woman, to whom he had been long deeply attached. They had but one bairn, a fine boy, who was the delight o' his father's heart, and I hae heard it said by they who kenn'd them at the time, that a bonnier or mair winsome boy could 'na hae been WANDERINa DAVt 209 vee boy 5 for he a bov I mode o' brither I grown changed the puir a small } honest instruct an early remain- fourteen ^arn the oem that lorough er, after cM awa' himself. ospered 1(1 saved that he ii lie had bairn, a art, and lie time, lae been found in the city, than wee Geordie Stuart. Time gied on till Geordie was near twelve years aul', when it began to be talked o' among Mr. Stuart's friends that he was becoming owre fond o' drink. How the habit was first formed naebody could tell ; but certain it was, that during the past year he had been often seen the war o' drink. His wife, puir body, admonished an' entreated him to break awa' fra the sinfu' habit, and he often, when moved by her tears, made resolutions o' amendment, which were broken maist as soon as made ; an' it was during a longer season o' sobrioty than was usual wi' him, that his wife, thinkin' if he was once awa' fra the great city ho would be less in the way o' temptation, persuaded him to leave Glasgow an' remove to the sma' village o' Mill-Burn, a little way frae the form which my father rented. I well mind, said my father, o' the time when they first cam' amonff us, an' how kin' was a' the neebors to his pale sad-lookin' wife and the bonny light-hearted Geordie, who was owre young at the time, to realize to its fu' extent the sad habit into v,?hich his father had fa'n. When Mr. Stuart first came to our village he again took up his aul' habits o' industry, an' for a long time would'na taste drink ava ; but when the excitement o' the sudden change had worn off, his aul' likin' for strong drink cam' back wi' fu' force, an' he, puir weak man- had'na the strength o' mind to withstand it. He soon became even war than before ; his money was a' gane, he did'na work, so what was there but poverty for his I aa \i 210 WANDERING DAVY. wife an' child. But it is useless for me to linger o'er the sad story. When they had lived at Mill-Burn a little better than a twelve month, his wife died, the neebors St.id o' a broken heart. A wee while afore her death she ca'd Davie to her bedside, an' once mair talked lang an earnestly to him o' the evil habit which had gotten sic a hold o' him, an' begged him for the sake o' their dear' Geordie, who, she reminded him, would soon be left w^ithout a mither to care for him, to make still anither effort to free himself fra the deadly habit. I believe Davie was sincere when he promised the dyin' woman that he wad gie up drink. Wi' a' his faults, he had te derly loved his wife, an' I hae nae doubt fully intended keepin' the promise he made her. For a lang time after her death, he was n'er seen to enter a public house ava', an' again he applied himsel' to his wark v/i' much industry. After the death o' Mrs. Stuart, Geordie an' his father bided a' their lane. Their house was on the ither side o' the burn which crossed the high-road, a wee bit out o' the village. Time gie'd on for some time wi' them in this way. Davy continued sober and industrious, an' the neebors began to hae hopes that he had gotten the better o' his evil habit ; he had n'er been kenned to taste strong drink o' ony kin' sin' the death o' his wife. One evening after he an' Geordie had ta'en their suppers, he made himsel' ready to gang out, saying to Geordie that he was gaun' doon to the village for a wee while, and that he was to bide i' the house an' he would'na be lang t^ANDERINQ DAVY. 211 iiwa'. The hours wore awa' till ten o'clock, an' he hacl'na cam' hame. It was aye supposed that the boy, becoming uneasy at his father's lang stay, had set out to loolv for him, when by some mishap, it will n'er be ken- ned what way, he lost his footin', an' fell frae the end o' the narrow brig wliicli crossed tliebuvn. The burn was- 'na large, but a heavy rain had lately fa'n, an' there was aye a deep bit at one end o' the brig. He had fa'n head first into the water in sic a way that hecould'na possibly won 'oot. It was a clear moonlicht night, an' when Davy reached the brig, the first thing he saw was his ain son lyin' i' the water. I hae often been told that a sudden shock o' ony kind will sober a drunken man. It was sae wi' Davy ; for the first neebor who, hearin' liis cries foi* assista^ice, ran to the spot, found him standin i' the middle o' tne brig, perfectly sober, wi' the drooned boy in his arms; althougli it was weel kenned that he was quite drunk when he left the village. Every means was used for the recovery o' the boy, but it was a' useless, lie was quite deed an' caul'. "Ah" said Davy, when tell'd by the doctor that the boy was indeed dead, " my punishment is greater than I can bear." Geordie had aye been as '' the apple o' his een" ; never had he been kenned to ill use the boy, even wlien under the influence o' drink ; and the shock was too much for his reason. Many wondered at his calmness a' the while the body lay i' the house afore the burial j but it was the calmness o' despair ; he just seemed to me like ane turned to stane. 212 WANDERING DAVY. i pi ; The first thing tliat roused him was tlie sound o' the first earth that fell on puir Geordie's coffin. He gie'd ae bitter groan, an' wad hae fa'n to the earth had'na a kind neebor supported him. His mind wandered fra that hour ; he was aye harmless, but the light o' reason never cam' back to his tortured mind. Sometimes he wad sit for hours by Geordie's grave, an' fancy that he talked wi' him. On these occasions nothing wad induce him to leave the grave till some ither fancy attracted his mind. As I hae before said he was never outrageous, but seemed most o' the time, when silent, to be in deep thouglit ; but his reason was quite gone, and the doctors allowed that his case was beyond cure. IMany questioned them as to whether it were safe to allow him his liberty, lest he might do some deed o' violence ; but they gave it as their opinion that his disease was'na a' ta' likely to tak' that turn wi' him, an' so was left to wander on. He never bided verra lang in a place, but wandered frae house to house through a' the country-side : and every one treated him wi' kindness. The sight o' a bonny fair-haired boy aye gave him muckle pleasure, an' he wad whiles hae the idea that Geordie had cam' back to him. From the day o' Geordie's death to that o' his ain', which took place a month sine, he was n'er kenned to taste strong drink; he could'na bear even the sight o' it. He lived to a verra great age, an' for many years they who did'na ken the story o' his early life ha'e ca'd him Wanderin' Davy. *^ I hae noo tell'd you his story," said Mr, C, addressing »mmm WANDERING DAVY. 213 me ; ''an I hope it may prove a warnin' to you an' ithers o' the awfu' evils o' intemperance ; an' I think it's high time my story w-as finished, for I see by tlie clock that it's growin' unco late." When the evening psalm had been sung, Mr. C. read a portion of the Scriptures and offered the usual nightly prayer, and soon after we all sought repose ; but it was long ere I slept. The story I liad listened to still floated through my mind, and when sleep at length closed my eyes it was to dream of "Wan- dering Davy," and the poor drowned boy. '! II ill i ii! n -I^- mMmM m lie \m ^« 1 1 ' H .-■■ ., ■Bl » \ \ H tt i ,i i t ! LOOKING ON TIIK DAKK Sii)K. jjT is an old but true saying, thiit '^ troubles como soon enough without meeting them half way." But I tliink my friend Mrs. Talbot had never chanced to hear this saying, old as it is; for she was ex- tremely prone at all times to look only upon the dark side, and this habit was a source uf much tronbleto herself ns well as her family. ]Mr. Talbot niiglit properly have been called a well-to-do farmer. Tliey were surrounded by an intelligent and interesting family ; and a stranger, in taking a passing view of their home and its surroundings, would have been strongly inclined to tliink that happi- ness and contentment might be found beneath their roof; but a short sojourn in the dwelling alluded to, would certainly have dispelled the illusion. This IMrs. Talbot was poissessed of a most unhappy disposition. She seemed to entertain the idea that the whole world was in league to render her miserable. It has often struck me with surprise, that a person surrounded with so much to render life happy should indulge in so dis- contented and repining a temper as did Mrs, Talbot. u i i: t »! SJ18 LOOKING ON THE DARK SIDE. She was fjimoiis for dwelling tit length upon her trials, as often as she could obtain a listener; and when I first became acquainted with her I really regarded lierwith a feeling of pity ; but after a time I mentally decided that the greater part of her grievances existed only in her own imagination. She spent a large portion of her time in deploring the sins of the whole w^orld in general, and of her own family and immediate neiglibors in particular ; while she looked upon herself as having almost, if not quite, attained to perfection. I recollect calling one day upon Mr. Talbot ; he was ol a very social disposition, and we engaged for a short time in a lively conversation. Mrs. Talbot was present, and, strange to tell, once actually laughed at some amusing remark made by her husband. He soon after left rhe room, and her countenance resumed its usual doleful ex- pi'ession as she addressed me, saying, *' I wish I could have any hopes of Mr. Talbot ; but I am afraid the last state of that man will be worse than the first." I ques- tioned her as to her meaning ; and she went on to tell me that her husband had once made a profession of religion ; but she feared he was then in a '* backslidden state," as she termed it. I know not how this matter might have been ; but during my acquaintance with Mr. Talbot I never observed any thing in his conduct which to me seemed inconsistent with a profession of religion. He certainly excelled his wife in one thing, and that was christian charity; for he was seldom if ever heard to LOOKING ON THE I/ARK SIDE. 219 •ipcnk of the short-comings of others. It is quite possi- ble that he thought his wife said enough upon the sub- ject to Ruflice for both. Mrs. Talbot made a point of visiting her neighbors, if she chanced to hear of their meeting with any trouble or misfortune. The reason she gave for so doing was that she might sympathize with them ; and if sickness invaded a household Mrs. Tall:>ot was sure to be there; but I used often to think tliat her friends must look upon her as one of ^' Job's comforters," for no sickness was so severe, no misfor- tune so great, that she did not prophesy something worse still. According to her own ideas she was often favored with warnings of sickness and misfortune both to her own family and others. She was also a famous believer in dreams ; and often entertained her friends at the breakfast table by relating her dreams of the previous night. I remember meeting with her upon one occa- sion, when it struck me that her countenance wore a look of unusual solemnity, even for her, so much so, that I enquired the cause. " Ah !" said she, " we are to have sickness, perhaps death, in our family very soon ; for only last night I dreamed I saw a white horse coming toward the house upon the full galop ; and to dream of a white horse is a sure sign of sickness, and the faster the horse seems in our dream to be approaching us the sooner the sickness will come." Her husband often re- monstrated with her upon the folly of indulging in these idle fancies. I remember a reply he once made to some •./ I 220 LOOKING ON THE DARK SIDE. () ; r licr gloomy forcboclings : *' I think t\w bost wiiy is foi ('a(;li Olio to (liHcliargo thoir duty in tlu^ difTiTont rclutioiis of life ; jMid lojivo the futiiro in the hands of an All-wisr Providence." '' That is always the way with yon/' was her reply, ^* Yon have grown heedless and careless with your love of the world ; but you will perhaps think of my warnings when too late." Before meeting with Mrs. Talbot I had often heard the remark that none were so cheerful as the true christian ; but I soon saw that her views must be widely different. A hearty laugh she seemed to reorard as almost a crime. A cheerful lauah upon any occasion wonld cause her to shake her head in a rueful manner, and denounce it as uiitimely mirth. Upon one occasion she went to hear a preacher that had lately arrived in the neighboring village. This same preacher was remarkable for drawing dismal pictures, and was very severe in his denunciations, while he quite forgot to offer a word of encouragement to the humble seeker after good. Upon tlu; Sabbath in question Mrs. Talbot returned from church, and seuted herself at tlie dinner table with a countenance of most woeful solemnity. Her husband at length enquired, how she had enjoyed the sermon. *' Oh !" rephed she, " he is a preacher after my own heart, and his sermon explained all my views clearly." " Indeed," replied Mr. Talbot, ^' he must have a wonderful flow of language to have handled so extensive a subject, in the usual time allotted to a sermon." His answ^er displeased her very much. Among her other 1. I i ^v LOOKING ON THE DARK SIDE. 221 gloomy forebodings she always seemed sui'e of the fitct that Mr. Talbot would survive iior ; and she replied : " That is always the way. Von make light of" every thing I say ; .md I only hope you wont have all these things to repent of" when I sliall be no more." Mr. Talbot seemed sorry he had w*ounded her feelings, and replied : '^ We shall both live our appointed time, and it is not for us to decide which of us will be first removed." The last time I snw IMrs. Talbot she was indulging in lier anticipation of some coming calamity. I have learned from various sources, that since I last saw her siie has met with real aillictions of a very trying nature, even to the juost hopeful ; and it may be that the presence of real tioubles, has put to flight many which were only imaginary ; and she may by this time have learned to be thankful for whatever of blessings mny yet be left her in her path through life. i r •f ■ IS' I !1 1 1 1 1 1 I 1 ^ V 1 :" «^;- ■■.to ^k & \\ \ ' I It )« t ' ! II : < , ! EDWARD BARTON, sclioolinate Kdvvnid linvjoii, or ' N iiDWAUD JJARTON, was then ahoiit twelve yonrs ol' i\ge; hut, owing lo hi.s carelessiioss and inattention, lie had made but slight progress in study. 1 learned afterwards that he had so long borne the names of ^' dunce" and 'Mjlockhead" in the school he attended in his own village, that he supposed himself to be really such, and made up his mind that it was useless for him to try to be anything else : and I think when our teacher first called him up for examination he was inclined to be of the same opinion, '^^he teacher first addressed him by saying, ^4Iow far have you advanced in reading, my boy?" ^' Don't know sir, never thought any- thing about how far I've been.'' ^' Well, at least," replied the master, ^'you can tell me the names of the books you ha^'c studied, in reading and spelling." ^'Oh, yes," replied the boy, ^' I've been clean through ^ Webster's Elementary and the Progressive Reader.'" "Can you tell me the subject of any of your lessons?" ''I can just remember one story about a dog that was crossing n river on a plank with a piece of meat in his mouth, and when he saw his shadder in the water, made a spring at it and dropped the meat which he held in his mouth, and it was at once carried away by the current." '' Well," said the teacher, " as you remember the story so well, you can perhaps tell me what lesson we can learn from this fable." *^ I thought," replied the boy, " when I read the story, that the best way is to hold on to what we are sure of, and not grab after a shadder and lose the whole." " Your idea is certainly a correct one," EDWARD BARTON, 227 .■juid the inasior, '^nnd now we will turn to some other l)ranch of study ; can you cipher ?" Don't know, I never tried," replied the boy, with the greatest coolness ima- ginable. ^^AVell," replied the teacher, '''we will after a time see liow you succeed, when you do try. Can you U'll me what the study of Geography teaches us ! " ^' 0," said the boy, '^ geography tells all about the world, the folks who live m it, and 'most every tbing else." The master then asked him some questions regarding the divisions of land and water, and for a short time he answered with some degree of correctness. At length, while referring to the divisions of water, the master said ' ■ can you tell me what is a strait ' " This question sechied a '^ puzzler" to him, and for some moments he looked down as if studying the matter; when tlie question was repeated in lather a sharp tone, it seemed he thought it wiser to give an answer of some kind than none at all, and he replied : ' When a river runs in a straight course, we call it straight, and when it twists and winds about, we call it crooked." '^ A river is not a strait," replied the teacher with the manner of one who prayed for patience. ^^ Well ! at any rate," said the boy, ^'straight is straight, and crooked is crooked, and that is all I know about it." It was evident from the teacher's manner that he was half inclined to think the boy was endeavoring to impose upon him by feigning ignorance ; and he dismissed him to his seat for the time being, thinking, no doubt, that lie had met with a case out of the common order of Wli * I 228 EDWARD BARTON. school experience. It seems that tlie boy haJ never helbre attendetl school witli punctiuiliiy, and it required a long time to teach him to observe any tiling like systen\ either in his conduct or studies. Our teacher thou"li very firm, was mild and judicious in his government; and, tliini-iing tliat possibly Ned's disposition had been injured by former liarshness at school, resolved to avoid inflicting corporal punishment as long as possible; and try upon him the effect of kindness and mild persuasion. He had one very annoying habit, and that was he would very seldom give a satisfactoi'y juiswer if sud'ne lli>^ EDWARD LARTON. 231 j_)oint up on tliis occasion. ^^ Any way," said he, " the Pyramids are large, and so is Australia ; and I thought it might sometimes be called a pyramid for convenience of description." The idea of Ned entering into an argu- ment with the trustees of the school, struck tiic rest of the boys as so extremely ludicrous, that our long pent-up mirth found vent in a burst of laughter through the whole class, and no one present had tlie heart to chide us ; for it w^as with intense difhculty that the elderly gentlemen maintained their own gravity. The teacher was obl'ged to exercise his authority before Ned could be silenced 5 and the remaining part of the examination proved rather a failure. I know not how it happened, but from that day there was a marked improvement in Edward Barton, in every respect. He attended the school for two years ; and when he left us it was to accompany his parents to one of the far Western States. His father had relatives residing in the West, and had received from them such glowing accounts of the country, that lie decided upon removing thither. Any one who saw Ned when he left us would almost have failed to recognize him as the same boy who entered the school two years pre- vious. Mr. S. was his friend as well as his teacher; and during the second year of liis stay took a deep interest in him ; he had thoroughly studied his disposition, and learned to bear with his faults, and under his judicious management Ned began really to make good progress in study. We had all become attached to him, and were V U rii't 232 EDWAllD IJAllTO.N. ull soiry vvlu'ii he Irf't uh. Ift; wjis iiiiicli c^aliMl vvilli llic pros|)(»ct ol" his jouniey to i\w VV(!st ; unci talked inucli ol" ilie wonders h«; expected to hehold on his way thither. He came one day at the iioon-lioiir to collect his books and bid us good-l)ye, his father having come to take liiui home for a short time before setting out on their journey. The boys were all on the play ground when he entered the school-room to bid his teacher good-bye. When Iw, came out he looked very sober, and there was a sus- picious moisture in liis eyes which very much resembled tears. Instead of the usual noisy mirth on the play ground there w^as almost complete silence, while Ned shook hands with us one by one, saying, '^ he would te^' us all tlie wonders of the Western world when he came back." Years have rolled by with their various changes since that day; he has never yet returned; and I have only heard from him two or three times during the time. IMy last tidings were, that he was married and settled down to a life of industry upon a fine farm, in his western home; but I sometimes, when 1 think of him, even yet wonder, if he has learned the difl'erence between the ^^ Pyramids of Egypt" ajid the ^^ Island Continent of Australia." vvitli Mic ed Miucli J thitliLT, lis books take liiiii journey, i entered ►Vheu h(! IS a SHs- [?senible(l the play lile Ned ould te^' he came changes ave only [lie. IMy !d down n home ; wonder, 'yramid^ ,lia." m. :«iffi it m l.JU— l..»--B!^^^^BBl J ■ j i 1 1 I M i 1 THE WEARY AT REST. HE weary at rest. The idea was very strongly impressed upon my mind by a funeral which I once attended in tlie distant village of C. It was that of a very aged woman^ whom I had often heard mentioned as out; wlio had been subjected for many years to bodily suffering in no ordinary degree. I had never seen her, but was ac([uainted with many vvlio visited her frerpiently ; and I became interested from hearing her so often spoken of as a bright example of j.)atience and resignation under atliiction ; and I was accustomed to enquire for her as often as I had opportunity. Owing to a rheuiT atic affection of her limbs, she had, as I was infbrnuid, been unable for several years to rise from her bed without assistance, and much of the time experienced severe pain. I was in- formed by her friends that througli her protracted period of suffering she was never heard to utter a complaining or repining word, but was found daily in a calm even cheerful frame of mind. After a time I left the village and returned to my home. Returning thither to visit iti •if ; I 236 THE WEARY AT REST. some relatives after the lapse of a few months;, I met with a friend, soon after my arrival, who informed me of the death of old Mrs. H., which had taken pVtce the day previous. Two days later I joined the large numbers who assembled to pay their last tribute of respect to one of the oldest residents of their village. As is usual upon funeral occasions, the coflin was placed in front of the pulpit, and a large number occupied the front pews which were appropriated to the friends of the deceased. In those pews were seated men in whose hair the silver threads were begini iUg to mingle, and women who were them- selves mothers of flmiilies who all met around the coffin of their aged mother. Childhood, youth and middle age were all represented in that company of mourners. Their pastor, Mr. ]\I., delivered a very appropriate dis- course from the words, ^^ Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord." In the course of his sermon he took occasion to remark, that a funeral discourse should apply to the living — not the dead. I had before listened to different sermons from this same text; but I never lis- tened to a more searching application of the words than upon this occasion. Near the close of his sermon, he said : ^' 1 presume many of you are aware that I deem it unnecessary as well as unwise, on occasions of this kind, for a minister to dwell at length upon the life and character of the deceased, for. as I have before said, our duty is with the living , out upon the present^^occasion, I think I may THE WEARY AT REST. 23T with propriety say, that we see before us the lifeless remains of one who has ^ died in the Lord.' I have been for many years acquainted with our aged sister now departed, and have ever regarded her as an humble and earnest christian. I have frequently visited her during her lengthened period of suffering ; and have felt deeply humbled for my own want of resignation to the ills of life, when I observed the exemplary manner with which this aged woman bore her sufferings, which at times were very severe ; and more than this, I stood by her dying bed, which I can truly say presented a fore taste of heavenly triumph." At the close of the service permission was given for any one who was desirous of ^so doing to look upon the •' corpse," and \vith many others I drew nigh the coffin. I had been told that the habitual expression of her countenance was one of pain, and I was surprised b)r he calm and peaceful expression which rested upon the face of the dead. There was no sign of past suffering visible ; and the idea of perfect rest was conveyed to my mind, as I gazed upon her now lifeless features. When the strangers had all retired, the relatives and near friends drew nigh to take their last sad look of the aged one who in life ha;l been so dear to them. It seemed that her age and utter helplessness had all the more endeared her to her children and other friends ; and many of them wept audibly as they retired from the coffin. As the coffin was borne from the church, the choir sung in »;t V m ■4. ^ -1 I 238 THE WEARY AT REST. lii '1 subdued tones, accompanied by the solemn notes of the organ, tlie beatitul hymn commencing with tlie lines, " Thou art gone to the grave but we will not dei)lore thee, Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb ; The Saviour hath passed through its portals before thee, And the lamp of his love is thy guide through the gloom." AVhen the long procession reached the churcli yard, the coffin was lowered to its final resting place, and the Burial Service w^as re id by tlieir pastor, and most of the company departed to their homes. I know not how it was, but, altliough a stranger to the deceased, I was among the few who lingered till the grave was filled up. That funeral impressed me deeply ; and has often since recurred to my mind, amid tlie cares and turmoil of after life. Iliiiiif, ',: J- \ ^.5 t ^1 THE RAINY AFTERNOON. IT'S too bad," exclaimed Haiiy Knights, as he turned trom the window, where for the last ten minutes he had been silently watching the heavy drops of rain as they pattered against the glass, " It's too bad," repeated he, " we can have no out-of- door play this afternoon;" and as he spoke his fiice wore a most rueful expression. I was one among a number of Harry's schoolmates who had gone to spend the day at the farm of Mr. Knights, Harry's father. The eldest of our number was not more than fourteen ; and for u long time we had looked forward to this day with many bright anticipations of fun and enjoyment. The important day at length arrived, and so early did we set out upon our excursion that we reached Harry's home before eight o'clock in the morning. We spent the forenoon in rambling over the farm, searching out every nook and corner which possessed any interest to our boyish mhids. Accompanied by Harry we visited all his favorite haunts — which included a fine stream of water, where there was an abundance of fish j also a ledge of rocks which w V: 'II ^ • ■■■ J ■A i-i ,j i 1 'jdi '■ ! ■'"^'^' ■i iidJ'; 242 THE RAINY AFTERNOON. contained a curious soit of cave, formed by a wide aper- ture in the rocks ; and, last though " not least," a pond of water which, owing to its extreme beauty ol' appear- ance, Harry had named the ^^ Enchanted Pond." He had said so much to us regarding the uncommon beauty of the spot that some of the boys, myself among the number, had often been inclined to ridicule him ; but when we came within view of it, I for one ceased to wonder at his admiration j for before nor since, I never looked upon so lovely a scene. The pond was situated upon the back portion of the faim, in a clearing which had been made by a settler who had occupied the land for some years before it was purchased by Mr. Knights. The form of the pond was entirely circular, and it was sun*ounded by a green field, in which had been left standing, here and there, some fine old trees to add to the effect. I remem- ber when I first gained a view of the spot, it reminded me of a surface of polished silver, bordered with emer- alds. As we drew nigh we could see that its smooth waters were thickly dotted with the pure blossoms of the pond-lily. I have never since visited the spot, but the view I obtained of it that day, now so long ago, is still vividly present to my mind. By the time we again reached the farm-house, the dinner-hour had anrived ; and our long continued exercise in the open air had so much improved our appetites that we did ample justice to the good things set before as. Dinner being over, we ob- served, what had before escaped our notice, that the sky THE RAINY AFTERNOON. 243 was becoming overcast with dark clouds, and soon a heavy rain began to fall, which put an end to all our plans of out-of-door enjoyment for the afternoon. As I mentioned at the beginning, Harry was very much dis- appointed, for outside sports were his especial delight ; and for a time his face looked almost as dark and forbid- ding as the sky itself. We tried to cheer him up, saying we would have some quiet games in the large dining- room, and we did succeed in getting him to join us ; but somehow or other our games afforded us no enjoy- ment, and the question, ^* whai; shall we do with our- selves ?" began to pass from one to the other among the group of eager, restless boys. ^* Would you like me to tell you a story, boys ?" enquired Harry's mother, after observing for a time our vain attempts at enjoyment. Mrs. Knights was a lady of high culture, and possessed the happy faculty of rendering herself an agreeable com- panion to either the young or old j and more than one pair of eyes grew bright with pleased anticipation when she proposed telling us a story •, and, of course, we all eagerly assented to her proposal. Seating herself in our midst, she took up a piece of needlework, saying, " I can always talk best when my hands are employed," and began as follows: " I suppose none of you, perhaps not even my own Harry, is aware that my home has not always been in Canada ; but I will now inform you that the days of my childhood and youth were passed in a pretty town near r'r i I ;. ■•i. 248 THE RAIN^ AFTERNOON. I „•?, i! judge of the fidelity of the picture by his own experi- ence ; and she taught him the way of return to the paths of peace. And thus it was that the little book which the wretched young man had selected — some would say so accidently, others, so providentially — proved the means of his return from the paths of sin and folly to those of sobriety and usefulness. He soon told his story to his attentive listener, and inibrmed him of the relation- ship he bore to the author of the book he had purchased. As he concluded, he said, ' Oh, my mother, why did I leave you to become the hopeless being I am f ^ Not hopeless/ replied his companion in gentle tones. ^ You have youth on your side, and may yet be a useful and happy man. I now understand the unaccountable interest which I felt in you when meeting you on several occa- sions before I spoke to you, and I feel that Providence directed me in tlie matter.' The agent stayed two days longer in the city, andj then departed, the young man with him, for with the promptitude of his nature, to resolve was to act. He directed his course toward Vir- ginia, the star of hope leading him on, and finally approached his native village. No words are adequate to describe the meeting between the lonely wddow and her long lost, but now returning and penitent son. When informed that his father had been for some years dead, the shock to him was great, overpowering, but he uttered no repining word. 'I could^not/ said he, * expect the hap- piness of meeting both my parents again after causing THE RAINY AFTERNOON. 249 them so much sorrow, and let me be humbly thankful that it is allowed me to cheer the declining years of my aged mother/ I well remember," said Mrs. Knights, " the return of the young man to his home, it was but a short time before I left Virginia ; but I have been in- formed by friends still residing there that he was for several years the staff and sup^ ^rt of his mother, of whom it might be said, ^her last days were her best days.* After the death of his mother, as he had no living tie to bind him to the spot, he removed to another section of country, where he married and is now a useful and respected member of society. And now boys," said Mrs. Knights, "allow me in conclasion to say to you all as one, as you value your own well-being in time and eternity, be sure that you honor and obey your parents ; think of what the end of this young man might have been, and shun his example. But I see that the hour for tea is near at hand ; and for a time I will leave you to amuse yourselves, while I assist in preparing your tea ; and if you have been interested in my story, I may tell you another when you next pass a rainy afternoon at our house." We all thanked the kind lady for the interesting story, and I for one very much hoped that the next day we chanced to pass at Mrs. Knights' farm would prove to be rainy in the afternoon, %. ^:: S i if ^pri^T.T'TT^ ■ r^i?^-- fvfr" "——^ I- -..'■! .. Miw ^. t' -■ mtV' m_^f mw-f T* i^1,i"» u H" llf (jp II l.Bl.tl V,l p_B iN Sliieii's i!ee«iiu L> I I,- I. i-itmm^mim THE STUDENT'S DREAM. RTHUR WILTON had been for several years a student ; but he was one of the plodding sort, who make but slow progress. The principal barrier to his improvement arose from one defect in his character j and that was the habit in which he constantly indulged, of deploring the past, without making any very strong efforts toward amendment in the future. He was one evening seated in his room ; a ponderous volume lay open on his study-table, and for a time he vainly tried to fix his attention thereon, till finally he closed the book, and leaning back in his chair, his brows contracted, and the lines about his mouth grew tense, as if his thoughts were anything but pleasing. As usual he was bemoaning his misspent hours. " Ah," said he, speaking in soliloquy, " they are gone, never more to return, the careless happy days of child- hood, the sunny period of youth, and the aspiring dreams of mature manhood. I once indulged in many ambitious dreams of fame, and those dreams have never been =rii f :^ 2 254 THE student's DREAM. IH^! ^1 i realized. Many with whom I set out on equal ground have outstripped me in the race of life, and here am I alone. Many who were once my inferiors have nearly overtaken me, and doubtless they too will soon pass me by. What I very much prize is a true friend, and yet no friend approaches with a word of sympathy or encour- agement ; would that some would counsel me, as to how I may better my condition." Thus far had Arthur Wilton proceeded in his soliloquy, when his eyelids were weighed down by drowsiness, and he soon sank into a deep slumber. In his dream an aged man, with a most mild and venerable countenance stood before him, who, addressing him by name, said : ^* Thy heart is full of sor- row ; but if you will listen to, and profit by my words, your sorrow shall be turned into joy. You have been grieving over the hours which have been run to waste, without pausing to reflect, that while you have been occupied with these unavailing regrets, another hour hf glided away past your recall forever ; and will be added to your already lengthened list of opportunities misim- proved. You grieve that your name is not placed on the lists of fame. Cease from thy fruitless longings. Dis- charge faithfully your present duties, and if you merit fame it will certainly be awarded you. You also com- plain that no friend is near you. Have you ever truly sought a friend, by the unwearied exercise of those affec- tions, and in the perfoimance of those numberless offices of kindness by which alone friendship is secured and per- petuated? m THE STDDENT'b dream. 255 ' All like the purchase^ few the price will pay ; And this makes friends such miracles below/ Hast thou hoped for the society of the wise and good I Then with diligence and untiring zeal you should seek to fit yourself for such companionship. Have your early companions got before you in the race of life ; and yet you remain at ease, dreaming over the past? Awake, young man, ere yet your day is done, and address your- self to your work with renewed energy ; look forward to the future instead of brooding over the past, and be assured you will acquire wisdom, friends and every other needful blessing." With these words the aged man disappeared, and the student awoke. His fire had gone out and his lamp burned but dimly. He rose, replenished his fire, trimmed his lamp, and resumed his studies with ardor. This dream was not lost upon Arthur Wilton. Instead of now wasting his time in regrets for the past, he looked forward with a steady purpose of improvement, and from that period no harder student was to be found in the college; and he finally graduated with high honors. In after years he often related this dream to those of his acquaintances whom he thought in danger of falling into the same habit to which he himself had been so prone in his youthful days. I II }\l ' ft I ^1* \ m m ^•'^tsiSI-;! t : i ¥it imwM w m ,, rg. J ' [^1 h.^ \ m l.il 'f'S 1' i UNCLE EPHRABL OR some j'^ears, when a child; I used daily to pass the dwelling of Uncle Ephraim, on my H way to and from school. Ho was not my uncle ; indeed he bore no relationship whatever to me, but Uncle Ephraim was the familiar appellation by which he was known by all the school-boys in the vicinity. He was among the oldest residents in the eecv tion, and although a very eccentric person, was much respected by all his neighbors. How plainly do I yet remember him, after the lapse of so many years ! His tall figure, shoulders that slightly stooped, his florid com- plexion, clear blue eyes, and haii bleached by the frosts of time to snowy whiteness. Tlie farm on which he resided had improved under the hand of industry, till since my earliest recollection, it was in a state of high cultivation. His dwelling was an old-fashioned struc- ture, placed a little back from the main road, and almost hidden from view by thick trees. In an open space, a little to one side, was the draw-well with its long pole and sweep j and I have often thought that I have nevef 2C0 UNCLE EPIIRAIM. since tasted such water as we used to draw from that well, as we used often to linger for a few moments in Uncle Ephraim's yard on our return from school during the hot summer afternoons. He must have been fond of children ; for he was a great favorite among tlie boys ; and he often gave us permission to gather fruit from the trees in the garden, provided we broke none of his pre- scribed rules. But the unlucky urchin wlio transgressed against a command, forfeited his good opinion from henceforth, and durst no more be seen upon hispremises. I happened to be among the fortunate number who retained his approbation and good-will (huing all our acquaintance. It was from Uncle Ephraini I received the first money I could call my own. In those days school-boys were not supplied very hberally with pocket-money, and when on one occasion I rendered him some sliglit service, for which he bestowed on me a piece of money, I felt myself rich indeed, and the possession of as many hun- dreds now would fail to afford me the same pleasure as did the few cents which made up the value of the coin. Like all others, he had his fiiilings and weak points ; but he had also many very estimable traits of character. Among his failings very strong prejudices were most noticeable, and if for any reason he became prejudiced against one, he could never after see any good whatever in them. He also possessed rather an unforgiving tem- per when injured by any one. But on the other hand riNCLK EPIIRATM. 2C1 roiii that inents in >1 durini^ 1 fond of le boys ; from tlie liis pre- isgressed on from ►remises, •er wlio nil our t money ys were T, ynd service, I felt ly h un- sure as e coin, points ; n-acter. most udiced latever I tern- hand he was a friend to the poor ; and seldom sent the beggar empty-lianded from his (U)or. He also gave largely to the support of the gospel, as widl as to benevolent institu- tions. One very noticeable and oftentimes laugliable peculiarity was liis prontMiess to charge every thing that went wrong to tlie state of the wentiier. I tliink it was more from a habit of speecli than from any wish to be unreasonable. I remember one day passing a field when he was trying to catcli a horse that to all appearance liad no idea of being captured. lie tried various metliods of coaxing him into the halter, and several times nearly succeeded, but just when he thought himself sure of him, the animal would gallop oft' in anotiier direction. Out of all patience, he at length exclaimed, *^ What does possess that critcer to act so to-day f then glancing at the sky, which at the time happened to be overcast by dull murky clouds, he said: " It must be the weather." I chanced one day to be present when Uncle Ephriam was busily occupied in making some arithmetical calcu- lations regarding his farm-products. The result not proving satisfactory he handed his slate to a friend for inspection, and it was soon discovered that he had made a very considerable error in his calculation. AVhen the error was pointed out to him, he looked up with a per- plexed countenance, saying j *' It is the weather: nothing else would have caused me to make such a blunder." His son happened to marry against his washes ; so much so, that he had the ceremony performed without his m 1 1 1 ' 1 i 262 UNCLE EPUKAIM. father's knowledge ; who afterwards, making a virtue of necessity, wisely made the best of the matter. On learning that his son was actuidly married without his knowledge, the only remark he made was this: *' What could have induced Ben to cut up such a caper as to go and get married without my leave ; it must have been the weather, nothing else," and as if he had settled the question to his own satisfaction he was never heard to allude to the matter again. Years passed away, t'V one dtty the tidings reached us that Uncle Ephraim was dangerously ill. He grew rapidly worse, and it was soon evident that his days on earth would soon be numbered. I have a very distinct recollection of stealing quietly in, to look upon him as he lay on his dying bed ; of the tears I shed when I gazed upon his fearfully changed features. He was even then past speaking or recognizing one from another ; and before another sun rose he had passed from among the living. I obtained permission to go in once more and look upon him as he lay shrouded for the grave. I was then a child of ten years, but even at that early age I had not that morbid terror of looking upon death, so common among children. With my own hands, I folded back the napkin which covered his face, and gazed upon his aged, but now serene, countenance. There was nothing in his appear- ance to inspire terror, and for a moment I placed my hand on his cold brow. He had ever been very kind to me, and I regarded hhn with much affection, and the tiNCLE EPIIIIATM. 263 l-ctu's coursed freely clown my cheeks when I looked my last upon his familiar countenance now lifeless and sealed in death. I have forgotten his exact age, but I know it exceeded seventy years. It so happened that I did not attend his funeral ; but he was followed to the grave by a large number of friends and neighbours, many of whom still live to cherish his memory. ^■i\ -flfr \ ^"'?'4' ra^ ^■4^ liR ! V V -V^ O'-'^iX mo E I :^t! ^STORV OF A LOG CABIN. ^»1 4 vaEa m\ ill Like tlie fiit< was a dreary day in autumn, which attends us all, the fohage had assum edth paleness of death ; and the winds, cold and damp, were sighing among the branches of the trees ; and caus- ing every other feeling rather than that of comfort. Four others and myself had been out hunting during the day, and we returned at nightfall tired and hungry to our camp. The shades of night were fast gathering around us ; but, being protected by our camp, with a blazing fire in front, we soon succeeded in cooking some of the game we had shot during the day ; and as we ate, the old hunters, who were my companions grew garrulous, and in turn related their numerous adventures. ^'You have lived in Dayton for some time," said an old Imnter, addressing one of his com- panions. '^ Have you ever seen during your rambles * I lately came across this sketch in an old Magazine, bearing the date of 1842, and, thinking others might be as much interested by it as I was my- self, I transcribe it in an abridged form to the pages of this volume. ,Hrf 'III'' 'I III '. I 1 ^■'il^ A' 268 STORY OF A LOG CABIN. it ! .) i the remains of ji log ci\h'\n !il)oiit hvo miles down tlio Miami Canal ;" '^ I recollect it well, l)nt tlieiv is a myst<*ry attached to those ruins which no one living can solve. The oldest settlers found that cahin there; and '\t then a|>i)eared in such a dilapidated state as to justily the belief that it had been built many years previous." " Do you know any thing about it V- I eagerly ask«Ml. " I know all about it," replitul the old hunter ; " for I assist- ed in buihling it, and occupied it for several years, during the trapping season. That cabin,'' In; continued, as a shadt; passed over his features, " has been the scene <»1 carnage and bloodshed. But why wake u[) old feelings — let them sleep, let them sleep;" and ilu» veteran drew his brawny hand over his eyes. All the curiosity of my nature was roused ; and the old men seated ])y his sidi^ gazed upon him encpiiringly, and put themselves in a listening attitude. The speaker, observing this, sat silent for a few moments, as if collecting his thoughts, and then related the following tale : ^^ There has come a mighty change over the face of this country since the time when I first emigrated here. The spot where now stand your prettiest towns and villages was then a howling wilderness. Instead of the tinkling of the cow-bells and the merry whistle of thi^ farmer-boy as he calls his herd to tlu; fold, nn'ght be heard the wild cry of the panther, the howl of the wolf, and theefpially appalling yell of tlie aborigines. These were Hhnes to try men's souls'; and it was then the heart of STORY OF A LOO CADIN. 209 o;ik niid tlio .siiiows of iron wliicli f'oiiniinnded respect. Let me describe to yoii some scenes in wliich siicli men liicli c.'dled forth all tli were tne actors 5 scenes wnicn canea lortn an tne energy of man's nature ; and in the depths of this western wikh^'rness, many Imndreds of Alexanders and CVesars, wiio liave never been heard of. At tlie time I emi^Tated to Oliio the deadly hatred of the red men toward the wliites had readied its acme. The rifle, the tomahawk and the scalping knife were daily at work ; and men, women and children daily fell victims to this sanguinary spirit. In this state I found things when I reached the small village opposite the mouth of Licking river, and now the great city of Cincinnati. Here in this great temple of iiatnre man has taken np his abode, and all that he could wisli responds to his touch ; tlie fields and meadows yield their produce, and, nnmolested by the red man whom he has nsurped, he enjoys the bounties of a l>eneficent Creator. And where is the red man f Where is he ! Like wax before the flame he has melted away from before the white man, leaving him 110 legacy save that covraoeous darinu' wliich will live in son"' lonu: after their last remnant shall liave passed away. At the time when I first stepped upon these grounds vhe red man still grasped the sceptre which has since been wrenched from his hand. They saw the throne of their faf her beginning to totter. Their realm had attracted the cn[)idity of a race of strangers, and with luaddening h, who, iollowing his cxam^de, j>assed it tome. After taking apidl'l handed it to the Indian, who replaced it in his belt. • Tliis very important cere- mony being (inisiied, the Indian made known his business. After bestowing a thousand anathemas npon his red brethren, lie imformed ns that he Jiad left the red man forever, and was willing to join his white brothers, and to wa^e an exterminating wartare against his own kindred. We strove to extort from him the cause of this ebullition of passion, but he oidy shook his head in reply to our ques- tions, and uttered a guttural ^^ough," We at first suspect- STOUY OF A LOO CATITN. 273 ('(1 liiiii «»rsoni(' I r«'.'i('li('r<)us j>l(»l 5 l)iit lln'ir wjissiicli ;iii iiir of ciuulor and ejiriit'.stni'ss in Hie coiimmiiiciition lu; now niiidc, that wo tlirovv aside all suspicion and coidid- cd ill him. lie stated tliat there was a large party ol' Imhans in our rear, wlio had been traeking us lor several hours; and that it was their intention early in the morn- ing to surround us, anrisoners lor victims at the stake ; ^'but," said he, '^ ifmy white brudder will fol- low his red brudderhe will lead him safe." We instantly signified our willingness to trust ourselves to his uuid- aiico, and, shouldering our Idankets and guns, we h'lt our camp, and followed our guide due north at a ra|)id gait. For several miles we strode through tlu; thick woods, m'evy moment scratching our faces andiearing our cloth- ing, with the thick tangled brush through wiiich we had to pass, but considering this of minor importance we hurried on in silence, save wIumi we intruded too near the nest of the nocturnal king of the forest, when a wild hoot made us start and involuntarily grasp our rilles. '^ 8it on this log and eat," said our nnl guide. Finding our appetites shar]_)ened by vigorous exercise, we sat on the log and commenced our repast, when our guide sud- deidy sprang from liis seat, and with a hideous yell bolted into the forestand was soon lost to our sight. This con- duct instantly roused our fear; and with one accord we sprang to our feet. We gazed around. Turn which way we would, the grim visage of a painted warrior met our terrified gaze, with his tomakawk in one hand, and f!.l r:1 ,, ,1 irir 274 STOKi' 01' A LOO OAJUN. m Ills rifle ill llu' oIIk'I. ^' IVilidions vilhiiii," cxcIciIiikmI l^ilpli, ''iiiid tliis is ill! Iiidiiiii's IJiitli." All Indinii of uigiiiitii" sIaCj dressed in .ill the uiiiidy t rji|»piiit'S of n chief, now slrode fowjirds us. l{iil|di raised his giui, and clos- ed liis eve iis tlie sight of tht; weapon sought tlie war- riors breast. " Don't shoot, and you will be treated friendly/' cried the savage in good English. '^So long as I li\e," siiid IJalpli, "■I'll never put faith again in an indiiin's word." The gun w<'nt off, and the savage, with an nneaithly cry, bounded hi;',!i in the air, and fell upon his face a corpse. A scream, as if ten thousand furies had been suddenly turned loose upon the earth, rang .iround us; and ere we could start ten steps on our flight, we were seized by our siivage foes, and, like the light l)ar(|ue when ])orne on the surface of the angry waves, were we borne, eqiuilly endangered, upon the shoulders of these maddened men. We were thrown upon the earth, our hands and feet were bound till the cords were almost hidden in the flesh ; and then, with the fury of luiidmen, they connnenced beating us with clubs, when another chief, who appeared to be of higher standing than the one who had just lost his life, rushed into the crowd, hurling the excited warriors to the right and \vil in his progress, and mounting upon a log h(^ hiiraugued them for a few moments with a loud voice. Tlu^y at once desisted, perhaps reconciled by the prospect of soon seeing us burnt at the stake. We were carried to their encampment, where we were still left bound, with t'xi'ljiinuMl Iiidinu of of acliM't, ami cloH- ; tlio vvaf- )e treated 80 long as u^ain ill an vago, with 1 fell upon I furies had mg aroiuid flight, we the light i^ry waves, shoulders upon the the cords with the us with of higher fe, rushed rs to the ipon a log oud voice, e prospect carried to \imdj with ETOUV OV A LOU CA15IN. 275 two sentinel.^ st.itiourd to gUiird uh. In tliis pjiiiiful stiite we reniiiincd all diiy; wlicn lowiuds cvejiiiig another company of Wiirriois jniivcd, iiiid ilu'ii vigorous prepa- rations were made Cor luniiiiig us. A slake was plaiifed in the groinid, and [Miinled a variety of fantastic colors; ihe brush was piled around it at a |)roper distance} and every other necessary arrang<'inen( made; while we sat looking on, subject to the contiimal epithets of" an old s((uaw, w lose most consoling remarks were; ''How will white inan like to eat, lire/' and then she would break into into a screeching laugh, w hit'h sounded per- fectly liideoii'!. A cold chill per\aded my frame as I ga/ed upon these ominous signs of death; but how often is our mis«My but the prelude of joy. At the moment that these horrid [>reparalions were fmished. a origiit flash of lightning shattered a tall hickory, near by ; and then the earth was delui»e(l with rain. The indians souui-htthe slieKer, but left us beneath the fury of the stornij where we remained for several hours; but seeing that it increased rather than diminished, they forced us into a small log hut and leaviiiii: aman to I'liard us, bolted the door firmly and left us for the night. "What were our reflec- tions when left n^one ? Your imagination must supply an answer. But we did not entirely gave way to des- pondency. We were young and robust, and our spirits were not easily subdued. Instead of becoming disheart- ened our approaching fate end>oldened us, and by looks, whose expression made known our iniiids to each other, %•;!: 1 ^ ^ m 1 IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I If 1^ 1^ itt 1^ 12.2 ^ I4£ IIIIIM 1.8 1.25 iU ii^ ^>^r n A 7; ^^^ '/ •i> «' j^ w % % ii ■ti.Jj •ii* if ill 11 270 STORY OF A LOU CADlJf. we resolved to effect our escape or be slain in striving for it. Anytliing was preferable to the fiery torture vvliich awaited us. Our guard proved just the man we wanted, for, having during the evening indulged rather freely in drinking whiskey, he soon sank into a pro- found slumoer. Lone: fti^d anxiously had we watched tlie man, and now our wislies were consummated. I contrived wnth much exertion to drav^^ my knife from my pocket, and commenced sawing at tlie tough thongi whicli confined my wrist. My heart beat high witli joy, and already we felt that we were free, wlien the guard siieezed, opened Ijis eyes, rolled tliem round the room, and discovered tluit \m had l^een asleep. I slipped the knife into my pocket without his notice, and he discovered notliing to rouse his suspicions, altliougli he regarded lis closely for a long tinu\ He finally sat down, lit iiis pipe and commenced smoking. After puffing away for half.ui hour, which seemed to drag by with the tediousness of a week, he laid his tomahawk (which contains the pipe) by liis side, and ufter nodding for some time lie again stretched himself npon the rough fioor, and soon his deep snoring fell upon onr ears. O ! what music was that sound to us. 1 again drew the knife from my pocket, and with desperation freed my liands, and in one mimite more Ralph stood like myself a free man. With the stealthy tread of a cat we reached the door, softly slid back the bolt, and once more we stood in the open STORY OF A LOG CA13IN. 277 striving torture man we (1 rather ) a pro- watched atetl. I ly knite at tlie iart beat ere free, ed tlieni n asleep. [a notice, spicions, ig time, imenced wliich \ week, ip(0 by le again soon his Hsic was 'om my d in one . With )r, softly he open air. The rain had ceased, the clouds had swept by, and the full moon pale and high in the heavens threw her liglit upon tlie tree tops, bathing them in liquid silver. Silently but rapidly we boimded through the forest, our fears of pursuit urging us onward ; and by daylight were witiiin twelve m'les of the log cabin whose history I am telling. At tliat time there dwelt in that cabin, with his family, a trapper by the name of Daniel Roe. When we reached there we found Roe at home, to whom we recounted our adventure. He only laughed at our fears that the Indians might track us thus far;, and we tinally listened to his laughing remarks and concluded to rest in his cabin for several days. We heaped folly upon folly ; for ijistead of putting the house in a state of defence, and preserving as much silence as possible we conmienced trying our skill by shooting at a mark. We continued this exercise through the afternoon, partook of a hearty supper, chatted till bed-time, and then retired, Ralph soon fell sound asleep, but I could not; I felt a presenti- ment of approaching danger; still there was no visible signs of it, yet I could not /lake off a peculiar nervous- ness which agitated me. I lay still for some time listen- ing to the deep and regular breathing of Ralph, and ever and anon as an owl screamed I would start, despite the famiharity of the cry. Just as I turned in my bed, and was trying to compose myself for sleep, I heard a cry very similar to the hoot of an owl ; still there was some- thing about the sound which did not sound right. My t i j ! I 1 f 1 I i! 1 i IK ,. i'' 278 STORY OP A LOO CABIN. heart commenced bejiting rapidly and a sweat started from my brow. I rose softly and looked through the chinks of the logs, but there was nothing to be seen. I listened attentively for at least an hour ; but heard no sound to confirm my fears ; and finally ashamed of my own nervousness, I coidd not call it cowanlice, I slipped into bed, determined to sleep if possible. .But soon I heard that same sound on the still air. I rose, dressed myself, but still I could see no form like that of an Indian. Just as I was on the point of abandoning my fears as idle and childish, I cast my eyes through an aperture between the logs ; and saw the dusky forms of several Indians moving about the yard. I sprang to the bedside, and awoke Ralph, and in a few moments more. Roe, Ralph, and myself, stood with ready guns, waiting for a chance to shoot. A shot passing through one of tlie savages, told the rest they were discovered ; and now a regular firing began. The Indians simultaneously uttered a fiendish sliout, such as no person can imagine who has not heard the Indian war-scream ; and then brandishing their tomahawks rushed upon the house and began hewing at the door. lit a moment we were all down stairs, and our fire became so fatal that tliey were forced to retire several times; but with desperate courage they returned to the attack. I never experienced the feehng of utter despair but once hi my Hfe; and that was then. Roe came running down stairs (whither he had gone for more ammunition) and with a face white STORY OF A LOO CABIN. 2l9 ; stai'tetl ugh the seen. I leard no 1(1 of my shpped ; soon I dressed at of an ling my )ngli an forms of ig to the ts more, waiting 1 one of nd now meously imagine d tlien use and vere all y were sperate rienced fe; and vhither white from terror, informed ns that tlie ammunition was expended. Here we were, surrounded by a host of savages, fastened in a small house, with nothing to defend ourselves, and the helpless women and children under the roof. * Let us open the door, and decide the contest hand to hand,' said Ralph Watts. * ! my family, my wife and children,' groaned Dar.iel Roe, 'let us defend the house to the last.' And with nerves strun"- like iron, and hearts swelled to desperation, we waited iu silence for the savages to hew their way through the door. The work was soon over, the savages uttered one deafening yell as the door gave way; and clubbing om guns we wielded them with giant energy. Tlie dark forms of the savages crowded the door-way, their eyes glared madly at us, and their painted features working into a hundred mahgnant and fiendish expressions, vvhicli, together with their horrid yells, and tlie more heart-rend- ing cries of women and children, all formed a scene of the most harrowing description. The battle was soon over. By some mishap I was hurled head foiemost out the door; but so intent were the savages upon tlie battle within, that they did not once notice me, as they rushed forward to the scene of action. ^SeeinQ,■ tliat all was lost, and that to remain would only be tlu'owing away my life uselessly, I sprang to my feet and slipping around tlie corner of the house I made my way over the old fortifica- tion (*) and soon left the noise far behind me. JMucli (*) Near the spot where the cabin stands are the remains of immense Works, but by whom and when built will forever remain hidden, u \ 280 STOllY OP A LOG CABIN. has been written find snitl of grief, but how little do we know of its poignant nature, till we sufter the loss of st)nie dear friend. 'Tis when we behold an object of deep affection lying passive and dead — but a thing of clay unconscious of the pain it gives, that we feel that mrroWf which language is too feeble to express. I found it so, when u[Km returning to the cabin a few hours afterward, 1 found the dead bodies of all my friends mutilated and weltering in their blood. Around the body of poor Ralph hiy six Indians, with their skulls beat in ; his gun furnishing evidence, by its mutilated state, of the force with which he had used it. My story is soon finished. As the tears streamed from my eyes, I dug a grave where I deposited the remains of my friends, and after placing a large stone above their resting place, I departed, wishing never to return to the spot again, and I never have." fcle do we lie loss of ^t of deep 1 of clay it sorrow, Hid it so, ifterward, luted and of poor ; his gun the force finished. Lve where r placing , wishing ave, V »* i IIAZEL-BROOK FARM. IJOBERT AINSLIE, with liis family, emigrated from Scotland about the year of 1843, and settled upon a new farm in tlie backwoods, in the township of R. in Eastern Canada. I can say but little regarding his early life, but have been informed that he was tlie eldest of quite a large family of sons and daughters; and also that he was a dutiful son as well as a kind and affectionate brother. It seems that he married quite early in life, and at that period he tended a small farm adjoining the one occupied by his father. Tlie utmost harmony existed between the two families, and they lived in the daily interchange of those little offices of love and kindness which render friends so dear to each other. Several years glided by in this happy manner, but reverses at length came ; and Robert formed the plan of emigrating to America. But when he saw how much his parents were grieved by the thought of his seeking a home on the other side of the Atlantic, he forbore to talk further of the matter, and decided to remain at home for another year at least. That year, a:' 284 HAZEL-BHOOK FARM, il 'fi however, proved a very unfortiniate one j his cro[)s were scanty ; and toward the spring lie met with some severe losses, by a distemper which broke ont among his farm stock. As the season advanced, he became so dis- heartened by his gloomy piospects, that he decided to carry out his former plan of emigrating to Canada; where he hoped by persevering industry to secure a comfortable home for himself and those dear to him. He had little dithculty in persuading his wife to accompany him, as her parents with her two brothers and one sister had emigrated some two years previous. It was more didi- cult, however, for him to persuade his father and mother that his decision was a wise one. ^^ If ye maun leave us,'' said his mother, " can ye no seek anither hame nearer han', an' no gang awa across the water to yon' wild place they ca' Canada ?" ^^ We maun try to be reasonable, woman," said his father, " but I canna deny that the thought o' our first born son gaun sae far awa gie's me a sair heart." It was equally hard for the son to bid farewell to the land of his birth, and of a thousand endearing ties ; but prudence whispered that now was his time to go, while he had youth and health, to meet the hardships that often fall to the lot of the emi- grant. When his parents saw how much his mind was set npon it they ceased to oppose his wishes, and with his wife and children, he soon joined the large numbers who, at that period, -were leaving the British, for the Canadian shores. .". HAZEL-BROOK FARM. 285 As may he readily supposed, the paiHiiijf between the two fainilies was a very sad one; but the last a»lieus were finally cxchanixed, and the poor emigrants were home away on the billows of the Atlantic. During th (irst few days c f their voyage they all, with i he exceptiot. of their youngest ciiild, suflered nuu*h from yea-sickness. Tliis child was a little girl about three years old ; and it seemed singular to them, that she should escape the sick- ness from which nearly all the passengers sulfered, more or less. They soon recovered ; the weather was tine, and many of their fellow passengers were very agreeable companions, and they began really to enjoy the voyage. l)ut this happy state of things was but of short duration. Their little girl, wee Susie, as they called her, was seized with illness. They felt but little anxiety at the first, think- ing it but ti slight indisposition from which she would soon recover ; but when day after day passed away with no visible change for the better they became alarmed, imd summoned the physician, who pronounced her disease a slow kind of fever, which he said often attacked those who escaped the sea-sickness. He told the anxious parents not to be aUirmed, as he hoped soon to succeed in checking the disease. But with all the physician's skill, aided by the unceasing attention of her fond parents, the sad truth that wee Susie was to die soon became evident. When the sorrowing parents became sensible that their child must die, they prayed earnestly that her life might be prolonged till they If 1 m KB ■ -V m 1 p,| H E'' ■ 1 ii! III! i H iTTrr- \ I 280 UAZEL-nnOOK FAPM. slioiiM read J tlio land. I^iit for some wise reasou their prayer was not granted ; and wlien their voynge was but litth; more tluiu lialf accomphshed she died, and they were forced to consign licr loved form to a watery grave. The hwely pratthng child liad Kon a general favourite with all on board, and her sudden deatli cast a gloom over tlie minds of all. Words would fail me to describe the grief of the parents and the two affectionate little brotliers when tl'ey realized tlint '^ wee Susie " wns indeed gone, and that they could never enjoy even the melancholy satisfnction of beholding her resting-place. Mr. Ainslie's domestic affections were very strong, and to him the blow was terrible. He now deeply regret- ted removing his fnn ly from their Scottish home, enter- taining tlie idea, that had tliey not undertaken tliis journey tlieir ci»ild migiit have been spared ; and he wrote bitter things against himself for the step lie had taken. Deep as was the mother's grief, she was forced to place a restraint upon it tliat she might comfort hei' almost heart-broken husband. Upon one occasion, in reply to some of his self upbraidings, she said, '' I think, Robert, you're ow're hard on yoursel' now, when ye tak the blame o' puir Susie's death ; ye surely canna think itherwise than the dear bairn's time had come ; an' iiad we bided at hame it would ha' been a' the same ; for we dinna leeve an' dee by chance, and the bounds o' our lives are set by Him who kens a' things." These con- soling words from his sympathising wife tended to IIAZEL-BROOK FARM. 287 liifliien, (» asion, 111 iii soim* uieasuro, tlio burden of sorrow uliicli [jprcssed his heart. The wejitlicr during tlu) latter part ol tlieir voyage was stormy and uncomfortable, and they were truly glad when they at length reached thr Cana- dian port. At the city of ^lontreal they parted with all tliose who had been tiieiv fellow passengers, as all except themselves were bound for the Upper Province, while they intended joining their friends in Lower Canada. In the days of which I am speaking the emigrant's journey from the city of Montreal to the townships was toilsome in the extreme ; and the same journey, which is now accomplished in a few hours by railway, was then the work of several days ; and the only mode of conveyance for themselves and their luggage, were the horse-carts hired for the occasion. But their fatiguing journey was at length terminated ; and they arrived safely at the bush settle- ment in R., where the friends of Mrs. Ainslie resided. That now thriving and prosperous settlement was then in its infancy, and possessed but few external attractions to the new comer ; for at the period when Mrs. Ainslie's parents settled there it was an unbroken wilderness. It is needless for me to add that the wayworn travellers met with a joyous welcome from the friends who had been long anxiously looking for their arrival. Mr. and Mrs. Miller were overjoyed to meet again their daughter from whom they had been so long separated by the deep roll of the ocean j and almost their first enquiry was for the '* wee lassie," who when they' left Scotland was less w f:l|j I '; •!f!| ■'■!? t. P lljii I , 288 IIAZEL-BtlOOK FARM. than a twelve moiitli old. jMr. Ainslie was unable to reply, and looked toward liis wife as if beseeching her to answer to their enquiry. Slie understood the mute appeal, and composing lierself by a. strong eftbrt said : " My dear father an' mither, a great grief has o'erta'en us sin' we left hame', an' our hearts are well-nigh broken ; we buried w^ee Susie in the caul waters o' the ocean." She endeavoured to relate to them the particulars of the child's death j but her feelings overcame her, and for some moments they could only weep to- getlier. When Mr. jMiller was able to command his voice he said, '^ God is good, my children, an' overrules a' things for our good, let us bow before Him in pruyer ;" and when they rose from their knees, tliey felt calmed and comforted, by the soothing influence of prayer. With the two boys, Geordie and Willie, fatigue soon got the better of their joy at meeting with their friends, and they were soon enjoying the sound sleep of healthfid childhood ; but with the elder members of the liunily, so much w^as there to hear and to tell that the liour w\ns very late when they separated to seek repose. Ml'. Ainslie decided upon purchasing a lot of land, lying some two miles north of the fiirm occupied by Mr. Miller. Although it was covered wnth a dense forest, its location pleased him, and the soil was excellent, and he looked forward to the time when he might there provide a pleasant home. They arrived at R. on tlie first of July. Theie were beside Mr. Miller but three HAZEL-BROOK FAtlM. 289 iiV)le to tr her to e mute rt said* L'ta'eu us broken •, oceau." vticulars )vercaine weep to- maiitl his overrules Him iu tiiey felt hieuce ol ie, fatigue with their sleep of |evs of the that tlie lek repose. |ana, lying [d by Mr. |ise forest, jUent, and light there oil the but three other families in the settlement ; but they were all very kind to the newly arrived strangers, and they assisted iMr. Ainslie in various ways while he effected a small clearing upon his newly purchased farm. They also lent him a willing hand in the erection of a small log house, to which he removed his fiimily in the fall, Mrs. Ainslie nnd the children having remained with her parents during the summer ; and kind as their friends had been, they were trnly glad when they found themselves again settled in a home of their own, however humble. They were peo[)le of devoted piety, and they did not neglect to erect the family altar the first night they rested beneath the lowly roof of their forest home. I could not, v\ere I desirous of so doing, give a detailed account of the trials and hardships they endured during the first few years of their residence in the bush ; but they doubt- less experienced their share of the privations and dis- couragements which fell to the lot of the first settlers of a new section of country. The first winter they passed in their new home was one of unusual severity for even the rigorous climate of Eastern Canada, and poor Mrs. Ainslie often during thnt winter regretted the willingness with which she bade adieu to her early home, to take up her abode in the dreary wilderness. They found the winter season very trying indeed, living as they did two miles from any iipighbour ; and the only road to the dwelling of a neighbour was a foot-track through the blazed trees, an4 the road, such as it was, was too seldom trodden i'-m li il y la :-'. li 1 El :<■ wM ■f!'«lfl Ml 290 llAZEL-BliOOK FARM. during the deep snows of winter, to render the fool marks discernible for any length of time. Their stores had all to be purchased at the nearest village, which wiis distant some seven miles, and Mr. Ainslie often found it very difficult to make his way through the deep snows which blocked up the roads, and to endure the biting frost and piercing winds on his journeys to and from the village. In after years when they had learned to feel .*i deep interest in the growth of tlie settlement, they often looked back with a smile to the ^Miome-sickiiess" which oppressed their hearts, while struggling with th in a shanty in the woods. The sugar-bush was about two miles from our dwelling, and I was much elated by the prospect ot being allowed to assist in the labors of sugar-making. My brothers laughingly remarked that I would probably have enough of the woods, and be willing to return home when night came, but I thought otherwise. During the afternoon I assisted in tending the huge fires, and the singing of the birds, and the chippering of the squirrels as they hopped in the branches of the tall trees, delighted me, and the hours passed swiftly bv, le i ; till the sun went down behind the trees and tl shades of evening began to gather about us. As the darkness increased, I began to think the sugar-bush not the most desirable place in the world, in which to pass i I>e ; jwkI I 1 to listen evenings, lit in our ht of 01(1 nine years jgnr bush tinned run cessav}' to night to mtion, my bush, and linkini? it ity in till' i from our rospect ol -makincf. probably ;urn home )uring the nres, and )g of the the tiill ,viftly by, and tlie As the bush not jh to pass OLD RIIFUS. 307 liie night, and all the stories I had ever heard of bears, wolves and other wild animals rushed across my mind, and tilled me with terror. I would have given the world, had it been at my disposal, to lia- e been safely at home; and it was only the dread of being laughed at, which prevent- ed me from begging my brothers to take me there. And when darkness had entirely settled over the earth, and the night-owls set up their discordant screams, my fears reached a climax. I luid never before listened to their hideous noise, and had not the slightest idea of what it was. I had often heard old liunters speak of a wild ani- mal, called the catamount, which they allowed had been seen in the Canadian forests during the early settlement of the country. I had heard tliis animal described as beingof large size, and possessing such strength and agility, as enabled them to spring from the boughs of one tree to those of another without tour'iing tlie ground, and at siicli times their savage cries were such as to fill the heart of the boldest hunter witli terror. I shall never forget the laugh which my grown-up brothers enjoyed at my expense when trembling with terror, I enquired if they thought a catamount was not approaching among the tree-tops. "•Do not be alarmed,'' said they, ^^for the noises which frighten you so much proceeds from nothing more formid- able than owls." Their answer, however, did not satisfy mdj and I kept a sharp look-out among the branches ol the surrounding trees lest the dreaded monster should de- scend upon us unawares. Old Rufus was boiling sap, half !■■!, if r. w 308 OLD RITFUP. -i m H a milelrojii us, and it wjisajoyl'iil iiioiiu'iil nl, and lie was glad at length to accept the situation of copyist in a Lawyer's Onice, till something better might oiler. His salary barely sulliced for tlieir support, yet they were thank- ful even for that. His constitution had never been robust, and the anxiety of mind under which he labored told severely upon his health. He exerted himself to the utmost, but his health failed rapidly; he was soon obliged to give up work, and in a little more than a year from the time of their removal to Toronto, lie died, leaving his wife and daugliter friendless and destitute. Tlieir situa- tion was extremely sad, when thus left alone ; they had made no acquaintances during the year they had resided in the city, and had no friend to whom they could apply for aid. After paying her husband's funeral expenses, Mrs. Harris found herself well-nigh destitute of money, and she felt the urgent necessity of exerting herself to obtain em- [doyment by which they at least might earn a subsistance* The widow and her daughter found much difficulty at first in obtaining employment. Some to whom they applied had no work; others did not give out work to i • 'ik: I: f 1 31G THE DIAMO.ND KTNO strangers; .'jihI for several 'lays ^^rs. Harris rctunird weary and flesponding to her home, after spending a large portion of tlieday in the thsagreeal)le task of seekiiiu employment from strangers ; hnt after a time she suc- ceeded in obtaining enijdoyment, and as their work proved satisfiictory they had soon an ample supply; bu( just when their prospects were beginning to brighten Mrs- Harris was visited by a severe ilhiess. They had been able to lay by a small sum previous to her illiK.'ss, and it was well they had dune so, Ibr during her sickness sli*' required almost tin; constant altenlion of her daughtei'^ which de[)rived tlunnolany means ofsu[)j>ort; but after several weeks of severe illness sli(> began slowly to recov(,'r, and this brings us to the time where our story opens. The ring which i\Irs. Harris held in her hand had been for many, many years an hiur-loom in the Knglisli family to which she belonged. To her it was iha r<>[M'r use of it, and be ' i*' .^ fit tfast, with their present lot of labor and toil. The shopkeeper burnished up th«-' setting of the diamonds and placed the ring among many others in the sh.ow-casc upon liis counter. But so expensive an ornament as this does not always find a leady purchaser, and for sonw months it remained unsold. One afternoon a gentleman entered the shop to make some trifling purchase, and, as the shopkeeper happened to be engaged with a customer, he remained standing at the counter, till he should be al leisure, and his eye wandered carelessly over tlie articles in the show-case. Suddenly he started, changed counten- ance, and when the shopkeeper came forward to attend to him he said in voice of suppressed eagerness, " will you allow me to examine that ring," pointing as he spoke to the diamond ring sold by Ellen Harris. *^ Certainly, Sir, certainly," said the obliging shop-keeper, who, hoping that the ring had at last found a purchaser, immediately placed it in his hand for inspection. Tlie gentleman turned the ring in his hand, and carefully examined the sparkling diamonds as well as the antique setting •, and )> Tlio support, em again lifficulty ?arly and ugh tlu-y iices, und Mit lot of liamonds low-casc inent as forsoiii'" iitleuiaii , and, as -istonier, uld bo at 3 articles :ounteu- attend will you !ipoke to dy, Sir, liopinu ediately ntleman ined tlie ig ; and THE DIAMOND RINU. 319 when lie observed th(; initials, e>\grav(Ml upon the inside, he grew pale as marble, dU(\ liu/iiedly addresseast middle age, his complexion was sallow and u. -^^ he was squint-eyed, and his hair, which had ol i of a reddish hue, was then a grizzly gray. '. 11 together he was a strange look- ing object, and I "^rceived that his mind wander- ii? li n 4 'h ^'i SI' 32G THE tJNFOKTMNATE MAN. ;«i'' eel. At first I Mt incliiiery, or iC 1^ I said, t caused " ''Oil, s worse am sure jealous vas with er; but, gravity story of in slow wonder do not," ' Think- ing lie miglit be liun<^ry, 1 tohl him I would direct him to a fiirm-liouiie, wlierc he would be sure lo obtain his supper. "No," replied ho, '' this is not one of my hungry days; I lind so many wiio will give me nothing to eat that when I get the oder of a meal I always eat whether I jun hungry or not, and I have been in luck to-day, for I have eaten five meals since morning ; and now 1 must lose no more time, for I have important business with tlie Governor of Canada and must retich Quebec to- morrow." I regarded the poor crazy being with a feeling of pity, as he walked wearily onward, and even the high-heeled boot did not conceal a painful lini[» in his gait. But I hnd not st^en the last of him yet. Some six months after, as I was visiting a friend who lived several miles distant, who s-hould walk in, about (Mght o'clock in the evening, but tlie '' unfortunate man." There had been a slight shower of rain, but not enough to nccount for the drenched stal;e of his clothing. ^' How did you get so wet I" encpiired ]\Ir. '^ O," replied he, '' I was crossing a brook upon a log, and I slipped oH' into the water ; and it rained on me at the same time, and between the two, I got a pretty smart ducking. They brought him some dry clothing, and dried his wet garments by the kitchen fire, and kindly allowed iiim to remain for the night. For several years, this man passed through 8. as often as two or three times during each year. He became so well known in tlie vicinity, that any one freely gave him a ¥ ! € i\l* f-- ■ i' tei--«i 1 y some 'e some ng was g to his nty but, lerican. it to 8., among ^- 'J PI) '•^l , THE OLD 8CII00L1I0USE. i( . ■ , »v lately viyitetl the time-worn buikliiig, where for a lengthened period, during my early years, I studied the rudiments of education'; and wliat a host of almost forgotten memories of the past came thronging back upon my mind as I stood alone — in that w^ell remembered room. I seemed again to hear the hum of youthful voices as tliey conned or recited their daily tasks, and, as memory recalled the years that had passed since we used there to assemble, I could not avoid -aying mentally : '^ My schoolmates, wdiere are they f Even that thought called to mind an amusing story related by a much loved companion who for a time formed one of our number. He w\is older than most of the other boys, and was a general favourite witli all. He was famous for relating funny stories, of which he had a never-failing supply ; and when the day was too stormy to allow of out-of- door sports, during the noon hour, we used to gather around the large stove which stood in tlie centre of the room and coax H. M. to tell us stories. :i ^^'^'^ -til •:»• i IIHLIl^li ■III! LJJHIIiqp I mmp . f 332 THE OLD SCIIOOLIIOUSE. The story wliicli recurred to iny iriiiid was of a poor Irishman, who, in describing a visit which he paid to the home of his childhood after a long absence, said : " At the sober hour of twilight, I entered the lonely and desarted home uv me forefathers, an' as I gazed about the silent walls, I said, ' me fathers, where are they V an' did not echo answer, Ms that you Pathrick O'Flannigan, sure V " I was in no mood for laughter, and yet I could not repress a smile, as memory recalled the comical voice and inimitable gestures with which young II. M. related the story. He was belov^ed by us all, and when he left, school we parted from him w^itli real sorrow. As I walked around, and looked upon the worn and defaced desks, I observed the initials of many once familiar names which many years before had been formed with a knife, which were not so much obliterated but I could easily deciphet the well known letters. That desk in the corner was occupied by two brothers who when they grew up removed to one of the Eastern States, where they enlisted as soldiers in the war between the North and South. One of the brothers received his death- wound on the })attleneld. In a foreign hospital he lin- gered in much suffering for a brief period, when he died and was buried, far from his home and kindred. The younger brother was naturally of a tender constitution and was unable to endure the hardships and privations of a soldier's life. His health failed him, and he returned THE OLD SCHOOLIIOUSE. 333 a pooi lie paid e, said : loly and d about oy V an' mnigan, uld not al voice . related n he left . As 1 defaced ir names a knife, Id easily in the en they where e North death- he lin- he died U. The titution itions of eturned to liis friends, who had left their Canadian home, and removed to the State of Massachusetts ; but all that the most skilful physicians could do, aided by the most watch- ful care of his tender mother, failed to check the ravages of disease. Consumption had marked him for its prey, and he died a few months after leaving the army •, and, as his friends wept over his grave, they could see with their mind's eye another nameless grave in a far-way Southern State, where slept the other son and l)rother. The desk on my left hand was occupied by a youth, who has been for many years toihng for gold in California ; and I have learned that he has grown very rich. I often wonder if, in his eager pursuit after riches, in that far-oil' clime, he ever thhiks of the little brown school-house by the butternut trees, and of the smiling eager group who used daily to meet there. On^i large family of brothers and sisters, who attended this school for several years, afterward removed with their parents to one of the Western States, and years have passed away since I heard of tiiem ; but along with many otliers they were recalled to mind by my visit to the old School-House. On the opposite side of the room is the range of desks which were occupied by the girls, and I could almost fancy that I again saw the same lively, restless group who filled those desks in the days of long-ago. Again I saw the bright smile which was often'Jiidden from the searching eye of our teacher, behind the covers of the well-worn spelling-book, again I saw the mischievous "STi ■ i ■^ ^ 334 THE OLD SCIIOOLIIOUSE. glances, and heard the smothered laughter when the at- tention of the teacher was required in some other part of the room. But these happy careless days of childhood are gone never to return. Were I inclined, I could trace the after- history of most of the companions wliom I used daily to meet in this school-room. With many of them ^Mife's history" is done, and they sleep peacefidly in the grave. Others have gone forth to the duties of life ; some far distant, others near tlieir paternal homes. Many of the number have been succesful in life, and prospered in tiieir undertai^ings, while others have met with disappointment and misfortune. It seemed some- wliat singular to me that, as I stood alone in that room (after the lapse of so many years), I couhl recollect, by the name, eacli companion I used to meet there ; yet so it was, and it seemed but as yesterday since we used daily to assemble there ; and, when I reflected for a moment on the many changes to wOiich I have been sub- jected since that period, I could hardly realize tliat I was one and the same. I lingered long at the old School- House, for I expected never to behold it again, having been informed that it vyas shortly to give place to a build- ing of a larger size, and of more modern structure. jMtMtH^ s «' 1 the at- art of the are gone ho after- daily to in the ; of hfe ; [ homes, life, and lave met ed some- lat room )llect, by :•; yet so we used ted for a jeen sub- liat I was . School- 1, having a a build- re. '''f^ I i. !;i !■ I »i • ""wajn AKTllUIi 8IX(JLxVli{. OR several hours we liud eiidiired the iohiiiir of the lumbering stage-coach over a rougli hilly road which led through a portion of the State of New Hampshire ; and, as the darkness of night gathered around us, 1, as well as my fellow-travellers, beg.in to manifest impatience to arrive at our stopping- place for the night ; and we felt strongly inclined to find fault with the slow motion of the tired horses, which drew the heavily-loaded vehicle. Thinking it as well to know t'le worst at once, I asked the driver '' what time we might expect to reach our destination for the night?" ''It will be midnight at the least, perhaps later," replied he. This news was not very cheering to the weary travellers who filled the coach ; and I almost regretted having asked the question. The roughness of the roads, together with the crowded state of the vehicle, made it impossible for any one to sleep, and it became an important question how we should pass away the tedious hours. A proposition was at length made, that some one of tlie passengers m 1 I 4: Ik ■ > ft 5 ;ritt. n V 1 1 ^^H II 8.38 ARTHUR SINCLAIR. rIjoiiM relate a story for the eiitertaiiimoiit of the others. This proposal met with the heaity approval of all, as a means of making our toilsome journey seem shorter; and the question of who should relate the story was very soon agitated. There was among the passengers one old gentleman of a very pleasant and venerable appearance, and judging from his countenance that he possessed intelligence, as well as experience, we respect- fully invited him to relate a story for our entertainment. '' I am not at all skilled in story-telling," replied the old gentleman, but, as a means of passing away the tedious hours of tlio uncomfortable ride, I will relate some circumstances which took place many years since, and which also have connection with my present journey, although the narrative may not possess much interest for uninterested strangers." We all placed ourselves in a listening attitude, and the old man began as follows : '^ I was born in the town of Littleton in this State, and when a boy, I had one school-mate, whom I could have loved no better had he been a brother. His name was Arthur Sinclair. And the affectionate intimacy winch existed between us for many years is yet to me a green spot in the waste of memory. I was about twelve years of age when Arthur's parents came to reside in Little- ton. That now large and thriving village then contained but a few houses, and when, the Sinclairs became our neigbours, we soon fovi-iied a very pleasing acquaintance. I was an only child, and had never been much given to of the, roval of y seem le story isengeis !nerablc that he respcet- Liinneiit. replied way the 11 relate rs since, journey, erest for 'es in a follows : ate, and lid have me was r which a green ^e years Little- ntained mic our intance. iven to AUTllUR SINCLAIR. 339 milking companions of the neighhouring hoys of my own age; butfronthe first I felt strongly attracted toward Arthur Sinclair. He was two years younger than myself. At the time when I first met him he was the most per- fect specimen of childish beauty I ever saw, and added to this he possessed a most winning and aflectionate dis- position, and in a sliort time we became almost insepara- ble companions. My nature was distant and reserved, but if once I made a friend, my affection for him was deep and abiding. We occupied the same desk in the village school, and often conned our daily lessons from tlie same book, and out of school hours, shared the same sports ; and I remember once hearing our teacher laugh- ingly remark to my parents, that he believed, should he find it necessary to correct one of us, the other w^ould beg to share the punishment. Notwithstanding the strong friendship between us, our dispositions w^ere very unlike. From a child I was prone to fits of depres- sion, while Arthur on the other hand possessed such a never-failing flow of animal spirits, as rendered him at all times a very agreeable companion; and it may be that the dissimilarity of our natares attracted us all the more strongly to each other ; be that as it may the same close intimacy subsisted between us till we reached the years of early mar " 1. The only fault I could ever see in Arthur was that of being too easily persuaded by others, without pausing to think for himself; and being the elder of the two, and of a reflective cast of mind, as we I » '.\ ^ i V- t 840 ARTllUIl SINCLAIR. ^ ''tt m grew up, I ofton luul misgivings for him when he should go forth from his liome, and mingle with the world at larrjo. The intimncy between us allowed ine to sneak freely to him, and I often reminded him of tlie necessity of watchfulne.ss nnd eonsideration, when he sliould go forth alone to mnkc his way in a selfish and unfeeling world. lie used to make liglit o'' what he termed my ^^ croak- ing" and say I need have nu fours of him ; and I believe lie spoke from the sincerity of his good intentions; he thouglit all others as sincere and open-hearted as himself, and happy had it been for him if he had found them so. Arthur received a very good business education, and, when he reached the nge of twenty-one, obtained the situation of book-keeper in an extensive mercantile house in the city of Boston. There was a young girl in our village to whom Arthur had been fondly attached since the days of his boyhood, and I need scarcely say the attachment was reciprocal, and tliat before he left home he placed the engagement ring on her finger, naming no very distant period \\hen he hoped to replace it by the wedding ring. Behnda Merril was worthy in every way of his aifection, and loved him with all the sincerity of of a pure and guileless heart. I almost wonder tliat the shadows which were even then gathering in what to them had ever been a summer sky, did not cast a chill over her heart. In due time Arthur went to the city. I could not help my feais, lest his pleasing manners and AIlTIIUR SINCLAIR, 341 slioulu world at sneak iccessity ! slioiiM mfeeliiig '^ croak- 1 believe ions; he i himself, them so. ion, and, obtained lercantile ig girl in attached rcely say e he left r, naming ace it by in every ncerity of r that the what to st a chill the city, nners and Ivv'C of company slionld attract to him those who would len.4 him into evil ; but I strove to banisii them, and hope for tiie b(!st. Our pastor, an old man, vidio hud known Arthur from his childhood, called upon him, pre- vious to his departure f>'om iiome, and, without wearying him with a long list of rules and regulations regarding his future conduct, s[)oke to him as friend speaks to friend, and in a judicious manner administered some very good advice to the vouth who was almost as dear to him as his own son. The young man listened attentively to the words of his faithful friend and sincerely thanked him for the advice which he well knv.w was prompted by aflection. During the first year of his residence in the city, we wrote very frequently to each other, and the tone of his letters indicated the same pure principles which had ever governed his actions. Time passed on, and by-and-bye, I could not fail to notice the change in in the style of his letters. He spoke much of the many agreeable acquaintances he had formed, and of the amusements of the city, and was warm in his com- mendations of the Theatre. My heart often misgave me as I perused his letters, and I mentally won- dered where all this was to end? After a tvvc- years' absence, he retuned to spend a few weeks at home in Littleton, but he seemed so unlike my former friend, that I could hardly feel at ease in his society. He Tiever once alluded to any incidents of our school days, as he used formerly so frequently to do, and objects 1 I it !'• ■ : a42 ARTHUR SINCLAIR. ol' I'oniuu' iiiit'rr.st posseH.sed noiu' (or liiiii now. lf»( called I/ittlotoii n '^-iMTibly stupid [)1ji('0," and sctMiiod anxiously to look forward to liis niturn to lioston. ** Surely," said I to him one evening as we were engaged in conversation, ^^ Littleton unjst still contain one attraction for you yet." lie appeared not to compre- hend my meaning, but I well knew his ignorance was only feigned. But when he saw that I was not to be put olV in that way, he said with a tone of assumed indifl'erence, " O ! if it is Belinda Merril you are talking about, I have to say that she is no longer an object of interest to me." '^ Is it possible, Arthur," said I, 'Mhat you mean \.iiat you say, surely an absence of two years has not caused you to forget the love you have borne ]\Iiss ]\[erril from childhood. I am very much surprised to hear you speak in tliis manner." A flusli of anger, at my plain reply, rose to his cheek, and he answered in ji tone of dis- pleasure : "I may as well tell you fu'st as last, my ideas have nndergone a change. I did once think I loved Belinda Merril, but that was before I had seen the world, and now the idea to me is absurd of introducing this awkward country girl as my wife among my ac- quaintances in the city of Boston. I once had a sort of liking for the girl, but I care no longer for her, and the sooner I break with her the better, and I guess she won't break her heart about me." *' I hope not indeed," I replied, " but I must be allowed to say that I consider your conduct unmanly and dishonourable, and I would AUTnun siNCLAin. 348 ailvisc yoii, bcforo proceeding furilirr, to jiausc nud reflect wliether it is really your heart which dictates your actions, or only a foolish fancy." Knowing how deeply Miss Merril was attached to Arthur, I hoped he would reconsider the matter, and I said as much to him ; but all I could say was of no avail, and that very evening he called and, requesting an inter- view with his betrothed, informed her that, as his sentiments toward her had changed, he presumed she would be willing to release him from their former en- gagement. Instantly Miss Merril drow from her finger the ring he had placed there two years before, and said, as she placed it in his hand, '^ I have long been sensible of the change in your sentiments, and am truly glad that you iiave at last spoken plainly. From this hour you may consider yourself entirely free, and you have my best wishes for your future happiness and prosperity," and, bidding him a kind good-evening, the young lady left the apartment. Her spirit was deeply wounded, but she possessed too much good sense to be utterly cast down for the wrong-doing of another. Whatever wx're Arthur's feelings after he had taken this step, he spoke of them to no one. I never again mentioned the subject tc him, but, knowing him as I did, I could see that he w\is fur from being satisfied with his owm conduct, and he departed for the city some wrecks sooner than he had at fiist intended. Owing to the friendly feeling I had ever cherished for him, I coidd not help a feeling of t 5 i ■■ ■ \ ...it If rirj- 344 AllTJIUK SlNCLAIIl. anxiety after liis (h'parture, for I feni'ed that all was not riglit witli liini. lie did not entirely cense from writing to nie ; l)ut his letters were not fre(iiient, and tliey were very brief and formal — very unlike the former brotherly communications which \\hca\ to pass between us. A year passed away. I obtained a situation m*arly a ImndnMl miles from home. I liad heard nothing from Arthur for a long time, and, amid my own cares, lie recurred to my mind with loss frequency tlian formerly ; yet often after the business of the day was over, and my mind was at leisure, memory would recall Arthur Sinclair to my mind with a pamed sort of interest. About six months after I left home I was sur[)rised by receiving from ]Mr. Sinclair a hastily written letter, rerjuestingmt;, if possible, to lose no time in liastiuiing to Littleton, stating also that he was obliged to take a journey to Boston onbuvsi- ncss whicli vitally concerned Arthur, and he wished me to accompany him. lie closed by requesting me to mention the letter I had received from him to no one, saying that he knew me and my reganl for Arthur sulli- eiently well to trust me in the matter. My fears were instantly alive for Arthur, and I feared that some mis- fortune to him was hidden behind this veil of secresy : and 1 soon found that my foju's were well founded. I set out at once for Littleton, and upon arriving there I proceeded directly to the residenco of Mr. Sinclair. When he met mo at tlic door I was struck by the change in his countenance ; he appeared as if ten years liad been 'il been ARTlirU SINCLAIU, 345 mUhid to his ngo since I last saw liiin, six moutlis ago. llo waited not for !iic to make any inquiries, but, motion- ing me into a private apartment, he closer! the door, and Negating himself by my side, said in a hoarse voice : '' I may as well tell you the worst at once : my son, and also your once dear friend, Arthur, is a thief, and, but for the hniity and consideration of his employer, before this tijnc would have been lodged within the walls of a prison." I made no reply, but gazed upon hhn in silent astonish- ment and horror. When he became more composed, lie informed mo that he had lately received a letter from ]\Ir. AVorthing (Arthur's employer) informing him that he had detect(Ml Arthur in the crime of stealing money from the safe, to fjiiite a large amount. In giving the particuhirs of the unfortunjtte circumstance, he further stated, for some time past he had missed ditlcrcnt sums of money, but was unable to attach suspicion to any one ; ''and, although/' said he, ^' I have been for some time fearful that your son was associating with evil compan- ions, I never once dreamed that he would be guilty of the crime of stealing, till I lately missed bank-notes from the safe, to quite a large amount, having upon them some peculiar marks wdiich rendered them easy to be identi- fuul. For some time the disappearance of those notes was a mystery, and I was beginning to despair of detect- ing the guilty one, when I obtained proof positive that your unfortunate son parted with those identical notes in a noted gambling saloon in the city ; and, as I have . ■ n ■ ' ti's 846 ARTHUR SINCLAIR. i also learned that he has spent money freely of late, I have no longer any doubt that it is he who has stolen the other sums I have lost. Out of regard to you and your flmiily I have kept the matter perfectly quiet ; indeed, I ne^er informed the parties who told me his losing the notes at the gaming-table that there was anything wrong about it. I have not mentioned the matter to your son, and shall not do so till I see or hear from you. I pre- sume you will be willing to make good to me the money I have lost. Of course I cannot much longer retain your son in my employ, but he must not be utterly ruined by this aflair being made public. I would advise you to come at once to Boston, and we will arrange matters in the best possible manner, and no one but ourselves need know anything of the sad aflair ; let him return with you for a time to his home, and I trust the lesson will not be lost upon him. When he first came to the city, I am positive that he was an honourable and pure-minded young man, but evil companions have led him astray, and we must try and save him from ruin." I had never seen Mr. Worthing, but I at once felt much respect for him, for the lenity and discretion he had show^n in the matter. To no one but his own family and myself did Mr. Sinclair reveal the contents of that letter ; but the very evening after my arrival in Littleton we set out on our journey to Boston, and, upon arriving there, we proceeded at once to the residence of Mr. Worthing, where we learned all tlie particulars of Arthur's guilt. Mr. J\ i,l 1 ARTHUR SINCLAIR. 34? , I have le other ' fiimily deed, I iing the 5 wrong 3ur son, I pre- money lin your ined by you to tters in es need •u with son will 16 city, minded astray, ce felt he had lily and letter ; we set there, jrthing, lit. Mr. Worthing stated that he had ever entertained a very high opinion of Arthur, and, when he missed various sums of money in a most unaccountable manner, he never thought of fixing suspicion upon him, till circumstances came to his knowledge which left no room for doubt j but, owing to the high regard he entertained for his parents, with whom he had (years since) been intimately acquainted, he said nothing to the young man of the proofs of his dishonesty which had come to his knowledge, and still retained him in his employ till he could communicate with his father, tliat they together might devise some means of prevent- ing the affair ^from becoming public. After Mr. Sinclair had listened to the plain statement of the affair by jVIr. Worthing, he requested him as nearly as possible to give liim an estimate of the amount of money he had lost. He did so, and Mr. Sinclair immediately placed an equivalent sum in his hands, saying : ''I am glad to be able so far to undo the wrong of which my son has been guilty." All this time Arthur knew nothing of our arrival in the city *, but when his father dispatched a message, request- ing him i:o meet him at the house of his employer, he was very soon in our presence. I hope 1 may never again witness another meeting like that one, between the father and son. When charged w^ith the crime, Arthur at first made a feeble attempt at denial, till finding the strong proofs against him, lie owned all with shan^e and humiliation of countenance. The stern grief of Mr. Sin- clair was something fearful to witness, *' How could you" 5' ' 4 l--':\ 11 348 ARTIJLR SINCLAIR. ( I said he, addressing Arthur, " commit so base a deed ? Tell me, my son, in what duty I have failed in your early training 1 I endeavored to instil into your mind prin- ciples of honor and integrity, and to enforce the same by setting before you a good example. If I have failed in any duty to you, it was through ignorance, and may God forgive me if I have been guilty of any neglect in your education." Trembling with suppressed emotion Arthur replied : ^' You are blameless, my father ; on me alone must rest my sin, for had I obeyed your kind counsels, and those of my dearest friend, (pointing to me) I should never have been the guilty wretch I am to-day." Turning to me, he said : '^ Many a time wnthin the last few^ months have 1 called to mind the lightness with which I laughed aw-iy your fears for my safety, when I left home for the city. O! that I had listened to your friendly warning, and followed the path which you pointed out for me. AVhen I first came to the great city, I was charmed with the novelty of its never-ceasing scenes of amusement and pleasure. I began by mingling with compacy, and par- ticipating in amusements, which, to say the least of them, were questionable ; and I soon found my salary inadequate to meet my fast increasing wants for money; and, as many an unfortunate youth has done before, I began the vice of gambling with the hope of being one of the lucky ones. My tempters, no doubt, understood their business, and at first allowed me to win and ARTHUR SINCLAIR. 349 tVoiii them cousidtM'iible sums of money ; till, elated with my success, I began playing for higher stakes, and when I lost them, I grew desperate, and it was then that I began adding the sin of theft to the no less heinous one of gambling. But it is no use now to talk of the past ; my character is blasted, and all I wish is to die and hide my guilt in the grave, and yet I am ill- prepared to die." He became so much excited, that we endeavored to soothe him by kind and encouraging words, llis father bade him amend liis conduct for the future, aud he w^onld freely forgive and forget the past. In my piety for my early friend, I almost forgot the wTong he had done, and thought only of the loved companion of my boyhood and youth. I cannot des- cribe my feelings, as I gazed upon the shame-stricken young man, whom I had so often caressed in the days of our boyish aflection and confidence. Little did I then think I should ever behold him thus. The utmost secrecy was observed by all parties ; and it was decided that we would remain for the night with j\Ir. Worthing, and, accompanied by Arthur, set out early the next morn- ing on our homeward journey. But it was ordered other- wise. The next morning Arthur was raving in delirium of brain fever, brought, on doubtless, by the mental torture he had endured. Mr. Sinclair dispatched a message, informing his wife of Arthurs illness, and three days later she stood by the bed-side of her son. For several days the fever raged. We allowed no stranger to watcli by ■ti ■it' ■•I 'i it •3 •ft .1! ** 350 ARTHUR SINCLAIR. I .t'B-n m him, for in liis delirium his mind dwelt continually upon the past, and no one but ourselves must listen to liis words. Mr. Worthing was very kind, and shared tlie care of the poor young man with his parents and myself. At length came the crisis of his disorder. ''Now," said the physician, ''for a few liours, his life will hang, as it were, upon a thread. If the powers of life of are not too far exhausted by the disease he may rally but I have many fears, for he is brought very low. All the encourage- ment I dare offer that is, while there is life there is hope." He sunk into a deep sluiu])er, and I took my place to watch by him during the night. Mr. Worthing persuaded his parents to seek a few hours rest, as they were worn out with fatigue and anxiety j and exacting from me a promise that I would summon them if the least change for the worse should take place, they retired, and I was left to watch alone by my friend. All I could do was to watch and wait, as the hours passed w^earily on. A little before midnight the physician softly entered, and stood with me at his bed-side ; soon after ho languidly opened his eyes, and in a whisper he pronounced my name. As I leaned over him, and eagerly scanned his counten- ance, I perceived that the delirium of fever was gone. The physician, fearing the eilect upon him of the least exciic- ment, made a motion to me enjoining silence, and mixing a quieting cordial, held to his lips. He eagerly quaffed the cooling draught, and again fell into a quiet slumber. " Now," said the physician, "I have a faint hope that ho inn ARTHUR SINCLAIR. 851 may recover, but he is so weak that any excitement would prove fatfil; all depends upon keeping him per- fectly quiet for the next few hours." The doctor departed, and again I was left alone to watch over his slumber. Before morning, anxiety brought Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair to the room, to learn if there had been any change. In ■ 1. :.«i 'if 352 ARTHUR SINCLAIR. arrived safely at their liomo, accompanied by tlieir son, who seemed to tlieni almost as one restored from the dead. The imfortunate circumstances connected with Arthur's illness were a secret locked up in the bosoms of the few faithful friends to whom it was known. Arthur arose from that bed of sickness a changed man, and it was ever after to him a matter of wonder how he couhl have been so flu* led astray, and he felt the most unbounded gratitude to IMr. AVorthing for tlie kindness and consideration he had shown him. His fatlier did quite an extensive business as a merchant in Littleton, and as Arthur ])ecame stronger he assisted in the store ; and after a time his fatlier gave him a partnership in the business, which rendered his again leaving home unnecessary. A correspondence, varied occasionally by friendly visits, was kept up between the Sinclairs and tlu* family of Mr. Worthing; for Arthur never could forget the debt of gratitude he owed his for- mer employer. I have little more to tell, and I will bring my long and, I fear somewhat tedious, story to a close, by relating one more event in the life of my friend. I resided at a quite a long distance from Littleton, and some two years after Artlmr's return home, I was surpri-ied by receiving an invitation from him to act as groomsman at his wedding, and the bride was to be Miss jMerrill. I know not exactly how the reconciliation took place. But I understood that Arthur first sought an interview with the young lady, and humbly acknowledged the wrong of which he had been guilty, saying, what was indeed ^IW;: AliTIIl'R SIXCLAIK. eir son he (lead. (Vrtlmr's of tlic ur arose vas ever ive been ratitude II he had business strono'cr ler gave L'red his )ndence, between • Arthur liis for- llbrincf ose, by I'esided ne two ■led \)\ msnian JMerrill. place. erview |3 wroni" indi true, that Ik; had ever loved her, and he kjiew nol what infatuation influenced Iiini in his former conduct. Many censured Miss Merrill for her want of spirit, astliey termed it, in again receiving his aiMresses, ))ut I was too well pleased by his happy terminafion of the affair to censure any one connected with it. Tlie wedding day was a happy one to those most d('e])ly concerned, and sucli being the case, the oi»inion of others was of little con- sequence; and the clouds wliich had for a time dark- ened their sky, left no sha., THE SNOW 8T0RM. cvt'iit 1 am about to relate liappeued inaiiy yeara ago, but I have often heard it iiieiitioiied by those to whom all the circum- Htances were well known • and, when listen- ing to this story, I have often thought that there is enough cf interest attached to many events which took place during the period of the early settlement of that ])ortion of Eastern Canada wliich borders on the River St. Francis, to fdl volumes, were they recorded. The morning had been clear and pleasant, but early in the afternoon the sky be ame overcast with dark clouds, and for several hours t^ d snow fell unceasingly, and now the darkness of nigh was added to the gloomy scene. As the night set in, the snow continued to fall in a thick shower, and a strong easterly wind arose, which filled the air with one blinding cloud of drifting snow j and the lights in the scattered habitations in the then primitive settlement of D. could scarcely be distinguished amid the thick darkness. It was a fearful night to be abroad upon that lonely and almost impassable road j and Mrs. W. fully realized the peril to which her husband was i 358 THE SNOW STOUM. ¥M ;«l ¥m 1 i'"H : ^ fl i m '1 ^^'^^n s m 'f exposed on thut iiulement night. lie had set out tlint morning, on foot, to visit a friend, who resided at a dis- tance of several miles, intending to return to his homo at an early hour in the evening. It was a lonely road over which he had to pass ; the habitations v/ere fev/ and far between, and, as the storm increased witli the fipproach of night, Mrs W. strongly hoped that bar hus- band had been persuaded to pass the night with his friend ; for she feared that, had he been overtaken by tiie darkness of night, he would perish in the storm; and the poor woman was in a state of painful anxiety and suspense. The supper-tnblc was spread, but Mrs W. was unable to taste food; and, giving the children their suppers, she awaited with intense anxiety the return of her husband. The storm increased till it was evident that it was one of mmsual sev^erity, even for the rigorous climate of Canada, and, as the wind shook the windows of their dwelling, the children often exclaimed in tones of terror : '' ! what .v^ill become of poor father if he is out in this storm." Bye-and-bye the tired children fell asleep, and Mrs. W. was left alone by her fireside. Slie endeavoured to iiuiet her fears by thinking him safe in the house of his friend, but she could not drive away the thought that he had set out upon his return home, and she feared, if sucl was the case, he had met his death in that pitiless storm. She was two miles from any neighbour, surrounded by her family of young children; so all she could do was to wait and rZi^- THE SHOVf STORM. 359 wutcli as the liours wore on. Sleep was out of tlie ques- tion, and die dawn of day found her still keeping her lonely vigil. As the sun rose the wind calmed, but the thick drifts of snow rendered it impossible for her to leave the liouse, and she watched anxiously if any one rniglit chance to pass, to whom she could apply for assistance in gaining tidings of her husband. Alas ! her fears of the ]>revious night were but too well founded. He had perished in the storm. IT'S friend tried his utmost to persuade him to remain for the night when the storm began, but he was anxious to return to his home, fearing the anxiety of his family : and he left his friend's house about four o'clock in the afternoon. The weather v/as intensely cold, as well as stormy, and, owing to the deptli of snow which had already fallen, he could make but slow ]>rogress, and, when ovei'taken by darkness and tlie in- creasing tempest, benumbed witli cold, and blinded by the whirling drifts of snow, he sunk down by tlie road- side to die, and the suspense of his wife was nt length relieved by the painful certainty of his fate. About noon on the day succeeding the storm, as Dr. S. was slowly urging his horse onward, in order to visit a patient who resided in the vicinity, he observed some object lying almost concealed in the snow. Stopping his horse, he left his sleigh to examine it, and was horror- struck to find it the body of a man. Tliinking that, pos- sibly, life was not extinct, he took the body into his slei^rh and made all possible haste to the nearest dwelling, where l:i:l ' I i ^^H9 ''^B~^^H '^^B^^hH iff 360 THE SNOW STORM. every means was used fortlie recovery of Mr. W. ; litit, all w^as of no avail, he was frozen to death. It was tin; kind physician himself who first bore the sad tidings to Mrs. W. When the lifeless body of the husband and fatlicr was borne to his own dwelling, I liave heard tlie scene described by those who witnessed it, as most heart-ren.: By ' ? iW m. iii^ C€f? IMT ^i^;^ &.;£% '<-mr ,Ih t 1 i GO 'YUK NEW YEAK. ''! '•■I NnTilEK year has just glickMl away, aiiavored to quiet him by many kind and soothing words, explaining to him, so far as the child was able to comprehend his meaning, that the soul of his mamma was now in Heaven, but that it was necessary that her dead body should be buried in the grave ; and that although he would see her no more in this world he would, if he were a good boy, meet her one day in Heaven. The child still continued to weep, though less bitterly than before, — and when the grave had been fdled up he quietly allowed Mr. Humphrey to lead him from the church-yard. In order that the reader may understand the event above narrated, it is necessary tliat I sliould go back a little in my story. A few weeks previous to the circumstance related at the opening of this chapter a pale weary-looking woman, leading by the hand a httle boy, might have been seen walking one evening along the principal street of the small village of Walden. Although her dress was extremely plain, yet there was a certain air of refinement about her which informed the observer that she had once occupied a position very different from what was indicat- ed by her present appearance. The little boy by her side was indeed a child of surpassing beauty. His complex- ion was clear and foir, and a profusion of dark brown hair clustered in thick curls around his full white brow. His childish features were lighted up by large and expressive eyes of a dark hazel color. He was a child which the THE ADOPTED SON. S^l I 1 most careless observer would liardly pass by without turning to gaze a second time upon his wondrous beauty. I have been thus particuhu* in describing the little boy as he is to be the principal actor in the simple scenes of my story. As they walked slowly forward the woman addressed the child in a voice that was weak and tremulous from fatigue, saying,— " We must call at some house and seek a shelter for the night, for indeed I am unable to walk fuither." It required not this remark from her to satisfy the be- holder of her inability to proceed, for extreme fatigue and exhaustion were visible in her every motion. She approached the door of a handsome dwelling si- tuated in the central portion of the village, and rang the bell. The door was opened by an elderly-looking man, who accosted her civilly and seemed waiting for her to make known her errand. In a low and timid voice the woman asked him if he would allow herself and child to rest for the night beneath his roof? He replied, in a voice that was decidedly gruff and crusty, — "Tiierearo two hotels in the village; we keep no tra- vellers here," and immediately closed the door in her face. Could he have seen the forlorn expression that settled on her countenance when, on regaining tlie street, she took her little boy by tlie hand and again walked slowly ' I i ii'f 372 EARNEST IIAUWOOD ; OK onward — his heart must indeed have been hard it lie had not repented of his nnkindness. After walking a short distance further, the woman paused before a house of much humbler appearance than the former one, an 1, encouraged by the motherly appear- ance of an elderly lady who sat knitting at her open door in the lingering twihght, she drew nigh to her, and asked if she would shelter herself and child for the night. The old lady regarded her earnestly for a moment ', she seemed, however, to be impressed favorably by her ap- pearance, for her voice was very pleasant, as she replied to her request, — ^' Certainly you can remain for the night, for I have never yet denied so small a favor (as a shelter for the night) to any one who sought it. Come in at once, and I will endeavor to make you and your little boy comfor- table, for you look very much fatigued." The woman gladly followed the kind old lady into the house, and seated herself in the comfortable rocking chair which she had kindly placed for her ; she also placed a seat for the child, but he refused to leave his mother's side, and stood leaning upon the arm of her chair. The old lady soon after left the room saying, as she did so, that she would soon bring them some refreshment, of wiiich they evidently stood much in need. Mr. Humpiirey, the husband of the old lady, soon came in, and his wife said a few words to him in a low voice in the adjoining room ; a kind expression was upon THE ADOPTED SON. 37S t upon bis couiitonauce vvlicii he entered the room where were the strangers, lie coaxed the little boy to come and sit upon his i^nee, by the otier of a large red-cheeked apple which he took from his pocket. He stroked his brown curls and asked him to tell him his name. ^^ Ernest Ilarwood," repli id the boy. Mr. Iluniphrey told him he thought it a very nice name, and also that he thought him a very fine little boy. The little fellow blushed, and hid his face at the praise thus bestowed upon him. Mrs. Iluniphrey soon after re-entered the room, bring- ing a small tea-tray, on which was a cup of tea and some other siiitable refreshment for the weary woman ; she also brouglit a bowl of bread and milk for the child. The woman drank the tea eagerly, like one athirst, but par- took sparingly of the more substantial refreshment which Mrs. Humphrey urged upon her ; but the sight of the brim-full bowl of bread and milk caused the eyes of the little boy to glisten with pleasure, and he did ample justice to the hospitality of the benevolent old lady. Mrs. Harwood wished to give Mrs. Humphrey some account of the circumstances which caused her to be travelling alone with her child, but the worthy and con- siderate lady would not allow her to further fatigue her- self by talking that night, and insisted upon her retiring at once to rest. ^^ To-morrow," said she, '^ I shall be happy to listen to any thing you may wish to communicate," It 874 EARNEST IIAKWOOD.' Mrs. Humplircy coiKlucted the woman and Iut child up stairs to a neat bed-room vvliere, after making eveiy arrangenient necessary to t!'eir comfort, slie bade them a kind good night, and left them to enjoy the rest whicli they so much needed. i i I CliAPTER II. :; » HKN Mrs. Huin[)hroy rejjiiied lior luishancl in tlie tlie sitting-rooin, their conversation very natu- rally turned to the stranger who was resting beneath their roof. They evidently felt deeply interested by her delicate and lady-like appearance. '' I am sure of one thing," said Mrs. Humphrey, '^ that this woman has seen better days, notwithstanding the poverty which her present appearance indicates." " And I am convinced of another thing," replied Mr. Humphrey, ^' that no fault of her's has reduced her to her present circumstances, for her countenance shews her to be a worthy and true-souled woman ; and she shall freely remain beneath my roof until it shall be her wish to leave it." Little did Mr. Humphrey think, when he made this remark, how soon the poor woman would exchange the shelter of his roof for that of the grave. Next morning on visiting the room of the stranger, Mrs. Humphrey found her too ill to rise from the Ix'd. She complained of no pain, but seemed very weak and I iii 376 EARNEST IIARWOOD ; OR, languid. Mrs. TTuinpliroy did all Hint lay in hor power for the comfort of tlie sick woinnTi. Taking little Ernest down stairs she beguiled liini witli amusing stories, as she attended to lier domestic duties, so that his mother might be left in quiet; and when the child grew weary of the confinement of the house Mr. Humpln-ey took liim to walk with him while he attended to some business in the village. Before returning liome Mr. Humphrey called upon Dr. Merton, with whom lie was intimately acquaint- ed, and spoke to him concerning the sick woman at his house. He requested the physician to call to see her in the course of the day, saying, that if the woman was not able to pay him he would himself see him paid for his services. "It makes no difference," replied the humane physi- cian, " whether she is rich or poor, if she requires the attention of a physician she must not be neglected ; 1 will certainly call in the afternoon." The physician accordingly called in the afternoon, and, after some conversation with Mis. Harwood, pre- scribed for her some medicines, and left her, promising to call again in a short time. Before leaving the house, Jiowever, he informed Mrs. Humphrey that he thought the woman alarmingly ill. " As near," said he, " as I can judge from her appearance, Itliinkthat consumption has been for a long time preying upon her constitution, and over-fatigue has thus suddenly prosp rated her. The powers of life," continued Dr. Merton, "are fast failing, THE ADOPTED SON. 377 uiid ill Diy o[>iiiioiui (ew wt'oks will (eniiiiintf iicr L'urtlily exi.steiice. 1 have j^rescribed for lior some simple medi- cines, but I fear h^n- case is already beyond the aid of iiiedieine. All we can do/' said the physician, in conclusion, '^ is to render her as comfortable as may be, for she will soon require iiotliing which this world alfords." The lonely situation of the stranger had deeply toiiclied the kind heart of Dr. Merton. As the Doctor had predicted, Mrs. Hnrwood failed rnpidly. 8he sufFered but little bodily pain, but her strength failed her daily, and it soon became evident to {ill who saw her, that the day of her death could not be far distant. She gave to ^[rs. Humphrey a brief sketch of her past lite, which will be made the subject of another chapter. Mr. and Mrs. Humphrey had reared a family of five children ; three of them now slept in the village church- yard ; the remaining two had married, and removed to a long distance from their paternal home, consequently the worthy couple had for some years dwelt alone in the home where once had eclioed the glad voices of their children. Tliey soon decided that, should jMrs. Harwood not recover, they would giadly adopt her little boy as their own, if die felt willing to leave him to their care. So great was the anxiety of Mrs. Harwood regarding her child, that it was long ere she gave up hopes of recovery, Hll ;-■*,. 878 EARNEST IIARWOOD , OR, but vvliou f^he at length became aware tliat slie mnst (bo, she at first found it very diilicuU to resign herself to the will of Heaven. ^' Were it not for my cb'\i," she would often say, "the prospect of death weald not be unpleasant to me, for I have a comforting hope of a life beyond the grave ; but who will care for my orplian boy when I am no more ? I must not distrust the goodness of the ori)hans' God." Mr. Humphrey, in reply to these remarks one day^ said to her — " I hope you will make your mind perfectly easy in regard to your child ; for, sliould it [dease God to remove you by death, I have already decided to adopt little Ernest as my own son, if you feel \\'illing to consign him to my care ; and you may rest assured that while my life is spared he shall bo tenderly cared fcr, as though he were my own son.'' ^^ Now," replied Mrs. Harwood, " can I die willingly. Since my illness it has been my daily and niglitly prayer, that should it be the will of Heaven that I should not recover, God would raise up friends to care for my orplian boy, and that prayer is now answered." Just six weeks from the evening on which Mrs. Har- wood entered the dwelling of Mr. Humphrey, her eyes were closed in death. The last day of her life was passed mostly in a kind of lethargy, from which it was almost impossible to arouse her. Toward evening she ralHed, and her mind seemed clear and calm. She was aware THE ADOPTED SON. 379 that tlio hour of her (h^'ith hnd arrivtMl; but she felt no fears in tlie prospect of her a])proo<'hiiig dissolution. Slio thaukod Mr. and Mrs. Humphrey for their kindness to her, and au:ain teiuli-rlv connnitted to tlieir care her boy, who would soon ])CCO]ne an or[)han. ** I am poweiless to reward yon," said tlie dying woman, ^Mjut God will certainly reward you for your kindness to the widow and orphan." She recpiested that her child might be brought and placed by her siile. Placing her thin wasted hands upon his head she said, in a voice scarcely audible, — *^ May the God wlio never forsakes the orphan preserve my precious boy amid the perils and dangers of the sin- ful world !" She drew the face of the child close to her own, and imprinted a mother's last kiss upon his brow, and sank back exausted upon her pillow. A few more fluttering quick drawn breaths and her spirit had winged its way from earth, and no one who witnessed her death felt a doid.)t that it'-i fliiiht was heavenward. J CHAPTER III. |IIE following brief account of the early lite of Mrs. Harwood I give as nearly as possible in her own words: — ''My earliest recollection carries me back to a small village in Scotland, about one hundred miles distant from the city of Edinburgh, where I was born the daughter of a minister of the Church of Scotland. I was an only child. The salary which my father received was moderate, but was nevertheless sufficient to support us respectably. When I became of suitable age 1 was sent to school, and contiiuied to pursue my .studies until I arrived at the age of fourteen years. At that period I was deprived by death of a fond and indulgent father. Previous to the death of my father neither my mother nor myself had ever experienced an anxious tliought as regarded the future. The salary my flither received had enabled us to live in comfort and respectability; and we do not often anticipate the death of a strong and healthy man. He died very suddenly; and when my mother's grief at om* sudden bereaveuient had so far subsided as to alk)w her takinpj some thouaht for tlie future, she found that EARNEST IIAT^WOOD, 381 jiltlioiigli Uiy I'iitiKM' liiul «lio(l liHM? fVoiii (l('l>(. li(^ lijid hcon uiiiil)l«^ to Ijiy l)y niiyHuiii^^ for our fiitiin; sn[>port:. During my Ihiluu's lifetime we liad occii[)ie(l the pnr- Roii-'ifje, reiil tVeo, as \uu\ heeii stipulated when my fiitlier beeame pastor of the cliurch over which he presided till liis death. Coiise(|ueiilly we had no loiige- any rightful claim to the dwelling which had been home for 80 many years. They kindly gave us peri..ission how- ever, to occupy the hoiiSv3 for one year, but my mother like not to continue to occupy a home which, in reality, was no longer ours. After some deliberation upon the subject, my motlier decided upon teaching, as a means of support, as her own education had been sufficiently thorough to render her competent for the undertaking. But, as the village where we resided wnn small and already well su[)plied with schools, she wrote to an old friend of my father's, who resided in FAlijd)urgh, as to what he thought of her removing to that city, for the purpose of opening a school. She received a very en- couraging reply from tlie old gentleman, in whicii he promised to render her all the assistance in his power in the way of obtaining pupils, and as the gentleman was well known and much respected in the city, we found his assistance in this respect to be of much value. The task of breaking up our old home proved a very sad one both to my motJ ; and myself. The furniture of the parsonage was our own. JMy father had left quite an extensive library, considering his limited means. With fi \ 382 EARNEST IIAllAVOOD ; OR, the exception of n few volunio.s which iny mother reserved tor oursolves, slie disposed of the books among our acquaintances at a fnir vnlur^ as each was auxious to obtain some relic of their beloved pastor. The kind people, among whom we had resided, expressed many- kind wishes for our future welfare, when we Ic^ft them to seek a home in the great city. The school which my mother opened upon our removal to the city i)roved very successful, and soon yielded us a comfortable support. I assisted my motlier both in the duties of the school-room and »lso in our household work. We were 2:)rospered and lived contentedly in our new home. We missed, it is true, the familiar faces of our old friends, but we soon found friends in our new home j we were clieerful, and should have been hnppy but for the sad loss we had "recently sustained. Four years thus glided by, during which time our school continued to afford us a, comfort- able support. About this time I became accpiainted with Mr. Harwood, who had a short time before commenced the practice of law in the city of Edinburgh, and one year later I became his wife. His pecuniary circumstances were but moderate, as he had been only a short time en- gaged in the practice of his profession. We resided with my mo*^her, as she could not bear the idea of being separ- ated from me. I continued as usual to assist her in the duties of her school. We, in this way, lived happily, till the event of my mother's dcjith, which took place two years after my marriage. She took a sudden cold, Tni: ADOPTED SON. 888 which settled upon her hiiigH, and teniiiiuiteport myselfby the use of tlie needle, and accordingly rented two rooms on a respectable street, and removed thitlier with my child, where, by the closest industry I succeeded in keeping above want for more than three THE ADOPTED SON. 385 years, when my lienfc the little fellow was (|uick fo notice that when Mi. Ilumphiusy was not present \h^ conld usu- ally, either by dint of coaxing or noisy rebellion, carry his point with Mrs. llumphriiy. Her husband oftiMi rcMnonstrated with lier upon the course she was pursuing in the manag<'n«ent of th(? child. SIk; used often to say — "I cannot lind it in my heart to punish the poor child when Iconsid(;r that he is both fatherless and motherless, and 1 trust lie will outgrow these childish ways." Poor jMrs. Tlumplirey ! She is not the only one that has been cheated by this hope, and has thereby allowed their child to grow up with an obstinate will that has iiuirred their happiness for life. In after years ]\[rs. Humphrey many times recalhul to mind a remark which a friend made to her one day in regard to little Ernest, then six years old. He came into the parlor where the two ladies were sitting, and taking TllK AL>01TJ:L) iiO>i. 380 from ilic ('ciiirc tcil>lo jui clci^aiifly houiul hook^ boDjiin tiiniiiig hrey replied that the hook was not suitable for little boys, and again recpiested him to replaec; it on the table. Wlnui a few mimites had p.'issiMJ, and he still eontinned to turn tlu^ leav<'s of tlu^ book, Mrs. llinnphrey again re[)eat(Ml her HMjuest in a (l(M'ided nianiun', trot not iiJiviiig Ikmmi mor*' iinii in your i»(>v<'nim(Mil. of (his chiM." si^mmmm I v.t I'lH k CHAPTER V. TNIC years hiivo rolled by t^ « witii their various cliiiiiyes since we lirst introduced Earnest Har- vvood to the reud(;r, a child ol' live years of age, weeping at the grave of his mother. L(it us again gkmce at him when he has nearly attained to the age of iourtcM'u years. We Ihnl him grown a strong liealthy youth, still retaining that wondrous beauty which had rendered him so remarkable in tlie days of his childhood. The reader will doubtless be ready to enquire if his mind and character are e(iually lovely with liis person. Would that it were in my power to give a favourable answxn- to the (picstion. hut the truth must be told, and, at the age of fourteen, Ernest llarwoodwas decidedly a bad boy. When of suitable age he had been put to school, and for a time made rapid progress in his studies. From the hrst he was rather averse to study, but as he he learned readily and had a most retentive memory ho managed to keep pace in his studies with most boys of his age. 302 EARNEST IIAllWOOD ; OR, Mr. and Mrs, Iluinpliroy oxcrcisod nnicli vviitclifuliipss in regard to liis companions, as, when lie begnn to mingle with otlier boys, tliey discovered that he seemed inclined to make companions of snch boys as they could not conscientiously allow him to associate with. But, not- withstanding their vigilance, it was soon remarked that he was often seen in company with boys of very bad repute. He soon came to dislike school, and often absented himself from it for a very trivial excuse, and in many instances played truant, when Mr. Humphrey refused to listen to his excuses for being allowed to remain at home. Mr. and Mrs. Humphrey endeavored to discharge their duty to the boy ; and more tiian that, they loved him as their own child. I cannot describe the sorrow they experienced on his account, when, as he grew older, he seemed more and more inclined to the company of vicious boys, and to follow their evil examples. Many of his misdoings never reached the ears of his foster parents, for they were very much respected by their neighbors, who disliked to acquaint them with what must give them pain. He soon became so bad that if a piece of mischief was perpetrat- ed among the village boys, the neiglibors used at once to say they felt sure that Earnest Harwood was at the bottom of it. Often when among his wicked companions, those lips that had been taught to lisp the nightly prayer at his mother's knee were stained with oaths and impure language. I : i! • ; '•I s •ms THE ADOl'TED yOX- 393 I Mr. Hiiiii[>luoy, one tljiy, in [mssiiii* iiloiii»' the slmet, clmiiced to liiid liim in company vvitli some of tlio worst boys in the village, smoking cigars at the street corner, lie was liardly able to credit his own eyesight. He re((nested hlni to accompany him liome at once. He at the first thought of administering punishment with the rod, but as he had done so in former instances of miscon- duct with apparently no effect but to make lihn more de- fiant and rebellious, he thought in this instance he woukl try the effect of mild persuasion. '' My dear boy you httle !,know the pain you are inflicting upon your best friends by thus seeking the company of those wicked boys who will certainly lead you to ruin, if you allow yourself to follow their example." He tulkcid long to liim of his deceased mother, telling him of her many earnest prayers for the future good of her child. For some time the boy maintained a sulky, defiant manner, hut his heart at length softened, and, covering his face with his hands, he wept alond. He begged of Mr. Humphrey to forgive his past misconduct, and he certainly would try to reform in the future. For a time there was a marked change for the better in the conduct of the boy, and his friends began to indulge the hope that the change would prove to be lasting. But his resolutions of amend- ment soon yielded to the influence of his evil com- panions, from whom he found it very difficult to 394 EAUNFST HARWOOn ; OR, keep aloof. He wjis of u rasli, impulsive dispoHition, jiiid he soon forgot his good resolves, and became even worse thjiii before. IVtr. Humphrey si ill maintained sullicient control over him to oblige In'm to attend church regularly, in com- pany with hiraself and wife, but often, when they supposed him to be attending the Sabbath-School, would he join some party of idle, strolliug boys, and spend the day in a very sinful manner. The Superin- tendent of the sciiool hearing of this, called and ac- (luaiuted ]yir. Humphrey of the matter. '' I am obliged to you for your kindness in calling upon me," said Mr. Plumphrey, " although I fear I can do nothing that will have any good ellect upon the boy. I have endeavoured to do my duty by the child, I know not wherein I have failed. I have counselled, per- suaded, and even punished him, and you behold the result. 1 am at a loss what to do with him. I huve brought up children of my own, who never caused me a real sorrow in their lives. Why is it, that this poor orphan seems so strongly resolved to follow only evil w^ays? Would that some one could advise me as to what my duty is, in regard to the boy, for, uidess a change for the better soon takes place, he will be ruined for time and eternity." Mr. Humphrey sighed deeply as he spoke, and seemed oppressed with sorrow. The gentleman with whom he was conversing, endeavoured, as well as he was able THE ADOPTED SON. 895 iiMy too oileu yiehliiig to his eliildisli will, riitlier tluiii adiiiiuister piiiiishiHent to enforce ohedienee from luiii. Iiiicjiiit well, and if I liav(^ done him a wrong it. is now too lat;(; to remedy it. i can oidy pray that h(^ nuiy yet forsiil\e his evil ways. To- morrow will he his hirth-day, let ns Ii(>pe thai tin' eon- tents oftln^ paekagi^ which so many years ago, his poor mother entrusteliri'y .said, '^ we will not attempt to talk of this new sorrow to-niglit, but we will pray lor the poor boy us well as lor ourselves, before we iviire to rest." Opening his Bibh', Mr. Ilumprey read the forty-si.\th Palsm, then kiieeliiig, Ik^ poured out his troubled .soul in prayer. He prayed earnestly lor the poor youth now lying in the heavy slee[» produtMid by intoxieation. II(; also pray(ul for forgivem;ss, if they erred in the manage- ment of the boy, an