DOVECOTE; 
 
 OB, 
 
 THE HEAET OF THE HOMESTEAD. 
 
 - 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF "CAP SHEAF.' 
 
 BOSTON: 
 JOHN P. JEWETT AND COMPANY. 
 
 CLEVELAND, OHIO : 
 
 JEWETT, PROCTOR, AND WORTHINGTON. 
 
 LONDON : SAMPSON LOW, SON, AND CO. 
 
 1856.
 
 Entered, according to Act of Cnngross, in the year 1853, by 
 
 JOHN P. JEWETT & Co., 
 In the Clerk 'x Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts 
 
 TEBEOTYPED AT TH1
 
 PREFATORY. 
 
 THE following pages, while they professedly pursue 
 the fortunes of a poor waif of the world, are especial- 
 ly intended to paint those dear old pictures of home 
 life, at the thought of which every healthy heart beats 
 faster with delight, and every true nature reaches 
 impatiently forward for their realization. 
 
 The story makes pretension to little more than a 
 simple narrative, aided by none of the adjuncts of 
 dramatic form or spirit. If it interests, it will do so 
 only by its own naturalness and truth. Ingrafted 
 upon it, the reader will find the quiet dreams at the 
 hearth* the glowing visions in the woods and on 
 the hills, the sweet memories that swarm in the 
 old garret and barns, and the pleasant meditations 
 that flow out of the heart, by the brook and the 
 river. These form so the writer considers the 
 very heart of the book, that will keep alive and warm 
 the whole body of the story. If there is too much 
 enthusiasm in them, it at least is honest, begot of 
 
 nothing but the writer's honest purpose. 
 
 (Hi)
 
 iv PREFATORY. 
 
 People are all very much like birds, in so far as 
 they are given to nest building. Some build nests of 
 hopes, and perch them so high that little is the 
 wonder the winds and rains beat them, in time, to 
 pieces. Some build nests of fears, and, like the 
 foolish ground birds of the pastures, squat them 
 where they might most tremble for their being trod 
 upon. Only a few, J ween, build nests of memories, 
 like the doves about the old barns, or the swallows 
 under the home eaves, or the redbreasts among the 
 apple trees. 
 
 I have been building here only a nest of memo- 
 ries. 
 
 It is a home nest into which any one may look 
 from out his chamber window. If it is large enough 
 for but a single world-wearied heart to brood in, it 
 will not have been built in vain.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER TAGB 
 
 I. ADRIFT, . * ^ v ' V . . . .5 
 II. A WELCOME JOURNEY, 13 
 
 III. VISITING ONE'S RELATIONS, . , . .19 
 
 IV. NOT ALL GOLD THAT GLITTERS, ... 25 
 V. DOVECOTE, 33 
 
 VI. THE OLD FOLKS AT HOME, .... 41 
 
 VII. FEARFUL CHANGES, 48 
 
 VIII. THE POORHOUSE, 57 
 
 IX. ADAM DROWNE, 68 
 
 X. LlFE AMONG THE PAUPERS, .... 76 
 
 XI. MILLT AND MOLLY, 86 
 
 XII. A BIT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY, .... 92 
 
 XIII. IN AND OUT, 97 
 
 XIV. A JOURNEY BEGUN, 103 
 
 XV. AFOOT AND ALONE, 109 
 
 XVI. BEWILDERMENT, 115 
 
 1 <*>
 
 2 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XVII. A QUIET NOOK, 122 
 
 XVIII. ON THE UPLANDS, 131 
 
 XIX. THE OLD GAREET, 138 
 
 XX. NEW ACQUAINTANCE, . . . .144 
 
 XXI. MR. BRIMMER'S BEE, 153 
 
 XXII. BILLY STOKES AND HIS FRIEND, . . 161 
 
 XXIII. A SPRING MORNING, 167 
 
 XXIV. A DAY AT THE BROOKS, . . .174 
 
 XXV. MY AUNT, 180 
 
 XXVI. THE GARDEN, 187 
 
 XXVII. SUNDAY IN SUMMER, . . . .193 
 
 XXVIII. THE OLD SCHOOL HOUSE, . . .199 
 
 XXIX. A PICTURE WITHOUT A FRAME, . . 204 
 
 XXX. NOTHING BUT A LOVE STORY, . . 208 
 
 XXXI. A DOUBLE SURPRISE, 224 
 
 XXXII. OLD TOPICS REVIVED, .... 230 
 
 XXXIII. THE RUSTIC BRIDGE, . . . .236 
 
 XXXIV. Miss NANCY IN TOWN, .... 241 
 XXXV THE CLOUD IN THE SKY, . . . .247 
 
 XXXVI. A TUMBLE IN THE HAY, . . .253 
 
 XXXVII. A WEDDING IN THE PARLOR, . . .258 
 
 XXXVIII. THANKSGIVING TIME, .... 264 
 
 XXXIX. THE MAGDALEN, 270
 
 CONTENTS. 3 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XL. A LITTLE STRANGER, . . . 281 
 
 XLI. JARVIE THATCH, 285 
 
 XLII. IN THE STREETS, 291 
 
 XLIII. THE BOY AND THE MAN, . . . .298 
 
 XLIV. A JOYFUL MEETING, 304 
 
 XLV. ON THE MOUNTAIN, 312 
 
 XLVI. A WALK AND A TALK, . . .319 
 
 XLVII. A VISIT FROM THE DOCTOR, . . .325 
 XL VIII. THE FAITH OF A CHILD, . . . .331 
 
 XLIX. UNFORESEEN, 337 
 
 L. THE BREAKING OF THE GOLDEN BOWL, . 346 
 LI. CONCLUSION, 355
 
 DOVECOTE. 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 ADRIFT. 
 
 THE winds of a cold March had been blowing all day 
 through the streets of the metropolis, making travellers 
 hug their cloaks tighter about them, driving like a pack 
 of hungry hounds in full chase down the narrow alleys, 
 and across the broader streets and avenues, shaking 
 mercilessly, the rattling windows as if they would get 
 in at the houses, piping at the keyholes and crannies 
 of the doors, howling about the chimney tops, and final- 
 ly scurrying away in broken legions over the desolate 
 looking bay, seaward. 
 
 The whole month, dreary as it was, had not produced 
 a day more dismal and uncomfortable than this. The 
 sun had at times shone out very faintly and sickly, and 
 then gone sorrowfully in again. Little pools stood 
 every where along the gutters, scum over with a thin 
 crust of ice that was far from resembling crystal. The 
 horses that drew the lumbering stages up and down 
 the streets held down their heads against the cutting 
 winds, and crept along on their courses with a sort of 
 sullen resolution, as if they felt that they had earned 
 their shelter long ago. 
 
 1* ()
 
 6 DOVECOTE. 
 
 Men walked briskly past each other, with red cheeks 
 and blue noses, exchanging looks through their water- 
 ing eyes, and , seeming to inquire, one of another, 
 " What brought you out on such a day as this ? " The 
 boys did not stop on their way from school to gaze in at 
 the windows of the shops at new prints and engravings, 
 but hurried along homewards, some of them shouting 
 as if to drown the sound of the wind in their ears. 
 Now here, now there, the mad winds drove; gathering 
 then- forces at the public park, and by concert separat- 
 ing to charge boldly down and across every street and 
 alley that came in their way. 
 
 The signs kept creaking dolefully in the more unpre- 
 tending thoroughfares, and the little shopkeepers walked 
 often to the doors, looking up and down to see if there 
 might be any customers. Newsboys, and beggar girls, 
 and ragged chiffoniers were all that rewarded their 
 anxious pains. One class was trying to outcry the 
 winds ; another was straggling along here and there 
 with low moans from colorless lips ; and the third went 
 grubbing doggedly up and down the frozen gutters, 
 mumbling over syllables that had no meaning even for 
 themselves. 
 
 There was one house, hidden in the very heart of the 
 obscure streets, where the rigors of this March day were 
 felt in all their severity. It was a high and narrow 
 building, all of wood, with its paint entirely washed 
 away by the winds and rains. The windows were very 
 narrow, and looked as if they might in other times have 
 possibly served for loopholes. Dormer windows stuck 
 out like humps all over the roof, affording to many a 
 poor family all the light by which they knew the pass- 
 ing days. The door was low, and the lintels wanted 
 paint badly ; and along the darkened passage were
 
 walls that might once have boasted of whiteness, but 
 had now taken the most picturesque combinations of 
 color imaginable. 
 
 Along at the farther end of this dreary passage 
 streamed faintly a light. It betrayed the locality of a 
 flight of wooden stairs, by which one climbed to the 
 second floor of this human hive. Another passage, 
 narrow and nearly as dark as the first a turn again 
 and a second flight of stairs took you to the floor above. 
 At the head of this flight was living and but just liv- 
 ing a pale, thin, ghostly woman, who still lay upon 
 her scant bed in the farther part of the room. It was 
 not an apartment that could make any special boast of 
 the comforts it had in store, being carpetless except in 
 the corner near the bed, having no more furniture than 
 was just sufficient to meet the every-day necessities of 
 her life, with little fire throwing out its genial warmth 
 from the fireplace, and the dispiriting atmosphere of 
 sickness breathing every where around. 
 
 The woman must have seen better days, for the lin- 
 eaments of her face proved that she was born to them. 
 A little child stood at the bedside, whose hand she held 
 gently in her own thin and shadowy hand, and to 
 whom she addressed words of consolation. Yet it 
 seemed that a trouble was on her heart, and that nei- 
 ther effort nor resignation could suffice to remove it all. 
 
 " Milly," said she, in her low and sepulchral tone, 
 that struck like a clod upon the child's feelings, 
 " Milly, you should know it all, and know it from me ; 
 I am going to leave you soon. I must die ! " 
 
 " O mother ! my mother ! " exclaimed the weeping 
 child, clasping tighter her mother's hand, while she 
 leaned her head over upon the bed to hide her hot 
 tears, " you must not leave me ! You must not die !
 
 DOVECOTE. 
 
 Where shall I go then? Who will take care of me 
 when you are gone ? No, no; mother ; if you die, I shall 
 die too. I cannot live without you ! " 
 
 " There is a God, Milly, who tempers the wind to the 
 shorn lambs. He will take care of you. Only be re- 
 signed to whatever he may do. All will be for your 
 good at the last. Leam to trust to him, and he will 
 hold you safely in his hand." 
 
 " O, what shall I do when you are gone, mother ? 
 No, no ! you must not die, mother ! You shall not die ! 
 Look up now, dear mother, and say that you are better 
 It will make -you feel better. I know that you will live. 
 What can I do in the world without you ? " 
 
 The patient parent made more resigned to what- 
 ever might come through the discipline of her affliction 
 calmly surveyed her offspring through her aching 
 eyes, and sent up a silent but fervent prayer to Heaven 
 for strength to bear it all. She felt within herself that 
 her last hours were slipping away. Something fore- 
 warned her heart of her speedy end. She could not 
 have told others what this premonition was ; yet it 
 wrought none the less forcibly on her thoughts. 
 
 " You must be gentle as you always have been, after 
 I am gone," continued she, with much difficulty, laying 
 her hand affectionately on her child's head. " There 
 will be no need of repining, Milly. Only leave all your 
 trials with God, and do your duty yourself. Keep my 
 memory fresh in your heart. You will never forget 
 your dear mother, will you, Milly ? " 
 
 The question was put so tenderly, and in a tone of 
 such deep sorrow, that the girl burst out afresh in tears, 
 and sobbed and moaned so bitterly that her distress 
 filled the whole apartment. 
 
 It was just as night was gathering night after tliis
 
 most dismal of all days. The shadows began to creep 
 down from the roofs, down down the sides of the 
 houses, and were then crowding gloomily at her win- 
 dows. The fire on the hearth was low, apt type of the 
 pulse that just kept itself alive in the wasting invalid. 
 The ashes had turned white upon the last stick, col- 
 lecting in flakes, and then crumbling away. Beside 
 the hearth stood a kettle ; but no one had as yet filled 
 it with water for boiling, and no one had been in to re- 
 plenish the fire. 
 
 The poor woman ever and anon threw up her eyes 
 to the wall, as if in secret prayer. What would not 
 have been her comfort in that hour of agony, if her 
 child could but have laid her heart against her own, and 
 both gone through this great inward struggle together ! 
 How much deeper would have been the satisfaction 
 with which she was going down to the grave, to know 
 that the lonely heart she left behind was thoroughly im- 
 pressed with all that she had communicated ! Yet, for 
 a child, Milly had comprehended much, though grief so 
 cruelly took possession of her soul. She could point to 
 no love so demonstrative and so tangible as that she 
 bore her mother. When her eyes closed, the sun of 
 her little life would seem to be put out altogether. 
 
 As night closed about this saddening scene, and 
 while mother and child were in their silent sorrow thus 
 giving up the secrets of their hearts to each other, the 
 door of the apartment opened, and a woman entered, 
 bearing a light. 
 
 " Why, Miss Markham ! " exclaimed the person en- 
 tering ; " I had not forgotten about you ; but I'm so 
 behindhand ! I'm afraid you've suffered from want 
 of me." 
 
 " I do not complain, Mrs. Stokes," returned the pa-
 
 10 DOVECOTE. 
 
 tient. ' I feel that you are too kind to me already. I 
 hope you will live to get your abundant reward." 
 
 " O, never talk of that, Miss Markham. It is not 
 worth talkin' of. All I do is little enough at the most ; 
 I'm sure I wish I could do more." 
 
 " May you find some kind hand to smooth your descent 
 to the grave as you have done so tenderly for me ! " 
 
 " Do'nt go to takin' on so, Miss Markham, Ibeg of you ; 
 for there's no use of talkin' of dyiu', when one's no- 
 where near his end. You ought to keep up your spir- 
 its, Miss Markham I 'm sure. You oughter, if only 
 for little Milly's sake." 
 
 This remark served but to redouble the child's dis- 
 tress. Her grief had reached such a point of control 
 over her, that the least kind allusion to her situation, or 
 the first syllable of sympathy from another, immediately 
 set her heart in new commotion, and caused her burn- 
 ing tears to flow afresh. 
 
 " Mrs. Stokes," calmly returned the invalid, " I have 
 told Milly all, as I thought it my duty. She knows as 
 well as myself that I am about to die. I have told 
 her, that she might be prepared for the worst." 
 
 " Miss Markham," exclaimed the kindly-meaning 
 woman, " you shouldn't ! " 
 
 " I have no one to leave her with, Mrs. Stokes ; and 
 it is that that mostly troubles me. She must not go 
 into the streets to beg ! She must not do that ! God 
 have pity on the poor orphan ! " 
 
 " La ! don't worry for that, Miss Markham, I beg 
 you ; I will take her myself ! " 
 
 " But you have all you can provide for now. No, no, 
 it will be too hard for you." 
 
 " Can't she help me, Miss Markham, I want to know ? 
 Can't she do something 1 But you ain't a-goin' to leave
 
 ADRIFT. 1 1 
 
 her, Miss Markham. You mustn't think of dyin'. 
 It's no use It'll only fret you sooner into the grave ; 
 and every one's grave is ready for 'em as soon as they 
 hurry themselves into it." 
 
 Mrs. Stokes rude in the very gentleness of her 
 heart prepared to get supper, of which the child 
 could not finally taste, and to which her mother did no 
 more justice than merely to sip of the tea that had 
 been made so nicely for her. It was the saddest of all 
 times ; for night had come down with its mysteries, and 
 bedtime for Milly drew near. It was only after a fer- 
 vent prayer had been offered by Mrs. Markham, still 
 clasping her arm tenderly about the neck of her child, 
 and only after she had again and again imprinted a kiss 
 upon her forehead, that she could consent to dismiss 
 her to bed, expressing the hope that she should see her 
 again in the morning. 
 
 Mrs. Stokes was thoughtful enough to carry Milly to 
 her own bed, in the next room. She had volunteered 
 to sit up by her mother through the night, and thought 
 it best that the child should rest without disturbance. 
 If any thing unusual should occur, she could, if needed, 
 awaken her. 
 
 It was a blustering, boisterous night, and little was 
 the hope that it would bring relief for any who might 
 be stretched on beds of sickness. It was not a time for 
 weary spirits to get rest. They felt instinctively the 
 influence of the shrieking winds. 
 
 A long night for Mrs. Stokes, too. She dozed in her 
 chair, only to awaken herself by some sudden impulse 
 or fear that gave her excessive pain. And she went 
 through the trials of it all her heart bending to the 
 storm of its feelings, as the trees in the distant park 
 bent before the blast of the storming winds.
 
 12 DOVECOTE. 
 
 The morning dawned, streaming in pale and faint at 
 the dull windows. Mrs. Stokes still remained in the 
 apartment. The door slowly and softly opened, and 
 Milly came through, shutting it carefully behind her. 
 She walked straight to the bedside. Her eyes rested 
 upon the face of her motionless mother. 
 
 The kind nurse and neighbor stepped forward and 
 took her gently by the arm, drawing her backward to 
 where she had herself been sitting. Milly looked in- 
 qniringly in her face for an explanation of it all. She 
 was much bewildered with what she saw. 
 
 " Your mother is dead ! Poor child ! " said Mrs. 
 Stokes, in a whisper, and burst into tears.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A WELCOME JOURNEY. 
 
 MILLY had gone through the fearful crisis, and her 
 heart was yet unbroken. She had witnessed the last 
 rites, and tearfully watched the solemn ceremonies. 
 And now she was motherless ; motherless yet not 
 altogether friendless. 
 
 Mrs. Stokes had for the time adopted her into her 
 own family, that consisted simply of herself, her son 
 Billy, and the baby, and appeared anxious to do all 
 that lay in her power for the child's comfort. She 
 chatted with her as often as her work allowed, and in 
 her own honest way strove to lift the cloud of gloom 
 that had settled upon her heart. She tried to interest 
 her in " the baby," a chubby little article of domestic 
 comfort, and was persevering enough to behold her 
 wishes in some small degree realized. Billy, too, who 
 cried newspapers through the day, offered her freely 
 from the rich supply of his sympathy, and neglected no 
 delicate means his mind could devise in which to rid 
 her of ever so little of her grief. 
 
 There is no holier sight on earth than the pure, out- 
 gushing sympathy of children. It comes before the 
 heart is overlaid with the coarser feelings that worldly 
 life begets. It is free from the guile that selfishness 
 breeds, and exhaustless as the pictured life that stretches 
 before them. There is no need to separate its elements, 
 2 < 13 >
 
 14 DOVECOTE. 
 
 for all of them are as unmixed as the feelings with 
 which their impulsive hearts are full. - 
 
 In the little family of Mrs. Stokes, therefore, Milly 
 was as happy as at that time she could have been any 
 where. The recent sorrow, though by no means healed, 
 would sooner become so here. Mrs. Stokes had been 
 a friend of her mother, and so she was a friend of hers, 
 too. She had already placed her second in her affec- 
 tions, if only for the kindness of her sympathies. And 
 next came Billy, and then the baby. And in this quiet 
 circle she daily ran round with her heart. 
 
 Billy was a sprightly and highly promising boy, but a 
 year or two older than herself, and devoted to the in- 
 terests and happiness of his mother. In the streets 
 nearly all day, his presence was so much the more wel- 
 come at evening; when he insisted on holding the baby 
 for at least an hour in his lap, often obliging his mother 
 to wake her for that purpose. In his mind he had al- 
 ready planned a life for Milly, designing that she should 
 stay with his mother as long as she lived, while all his 
 own efforts should be redoubled to secure for her so 
 pleasant a home. In his soul he was already a man ; 
 more a man than many who only wear the name of 
 manhood. 
 
 The days were slowly slipping away, one not very 
 much unlike another in its regular round of little inci- 
 dents and experiences, and the suns became gradually 
 warmer, diffusing their cheerfulness throughout the 
 humble abode of Mrs. Stokes. There were beginning 
 to be more hours of daylight, and more life in the streets, 
 and more business every where. The spring was again 
 thawing out the rills in the country fields, and the cold 
 from the human heart. There was a secret sympathy 
 in the heart for all this exhibition of new life, and, as
 
 A WELCOME JOURNEY". 15 
 
 nature began to smile, the soul grew glad in spite of 
 itself likewise. 
 
 Mrs. Stokes sat down beside Milly one afternoon, 
 after her work was all done, determined, apparently, on 
 communicating something she had lacked the courage 
 to do before. So, without stopping to pave her way 
 with preliminaries, she began. 
 
 " Milly," said she, " the night your mother died, she 
 had a good deal to say to me about what would become 
 of you, where you should go, and who should take care 
 of you. I offered to keep you as long as you would be 
 happy here, but she would not hear a word to any such 
 thing as that. She made me promise a solemn promise, 
 Milly, before she died, that I'd take you, jest as soon as 
 matters would permit, to your uncle's to live. I prom- 
 ised her, because she made me. Milly, I'd love dearly 
 to have you stay with me ; but as long as it was your 
 mother's wish, you know, for me to take you to your 
 uncle's, why, I don't see as I can help doin' of it. It 
 was this that I've been so long wanthi' to tell you, but I 
 hated to trouble your mind with any more sorrow than 
 what you'd had put on it. You know Id love to have 
 you stay, Milly, and so would Billy, and I guess so 
 would the baby." 
 
 " Where does my uncle live ? " asked Milly, scarcely 
 able as yet to comprehend the entire meaning of her 
 unexpected communication. 
 
 " He's a rich man" she said, " and he lives back a 
 good many hundred miles in the country. It's Byeboro' 
 where he lives, and it's there thajt she wanted me to 
 take you." 
 
 " But, perhaps he won't want me ? " suggested the 
 child, eager at the outset to frame objections to the plan. 
 
 " Your mother said he could not refuse to take you,
 
 16 DOVECOTE. 
 
 and I promised her, as solemn and sacred as any body 
 could, that I'd see her wish carried out. No doubt 
 you'll be better off there, for he's your mother's own 
 brother, and he's rich. You can't want there, Milly, and 
 you might here." 
 
 " I don't want to leave you," said the child, looking up 
 at the kind woman through her tears. 
 
 Mrs. Stokes couldn't bear it, and drew her affection- 
 ately to her breast. 
 
 " It'll be for your good, Milly. Think of that, it'll be 
 for your good ; and, besides, it was your mother's dying 
 wish. Won't you go, Milly, if I'll go with you ? " 
 
 " Shall I have to go to-morrow ? " innocently asked 
 the child, and cast her eyes thoughtfully about the room, 
 as if even then taking her sad leave of it. 
 
 " We'll wait till it's some warmer, I guess," cheer- 
 fully answered Mrs. Stokes, " and then the cars and the 
 stages'll be ready for us." 
 
 And forthwith she changed the topic for one better 
 calculated to inspirit both herself and her little friend. 
 
 But Time never halts with his sack at his back to beg 
 for favors. He trudges remorselessly on, waiting for 
 none. The morning of their departure came at last. 
 Billy had risen much earlier than usual, and lighted the 
 fire, and hung the teakettle, and was waiting with a 
 swelling heart to bid the little girl good by. Mrs. 
 Stokes could scarcely eat of the meal she had prepared, 
 though she kept telling Milly that she must eat all she 
 could get down, for it would be a long ride for them, 
 and little would be the dinner they could get besides 
 what they carried. The baby slept ; no one had wa- 
 kened it. A neighbor had promised to now and then 
 look in upon it, to see that all went on well, while Billy 
 himself had for the time intrusted his business on the
 
 A WELCOME JOURNEY. 17 
 
 thoroughfares to another boy, designing to stay at home 
 for a couple of days with the little charge that was left 
 behind. 
 
 They were all equipped at last Mrs. Stokes, with 
 her large red shawl on, with a single notable figure ex- 
 actly in the middle of the back, and Milly in her hood 
 and faded silk pelisse. Milly had kissed the baby over 
 and over again while it lay asleep, and Billy had run 
 out to get the kind neighbor to watch it, that he might 
 accompany them to the depot. Milly looked about her 
 sadly, and the tears dropped from her eyes. 
 
 " Keep up heart," cheerfully spoke Mrs. Stokes, 
 scarcely knowing how to keep up her own. 
 
 It was a long and a weary walk to the cars, though 
 Milly saw much to attract her attention by the way. 
 When they reached the long building just outside which 
 the engine stood smoking and steaming away, Mrs. 
 Stokes, it must be confessed, was in hardly less con- 
 fusion than Milly. She ran this way and that among 
 the people who thronged the platform, as if the success 
 of the whole trip, for that train, at least, depended alto- 
 gether upon her going. Billy alone was collected. 
 He was used to crowds, and made his home in the heart 
 of a confusion. 
 
 " Can you tell me which is the second-class cars, sir ? " 
 ventured she, addressing a gehdeman in whose way she 
 happened to come. 
 
 " You'll find some one to show you, that way," an- 
 swered he, pointing quickly with his hand. 
 
 " I could tell you as much as that, mother," interrupted 
 Billy, perhaps a little moved by the lack of confidence 
 she seemed to have in the amount of his general infor- 
 mation. 
 
 The bell rang a sharp, clear ring on the frosty morn- 
 2*
 
 18 DOVECOTE. 
 
 ing air. There was more talking among the people, and 
 more confusion. Every body seemed to be shaking 
 hands with somebody else at the car windows, and 
 saying parting words. The train began to move slowly. 
 At first it could hardly be perceived that it moved at all. 
 
 Billy waved his hat to his mother, and said good by 
 to Milly, and stood like a statue on the platform, watch- 
 ing the train till it dragged its snake-like length swiftly 
 away, and finally disappeared round a curve in the dis- 
 tance. Then he turned his face homewards, his hands 
 still in his pockets, and his head thoughtfully to the 
 ground. 
 
 There have been saddened people in the world long 
 before Billy Stokes came into it, but it may be very 
 readily questioned if ever a sadder being than he took 
 final leave of a friend. He had known Milly in her 
 sore trials and that is a time when acquaintance is 
 thorough. About her little distresses all his own ten- 
 der sympathies had been intwined, till, with her living 
 too, in the same house with himself, he had come to re- 
 gard her with all the affection of a brother for a sister. 
 
 The day looked dark and dismal to him, though it 
 was yet early morning, and the sun was shining brightly 
 along the streets. People were stirring every where, 
 and bowing and smiling to each other as they passed. 
 How like a very mockery did all this seem to the heart 
 of the little newsboy, on his way back to his desolate 
 home !
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 VISITING ONE'S RELATIONS. 
 
 IT was just at sunset when the mail coach set down 
 Mrs. Stokes and her charge at the gate near the road- 
 side, and the country mansion of Mr. Trevelyn, the 
 uncle of Milly, was visible through the trees, that had 
 lately begun to leaf. As the vehicle rolled away, leav- 
 ing them still standing by the roadside, Mrs. Stokes 
 began to look about her in honest astonishment. There 
 was nothing that her active vision did not take in. 
 From the distant chimneys to the gatepost at her hand, 
 her eye swept with one of the most comprehensive 
 looks imaginable. 
 
 Milly was lost. She lacked that self-possession that 
 was manifestly a prominent part of good Mrs. Stoke's 
 character, and so stood without purpose, and almost 
 without wish. If she had any desire just at that partic- 
 ular moment, it was to get through this unwelcome 
 business as quick as possible. So, even while Mrs. 
 Stokes lingered and looked, Milly remarked, in a half- 
 impatient tone, 
 
 " Let's go in now." 
 
 " Certain, my child," responded Mrs. Stokes, appar- 
 ently just come to herself. " Certain will we go in. 
 I've begun to wish J could live here, too, Milly. How 
 happy you'll be ! You won't want for nothing in the 
 world." 
 
 She opened the gate, and both went through, follow- 
 as)
 
 20 DOVECOTE. 
 
 ing the sinuous path through the trees and shrubbery to 
 the door. 
 
 The residence of Mr. Trevelyn was the finest in all 
 the town of Byeboro'. It stood a little more than a mile 
 from the village, and had earned the character of the 
 pleasantest locality in that part of the country. 
 
 The house itself was set back at some distance from 
 the road, and, in the summer, shaded profusely with the 
 foliage that was made to grow up to its very windows. 
 A high veranda was built about its three sides, on one 
 of which was a conservatory of choice plants, where the 
 humming birds occasionally ventured to draw their little 
 stores. It had a highly imposing appearance from the 
 road, and certainly failed not to create the same sort of 
 impression from within. In the rear stretched away a 
 fine tract of well-cultivated ground, where Mr. Trevelyn 
 raised his vegetables for his table, and his wife gave 
 orders to the gardener. 
 
 They reached the end of the walk, and went round 
 to the back door. The first person they met was the 
 maid. 
 
 " Good evenin'," offered the ready Mrs. Stokes. " Is 
 Mr. Trevelyn to home ? " 
 
 " Yes, he is," said the servant, eying Milly sharply. 
 
 " I should like to see him," spoke Mrs. Stokes, very 
 promptly. 
 
 " Come round then to this door, will you ? " returned 
 the servant ; and led the way on the outside to the side 
 entrance of the house. 
 
 Mr. Trevelyn at length reached the door, and looked 
 inquiringly at his new visitors. He was a fine-looking 
 man, with an open expression of countenance, and easy 
 manners. 
 
 Mrs. Stokes did not wait to be asked her business, 
 but fell to it without delay.
 
 VISITING ONE'S RELATIONS. 21 
 
 " Is tlois Mr. Trevelyn ? " asked she. 
 
 He only bowed in assent, folding again the paper he 
 had been reading. 
 
 " I've come here," continued Mrs. Stokes, " because 
 I promised your sister that I'd come." 
 
 " My sister ! " exclaimed he. 
 
 " Yes, sir ; Miss Markham." 
 
 " Emily ! Where is she ? I'm glad to hear of her * 
 Where is she ? " 
 
 " It's a sorry story, sir, I've got to tell. She's dead, 
 sir. She 
 
 " Dead ! Emily dead ! When was it ? Where did 
 she die ? " 
 
 The astonishment of the gentleman was uncon- 
 trollable. 
 
 But Mrs. Stokes went through the narration of Ids 
 sister's last illness, together with all the particulars of 
 her death, and the promise she solemnly made her to 
 see that Milly was safely placed in the care of her 
 uncle. It was a touching story, and the brother at- 
 tempted not to conceal the depth, or the sincerity, of 
 his grief. 
 
 " And this child is Milly, that you speak of? " he 
 asked. 
 
 Mrs. Stokes assured him that she was. 
 
 " Poor orphan ! " exclaimed he, in a half whisper, 
 and led them into an anteroom, bidding Mrs. Stokes 
 sit down with Milly, while he went in to talk with his 
 wife. 
 
 He found Mrs. Trevelyn in the parlor, watching the 
 plants in the conservatory. She was standing alone 
 before the window. Without hesitation or a length of 
 preliminary, he told her of the new matter thus put 
 upon his hands ; expressing his earnest desire, at the
 
 22 , DOVECOTE. 
 
 same time, that the child be cordially adopted into his 
 family, and made a component part of the same. 
 
 Mrs. Trevelyn at once raised her h. ; :ids. 
 
 " If you seek to make a slave of me, Mr Trev- 
 elyn " 
 
 " No, Sarah ; I do not ; I desire no such thing." 
 
 " One would think we had family enough of our own, 
 without taking in other persons' children ! " 
 
 " It is an unusual case," said her husband. " Her 
 mother was my only sister. She died poor, in want, 
 for what I can learn to the contrary, and I did not 
 help her. What can I do less now than take her 
 child ? " 
 
 " Or any body else's child ! " put in Mrs. Trevelyn, 
 with a flourish. 
 
 " Especially when it was her dying wish," he added. 
 " How can I slight it ! How can you permit me to 
 think of such a thing ! " 
 
 " Why," went on his wife, " if you design to have all 
 the poor families that choose to come put upon your 
 shoulders " 
 
 " Wife ! wife ! " protested he, in a voice divided be- 
 tween sorrow and passion. 
 
 She certainly should have stopped there, for she had 
 gone to the last limit allowed her. But she chose to go 
 on. 
 
 " I say, Mr. Trevelyn, that I think you might think of 
 doing a better business than boarding beggars ! " 
 
 For a moment, the exasperated husband could not 
 command himself to say any thing. Anger had got the 
 mastery of his grief now. Before, consideration might 
 safely have sat at the helm ; now, nothing but impul- 
 sive feeling possibly guided by good instincts, and 
 possibly not could have direction and sway.
 
 VISITING ONE S RELATIONS. 23 
 
 "Beggars!" he muttered, turning on his heel, and 
 stepping quickly to the middle of the room. 
 
 " Yes, why not ? What else are such people, I 
 should be glad to know ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Trevelyn," returned he, " what was I myself 
 once ? What were you ? " 
 
 He had hit the nail exactly on the head now. 
 " What were you 1 " was a question she might not alto- 
 gether be delighted to answer. 
 
 " We may all be beggars at some time ! " he con- 
 tinued. " Who knows ? Who shall dare to say, A hat, 
 if he is rich to-day, he shall be rich to-morrow ? Not I, 
 for one ! " 
 
 " But if you wish to provide for this child " 
 
 " I have determined to do it, ma'am," he interrupted. 
 
 " Then why not do it in some other way ? Is it 
 necessary to take in strangers, and every body, into 
 your family ? " 
 
 " She is my own sister's child ! " 
 
 " Umph ! " ejaculated Mrs. Trevelyn. 
 
 " That sister I could not assist when she most needed 
 assistance, when I might possibly have saved her life, 
 because I knew not where she was. She was a wan- 
 derer, long deserted by her husband, and dependent on 
 her own exertions for her livelihood. When she died, 
 her last wish was that I should adopt this child ; and 
 she's as pretty a child, too, as you'll find hereabouts. Do 
 you think I can refuse to do what has been asked of me 
 in this way, by a person so nearly related to me ? " 
 
 Mrs. Trevelyn was silent, though her feelings evi- 
 dently had undergone no change. She intrenched 
 them safely within a sullen resolution. In good time 
 it would exhibit its fruits. 
 
 " The child's mother had found out where I lived, it
 
 24 DOVECOTE. 
 
 seems," continued Mr. Trevelyn, " but her pride for- 
 bade her coming to me, as she ought to have done, for 
 relief. I feel deeply for the sufferings she has been 
 obliged to endure, and shall try to make up in some 
 measure to her what I should have been glad to do in 
 her lifetime. I shall take this child into my family." 
 
 He pronounced this final summing up of his de- 
 termination with great emphasis, and immediately 
 walked out of the room. 
 
 " Have your own way, then," returned his wife, though 
 not loud enough for him to hear. 
 
 Mr. Trevelyn at once communicated to Mrs. Stokes 
 the favorable conclusion at which he had arrived in the 
 matter, and bade her take off her things and stay through 
 the night with Milly. He conducted her to the apart- 
 ment where the servants were to be found, and gave 
 her into their care. Milly he took with himself into 
 the parlor. The room, however, was vacant. Mrs. 
 Trevelyn had made a precipitate retreat on first hear- 
 ing his returning footsteps. 
 
 It was early the next morning when Mrs. Stokes 
 took her leave of Milly and Mr. Trevelyn, for she 
 had seen no others while there, and she kissed the 
 child over and over again at the gate, lifting her in her 
 arms. Mr. Trevelyn thanked her earnestly for the in- 
 terest she had taken in the last wishes of his sister, 
 and insisted on her acceptance of the- roll of bank bills 
 he fairly thrust into her hand. She received it with 
 tears swimming in her eyes, and hoped God would 
 never forget to reward the generosity of such a kind- 
 hearted gentleman. 
 
 As the stage rolled off from the gate down the coun- 
 try road, she had her handkerchief to her eyes, and her 
 lips were muttering in a low tone to herself, 
 
 " Poor Milly ! you've got a good home at last ! "
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 NOT ALL GOLD THAT GLITTERS. 
 
 THIS is an adage we should be little inclined to offer 
 the reader again, except as it seemed quite as perti- 
 nent to this place as it ever was to any other. 
 
 Milly might have fancied she had reached the heart 
 of happiness now, because there was such plenty, 
 even to profusion ; but acceptable even as that may at 
 all times be, it is nothing without its concomitants in 
 comfort. Food and clothing are well enough as far as 
 they go; but they certainly do not cover the whole 
 question. The satisfying of the stomach is by no 
 means the necessary provision of the heart, nor does it 
 stand in the stead of security for. the heart's happiness. 
 
 Mr. Trevelyn was much absent from home, particu- 
 larly at this season. He had his property to look after 
 in town, as well as in the country ; and by far the 
 larger part of it, of course, lay in the former locality. 
 So that now Mrs Trevelyn had full sway in the man- 
 agement of the friendless little orphan. 
 
 Prejudiced against the child herself, she had taken 
 pains to instil the same feeling into the minds of her 
 two daughters Margaret and Ellen. These were 
 still quite young, though several years in advance of 
 Milly ; and their principles, one would naturally think, 
 might have been intrusted with better advantage to 
 other hands. 
 
 For several days after her arrival, they scarcely 
 3 W
 
 20 DOVECOTE. 
 
 noticed her; merely going about with their childish 
 pug noses turned up, as if that were the only way they 
 had yet learned of testifying contempt. They hardly 
 spoke to her even at the table ; and then only because 
 their father seemed to be determined to manufacture 
 some sort of connecting link between them. 
 
 Mrs. Trevelyn had told them who she was, and where 
 her mother had died, giving up the particulars with 
 most wonderful minuteness, and adding thereto numer- 
 ous embellishments. 
 
 " She was nothing but a beggar woman," she said, 
 " and had died at last of want. It was all a vulgar 
 affair," added she ; and she quite wondered at Mr. 
 Trevelyn for his readiness to take such a class of people 
 into his house. 
 
 "For my part," returned Miss Margaret, "I shall 
 never acknowledge her as any relation of mine ! " 
 
 " Nor I either ! " chimed in Ellen. 
 
 " I should hope my daughters had more pride" con- 
 curred Mrs. Trevelyn, " than to think of such a thing. 
 Why, who is she ? Why slimM you call her a relation ? 
 You have never known any thing of her, and have not. 
 so much as seen her mother ! " 
 
 " I should think papa would hear to what you said 
 about it," suggested Margaret, who was the elder of the 
 sisters, and had just put on her budding airs. 
 
 " So should I, too," echoed Ellen. 
 
 " He will do no such thing," replied their mother, 
 sharply. " He will do just as he wants to ; and that is 
 enough to make one perfectly miserable ! " 
 
 The girls looked round at each other. It was not so 
 much a look of astonishment as of inquiry. This was 
 the first peep they had been permitted to take at the 
 real state of the relations between their parents.
 
 NOT ALL GOLD THAT GLITTERS. 27 
 
 " Milly," said Mrs. Trevelyn, one day, " tell me what 
 your real name is. It's not Milly, I know" 
 
 The child looked up at her in surprise. 
 
 " What name did your mother give you ? " 
 
 " Only Milly," was her meek reply. 
 
 " Was ever such foolishness put into the heads of 
 children ? and poor children, too ! " exclaimed she, 
 turning round upon her own daughters with a sneer on 
 her face. As if, forsooth, a pretty name was not as 
 much a fragrance in the hovel as the hall ! As if only 
 money could purchase natural licenses to appropriate 
 the pleasant phrases and the sweet names to one's self- 
 ish use, while the poor must mob their words and names 
 all disagreeably together ! There is more of such a 
 feeling among those whose gentility is but another 
 name for their riches than might at first be readily 
 received. 
 
 " What did your mother do for a living ? " pursued 
 Mrs. Trevelyn, determined to debase the child's feel- 
 ings in the presence of her daughters. " Did she go 
 picking rags out of the gutters ? or did she sell 
 oranges at the street corners ? " 
 
 Milly thought of that mother then, just as she lay on 
 the bed the last time she saw her alive. Her mind 
 rapidly gathered up the last injunctions from her saint- 
 ed lips, bidding her always to be gentle, and to trust to 
 Heaven to carry her through all her trials. And as the 
 recollection of all these things rushed over her, her 
 heart swelled with its surcharging grief, and she sought 
 immediate relief in a passionate flood of tears. 
 
 " Crying ? " said Mrs. Trevelyn. " Then you're one 
 of the crying sort, are you? I fancy your mother 
 must have made a great pet of you, for a street beg- 
 gar!"
 
 28 DOVECOTE. 
 
 The girls were really touched with what they saw ; 
 for there is no nature that is schooled to insensibility 
 except by degrees, and Mrs. Trevelyn had the tuitior 
 of her children's hearts yet before her. They had, it is 
 true, accomplished much in the way of imitation al- 
 ready ; but if their mother intended for them a 
 thorough course of training in her own peculiar charac- 
 teristics, she had yet much to do. 
 
 " What did your mother do for you when you cried 
 in that way ? " said she, sneering again, for the benefit 
 of her daughters. 
 
 " I never cried ! " sobbed the child, scarcely able to 
 speak distinctly. 
 
 " Ah, that indeed ! Then I think we'll have none of 
 it here ! You may go out of the room." 
 
 Mrs. Trevelyn was cut with the pointed reply of 
 Milly. It was the more pointed, from the sincerity and 
 innocence of manner with which it was given. 
 
 Milly had no alternative, therefore, but to go out of 
 the room. She found her way into the garden, and 
 wandered off to its most remote quarters, till she finally 
 reached a little coppice that skirted its border. To this 
 rustic retreat she betook herself, sitting down upon a 
 rock at the foot of a tree. 
 
 The spring was out in all its enticing freshness. 
 From the boughs that interlaced above her head the 
 tender buds had long ago burst, and tiny leaves of the 
 most welcome and delicate green had started in all di- 
 rections, fringing and ruffling the sprays as no hand less 
 skilful than that of Nature herself could do it all. The 
 air was soft and bland, and lightly stirred the auburn 
 locks she had brushed away from her forehead with 
 such care. There was quiet and peace every where 
 about her. It was a welcome change from the feverish
 
 NOT ALL GOLD THAT GUTTERS. 29 
 
 feelings that had so lately oppressed her in the house. 
 She was glad that she had come to this place. 
 
 More sadly than ever, though, came back to her the 
 remembered words, and looks, and tones, and smiles of 
 her mother. All the while her mind was contrasting 
 the character of her aunt with that of her mother ; and 
 her heart told her there was something unnatural in the 
 very comparison. She could with difficulty believe 
 that there could be so much unhappiness, on the part 
 of even one, where there was likewise such profusion 
 and plenty. 
 
 A new glimpse of life broke on her vision. She be- 
 gan to understand the hollowness of appearances, and 
 to measure the true shapes of realities. For a mind as 
 young and untutored as hers, there was newly opened a 
 storehouse of reflections that would be likely to last her 
 through the whole of her life. And all the time she 
 thought of these things she grew more and more sad- 
 dened, until she quite wished that she could go at once 
 where her mother had gone before. 
 
 In this state of feeling she had continued undisturbed 
 for a long time. It was already near sunset, and the 
 shadows were lengthening on the grass at her feet. 
 The air was imperceptibly growing chill, and she should 
 have returned to the house. But a summons reached 
 her before she had thought of the hour. A servant 
 spied her in her sylvan seclusion, and told her that Mrs. 
 Trevelyn was looking for her. 
 
 Milly rose from the rock on which she had been sit- 
 ting, and followed her slowly into the house. 
 
 Mrs. Trevelyn met her at the door. 
 
 " Where have you been, miss ? " she sharply -in- 
 quired, bestowing on her a highly threatening look. 
 
 " I found her 'way off in them woods yonder ! " an- 
 3*
 
 30 POVECOTB. 
 
 swered the ready servant. " I don't see how she ever 
 found the way out there ! " 
 
 " What did you go there for ? " persisted Mrs. Trev- 
 elyn. " What were you doing ? " 
 
 " Nothing," meekly answered the child. 
 
 " Nothing ? Yes, you must have been doing some- 
 thing ! What was it ? " 
 
 By this time Margaret and Ellen had come to the 
 door, and were watching the termination of the matter 
 with deep apparent interest. Mrs. Trevelyn found 
 another opportunity for the advantageous display of her 
 cruel tactics. 
 
 Milly did not seem inclined to reply to Mrs. Trev- 
 elyn's last question, which was very unfortunate for 
 her. 
 
 " I bid you tell me what you was doing ! " spoke she, 
 still more sharply. 
 
 " Nothing," again answered Milly. 
 
 " Nothing ? What a fool ! Do you ever think ? or 
 don't you know how ? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," replied the child, looking down at the 
 ground. 
 
 " And didn't you think while you was out there ? " 
 
 The girls thought this the best place to titter ; which 
 they did to their mother's thorough satisfaction. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " What was you thinking of, then ? " 
 
 The question had to be repeated. 
 
 " I don't wish to tell," said Milly, evasively. 
 
 " Don't wish to tell, eh ? There's a lady for you, 
 now ! But you shall tell ! I bid you tell me at once ! " 
 
 Milly hesitated. 
 
 " Of course you were thinking how much better a life 
 in the dirty streets was, than here in this beautiful
 
 NOT ALL GOLD THAT GLITTERS. 31 
 
 place, wasn't you? Of course you were thinking of 
 your mother, and comparing her with me ? Think of 
 it, girls ! " 
 
 It was unaccountable by what fatality Mrs. Trev- 
 elyn had fallen upon the exact train of the child's 
 thoughts and feelings. Possibly a guilty conscience 
 might have had something to do with it. 
 
 Milly told her that she was thinking of her mother, 
 and that her thoughts were upon her often. 
 
 " And comparing her with me, I suppose ? " persisted 
 her tormentor. 
 
 " I couldn't help it, ma'am ! Indeed, how could I ? " 
 exclaimed the child, and burst into tears. 
 
 " Well, which did you think you'd rather live with ? " 
 
 " My mother ! O, my mother ! " answered Milly, in a 
 passion of agony. 
 
 " Of course ! " said Mrs. Trevelyn ; and her daughters 
 looked at each other, as if they fancied the dignity of 
 their indulgent parent had already been fearfully com- 
 promised. 
 
 " Now go up to bed ! " ordered the self-condemned 
 woman. " Go at once ! You shall go supperless, too, 
 for your impudence ! " 
 
 Milly was glad to escape from her presence, even on 
 so light terms as these. She could not have eaten her 
 supper, as she then felt, if it had been set before her. 
 There was something she wished satisfied long before 
 she thought of the demands of her appetite. 
 
 She therefore hurried to her little room, and flung 
 herself upon her bed. She continued sobbing and call- 
 ing moaningly on her mother, till she had finally sobbed 
 and moaned herself to sleep. There was at least one 
 chance of rest for a heart so tossed as hers ; and that
 
 32 DOVECOTE. 
 
 was to be found in blessed sleep. In dreams she might 
 be happy. 
 
 Such was a single example of the experience through 
 which the child was obliged to go under the authority 
 of Mrs. Trevelyn. The lady was reputed to be 
 wealthy, in so far as she shared the wealth of her 
 husband ; but that must have been all.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 NOT far retired from the little village of Kirkwood, a 
 great many miles distant from the town in which the 
 present fortunes of little Milly had been cast, and in 
 another state, was our own dear homestead. We were 
 all brooded there then, ignorant of trouble, and thought- 
 less of care. 
 
 The dew is in my heart, just as it used to he on the 
 rich grass about the old house, whenever I call up again 
 the distinct image of that old home nest. I see its steep 
 and mossy roofs, its shadowing elms, its odd, old-fash- 
 ioned gables. They rise like a picture in my memory. 
 The old light streams over them, and they stand out on 
 the canvas anew. The windows still glow in the fire- 
 light, and the stack of roofs in the rear rises to tell me of 
 the divided joys of autumn evenings and rainy days. 
 
 Most homesteads have some notable peculiarities. 
 Dovecote, as I know, had none, unless it might be that 
 never a spot was so hallowed by affection so en- 
 deared to the memory of its inmates, and so closely 
 hedged about with precious associations. A plain and 
 unpretending country house itself, it was more than a 
 very palace in this. It held a mine of wealth, from 
 which, though we all so freely drew, not the least, aftei 
 all, seemed to be taken. 
 
 It was only a house after the old style, with quite all 
 the comforts for which so many of those ancient struc 
 
 (33)
 
 34 DOVECOTE. 
 
 tures were distinguished. Beneath the stately elms that 
 reached their long arms protectingly over it, as if calling 
 down upon it a benison, it seemed the very resting-place 
 of the heart ; the nook whither many a weary one's de- 
 sires may often have drifted ; the still corner where a 
 worn spirit might always hope to find repose. 
 
 It had a gable roof, and peaked dormer windows, 
 with sharp gables jutting out against the sky. A huge 
 chimney, all of stone, rose above the whole like a 
 massy turret, through whose stained and blackened vent 
 sailed white and blue smokes to heaven, fragrant with 
 incense of the happiness around the hearthstone below. 
 
 There was a garden for flowers before the front door, 
 and beyond that stretched a broad green lawn of the 
 thickest and freshest grass. The elms gathered them- 
 selves in groups at the head of the lawn, nearest the 
 house, and thence scattered themselves irregularly over 
 its entire surface, until they skirted the winding road 
 below. Between two of these venerable trees was the 
 gateway of the avenue. 
 
 In the rear the kitchen garden lay, loaded, in the 
 season, with all the various esculents for which thrifty 
 home gardens are apt to be noted. Time would fail 
 me to tell of the beans, and the squashes, and onions, 
 and melons, and sweet corn, and carrots, and turnips, 
 and beets, or of the peas, and parsnips, and lettuce, and 
 okra, and salsify, or of asparagus, and tomatoes, and 
 celery, or so much as to mention the heaps of garden 
 fruits, cherries, and plums, and pears, and peaches that 
 were yearly gathered in from this little half acre. 
 
 In the fall time, the speckled and bright-eyed beans 
 came in, and the reddest of peppers and tomatoes, look- 
 ing for all the world as if they must have been painted 
 one by one, were hung up about the store rooms and
 
 DOVECOTE. 36 
 
 kitchen from well-smoked beams, or strung, like fanciful 
 Indian trinkets, across the rafters of the old garret ; and 
 the herbs were hung in well-assorted bunches to dry, 
 and the vegetables all went into the warm and capa- 
 cious cellar. It was a busy time with the whole of us, 
 that harvest time in the garden. It kept the younger 
 hands at work for days together, and so, of course, out 
 of the mischief for which their fingers itched. And, in 
 the spring again, there was so much rubbish to be 
 cleared away and burned. Children always think such 
 things awful, and the prospect fairly is that they ever 
 will. 
 
 There was such a seemingly studied irregularity 
 about the old house it was absolutely charming. One 
 room led you so unexpectedly into another; and the 
 next room led you knew not where ; and the pas- 
 sages and halls were so intricate and rambling ! One 
 could play hide-and-seek among them half his days. 
 
 There were uncounted little recesses, and doorways, 
 and projections with not the least imaginable design in 
 the world, unless it might have been to confuse a stran- 
 ger, and there was no denying that this plan was an- 
 swered admirably. For every one who shared the hos- 
 pitalities of Dovecote was in the regular habit of saying, 
 in some jocular way or other, " I can find my way round 
 here with a little pains ; but, I declare, I can't find it 
 back again ! " 
 
 I used to wonder, when I wandered alone of a rainy 
 day among the chambers and dim passages of the house, 
 if it was not just on account of them that the place was 
 called Dovecote. 
 
 There were large square rooms, with high walls, all 
 the way wainscoted. The dining room, or, as it was 
 usually called, the " keeping room," was the place where
 
 J6 DOVECOTE. 
 
 we were wont oftenest to assemble. There the huge, 
 fierce-looking firedogs reflected the ruddy glow of the 
 fire in the winter. There we gathered about the cheer- 
 ful table, spread with its snowy cloth, and loaded with 
 the fat that the land annually yielded us. There we lis- 
 tened to sweet and olden stories until far into the even- 
 ing, glancing from the dimming fire to the darkened 
 window panes, and feeling, each of us, a child's true 
 gratefulness that we had a home. 
 
 Next in order came the kitchen, with its wide -throated 
 fireplace, large enough to sit in safely while the fire was 
 burning ; and its low ceiling hung fantastically with the 
 last harvest fruits, and its bustle and business in the 
 memorable baking and brewing days, and its heavy oak 
 floor fastened down by huge nails with brightly-scoured 
 heads, and its aromas, and steams, and appetizing fumes, 
 always attracting children to make their usual discov- 
 eries. Servants moved briskly about there, from fire- 
 place to table, and from table to fireplace again ; and 
 logs of immense size were rolled into the chimney 
 throat ; and dancing flames went roaring up the chim- 
 ney, crackling, and snapping, and climbing agilely 
 among the light sprays and branches of the brushwood, 
 writhing and hi?sing, and laughing with the strangest 
 imaginable laughter as they sped upwards, and filling 
 all the apartment of a trying winter's day with visions 
 of comfort, and plenty, and home. A kitchen, somehow, 
 awakens the home feeling sooner than almost any other 
 place. 
 
 In the yard, where the flower blooms first assured us 
 of coming spring, almost every variety of home flowers 
 blushed along the borders of the simple beds, or grouped 
 themselves fantastically in the angles. There were 
 snowdrops, and crocuses, four-o'clocks, and larkspurs,
 
 DOVECOTE. 37 
 
 lady's slippers, and bachelor's buttons, scattered plenti- 
 fully up and down the walks and over the beds. And 
 modest myrtles bloomed in the haunted shade of a few 
 evergreens ; while blushing morning glories the fa- 
 vorite flower of my saintly grandmother clambered 
 up by the house, as if to be seen of her in their fresh 
 beauty when she first opened her little bed-room win- 
 dow in the early summer morning. 
 
 Violets opened their mild eyes with the first warm 
 breath of spring ; and asters stood shivering against the 
 wall, and down the path, till the late frosts of autumn. 
 Hyacinths, in their pure white kirtles, colored like soft- 
 eyed maidens, the belles of a quiet town. Daffodils 
 grew thickly in all the strange varieties of their colors. 
 And there was abundance of carnations. And beds of 
 variegated pinks breathed out the sweetest fragrance. 
 And there were healthy rose trees, too, in profusion, 
 standing all about the yard, beneath the windows, at 
 the house corner, and against the trellis work of the 
 deep little porch. One was always enchanted with the 
 place of a dewy morning in summer, when the sun first 
 stretched his long red fingers over the eastern heights, 
 painting the house, and the leaves, and the flowers all 
 anew. There was not, surely, such another place the 
 whole country round. 
 
 The clustered barns and other outbuildings made you 
 think of a little settlement, where the edge of the cut- 
 ting winds was taken off by their protecting barriers, and 
 the heart became easy with a remembrance of the gran- 
 aries that were full. 
 
 There were sloping pasture lands on the west and 
 
 south-west, over which the silvery haze of the autumn 
 
 days hung like an unspoken blessing. And far down 
 
 to the south the damp fogs of winter and early spring 
 
 4
 
 DOVECOTE. 
 
 came blowing up through the valley between the hills, 
 breathing their chilling breaths on the roofs of Dove- 
 cote, and making the dangling boughs of the old elms 
 drip as with a plentiful rain. 
 
 In the woods were to be found an abundance of wild 
 grapes, hanging in clusters from the intertwisted vines, 
 and crowning the top of some noble forest tree with a 
 wreath of their purple fruitage. And there were such 
 grand places to trap the wild game through the slill 
 autumn ! We spent days together in the woods in this 
 deeply-exciting occupation. 
 
 There were little brilliants of pools standing about in 
 the lowlands, beside which grew the coarse brake, the 
 flag, and the yellow lilycup ; and upon whose marshy 
 borders green-coated frogs, with great staring eyes, 
 whirred dismally all through the evenings in summer. 
 And there was many a silver brook, too, ripp^/ig and 
 brawling down through the meadows now tangling 
 itself like a silken skein in the snarled growth of a 
 clump of brushwood now creeping slyly along, like a 
 shining snake, in the emerald grass and now giving 
 a leap and a laugh over a bed of pebbles and stones, 
 and hiding its head far under the turf of the undermined 
 embankment. 
 
 If there was a feeling of freshness upon my heart in 
 the springtide, as I roamed about the dear demesne of 
 Dovecote, it changed to one of sweet and unutterable 
 joy as the autumn suns began to throw then: yellow 
 beams aslant upon the house, and garden, and fields. 
 There was always a deeper delight in these latter days, 
 to me, than in any other. I felt as if my heart was 
 more full. There was no heat to the sun ; but it was 
 so genial. It seemed to open the sluices of the heart, 
 that the old and unquiet feelings might all flow out, and
 
 DOVECOTE. 39 
 
 purer and healthier feelings set in. I loved to linger on 
 the sunny side of- some moss-girt wall, and count the 
 yellow peaches still hanging on the limbs ; or stroll 
 down across the lawn, trampling the golden leaves that 
 the old elms had showered down at my feet ; or loiter 
 about the sunny nooks of the sheds and barns, gazing 
 off dreairily over the haze-environed hills, and watch- 
 ing the patient oxen slowly dragging their loads of yel- 
 low corn up through the cartworn lanes. 
 
 Autumn seemed to me the harvest time of my heart's 
 richest and ripest feelings. The same sweet associa- 
 tions were sure to hang about me, go where I would : 
 into the spacious garret, through the chambers, whose 
 windows were opened in the middle of the day, and 
 where the slender-waisted wasps swarmed in the sun, 
 or about the gardens and fields. There was some 
 magic I cannot even now explain it in the sun- 
 shine. It stole in at my eyes, and so to my heart, as I 
 looked at the changing leaves of the huge elms, or the 
 stripped stalks in the garden, or the fading and dying 
 vines on the crest of the garden wall. 
 
 The winter never hung heavily, either. It was full 
 of joys all its own. The fires were kindled again on 
 the hearths, and the hearts of the household were 
 drawn in a magnetic circle round them. The sacred 
 home feeling warmed with the dancing flames, fusing 
 all hearts together. There were frost palaces for us on 
 the window panes in the morning, and deep snow drifts 
 for us to fight our way through to school. Frolics of all 
 descriptions were to be had in the barns, from the hay- 
 capped scaffolds to the dark and secret mangers. We 
 had memorable times, too, in the grand old chambers, 
 as we trooped off to bed at night, after listening to fairy 
 stories at the hearth till our mischievous little heads
 
 40 DOVECOTE. 
 
 were fairly turned. And the meetings and greetings at 
 the breakfast table, smoking with its winter comforts, 
 were brief moments of happiness that are notched 
 durably on my jealous memory. 
 
 And then, when spring came laughing again over the 
 eastern heights, and the soft south winds drew up 
 through the valley, and the days began perceptibly to 
 lengthen, and the buds to throw off their snug-fitting 
 winter coats again, my heart always danced with the 
 impulse of a new life, and I greeted the new season 
 with a joy I could never fathom. 
 
 So it was at Dovecote the year round. Nothing was 
 there in such plenty as happiness. Some would say it 
 was a homely happiness ; but it was all the dearer to 
 us for that. There was reality in it all. It was full of 
 truth. There were no strange and meaningless con- 
 ceits dragged in, to accuse it of poverty or impair its 
 charming wholeness. I am renewed, as my thoughts 
 drift pleasantly back to that old homestead ; and my 
 lips involuntarily utter after the poet, in living over 
 again that freshest part of existence, 
 
 " Fresh as a spouting spring upon the hills 
 My heart leaped out to life ; it little thought 
 Of all the vile cares that would rill into it, 
 And the low places it would have to go through 
 The drains, the crossings, and the mill work after."
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE OLD FOLKS AT HOME. 
 
 I SEE them now my grandfather and grandmother 
 sitting in the hearth corner, as they always used to 
 sit there. 
 
 My good grandmother sat next the chimney, in a 
 little high-backed chair, with a cushioned flag bottom, 
 rocking herself gently to and fro, and either dreaming 
 among the fire coals, or looking round among us with 
 moistened eyes and that inimitably sweet smile playing 
 about her mouth. 
 
 She wore a tidy little cap, with a snowy ruffle, upon 
 her head ; and I could see the silver hair, sometimes, 
 as it lay smoothly parted over her forehead. I thought 
 no one ever wore such dainty caps as my grandmother. 
 They were perfect bijoux of caps though she would 
 not herself have been likely to know what kind of caps 
 they were. And over her neck she wore a handkerchief 
 of spotless lawn, or a pretty little cravat, which she had 
 a way of tying, in a jaunty-looking bow, just under her 
 chin. 
 
 While she sat in the hearth corner she almost in- 
 variably occupied herself with knitting. And at times 
 she grew a little loquacious, too, as all grandmothers 
 have the very best right to be ; beginning, often, with 
 some charming story of her girlhood that drew all the 
 young folks about her knee, and leaving off when they 
 might happen to grow weary with the narration. 
 
 4 * (4i>
 
 42 ROVECOTK. 
 
 She helped assort the fall stores of herbs, tying them 
 in proper bunches, and hiding away her own favorites, 
 in whose sanative virtues she had more than ordinary 
 faith, in some place of uncommon security. She gath- 
 ered marigold and saffron from the beds she had her- 
 self sown and planted in the spring ; and while she tied 
 them in bunches, or rolled them away carefully in great 
 brown papers, she took the occasion to tell us how much 
 good these innocent herbs would do, if sickness should 
 happen to threaten us in the coming winter. 
 
 When the choice apples were got in, she helped pare 
 them with the rest, and then strung them in long neck- 
 laces to dry. Nothing, she said, was so good for pies as 
 apples well dried ; but they must be well dried, she was 
 sure to add to her remark. All the little light duties of 
 housewifery she still prided herself on being able to 
 perform. She was not, however, a body that had a 
 holy horror of what some people call " idleness." It was 
 no sin, her practice seemed to say, for one to sit at 
 times with folded hands gazing into the fanciful realms 
 of the fire, or telling olden stories tojthe younger part of 
 the household, or lost in the golden memories of ancient 
 days, or listening, with emotions each moment new, to 
 the talk of the mature ones, or the riotous babble of the 
 children. 
 
 Beside her chair stood the deep easy chair of my 
 grandfather. It was stuffed at its back and sides, and 
 he rolled it about at his pleasure on castors. The top 
 of it reached far above his head, and the three peaks, 
 a trifle after Gothic lines, were surmounted with rude 
 and simple carvings of oak. It was covered with a 
 chintz of a very quaint device, that seemed made, 
 I always thought, for nothing but my grandfather's 
 chair.
 
 THE OLD FOLKS AT HOME. 43 
 
 He often sat before the fire, with his shrivelled hands 
 over his knees, sometimes looking steadily into the 
 blaze, his head bent a little forward, and sometimes 
 turning about to talk in a low tone to my grandmother. 
 His hair was snowy, showing that the winter of life had 
 really set in with him. The eyes, as they beamed anew 
 in the fluttering excitement of conversation, betrayed 
 only the far-off depths to which their lustre had re- 
 treated ; as if he would take the sights of the outer world 
 as far back towards his heart as possible, and there 
 enjoy them in silent secrecy. 
 
 They were so good, those old people, and we all 
 thought them so kind, and indulgent, and free from 
 peevishness. Nay, some of the children went so far as 
 to make a confidant of my grandmother a thing, I will 
 venture to say, that is rarely attempted by children gen- 
 erally with their grandmothers. 
 
 They had their little bed room just beside the keep- 
 ing room, that they might have no stairs to climb. Theii 
 bed always looked so soft and downy, and the spread 
 was always so spotless, and the dimity curtains seemed 
 so tidy, that, whenever I used to get a glimpse of them 
 all, I wished from my heart I could have such a little 
 bed room to myself. 
 
 A miniature stand, with three fluted legs, and dog's 
 claws for feet, was placed at the head of the bed, upon 
 whose white cover I always saw the great family Bible ; 
 and when my grandfather brought it out and held it on 
 his knees, as he often did, tracing the promises of the 
 better life through the round glasses of his silver-bowed 
 spectacles, I could not help wondering if I should ever 
 live to be as old as he, and be obliged to wear specta- 
 cles, and read only large letters. 
 
 Yet there was a genuine patriarchal simplicity in the
 
 44 DOVECOTE. 
 
 hearts of those two old people that was deeply touch- 
 ing. They were as far removed as may be from the 
 taint of insincerity and worldliness. Their lives had 
 been, since their early marriage, like two limpid brooks, 
 braided together, and gliding now, without a break or a 
 ripple, along the smoothest and stillest of channels. If 
 any new desire possessed one, the other was sure to be 
 possessed likewise. What one felt was felt sympathet- 
 ically by the other. All they had, and all they were, 
 was in common between them. 
 
 So genial and gentle a picture, placed constantly be- 
 fore our eyes, and feeding our young hearts daily with 
 the tenderest and most dutiful of sentiments, might 
 be sure to work upon us for a good end. Their mild 
 looks were alone sufficient to quell a rising rebellion. 
 The faintest smile from the mouth of my grandmother 
 softened my heart before I knew how it had been done. 
 And when she beckoned me, in her own peculiar way, 
 to come and lie my head in her lap, and toyed with my 
 hair with her thin hands, and finally stooped down and 
 kissed my cheek with all her saintly affection, I was 
 sure to feel the tears starting to my eyes, and to find 
 myself weeping at last for very shame. 
 
 Their portraits were hung in the parlor, and visitors 
 never failed to look at them with an interest that seemed 
 truly affectionate. I can see the meek look of my 
 grandmother now, as she seemed to be gazing across 
 the wall at my grandfather. He was not at all like her, 
 at least on canvas. The portraits must have been painted 
 in then: younger days, for my grandfather's hair was 
 dark, and was brushed up rather stiffly, and in a smart 
 way, off his forehead. His cravat was white, and tied 
 in a notable square bow. A very small piece of a ruffle 
 peeped out from the fold of his waistcoat, betraying, so
 
 THE OLD FOLKS AT HOME. 45 
 
 far as that went, all the propensities of a gentleman of 
 the " old school." 
 
 My grandmother was wont to call my grandfather 
 " Jacob," which was his Christian name ; and he never 
 addressed her otherwise than as " mother." What a 
 simple but deep lesson of affection slept in those two 
 words ! What histories of joy and grief did they not 
 suggest ! What memories tender and blessed mem- 
 ories did they not call back to life again ! 
 
 In the wintry days, my grandfather used to leave his 
 place in the comer by the middle of the forenoon, when 
 the sun began to set the eaves a-mnning, and make short 
 sallies to the busy portions of the house, or, perhaps, to 
 the outbuildings and barns. He walked with a half- 
 timid step, his attenuated limbs shaking beneath him, 
 and his hands catching at such objects as first came in 
 his way. 
 
 He loved chiefly to busy himself in the barn, among 
 the barrels of apples, the rows of pumpkins and winter 
 squashes, and the ricks of corn ; or in the granary, reck- 
 oning up in Ms mind the number of bushels the yellow 
 ears would turn out when shelled ; or beneath the shed 
 that opened southward, watching the cattle that stood 
 grouped in the faint sun, patiently chewing their cuds 
 and awaiting the sprouting of the new grass on the hill- 
 sides and in the pastures. 
 
 He talked with the men servants about the feed, and 
 the net yield of certain fields that he had known from 
 his boyhood, and the coming on of the young cattle, 
 whose sprouted horns told of the sure increase in their 
 value. He occasionally hummed snatches of psalm 
 tunes, stepping about briskly the while, and running his 
 eyes over every nook and angle of the old bam, as if 
 there should be a something there which it was not in 
 his power to find.
 
 46 DOVECOTE. 
 
 If there were rats, or weevil, or other infesting ver- 
 min to be got rid of about the granaries, he was the one 
 who took it upon himself to see that it was thoroughly 
 done. All the traps he made and set himself; and he 
 seemed quite as regular in watching them as a boy in 
 tending his partridge snares in the woods. He tinkered 
 by the hour at the work bench in the little carpentry 
 room, making frail trellises for " mother's " choice vines 
 to climb by in the spring, and mending drawers, and 
 bales, and boxes, till it seemed that there could be no 
 more to mend. 
 
 In the afternoons, when we came home from school, 
 in winter, the old folks were always sitting beside each 
 other again. Perhaps my grandfather was reading to 
 " mother " from some old pamphlet or book of sermons, 
 while she sat quietly knitting in the corner, her own 
 kind heart knit already a great way into his. 
 
 He read often to her in the large Bible ; and when he 
 ,ame upon some favorite passage that had been en- 
 deared to them both by the familiarity of years, he 
 paused for a moment in his reading, while they both 
 seemed to feed their earnest souls together on the 
 precious consolations it offered them. 
 
 And when the table was cleared in the evening, and 
 a new supply of cleft ash or hickory was brought in and 
 laid across the firedogs, and the flames began to crackle 
 and to glow, spouting out their pale and slender columns 
 towards us all, there sat the old folks in the same cor- 
 ner still. My mother bless her tenderest of hearts ! 
 sat in the corner opposite my grandmother, and my 
 father managed somehow to lose himself in the nest of 
 the younker folk. 
 
 The fire burned sometimes with unusual brilliancy, 
 lighting up the whole of our circle. At such times I
 
 THE OLD FOLKS AT HOME. 47 
 
 used to gaze in mute wonder at the shining forehead of 
 my grandfather, and at his snowy locks and dimming 
 eyes ; and I asked myself if the good old man must not 
 be perfectly wretched in knowing that he could live so 
 few years longer, at the most. It seemed strange to 
 me, then, to see those white-headed people thus sitting 
 at their ease in the corner, ready, I thought, for the har- 
 vest, and waiting, perhaps, to be gathered in. 
 
 I have no room for such childish wonders now. 
 
 As if they were not ready and willing to depart, say- 
 ing, with the patriarch of old, " Lord, now lettest thou 
 thy servant depart in peace " ! As if that silver that 
 lay on the locks were not the blossoming that promised 
 a ripe and ready harvest in heaven ! 
 
 Always, before we went off to bed, to lie and 
 listen to the howling winds all night blowing over fields 
 of frozen snows, and perchance to dream of the soaking 
 and softening spring rains that would cause the buried 
 seeds to burst again into beauty from the warm mould, 
 we received the old folks' blessed " Good night," and 
 felt ourselves all the better that we had deserved it. 
 
 We left them in the corner at night. We welcomed 
 them there in the morning. They belonged to that 
 hearth. They were a part of the whole life of my 
 heart. It had not then been complete if the chair of 
 either had been standing vacant there. 
 
 They grew deeply into my heart, till they became a 
 part of it themselves.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 FEARFUL CHANGES. 
 
 MR. TREVELYN came into the parlor of his mansion 
 at Byeboro', one day, evidently in great excitement. 
 Yet he made a strong effort to control himself, as many 
 men in like circumstances are outwardly apt to do. It 
 was a calmness, however, that was too forced to be 
 without peculiar meaning. 
 
 He had just arrived home from the post office in the 
 village, where a letter had been put into his hands 
 that was the cause of all this sudden reversion of 
 feeling. ' 
 
 Entering the parlor, he found his wife there with the 
 elder daughter, Margaret. Mrs. Trevelyn did not look 
 up to exchange glances of recognition* with him, but 
 went on with the piece of muslin on which she was at 
 work. He accosted her first. 
 
 " Wife," said he, " you must change all your plans 
 and purposes. I have just received news of an over- 
 whelming nature. It has just reached me by the mail. 
 You had better prepare your mind for the worst at 
 once." 
 
 " Why, what is the matter ? " exclaimed Mrs. Trev- 
 elyn, dropping her work in her lap, and gazing now with 
 deep astonishment into the face of her husband. 
 
 She saw the state of his feelings, then, at a glance. 
 
 " What has happened, Mr. Trevelyn ? " she re- 
 peated. 
 
 (48)
 
 FEARFUL CHANGES. 49 
 
 He tried to be calm, but it cost him plainly a terrible 
 effort. 
 
 " This letter," said he, producing the same one he 
 had received, " bears the whole intelligence. It tells 
 me that I am a ruined man." 
 
 " Mr. Trevelyn ! " shrieked the wife, holding up both 
 her hands. " What do you mean, my husband ? What 
 can you mean ? W/to has ruined you ? What has 
 ruined you ? " 
 
 " Try to compose yourself; it is a trying matter, but 
 we need not make it worse than it is. I told you that 
 I am mined. I am ; and every thing goes by the board 
 with me. Mr. Mansfield one of the house in whose 
 hands I have left the whole of my property writes 
 me that they are themselves sunk, and must carry me 
 and all I have with them. 
 
 " My husband ! my husband ! " shrieked the wife, 
 wringing her hands and expressing every variety of 
 agonizing look upon her countenance, " are you ruined ? 
 Must we be poor ? Must we come to want ? O, tell 
 me if what you say is true ! Tell me if my poor chil- 
 dren must become beggars ! I cannot bear it ; no, it 
 will break my heart to hear that it must be so ! Tell 
 me, Mr. Trevelyn, if we must come to want ? " 
 
 " We are not possessed of a dollar in the world. All' 
 has gone every cent. I am a poor man as poor as 
 I ever was in my life. Worse worse ! I am in debt 
 beyond all that I was ever worth ! " 
 
 " O my husband ! Did I ever did I ever expect to 
 live to see this ? O mercy ! mercy .' " 
 
 " Mother, dear mother," interposed her daughter Mar- 
 garet, who had sat an unwilling spectator to this scene 
 of distress, " I beg you won't feel so bad just for papa's 
 5
 
 50 DOVECOTB. 
 
 being poor ! What if we are poor ? We may be hap- 
 py, mayn't we, mother ? " 
 
 The father shook his head. The trial was, in reality, 
 harder for him than for his wife to bear. He kept his 
 feelings back ; and thus, dammed up about his heart, 
 they became turbulent and fearfully troublesome. 
 
 " But you do not yet know what it is to be poor, Mar- 
 garet," returned her mother, though without looking at 
 her particularly. " It is to be without friends ; to bo 
 unnoticed as long as you live ; to be laughed at, and 
 sneered at, and talked familiarly about by all the coarse, 
 vulgar creatures that live. We don't know yet what 
 we are to suffer. And all this to come so sudden upon 
 me ! O, I shall die ! I shall die ! My heart will break 
 if this is true. I cannot live to see my poor children 
 want." 
 
 " I feel this change as deeply as you can," said her 
 husband. " Something has troubled me for a long time 
 past. It must have been a secret fear of this very 
 thing. I wonder if I can get through it." 
 
 A new light danced across his wife's brain. 
 
 " O Mr. Trevelyn," said she, seizing his arm and 
 looking with her passionate eyes close into his, " do try 
 to keep off this blow ! Do go to town at once, and see 
 if there's nothing that can be done not even one 
 single thing to keep back this danger ! There may 
 be hope yet. It may not be too late, Mr. Trevelyn ; 
 why won't you see what chance there is left for us ? 
 Don't let us fall so low, as we must if this intelligence 
 you have got is true ? " 
 
 " There is no mistaking that," said he, emphatically. 
 
 " No hope, did you say ? no chance open for us yet ? 
 no room for us to save our poor, dear children ? "
 
 FEARFUL CHANGES. 51 
 
 " I see none. We are ruined. We are poor as we 
 ever were." 
 
 " Mercy ! mercy ! " again cried the woman ; and 
 again she wrung her hands, and again threw her eyes 
 up to the ceiling. 
 
 " You should try to be more collected," he said to 
 her. " It is not the part of a true woman, and a mother, 
 to take on in this way for the loss of property. It's 
 what I've always said, and said to one person as well 
 as another : you can't tell to-day that you will be rich 
 to-morrow. Riches have wings. The Bible tells us 
 that; and I believe it now, if I never was able to 
 before." 
 
 " But there may be some means for you to save a 
 part of your money ! " suggested his wife, at the height 
 of hysterical symptoms. " Only a part of it, Mr. Trev- 
 elyn ! That would be better than to be wholly without 
 to be poor ! O, how can I bear to think of such a 
 thing ? How can I bear to think of such a dreadful 
 change for us all ? " 
 
 " I'll help you, mother, when we have to work," he- 
 roically offered Margaret. 
 
 " God bless you, my child ! It's all the help I can 
 give that you will want yourself ! You can do nothing. 
 You are entirely helpless. All that I must live now to 
 see will be my children wanting for bread and clothes. 
 And how these shallow upstarts will all look down on 
 us then, and tell us that they knew all the time we 
 must come down ; and say they're glad of it, and it was 
 good enough for us, and all that ! Mr. Trevelyn, will 
 you not go at once to town, and see if there is no way 
 of escape ? See if you can't sacrifice some one else in 
 your place ! There is hope I know there is. I 
 shan't be at rest till I know better than I do now that 
 all our property is gone."
 
 02 DOVECOTE. 
 
 " It's a dreadful reality, I know," said Mr. T., pacing 
 the floor excitedly ; " it will have to be understood a 
 little at a time. You cannot take the whole of such a 
 truth in at once ! " And forthwith he fell to mut- 
 tering over something that his wife could not under- 
 stand. 
 
 " Ruin ! ruin ! " said he at last, in a low tone ; and he 
 stopped short in the middle of the floor, and looked 
 down upon the carpet with a riveted gaze. " I can say 
 it, I can spell it, I can make others understand it ; but I 
 cannot understand it myself! It's a simple word, a very 
 simple word ; but it's a dreadful fact. How shall I get 
 round it ? " 
 
 And straightway he fell to walking briskly across the 
 floor again. 
 
 " There is a way, Mr. Trevelyn ! There must be a 
 way ! And you must go at once and find it out. I will 
 go with you, if you wish. I will do any thing. If 
 there's any figuring to be done if letters are to be 
 written if old accounts are to be looked into O, let 
 me do it ! I will save you, if I can. There may be 
 some mistake in adding up figures, somewhere. The 
 firm may have made a gross miscalculation somewhere. 
 Let me find it out for you. I know I can do it. Let 
 me go with you, and be satisfied." 
 
 " There must be fraud ! " muttered Mr. Trevelyn, 
 again pausing and studying the figure of the carpet. 
 " Fraud has been practised before ; why not here ? I 
 confess I have been much too confiding with these men. 
 I always had the highest trust in them. Perhaps it has 
 been abused at last, and I am made the victim." 
 
 The thought, sudden as it was, fixed him with a new 
 purpose. He stamped his foot heavily upon the floor, 
 and threw his eyes with a wild look about the room, as
 
 FEARFUL CHANGES. 53 
 
 if he were trying properly to collect his shattered and 
 wrecked reflections. 
 
 " Fraud, Mr. Trevelyn, did you say ? " asked his wife, 
 who had caught the word. 
 
 He made no reply, but walked with hasty strides out 
 of the room. 
 
 Mrs. Trevelyn, thereupon, gave way to a violent fit 
 )f weeping. She bent her head far down in her lap, 
 Durying her face in the muslin kerchief at which she 
 was at work when her husband came in. Margaret, 
 who, in proportion as her mother lost her courage, 
 seemed to increase her own, attempted to offer her syl- 
 lables of her childish condolence ; but it must have 
 been that they only added to the fuel that already pro- 
 duced the flame. 
 
 All night long did Mr. Trevelyn sit up, ransacking 
 and poring over piles of musty papers, and jotting down 
 innumerable figures on innumerable slips of paper, 
 now holding his pen nervously in his mouth, and now 
 sticking it hurriedly behind his ear, and adding, sub- 
 tracting, and multiplying, until it seemed as if every 
 figure must certainly have been worked in somewhere ; 
 muttering to himself, pacing the room, and alternately 
 rousing himself to the highest pitch of fear, or compos- 
 ing his feelings to the lowest limit within his reach. 
 When the morning dawned, it still found him at his 
 secretary. His hair was much tumbled and his lips 
 parched. His eyes looked haggard and bloodshot, and 
 in no respect was Mr. Trevelyn the man he usually 
 was. 
 
 His wife again ventured to open the door of the 
 
 room. He had done little else, he thought, but send 
 
 her away through the night. She entered to urge him 
 
 to taste some coffee she had prepared for him with her 
 
 5*
 
 54 DOVECOTE. 
 
 own hands. He took it from her, but his lip quivered. 
 Possibly he thought of the changed condition that was 
 just upon them, and of the few acts of kindness she 
 would hereafter feel disposed to render him in her 
 distress. 
 
 At first sipping it, and then drinking all off at a 
 draught, he stood on his feet. There was a peculiarity 
 in his manner, in his eye, in his whole look, that be- 
 trayed more than mere nervousness. Yet his wife 
 might have observed none of it. 
 
 His travelling trunk was got ready, and he prepared 
 himself though not with his usual care to return to 
 town by the early stage. In an hour it was before the 
 gate. He had bidden his wife a half-sullen " Good 
 by ; " his trunk was strapped on behind the coach ; 
 he had taken his seat ; and away he went down the 
 road, to the clatter of the horses' hoofs, speedily towards 
 the metropolis. 
 
 It was quite late in the afternoon when he arrived 
 there. Without taking refreshment, he hurried to his 
 hotel, and thence to the counting room of the house 
 with whose fortunes he had fallen. 
 
 No one was about the building but Mr. Mansfield. 
 Business was through, for they had stopped. Mr. 
 Mansfield was sitting on a high stool, with his back 
 resting against a desk, engaged in whittling and think- 
 ing. As he caught sight of Mr. Trevelyn entering the 
 door, an appearance of embarrassment seemed for a 
 moment to flush in his face, and he started uncon- 
 sciously. 
 
 Mr. Trevelyn saluted him, looking him straight in the 
 eye. He was cool in his civilities, and asked Mr. T. to 
 be seated. There was no need of travelling about the 
 matter at all ; they both understood it thoroughly.
 
 TEARFUL CHANGES. 55 
 
 And they went straight to the mark with their first 
 words. 
 
 After the exchange of a few general remarks, Mr 
 Trevelyn signified that he should be in his room at 
 his hotel all through the evening, and invited him to 
 bring his books along with him ; and with a promise 
 from the merchant to be there seasonably, he left him 
 and walked out into the street. 
 
 How different his thoughts from those heretofore 
 when he had walked those same streets ! What a 
 loss of energy could he feel now, throughout his whole 
 mental and physical constitution ! How depressed were 
 his spirits, as he had never thought to live to feel ! 
 
 Later somewhat than he had engaged, Mr. Mansfield 
 went to his room. He entered, and Mr. Trevelyn rose 
 to seat him near the table, locking the door at the same 
 time. The merchant's quick ear caught the snapping 
 sound of the lock, and his face became livid with fear, 
 though fear of what it would have been difficult for him 
 to say. 
 
 It was quite an hour that they continued thus clos- 
 eted. No loud voices were heard in the vicinity of the 
 door, and nothing like symptoms of anger or passion 
 were discoverable. That quarter of the building was as 
 free from disturbance, or so much as the breath of dis- 
 turbance, as any other. 
 
 All at once a loud and ringing report fell upon the 
 ear, reverberating along the alleys and passages, and 
 bringing every one to his or her door in great conster- 
 nation. What could it mean ? where was it ? was the 
 universal cry. Assistance was summoned from the offi- 
 cers of the hotel, who came in confusion from below, 
 knocking at every door that was locked to find the 
 locality where the alarm originated. Waiters and ser-
 
 56 BOVECOTK. 
 
 vants were at their heels, and boarders crowded on 
 close after them. 
 
 They finally reached the door of Mr. Trevelyn's room, 
 and knocked there. No answer. There was a strong 
 and stifling smell of powder. They knocked again. 
 No answer yet. They listened. A low moan was just 
 audible from within. Putting their shoulders stoutly 
 against the door, they forced it, and went tumbling into 
 the room. Eveiy one who saw that ghastly sight fell 
 backward with horror. There lay two men, one of 
 them stone dead, the other just gasping in the last ago- 
 aies of his life. He still clutched a pistol tightly in his 
 Aand, and gnashed his teeth fearfully, rolling up his 
 eyes to the wall. 
 
 One of the men, the dead man, was Mr. Mansfield ; 
 the other was Mr. Trevelyn. He had taken this method 
 of settling with one by whom he was thoroughly con- 
 vinced he had been robbed and ruined. 
 
 It would he needless to try to picture, except in im- 
 agination, the grief that broke its huge and darkened 
 cloud over the bereft family of the murderer and sui- 
 cide. It cannot be conveyed, though one held a pen 
 that ran swifter than the blood that pulses from his 
 quick-beating heart.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE POORHOUSE. 
 
 THERE are worse holes made in families than those 
 made by digging up the treasure. There are sorer tri- 
 als than those that breed from mere poverty, or even 
 from absolute want. 
 
 When he who has hitherto stood the brant of the 
 conflict with the world, who has always interposed be- 
 tween his little group and the rough realities of outer 
 life the shield of his protection, who has watched the 
 changing of every wind for them, and the coming of 
 every storm, when this one is struck down, and the 
 family front is utterly gone, nothing between helpless- 
 ness and heartlessness to keep back the latter from its 
 cruel inroads, then it is that the soul of the bereft mate, 
 yearning for her unprotected younglings, may take up 
 its bitterest lamentations, and cry aloud in the greatness 
 of its grief. 
 
 Mrs. Trevelyn was a widow, and made a widow by 
 what terrible means ! She sat and gazed at the chil- 
 dren, and wondered where the strength was to come 
 from that should bear them safely through the world on 
 its shoulders. Her heart misgave her utterly. She 
 neither had courage herself, nor seemed to know where 
 to go for strength. She would sit and pat the heads of 
 the children by the half hour, talking sometimes to her- 
 self and sometimes to them about their new circum- 
 
 (57)
 
 58 DOVECOTE. 
 
 stances, and add exclamation to exclamation about their 
 yet hidden future. 
 
 All this was radically bad, not less for Mrs. Trevelyn 
 herself than for her children. The naturally healthy 
 purposes that were ready to develop themselves in 
 Margaret became thus weakened with her example, 
 till they were altogether unnoticeable. What Margaret 
 felt, of course her younger sister would sympathetically 
 feel ; and both were now little better than helpless, and 
 much of this through the vacillation and weakness of 
 their mother. Other mothers it would not have been 
 difficult to find, who bore quite as much love for their 
 children as she, and a plenty of them, who, in such a 
 struggle as was then at hand, would have made them 
 into little heroines, if only by the secret power of then- 
 own example. 
 
 But Mrs. Trevelyn knew not what to do. She had 
 formed no plan, because her mind was incapable of the 
 necessary effort. She was governed by a blind resolu- 
 tion to trust to chance, let it turn with her whichever 
 way it would. Her nature was altogether passive. It 
 had scarce activity and demonstrativeness enough in it 
 to keep her life in a healthy condition. 
 
 On a single point, however, her mind was quite set- 
 tled. If she failed on all others, she certainly meant 
 not to fail here. Her old prejudice had succeeded in 
 working its active way even through the depth of her 
 grief. She was determined to give Milly into other 
 hands, and at once. The child was a beggar, she said ; 
 and what were they but beggars ? She could not un- 
 dertake to support her, or even to care for her. Of that, 
 she had quite enough in prospect, in having only her 
 own children at her side. She would put her off imme- 
 diately.
 
 THE POORHOUSE. 69 
 
 The appearance of things about the mansion of the 
 late Mr. Trevelyn was changing fast. Already had all 
 the servants taken their leave but a single one, and she 
 was of a character much above the lot into which she 
 had fallen. As long as she could be of service to a 
 woman in such deep affliction as Mrs. Trevelyn, she 
 declared that she would stand faithfully by her. Might 
 not that lady herself have taken a bit of a lesson from 
 so excellent an example, and offered to the orphan 
 Milly what was so generously bestowed upon herself? 
 
 The house was desolate, and it seemed really de- 
 serted. There was no noise either of feet or voices 
 about the halls, or in the chambers, or out on the spa- 
 cious veranda. The yard was no exception to the 
 rest of the picture. The plants stood as they were last 
 left, needing the thrifty attention of the absent gar- 
 dener. Grass rooted itself along the gravel walks, and 
 weeds grew thickly over the beds, among the choice 
 flowers. 
 
 A cloud had settled over all the place, outside no less 
 than within. What the heart of the widow realized, 
 the appearance of the building and the grounds made 
 almost as palpable a reality to the minds of passers. 
 The country people round about were at best but an 
 honest, homespun class, scarce ever straying twenty 
 miles from their farms, and always schooled to regard 
 the mansion of Mr. Trevelyn with a wonder that bor- 
 dered somewhere near awe. To all of them this un- 
 foreseen change gave a heavy blow, for it threw their 
 minds off the accustomed way of thinking. Some of 
 them had deeper natures, and could be moved to down- 
 right sympathy for the widow. Others thought it was 
 a wonderful affair ; and others still shook their heads, 
 and said that the hand of Providence was in it all.
 
 60 DOVECOTE. 
 
 Mrs. Trevelyn talked to her daughters about Milly 
 with as much freedom as she would have done to 
 mature persons. 
 
 " We are to get our own living, I suppose," said she, 
 " and I'm sure that will be quite enough for us. She 
 can't expect us to provide for her any longer ; and if 
 she does, I don't know that we shall feel obligated to. 
 She's no relation of mine, nor of yours ; and if she wants 
 to find her relations now, she must go elsewhere." 
 
 " Where do you think she will go, mother ? " ques- 
 tioned Margaret. " Back to the city again ? " 
 
 " I don't knew, I'm sure. It's nothing to me where 
 she goes, if I do but get her off my hands. She 
 shouldn't have come here in the first place." 
 
 " But that woman brought her, you know." 
 
 " Yes, and I wish now that woman would come and 
 take her away again. If I knew where she lived, I'd 
 send her to her." 
 
 " She's so small she can't help us any," said Mar- 
 garet. 
 
 " And such a temper, too," added Ellen, spitefully. 
 
 " I don't want any thing more to do with her," repeat- 
 ed Mrs. Trevelyn. " She came here without my pleas- 
 ure being asked, and she shall go away in the same 
 manner." 
 
 " But, mother, where will you send her ? She hasn't 
 any friends." 
 
 " Hasn't any friends ? As many as we have got, I 
 guess ; and what is it to me if she hasn't ? It's nothing 
 that / can help. She must find friends ; must make 
 them." 
 
 " I never liked her," said Ellen, lisping. 
 
 " Why slvndd you, my dear ? " asked her mother. 
 " What is she to you ? I hope my daughters will never
 
 THE POORHOUSE. 61 
 
 think of associating with people that come of such low 
 families." 
 
 Just at that moment the servant opened the door and 
 ushered in an honest-looking man, ruddy faced and 
 rough handed, who had asked to see Mrs. Trevelyn her- 
 self on private business. She stared very rudely, for one 
 who was so certain she was a lady, at him, and neg- 
 lected, even, to ask him to be seated. This sort of 
 ci vility, however, happened to be something he did not 
 much trouble himself about ; so he put his hat upon 
 the floor, and sat down in an arm chair near the 
 window. 
 
 " I've come to see you, Miss Trevelyn," began he, 
 " about the taxes. They haven't been paid, you know.' 
 
 " Taxes ! " exclaimed Mrs. T. " I'm sure / don't 
 know any thing about them ! Why should I ? What 
 am / expected to know of them ? " 
 
 " Wai, you see," pursued the man, " that I'm one of 
 the town authority, and it's a part of my duty to look 
 after these things. When your husband was living, of 
 course you warn't expected to know what these things 
 are for. But it's different now, you see. I've come 
 over to see you, and to ask you what you thought you 
 could do." 
 
 " Do ? I can do nothing ! I haven't money to pay 
 any thing with, much less my taxes. You must get 
 them somewhere else. You must take them out of the 
 house, or the garden, or somewhere else ; / don't know 
 any tiling about them." 
 
 " It's only the taxes that are behindhand, Miss Trev- 
 elyn. Of course, I don't expect you to pay tax on prop- 
 erty that ain't yours. This place ain't yours, you 
 know." 
 
 She felt then that she knew it, with the coarse words 
 6
 
 of that every-day man of business rasping her tender do- 
 mestic feelings, as thoroughly as she ever should. But 
 she offered no reply. A glance at the intruder, and a 
 gaze about the room, were enough to fill her heart with 
 the bitterest of reflections. 
 
 " Wai, then, it's no matter, jest now," said he, think- 
 ing to leave, and taking up his hat from the floor ; " I 
 see you don't understand these tilings I'll call some 
 other time and explain 'em. We'll set down and talk 
 'em all over, Miss Trevelyn. Don't give yourself no 
 further uneasiness about it till then. I hain't no doubt 
 it'll all come out smooth as a whistle ! yes, jest as 
 smooth as a whistle ! " 
 
 As he was in the complacent act of repeating the lat- 
 ter portion of this sentence, he swung his beaver 
 leisurely from one side to the other by the edge of the 
 brim, and run his eyes curiously all over the room, tak- 
 ing into his comprehensive view every thing there was, 
 from the paper border near the ceiling to the clawfoot 
 of the pan that caught the drippings and clinker of the 
 grate. 
 
 A new thought suddenly came to Mrs. Trevelyn. 
 
 " You are one of the town authority, you say ? " she 
 inquired, with a little show of respectfulness. 
 
 " Yes, marm," he answered, " I'm the fust select- 
 man." 
 
 And he swung his hat more briskly on the tip of his 
 finger. 
 
 " Then you can oblige me, if you will." 
 
 " I should be glad to, I'm sure, in the situation you re 
 in now," returned he. 
 
 " I have a little girl living here whom I wish to send 
 away. She must go somewhere, and immediately for 
 /can't take care of her any longer. She has no friends,
 
 THE POORHOUSE. 63 
 
 and no relations, that I ever heard of, and there's noth- 
 ing left for her but to go on the town." 
 
 The " fust selectman " of Byeboro' merely replied 
 with a more vigorous swing of his hat and a low " Hum ! 
 yes ! " 
 
 " I thought that the sooner I got her off, the better," 
 added 'Mrs. Trevelyn. 
 
 " Yes," said the member of the town council. 
 
 " Why cannot she be taken away at once, then ? " 
 
 " To-day, marm, if you like," said he. 
 
 " Margaret," said Mrs. T., " won't you call her in, 
 then ? She's somewhere out the door. Tell her I want 
 to see her." 
 
 Margaret ran to do the errand of her mother, and im- 
 mediately returned again. It was not over a minute or 
 two afterwards that Milly herself entered the room. As 
 soon as she saw what a collection there was in the par- 
 lor, she instinctively slunk back towards the door, and 
 would have thought seriously, even, of retreating. 
 
 Mrs. Trevelyn, however, spoke to -her, which tended 
 in some degree to reassure her. 
 
 " I want you to go and put on your bonnet and 
 shawl," said she ; " you are going away with this man." 
 
 Milly's eyes were larger than they ever were before. 
 She looked first at the stranger, and then at Mrs. Trev- 
 elyn. It was difficult for her to understand what was 
 meant. 
 
 Mrs. Trevelyn whispered in the ear of Margaret to go 
 and bid the servant pack up Milly's clothes what the 
 child had in a little shawl or handkerchief, and place 
 them on the table in the entry. 
 
 The tears came involuntarily into the child's eyes. 
 Her lips quivered, as if she were both struggling with 
 her feelings and her wish to inquire the meaning of this
 
 64 DOVECOTE. 
 
 new project. Yet she said nothing. What would have 
 been the avail of her infantile voice in the storm of such 
 elements as its very sound might have had the power 
 to provoke ? 
 
 She kept her hands working nervously at either side, 
 not knowing what to do with them. After the first 
 glance about the room, her eyes were riveted to the 
 floor, as if she were even then trying to study out the 
 problem of her destiny. A pretty creature was she 
 then, in the height of her inward excitement, with her 
 face so fair, flushed very deeply, and her auburn hair 
 straggling in ringlets over her shoulders and neck, rest- 
 ing the whole of her little weight now on one foot, and 
 now the other, her eyes dimmed with the dew of her 
 emotion, and her mouth working to keep back the con- 
 vulsions that seemed threatening her heart. 
 
 " I want you to know, Milly," said Mrs. Trevelyn, 
 " that we shall all have to go away from here soon, and 
 so I send you away first. I shall have to go, too, and 
 so will Margaret and Ellen. We cannot stay here, for 
 we do not own the place. It is not ours." 
 
 The stranger's eyes sparkled while he continued 
 looking so steadily at Milly ; and it might have been 
 that he was at that moment thinking what a kind wo- 
 man Mrs. Trevelyn was. 
 
 " I am going to send you away with this man," added 
 she ; " he will take you to the place that is provided for 
 such as you." 
 
 Milly cried outright now. 
 
 " What are you crying for ? " asked Mrs. Trevelyn. 
 " This is no time to cry. Come, on with your bonnet ; 
 the man's waiting." 
 
 " No verypartic'ler hurry, marm," ventured he. 
 
 "All the same, sir," she retorted. " It is as well for
 
 THE POORHOU3K. 65 
 
 her to go off without any delay. She'll feel better than 
 if a great deal was said about it beforehand to her." 
 
 " It kinder seems a pity, too," said the stranger, " to 
 take the child out of sich a good, fine house as" this, and 
 carry her to the poor house ! " 
 
 " But what else have I before myself for my own 
 children ? If I can work enough to support them, then 
 it's so much the more I've got to be thankful for ; but 
 when I happen to be obliged to stop working, then what 
 is my prospect but what hers is at this minute ? " 
 
 The possibility of such an event as her coming upon 
 the town at last so far went to excite the selfish feel- 
 ings and fears of Mrs. Trevelyn, that she was more than 
 ever encouraged in thinking that she was doing the 
 very best she could at that time do for Milly. 
 
 It was not long before the little waif of fate was 
 equipped for the journey, and the man held her dimin- 
 utive budget of clothes in his hand. He had started 
 first towards the door, Mrs. Trevelyn following. The 
 girls were at some distance behind her, moved not a 
 little by so unusual a scene. 
 
 " I hope you'll do well," said Mrs. Trevelyn, " wher- 
 ever you go." 
 
 " Please, may I go up to my little chamber before I 
 get into the wagon ? " asked Milly. 
 
 Mrs. T. looked surprisedly at her, and said, " Yes, 
 but don't be gone long." And when she was gone, she 
 muttered aloud, " I wonder what she's gone up there 
 for!" 
 
 A strange curiosity led her to follow her cautiously 
 along. When Mrs. Trevelyn reached the door of her 
 room, she found it shut. She put her eyes down to the 
 keyhole. There a sight met her for which she was not 
 at all prepared. 
 
 6*
 
 6<i bOVECOTE. 
 
 Milly was on her knees at the bedside, asking for 
 strength and resignation. She had not forgotten her 
 mother's dying words, enjoining her to trust all to God. 
 
 Poor -child ! How few are as honestly tutored as 
 thou ! How few are there who know where to go when 
 trouble sets about their path, or when the black cloud 
 of affliction is sailing sullenly about their heads ! 
 
 Milly came down stairs with a countenance as serene 
 as day. The tears were all gone ; the working of her 
 lips had ceased ; there was a smile of resignation upon 
 her mouth, though somewhat tinged with sadness. 
 
 She bade them all good by very affectionately, offer- 
 ing of herself to kiss Mrs. Trevelyn and the girls, and 
 telling them she should try to be happy wherever she 
 was. And stepping lightly down the walk, she suffered 
 herself to be assisted into the wagon of the " selectman," 
 and rode at a jogging trot of his horse down the avenue 
 and up the road. 
 
 It was a ride of a mile to the village, and of nearly 
 three miles from there to the poorhouse. They passed 
 through the former, and were slowly working onward to 
 their destination. The air was bland and pleasant, and 
 the evening shadows were gathering about the old stone 
 walls, and under the hedges, and in the borders of the 
 woods. The breath of the country breezes, soft as it 
 was, had a good effect upon the feelings of Milly, for it 
 quelled their turbulence, and gently soothed them to 
 peace. 
 
 When they reached the poorhouse at last, it was 
 quite dusk. Milly looked closely around her to try to 
 distinguish objects, but the most she could make out, 
 that then impressed themselves upon her mind and 
 feelings, were the long, low, red house, with the win- 
 dows and doors bordered with white paint; an open
 
 THE POORHOUSE. 67 
 
 space before and about the door, pretty thickly strewn 
 with chips and gravel ; a ragged pile of long wood, most 
 of it called " crow sticks," and chopped stick by stick as 
 daily necessities required ; and a low bench, that leaned 
 up against the side of the building. 
 
 The man drove up before the farther door, and another, 
 low in stature and with tangled hair, came to greet him, 
 resting his hands on either side of the door where it 
 was painted white. 
 
 " I've brought ye another boarder, Mr. Flox," said 
 Milly's companion. 
 
 " She's a little 'un, ain't she? " replied the keeper of 
 the establishment, taking her much against her will, and 
 lifting her to the ground. 
 
 The men stood talking together for a few moments 
 in a low voice, when the "selectman" finally turned 
 round his horse's head, and Mr. Flox led Milly passively 
 in through the low door.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ADAM BROWNE. 
 
 MILLY was carried into a low and darkened room, 
 whose walls seemed to be threatening all the time to 
 fall on her head, and conducted to a seat upon the bench 
 that stood against the partition. There was no light 
 burning, and she could only see that the room appeared 
 to be full. She caught broken fragments of coarse sen- 
 tences, and the remnants of boisterous and empty laugh- 
 ter, as she went in, proceeding from the lips of men and 
 women alike. 
 
 This room was professedly " the woman's room," yet 
 the whole house was accustomed to gather here, the 
 better to exchange their ideas respecting the past, the 
 world, and their future of nothing but poverty. A sorry- 
 looking group, indeed, did they form ; women lolling in 
 low chairs, talking up with amazing pertness to the 
 rough fellows that were practising their only rules of 
 refinement and sociability upon them; men, old and 
 young, sitting about without thought here and there, 
 some resting their heads idly on their hands, and their 
 elbows on the benches, or holding their heads doggedly 
 down between their knees in the direction of the floor ; 
 a girl playing in this corner with a cat, and another sit- 
 ting squat in the middle of the hard floor, eating the 
 fragments of her coarse meal ; two or three boys, one a 
 little cripple, grouped in still another corner, playing at 
 cat's-cradle, and laughing thoughtlessly at their blunders 
 
 (68)
 
 ADAM DROWNE, 69 
 
 in the simple diversion ; and a little dog, with a curly 
 tail, and black and white spots covering him, standing 
 sentry near the girl who sat on the floor, watching with 
 a wistful anxiety every morsel that went from her hand 
 to her mouth. 
 
 In the midst of this was the soft, enticing, dreamy 
 breath of summer. The air drew in at the door, and 
 through the opened windows, trying hard to give purifi- 
 cation to the crowded den into which it found its way. 
 The piping of the summer frogs was to be faintly heard 
 from afar, and a whippoorwill had come down out of 
 the woods, and was sitting on a stone not far across the 
 meadow, loading the air with her melancholy com- 
 plaint. 
 
 Byeboro' and Byeboro' is not a single example of 
 what a civilized town does for its poor .had made 
 these provisions for those who were unable to make 
 them for themselves. The civil authorities were a very 
 shrewd set of men, and were, at least, supposed to 
 know " a thing or two." So they put up their paupers 
 at auction, and knocked them ofF to the lowest bidder. 
 It was only a method the town adopted of making the 
 best of a bad bargain. Of course, Byeboro' was not 
 compelled to provide for its poor ; and certainly it was 
 not compelled to make any better provisions thau 
 would just keep soul and body acquainted. If it wert- 
 to enter upon a field of charity, who knew how far i 
 ought to travel that way better than its august assem- 
 blage of " selectmen " ? Why were they " select " men, 
 unless to look sharply after the interests of Byeboro' ? 
 unless to see to it that luxuries were not by any pos- 
 sible mistake furnished to the poor ? and that as many 
 comforts as cost any tiling were struck off* with an im- 
 partial stroke of the pen from the list of the incorporate 
 expenses ?
 
 70 DOVECOTE. 
 
 This year again, as for several years before, the pau- 
 pers had been let out to Caleb Flox, a hard man, with 
 a burly, bully look, and a heart almost, if not altogether, 
 destitute of sensibility. What, in the name of sense, 
 could sensibility have to do with the care of the poor ? 
 Nothing; of course, nothing. So Mr. Flox took the 
 poor, penned them up, fed them so many times a day, 
 and played the part of the experienced tyrant that he 
 really was. 
 
 The impression Milly had received from her first intro- 
 duction to this place of its many peculiarities strange 
 enough to one just from the princely residence of the 
 Trevelyns was too deep ever to be effaced. The 
 men and the women were present vividly before her 
 imagination. She had the same close, foul atmosphere 
 ever in her nostrils, as she recurred afterwards to this 
 first visit, and the same confused din of voices constant- 
 ly in her ears. 
 
 She began the next day to look a little around her. 
 In such a condition of embarrassment herself, she would 
 naturally find it difficult exactly to possess the whole of 
 her faculties ; yet she made the effort, almost indiffer- 
 ent to the experience to which it might be the means 
 of conducting her. 
 
 Almost the first person among the whole of that snarl 
 of inmates to whom her attention was directed" was a 
 thin, wasted man, of middle age, clad in little else than 
 rags, that he preferred to any other quality of garments, 
 with a white head of straight hair, and blue, melancholy- 
 looking eyes. He fixed his mild gaze much upon 
 Milly, as if he were either wondering at the strange 
 fortune that threw her into that place, or quietly admir- 
 ing the innocent and childish charms that surrounded 
 her with a grace that was little less than spiritual.
 
 ADAM BROWNE. 71 
 
 In the course of the morning, when she had been left 
 quite alone in the apartment, its usual loungers having 
 gone in different directions to their work and then- 
 pleasure, he 'came in and sat down with her. At first 
 he indulged himself with such a protracted gaze at her 
 face that she began to fear for what he might be. 
 There was an expression in his blue eyes that seemed 
 unfathomable. They almost looked into one's heart 
 and read its secret feelings. She turned her head 
 away and let her eyes go out through the window 
 
 Nervously throwing one foot across the other knee, 
 he asked her, first clearing his voice, if she had ever 
 lived in a poorhouse before. 
 
 She turned round, half timidly, to him, and answered, 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " Poor place ! Poor place enough ! " said he, shaking 
 his head. 
 
 She thought it very probable, judging from what she 
 had already seen. 
 
 " You shouldn't stay here," said he again. " It ain't 
 no place for you. It's only a place for such people as 
 you see hereabout, not for you. I don't live here my- 
 self; I couldn't .' " 
 
 Milly wondered, therefore, where he did stay ; and if 
 in other quarters, why here at all, especially with the 
 very just opinion he entertained of it. 
 
 " Pm nothing but a wanderer myself," continued he. 
 " I go any where and every where. He ! he ! I travel 
 for a living! That's all I do. What's easier ? Exactly 
 what I say what's easier? If I had to live here, I 
 should die. I couldn't stand it Are you goin' to stay 
 long ? " 
 
 Milly hesitated, for she did not know exactly how to 
 answer him. If she could get away into a better place,
 
 72 DOVECOTE. 
 
 and that was every thing but an extravagant possi- 
 bility, she certainly should not stay here. That was 
 not difficult to answer to. But could she get away ? 
 
 So she simply told him that she didn't know. 
 
 Her tone struck so softly on his ear that it seemed to 
 touch a chord of his deeper sympathies. He at once 
 opened himself freely to her, laboring chiefly to win her 
 confidence. 
 
 " You needn't be afraid o' me at all," said he. " I'm 
 nobody to hurt you. I couldn't hurt any body. I'm 
 only Adam Drowne. I only go about here and there, 
 but I never tell any body where. He ! he ! that's one 
 o' my secrets. I keep it locked up close. Mr. Flox 
 tries to get it away from me sometimes ; but he can't, 
 and he never will. Every body knows Adam Drowne, 
 because he goes every where, all about. He sees a 
 good many places, and knows a good many people, and 
 travels a good many miles ; yes, tlurfs what he does ! 
 
 " La ! I know all the folks that live here, and all 
 about here. I always stop here when I come this way, 
 and they get me somethin' to eat and drink, and keep 
 me o' nights. I can tell you all about the poor folks in 
 this house. Come, go walk with me out door a little 
 ways, and let's have a talk ! Come ; will ye ? only 
 down towards the river here. It's a right pleasant 
 mornin', and I know it's better for you than to stay 
 mewed up in this here hot place." 
 
 By dint of much persuasion, Milly was at length in- 
 duced to comply with his proposal ; and forthwith she 
 set out, walking silently along by his side, with her bon- 
 net loosely thrown over her head. 
 
 They reached the edge of the bank by which the lit- 
 tle glassy river swam along, and sat down ; Adam 
 throwing himself upon the ground, and seating Milly
 
 ADAM DROWNE. 73 
 
 thoughtfully upon a clean, smooth stone. The lively 
 trill of the bobolink was to be heard across the 
 meadow, as, wheeling and gyrating in his intoxicated 
 flights, he poised a moment on the top of a long reed, 
 swinging and swaying to and fro to the music of his 
 voice and the dancing of his little heart. The crickets 
 were letting their clocks run slowly down in the deep, 
 green grass ; while afar down the channel the river 
 broke in a thousand diminutive cascades over rocks and 
 stones, and rippled and brawled its pleasant way en- 
 tirely out of sight among the darkening willows and 
 beeches. 
 
 " You see," continued Adam Drowne, picking up the 
 thread of his story again ; " you see, I know all about 
 these folks here, from Caleb Flox all the way down ; 
 and a very curious people be they, too. There's Crazy 
 Jane ; she's always puttin' herself forward ; she don't 
 get no attention from nobody ; she's crazy, and that's 
 all you can say about her. Have you seen her yet ? " 
 
 Milly told him that she had. 
 
 " How she stares at a body ! " said Adam ; " and 
 what great gray eyes she's got ! " 
 
 So Milly thought, too. 
 
 " Then there's old Ponce the old feUow with the 
 wooden leg ; you've seen him, hain't you ? " 
 
 " Yes," answered she. 
 
 " He's always tellin' his war stories, and always 
 fightin' his old battles over again. And I like to hear 
 him, too, sometimes ; but, then, the rest of 'em don't. 
 They get tired of it. They don't understand him. You 
 see, there's nothin' like understandiri what a person's 
 talkin' about. Don't you think so ? " 
 
 Milly said yes, of course. 
 
 " Then, again," he went on, " there's little Kit ; he's 
 7
 
 74 DOVECOTS. 
 
 the little cripple that goes on the crutches, and a pitiful 
 object he always was to me, too. I'm as sorry for him 
 as I ever was for any body in all my life. He's got 
 something in his face that tells that he ought to ha' been 
 put into a different situation. I pity him, indeed I do. 
 And there's Snarly Moll she's a real curiosity. Have 
 you seen her ? " 
 
 " I didn't know that that was her name," answered 
 Milly. 
 
 " It's what they all call her," continued Adam. " She 
 got the name by always wearin' her red hair so over her 
 face and eyes. It's an odd name too Snarly Moll ! " 
 And the garrulous old man fairly chuckled with the 
 thought of so unique an appellation. 
 
 Adam Drowne was a strange medley of characteris- 
 tics himself. He was generally reputed to be " love- 
 cracked," some unfortunate termination to an old attach- 
 ment being the cause of the mysterious mischief. As 
 he had himself represented, he was no less than a wan- 
 derer, going here and there at his will. Probably he had 
 mapped out in his mind some particular route for his 
 journeys to and fro, and had his regular stopping-places 
 absolutely fixed and defined ; but of this he had never 
 spoken to any one, so his ceaseless rambles were mat- 
 ter of mystery to every body who knew of them. 
 
 He was shrivelled and thin. His hands and limbs 
 were very much attenuated, probably from excessive 
 walking and little food. The coat that he wore was all 
 in shreds, patched and darned until the original field of 
 cloth was hardly discoverable. People circulated the 
 story that he had purchased this for his wedding coat, 
 and that he had worn no other since the catastrophe 
 that sent him and his affections adrift. Summer and 
 winter the same darned coat covered his shoulders. In
 
 ADAM DROWXE. 75 
 
 the coldest of weathers, he suffered no other garment to 
 conceal its picturesque tatters. 
 
 There was a pleasant mildness in his speech that 
 wrought with a favorable effect on the mind of Milly. 
 It was so different from the manner every one else 
 seemed to have there. And the softness of his wan- 
 dering blue eye helped to carry forward the agreeable 
 influences, so that, before the child had been a great 
 while in his company, she felt herself irresistibly at- 
 tracted to him by his kindness. It was something she 
 had not experienced in a long while, and so doubly 
 welcome to her heart. 
 
 For quite a couple of hours did Adam stroll about in 
 the vicinity of the poorhouse with Milly, telh'ng her 
 more particularly of those who were gathered in the 
 same unhappy flock with herself, asking her questions 
 of her former relations and friends, and telling her that 
 she should not stay long in such a place as that, if he 
 could do any thing to prevent it. 
 
 Mrs. Trevelyn sending Milly to the poorhouse, and 
 a poor, simple, but kindhearted creature like Adam 
 Drowne offering to get her out! Such is one of the 
 many strong contrasts that the world furnishes at every 
 point.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 LIFE AMONG THE PAUPEES. 
 
 ADAM suddenly absented himself, and Milly felt more 
 lonely than ever. While he was there, she began to 
 think there was one single green spot on which her 
 hungry sympathies might feed ; but now that he was 
 gone, chaos seemed to have come again to her heart. 
 
 A dismal, uncomfortable house indeed was the poor- 
 house, and its two chief rooms were thronging with the 
 most forbidding fancies. The ceiling was low, and the 
 walls were stained and spotted. The plaster had been 
 worn off in places under the windows by the attrition 
 of cowhide boots ,and knees harder than flint or horn. 
 The stove that went a part of the way towards warm- 
 ing it in winter still stood in the middle of the floor, 
 and into its gaping mouth were thrown bits of tobacco, 
 stained pipe stems that had broken between the smo- 
 kers' crunching teeth, whittlings of pine sticks, a few 
 fragments of old teacups, and scraps of used-up news- 
 papers. A few boughs of evergreen would have bred 
 a spirit of beauty even in that foul apartment ; but the 
 boughs of evergreen had never been stuck there, and 
 never would be. 
 
 The floor was not a whit too clean, and marked and 
 scarred all over with chair legs and boot heels. Some 
 of the chairs were tilted up against the wall, standing 
 thus idly through the long forenoons, till their old occu- 
 pants came to claim them again. There was a mouldy 
 
 (76)
 
 LIFE AMONG THE PAUPERS. 77 
 
 smell from the walls, and in some places they exuded 
 a foul sweat sufficient to breed a legion of diseases. 
 Each one appeared to occupy a particular place about 
 the room, and the rest quietly respected his or her chair. 
 
 Sometimes Caleb Flox was obliged to resort to strin- 
 gent measures to enforce his authority, although such 
 measures he never failed to threaten them every one 
 with when he spoke to them of his wishes ; but there 
 had been occasions when his cruelty was exercised to a 
 degree beyond what even such uncivilized beings as 
 the " selectmen" of Byeboro' should have tolerated. As 
 an example at hand, he was guilty of turning hot water 
 from the teakettle upon the arms of one of his charge, 
 a woman, because she refused to go through the Mon- 
 day's washing service. He touched up the sensibilities 
 of some of the men at times with a heated poker, in 
 order to quicken their progress to and from the wood 
 pile before the door. Few soft words, either, had he to 
 waste on any of them. He said he wanted to govern, 
 he cared not whether by fair means or foul ; and govern 
 he did, and by the foulest method humanity was known 
 any where to tolerate. 
 
 Under so tyrannical a master, the subjects were burn- 
 ing up with their private animosities and desires of re- 
 venge. They all longed for the day to dawn when they 
 could dabble with the hot blood of his heart ! No less 
 than this were the prejudices that fired their feelings. 
 No result short of this would they fix their purposes 
 upon. 
 
 Mr. Flox had said but little to Milly, as yet, nor did he 
 seem much to notice her. It was his way, first to depress 
 the spirits and sap the self-respect of his charge, and 
 afterwards to crush them with the iron heel of his selfish, 
 bullying, blustering tyranny. No feeling need they at- 
 7*
 
 78 DOVECOTE. 
 
 tempt to display near him. He did not allow such things 
 They must calculate with precision upon but one thing; 
 and that was, to obey him. And through fear, and fear 
 alone, they were made to do it. 
 
 Milly sat in the room where all the rest congregated 
 in the evening, sometimes half dozing upon the hard 
 bench that was her only seat, and some of the time 
 compelled to listen to the talk, idle as it all was, of 
 the strange beings around her. During these summer 
 evenings they were not allowed a light in the room, 
 but sat in the darkness, the summer wind drawing in 
 through the open windows, and the babbling of then- 
 voices sounding like the drowsy drone of a beehive on 
 the still air of the evening. 
 
 Snarly Moll she already knew, for no one could stay 
 in that place long and not know her. She was the one 
 who sat on fhe floor, munching her supper, on Milly's 
 first entrance into the place. Crazy Jane was a char- 
 acter she dreaded. There was a wildness in her eyes, 
 as they looked straight into your own, that bred a half 
 fear for what she might wish to do to you. Old Ponce 
 was as much in the habit of making himself observed 
 as any of them, sitting sometimes with his round-eyed 
 spectacles across his nose, resting his hands upon the 
 top of his high walking stick, and jabbering persever- 
 ingly to any one who had the patience to listen to him. 
 
 As soon as he had fairly got the idea into his brain 
 that Milly was a new comer to that place, he thought it 
 belonged to him to go through the confused history of 
 his sieges and his battles again, ostensibly that he 
 might gratify in this way his own love of narration; 
 but in reality, that Milly, as all the rest had been, in their 
 turn, might be enabled to understand the length, and 
 breadth, and depth of his experiences.
 
 LIFE AMONG THE PAUPERS. 79 
 
 So one evening he began : 
 
 " When I was a-fightin' in the last war," said he, 
 resting his hands as usual on the top of his stick and 
 winking fiercely, "when I was off down to Stun'tun 
 Pint, and the British ship " 
 
 " I don't believe you was ever to Stun'tun Pint, 
 Ponce ! " interrupted Snarly Moll, kicking up her heels 
 from the floor. " What an old Ponce you be, sure for it 
 now ! " 
 
 " Yes, yes ; I was there. I was over 't the Pint ! " 
 said Crazy Jane, wringing her hands gently, and staring 
 thoughtlessly here and there over the floor. " It's an 
 old story, and I've told it a good many times. Yes, 
 yes ; /was 't the Pint then, too." 
 
 Nobody seemed to notice either her or what she said, 
 however. 
 
 " You see," said Ponce, continuing, as if thoroughly 
 used to these interruptions, " we made ready for the 
 pesky British frigate when she come up " 
 
 " Make ready, fire ? Was that it, Ponce ? " said Snar- 
 ly Moll, laughing. 
 
 " We was fixin' up a sort o' battery on the 
 shore " 
 
 " Yes, yes," broke in Crazy Jane, repeating the words 
 after him in a very low voice, " it was a sort o' battery ! 
 That was it ! /was there ; /was over 't the Pint, and 
 see it all." 
 
 " We hadn't got but one piece o' ordnance nowhere ; 
 'twas all there was round ; so we fetched her up to the 
 line " here he made some curious sort of a gesture, 
 intended to describe either the line itself or the method 
 of getting the gun up to it " and got ready to let her 
 talk for herself." 
 
 " Could she talk as much as you do, Ponce ? " asked
 
 Moll. " I don't b'lieve it. She couldn't begin with you, 
 Ponce ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
 
 " Yes, she did her own talkin', that's what she did," 
 chimed in Crazy Jane, still rubbing her hands and look- 
 ing very inquisitively around upon the floor. " /was 
 there, and I know." 
 
 " At fust," said Ponce, moving his whole leg to an 
 easier position, " we had to take it " 
 
 " Yes, that's what we did ! We had to take it ! I 
 was there, and I know," added Jane. 
 
 " You was there ? " said Moll, looking drolly up in her 
 face. t . 
 
 " Yes," replied the harmless demented, still directing 
 her attention about the floor, " I was there. I know all 
 about it. I see it all." 
 
 " So was / there ! You're a fool, Jane ! You don't 
 know nothing ! " 
 
 " Yes, you was there, too," returned Jane. " It was 
 four and twenty year ago ; but you was there, for I see 
 you there ; and I picked up your head, after a cannon 
 ball had shot it off, and stuck it on your shoulders 
 again." 
 
 " Ponce," cried Snarly Moll, " Crazy Jane says /was 
 down to the battle o' Stun'tun Pint. Was I there ? 
 Was she there ? " 
 
 Old Ponce laughed a very imbecile laugh, and went 
 on again. 
 
 " But the British ship got on broadside, so 't she raked 
 us all clean. We couldn't stan' that. We had to give 
 it up for a little while. We couldn't get the thunderin' 
 old gun in place quick enough. Gracious ! but you 
 ought to ha" heerd them hot cannon balls whiz 
 whiz by a feller's ears ! How we hopped, though ! " 
 And the worn old veteran, thus rewarded with a poor-
 
 LIFE AMONG THE PAUPERS. 81 
 
 house for his patriotic sacrifice of a leg, raised his 
 stick high from the floor in the excitement of his 
 narration. 
 
 By this time, little Kit, the cripple, had drawn him- 
 self quite near the old man, and was listening with all 
 intentness to the same narrative he had probably heard 
 a hundred times before. It was a touching tribute of 
 his deep respect for the man who had fought the bat- 
 tles of his country. That country itself had not re- 
 warded him with one half the affection. 
 
 " Don't hit me with your stick, Ponce," cried Snarly 
 Moll, lifting her hand supplicatingly. " You're ferocious 
 when you get to fightin' your wars round here." 
 
 " But we got the advantage, somehow, at last," "con- 
 tinued the veteran soldier. " Nobody else thought we 
 should ; but /thought we should. I see the British fel- 
 lers didn't haul their ship round, jest as if they under- 
 stood the spot they'd got on to. I see it myself, and I 
 told 'em so." 
 
 " Yes," added Jane, " I was there, too ; and I see it, 
 too. I see it all myself, and I knew they'd have to 
 clear." 
 
 " Jane," said Snarly Moll, " won't you tell us some- 
 thing you never did see ? 'cause Til go right off and 
 see it myself at once. What is it, Jane ? " 
 
 " Yes," she replied, " I'll go right off myself and see 
 it, too ? " 
 
 " Did the British fire on you any more, Ponce ? " in- 
 quired little Kit, thinking he might venture a word in 
 the midst of the snarl. 
 
 " Yes, they fired any more," replied Jane, to whom 
 the question was by no means addressed. " But they 
 had to clear. I knew they would. I was there myself, 
 and I see it all. Them was brave old times for folks
 
 82 DOVECOTE. 
 
 that was alive then. Folks ain't now as they was once, 
 a good while ago, when I was a girl." 
 
 " I don't b'lieve you ever was a girl ! " exclaimed 
 Snarly Moll, brushing back the tangled red hair from 
 out of her eyes. 
 
 " But I see it," protested Jane. " I see it all my- 
 self!" 
 
 " We finally got our old rusty eighteen pounder to bear 
 on the frigate," continued Ponce, " and let fly. Gra- 
 cious ! but you'd ought to ha' been there, to see 'em 
 jump ! " 
 
 " Yes, / was there, and / see 'em jump ; / see 'em 
 let fly," said Crazy Jane. 
 
 " Didn't you fly, Jane," asked the saucy Moll. 
 
 " Yes, /flew. I was there, and I see it all. /flew, 
 too ! " 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha ! " laughed the roguish tatterdemalion, 
 rolling over on the floor at thinking of the success of 
 her trap for the poor insane woman. " Crazy Jane 
 flew ! I'd like to see her fly now ! Id give my old 
 shoes, and throw in the bunnet old Flox promised me, 
 if Jane 'd only take a good smart fly over the wood 
 pile ! " 
 
 " Arter we gi'n 'em one grist," said Ponce, devoted 
 only to the absorbing interest of his story, " we kep' it 
 up. There warn't no stoppin' us, then, I tell you." 
 
 " O, shet up your long story, Ponce ! " cried a coarse 
 woman, in the farther dark corner of the room. " Let 
 somebody else have a chance to talk, won't ye ? " 
 
 " Who's a talkin', now, but yourself? " asked Snarly 
 Moll, raising herself on her elbow, to give greater force 
 and directness to her question. " Old Ponce's got as 
 good a right to talk as you have ! " 
 
 " That Snarly Moll's a sassy girl ! " replied the 
 woman in the corner, indignantly.
 
 LIFE AMONG THE PAUPEES. 83 
 
 " Who says so now ? " asked Moll again. " You don't 
 know nothin' about it." 
 
 " No, she don't know nothin' about it," added Crazy 
 Jane. " But /know somethin' about it. I've been there, 
 and I see it all myself." 
 
 " What do you know about it, Jane ? " asked Moll, 
 rather coaxingly than otherwise. 
 
 " I know she's sassy" said Jane, " for I've been there, 
 and I see it all myself." 
 
 " We swep' the deck, fore an' aft," went on Ponce. 
 " I could see the British chaps a tumblin' down tum- 
 blin' down, one after the other, and a pullin' their corpses 
 up one on another." 
 
 " O Ponce ! Fool, Ponce ! Do hush your confounded 
 long story about what you never see nor heerd on," 
 again broke forth the female voice from the corner. 
 
 " Who's the biggest fool ? " venturously asked Snarly 
 Moll, turning her battery again in the direction of the 
 corner. 
 
 " Moll, ef I ketch you away from home ! " threatened 
 the woman. 
 
 " Yes, ketch a white weasel asleep, will ye ? " re- 
 torted the invincible and energetic girl, never hesitating 
 for a reply. 
 
 " I'll tangle your hair worse'n it was ever tangled 
 yet!" 
 
 " I'd like to have you curl it for me, if you would," 
 said Moll. 
 
 " I'll do it some day with the tongs ! " 
 
 " Papers'll do it better'n curlin' tongs," replied Moll. 
 " Wouldn't you color it too ? " 
 
 To this the woman thought best to make no answer. 
 
 Ponce tried to go on. 
 
 " They worked their old frigate off soundin's jest as
 
 84 - DOVECOTE. 
 
 fast as they any ways could," said he, " and stood out 
 to sea. I see how things was goin', but says I, ' Boys, 
 give it to 'em ! Don't let the old gun stop her noise 
 yet ! Give it to 'em, boys ! ' I hadn't more'n got the 
 words out o' my mouth, whack come a big ball they 
 thought they'd make us a partin' present of, and took 
 off my leg! took it off smack an' smooth! They 
 picked me up, they told me, but I never knew nothin' 
 more about it." 
 
 " You died then, djdn't you, Ponce ? " asked Snarly 
 Moll. 
 
 " Yes, he died then," answered Crazy Jane for him. 
 " I was there myself. I see him die. I see it all my- 
 self." 
 
 The woman in the corner immediately saw proper to 
 set up a loud noise, something between a shriek and a 
 yell of laughter. 
 
 "And you died too, didn't you, Jane?" persisted the 
 roguish girl. 
 
 " Yes, I died too. I see it all I died too. I was 
 there, and I see it all myself! " 
 
 Another indescribable shout from the corner. 
 
 " I never'll forgit that day," said Ponce. 
 
 " Nor I, nor I," added Jane, stooping down to pursue 
 her idle habit of touching any part of the floor to which 
 her wild fancy led her. 
 
 Little Kit was in deep thought. Milly felt bewil- 
 dered in the midst of this confusion. Her thoughts 
 strayed away to her mother, and the sadness that 
 shadowed her heart would have settled down perma- 
 nently there for the night, had not the shrill call of 
 Caleb Flox, summoning all to bed, dissipated, in some 
 degree, the influence that was slowly creeping over 
 her.
 
 LIFE AMONG THE PAUPERS. 85 
 
 She took up her line of march, therefore, with the 
 
 rest, laying away her weary frame on a little crib that 
 
 stood next that of the woman whose fierce voice from 
 
 the corner had so much startled her during the evening. 
 
 8
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 JOLL.Y AND MOLLY. 
 
 THE next morning, not a long time after her breakfast, 
 Milly strolled off by herself in the direction of the river. 
 Her thoughts were more saddened than ever, and 
 from being an unwilling witness to the daily scenes 
 that transpired around her, she hardly knew or cared 
 whither she was going, only let her find solitude. Alone, 
 she could give herself up, without interruption, to the 
 whole of her grief. 
 
 She wandered down to the river again, to the same 
 spot where Adam and she had before sat. There was 
 a loose pile of hewn lumber near, and to the farther end 
 of this, next the river bank, she directed her steps. 
 One plank, longer than the rest, jutted out towards the 
 river, its extremity reaching quite to the edge of the 
 bank. Upon this, in about the middle of it, Milly sat 
 down. The rest of the pile served to conceal her from 
 view. 
 
 The river was glassy and beautiful to look upon, sail- 
 ing down so silently just at her feet, over which the 
 willows and the birches hung their boughs, mirroring 
 their many leaves in its surface. The morning air was 
 deliciously fresh, and she could not help contrasting it 
 with the impure atmosphere that infected the rooms of 
 the poorhouse. And in her thoughts, too, danced pleas- 
 ant comparisons between the close and stifled life of 
 the town, up whose streets these sweet summer breaths 
 
 (86)
 
 MILLY AND MOLLY. 87 
 
 from the meadows never came, and the open, broad, 
 generous life of the country. The latter was immeas- 
 urably more welcome to her heart. Yet that heart was 
 unsatisfied. It still yearned for something it had not. 
 It felt an aching void that no one near her then had the 
 power to supply. 
 
 And while she sat there so musingly on the hewn 
 log, her eyes following the sluggish course of the dark 
 water, the sound as of some one jumping from a height 
 fell on her ear, and she felt herself jarred quite thor- 
 oughly. Looking round, in no little affright, she spied 
 Snarly Moll. 
 
 " So you steal off here to be alone, do ye ? " saluted 
 Moll, standing on the spot where her jump had landed 
 her. "Afraid o' the rest of us ? Don't you think we're 
 bears or bisons ? or what is't that makes you run away 
 from us all so ? " 
 
 " I love to be alene," answered Milly, not without 
 some considerable fear of her questioner. 
 
 "Alone .' and who don't like to be alone, when they 
 can git out o' the noise of sich a house as Caleb Flox's. 
 But the thing on't is, we don't allow sich doin's here. 
 We live together. We're all alike, the whole on us. 
 This ain't no place to play the part o' big feelin's. 
 What makes your hair curl so ? mine don't ! " 
 
 Milly told her that it curled itself. She didn't know 
 what made it do so. 
 
 " But come, let's find out. I snum, I'll know, if it 
 costs me a little trouble ! " and she glided along towards 
 her on the beam. " I want to make mine curl, and if I 
 find out what's the reason yours does, I guess I can git 
 mine into jest the same way." 
 
 Milly begged her not to come too near her. She did 
 not tell her why, but it was plain that her fear of Snarly
 
 88 DOVECOTE. 
 
 Moll was very great, and that the latter meant to avail 
 herself richly of the discovery. 
 
 " Do you think I'm a bear ? Do you think I'm goin' 
 to eat you up ? " asked Moll. 
 
 The child made no answer, yet she trembled from 
 her head to her feet. 
 
 " I tell you, I want to see your hair .' " said Moll, ad- 
 vancing still nearer. " Shake out your curls ! I'll see 
 'em, if it costs me " 
 
 " Please don't come too near," pleaded Milly. 
 
 " Please don't come too near ! " mimicked Moll. 
 " Who's a comin' too near ! What are you afraid of? 
 You don't think I've come to eat you up, or carry you 
 off, do you ? " 
 
 " I wanted to be alone," said Milly. 
 
 "And I don't think it's good for you," added she. 
 " You'll get cold, settin' here on this log so. Come, get 
 up." 
 
 " I wish you wouldn't, Snarly Moll." 
 
 Milly called her by that sobriquet before thinking 
 whether it was proper or not. Every body else thus 
 entitled her, and she was hardly mature enough yet to 
 consider whether it would be altogether as pleasing 
 from her lips as from those of older acquaintance. 
 
 Moll fired anew at once. 
 
 " Who told you to call me Snarly Moll ? Who said 
 my name was Snarly Moll ? I'll have you to know that 
 I'm jest as good as you be. You live in the poorhouse, 
 and so do L What's the difference, now? Snarly 
 Moll ! " she spoke it very sneeringly, " as if /was 
 any more snarly than you be ! You're a little fool ! tlios 
 what you be ! and I've a precious good mind to duck 
 you for your sass ! " 
 
 " Indeed," mildly ventured Milly, seeing that she had
 
 MILLY AND MOLLY. 89 
 
 unintentionally wounded her feelings, " I didn't mean 
 to say so. I didn't know what I did say. I'm sorry for 
 it, Moll." 
 
 " Moll ! Snarly Moll ! there it is agin ! I don't believe 
 you're sorry for it, and all your talk is stuff! Call me 
 Snarly Moll agin, if you dare ! " 
 
 " I never will," said Milly. " I didn't know what else 
 to call you. All the rest do." 
 
 " But that's no reason why you should, you 
 little " 
 
 " Don't, Moll ! " pleaded Milly, desiring to check her 
 rising wrath. 
 
 " Moll, agin ! I tell you I won't take it from such 
 low-bred folks as you belong to ! Don't call me that 
 agin, now ! " 
 
 " What shall I call you ? " asked Milly, submissively. 
 
 " Call me any thing ! Call me nothing ! But mind 
 you don't call me Snarly Moll any more ! " 
 
 The child was silent with chagrin and fear. She 
 dreaded to open her lips again, lest she might utter 
 something at which Moll might unaccountably be 
 offended. 
 
 " Who are you, any how ? " asked Moll, after eying 
 her fiercely for several minutes. " Where did you come 
 from ? " 
 
 No reply. Milly was afraid to answer. 
 
 " Hain't you got no mother ? " 
 
 " No," said Milly. ' 
 
 " Nor father, nuther ? " 
 
 " I never knew him." 
 
 " That's odd ! But who brought you here ? Where 
 did you live before you come here ? " 
 
 " At Mrs. Trevelyn's." 
 
 " Soho ! Then you're one o' the rich ones, hey ? 
 8*
 
 90 DOVECOTE. 
 
 And because the old man killed himself so they say 
 you had to come to the poorhouse ? T/tat's a pretty 
 fix ! Where's the rest of 'em ? What did they send 
 you here for, and not come themselves ? " 
 
 " They didn't love me," said Milly, in a very touch- 
 ing tone. " Nobody loves me ! " 
 
 And, upon this, she burst into a fit of violent 
 weeping. 
 
 The heart of Snarly Moll was reached. Every other 
 plea might have failed to touch her sympathies, but this 
 deep evidence of sorrow stirred them all with a power- 
 ful influence. 
 
 " Don't cry ! " she said, her tone entirely changed. 
 
 The turn of her manner, but now so unfeeling and 
 cruel, made Milly cry more than ever. 
 
 " Poor thing ! I pity you ; I do," said she to herself. 
 
 Unused to such sights, she hardly knew how to treat 
 them. Her feelings were honest enough, and earnest 
 enough, at bottom, but she had never yet been taught 
 how to smooth their surface so that others might be- 
 hold the reflections in them. 
 
 " Don't cry so ! " she said again. " I'd rather you'd 
 strike me than to see you cry so ! /didn't mean to say 
 hard things to you. I'm different from you, you see. I 
 don't go to work the same way. But don't cry so, I beg 
 of you ! It won't do no good, and it may do a good 
 deal o' hurt. What makes you think you hain't got no 
 friends ? " 
 
 " Nobody says any thing to me," said Milly. " I'm 
 all alone here. My mother is dead. I don't know who 
 to go to. I can't help crying ! " And she renewed it 
 again. 
 
 Moll went now and sat down on the log beside her, 
 intwining her arm about her waist.
 
 MILLY AND MOLLY. 91 
 
 " You have got one friend," said she, trying to comfort 
 the child. " Ftt be your friend, if nobody else will. 
 You may call me your friend, if you want to. Will 
 you ? " 
 
 Milly could not answer yet. 
 
 " I didn't mean nothing," she went on, " when I told 
 you sich hard things. I'm sorry I said 'em now. I 
 didn't think you had sich feelin's. I never knew any 
 body that had sich feelin's before Don't cry any more ! 
 I'll promise to do what I can to make you com- 
 fortable ! " 
 
 Milly tried to dry her tears, and Moll sat still holding 
 her about the waist and musing on the hidden life of 
 her little companion. There was something she could 
 not explain to herself, in being thus thrown by the side 
 of one so fresh from the great outer world. And as 
 soon as the child could sufficiently compose herself, 
 Moll went into a long list of interrogations respecting 
 her life, the town and its attractive mysteries, the paved 
 streets, which she thought must be something " won- 
 derful cur'ous " to see, the fine ladies, and the crowd- 
 ed buildings. 
 
 The fancy of Snarly Moll had taken fire before 
 she had talked long on the matter, and she declared to 
 Milly, that as soon as an opportunity offered she should 
 herself walk those same streets, and let her own eyes 
 look on those same buildings. It was, henceforth, to 
 be the one purpose and ambition of her heart.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 A BIT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 " YOU'VE told me so much about yourself," said Snar- 
 ly Moll, " that I'll tell you, now, all / know about my- 
 self" 
 
 And so she began to lay before Milly a sketch of her 
 life if such vegetation as hers could be called a 
 " life." 
 
 " I don't know where I was born, nor nothin' about it. 
 I s'pose 'twas somewheres, though, or I'd never been here. 
 Folks never told me any thing, and so what I know I've 
 had to guess. There was no use o' my guessin' I had 
 red hair, though, or a freckled face." 
 
 Milly caught herself inadvertently looking in her face. 
 
 " Ain't it freckled ? " said Moll. " Ain't my hair red ? 
 Did you ever see any thing redder ? " 
 
 Milly laughed, and told her that she had. 
 
 " What was it, now ? Come, you shall tell me, 
 now ! " 
 
 The child hesitated, and at last answered, " Brick." 
 
 " Brick ? " said Moll. " What's iliat ? I never see 
 none o' that ! " 
 
 " They make houses of them in the city," answered 
 Milly. 
 
 " Yes, and them same houses I'll see with these very 
 eyes, too, some day ! I'll see how folks live and look 
 for myself! I don't mean to be kept out o' the world 
 no longer ; and if I was in your place, /wouldn't, neith- 
 
 (92)
 
 A BIT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 93 
 
 er. But this ain't gettin' on much with my story. The 
 first I ever knew o' myself, or who I was, or who I be- 
 longed to, was when I was up in the town o' Derby. 
 That's a good many miles away from here, and p'raps 
 you don't know where 'tis. But let me tell you, now, 
 Derby's no fool of a place. And it's got a poorhouse a 
 leetle ahead, even, o' this; and this you don't come 
 across in every holler you stumble into, nuther. 
 
 " They use' to give us ruther tougher times at the Der- 
 by poorhouse than what we git here. There, the woman 
 was the man o' the house ; here, it's jest the other way. 
 We had a queerer set o' boarders there than what 
 we've got here ; a good many crazy ones, a good deal 
 crazier than Jane, and a couple o' fools, too." 
 
 " Fools ! " exclaimed Milly. 
 
 " Yes, real idiots ! Didn't you never see one ? " 
 
 Milly told her that she never did. 
 
 " One of 'em was a woman, and the other a boy ; and 
 they use' to draw more folks to the house strangers, 
 you know than all the rest of us together. One o' 
 the crazy men had to be shet up, night and day, in a 
 cage, up in the garret ; and I use' to hear him howl 
 sometimes all night, so't nobody in the house could 
 sleep. We all called him Van. I never heerd sich a 
 howl from a human bein' in all my life. 
 
 " Don't try to tell me nothin' about the poorhouse life ; 
 I know all about it. I've lived in three poorhouses 
 a'ready, and I'm thinkin' this'll be the last one. 
 Shouldn't you like to get away ? Do you like to stay 
 in sich an awful place as this ? and you had a mother, 
 too, and rich relations, which /never had ? " 
 
 Milly signified that she was exceedingly unhappy 
 here. She could not say more, then ; and if she had 
 been able, she would have lacked the courage.
 
 94 DOVECOTE. 
 
 " Wai, I'll tell you what," said Moll, in reply, " when 
 I git myself safe off to the city, I'll have you come. 
 You hain't got no relations, I know ; but what o' that ? 
 Ftt be your relations ; that is, if you'll promise me be- 
 forehand that you won't cry ! I can't hear you cry, and 
 I don't b'lieve any body else can. But that's not jest 
 to the point. The way I got out o' the Derby poor- 
 house was something like this. There was a woman 
 that come to the place one day, a real fine-dressed 
 woman, and she looked for all the world like a lady. 
 She seemed to think I was a objeck of pity ; and so 
 pity on me she took. She got the woman at the poor- 
 house to give me away, and then she took me 'home 
 with her. 
 
 " I was pleased, at first ; but it soon got to be an old 
 story. I found out that her husband didn't do right, for 
 some reason or other, and, finally, he left her entirely. 
 So she had to break up housekeepin', and went off 
 somewhere, I never knew where. And I was put on 
 to another town. 
 
 " I didn't like that poorhouse, somehow, as well as I 
 liked the 'tother one. They didn't have such a set of 
 crazy folks and fools, to be sure ; but I'd ruther put up 
 with them than with a good many tilings I had to. The 
 woman was savage as a beast. I was as afraid of her 
 as I could live. She never stopped to tell a body when 
 she was goin' to whip 'em, but put on, full vengeance. 
 
 " I remember how I had to ketch it, one day, jest be- 
 cause I'd gone and got the bottom o' my dress so wet, 
 a-cowsloppin'. I'd been down across the medder, and 
 I thought as how as if I did git wet a little mite, she 
 wouldn't care, as long's she got the cowslops fresh and 
 good for dinner. But I was mistaken, for once in my 
 life, if I never was before. I was standing there in the
 
 A BIT OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 95 
 
 kitchen, holding my greens in my hand, and the very 
 first thing I knew o' Miss Wetherby's bein' about, she 
 ketched me right here by the hair of my head," Moll 
 here explained to Milly how the thing was done, 
 " and whirled me round and round >4! and all the time 
 backwards, to the door ! ' I'll teach ye ! " says she. 
 ' I'll teach ye to go off into the wet grass and spile the 
 good clothes I put on ye ! Next time ye run off you'll 
 tell me ! ' And so she kept a pullin' and haulin' me 
 round for ever so long. 
 
 " That was more'n what my blood was goin' to let me 
 stand. I didn't do nothin', then. I didn't say nothin'. 
 I jest grit my teeth ; and the water was standin' in my 
 eyes all the time, too, she'd pulled my hair so hard ! I 
 reckon she wanted to pull it all up by the roots. So 
 when it come along night, thinks I to myself, thinks I, 
 ' Moll, now's your time ! If ever you're goin' away from 
 this awful place, now's your best time ! Perhaps 
 it'll be your last chance ! ' And away I did go, certain 
 enough. 
 
 " It was a dark night, but I found the way from 
 where I slept to the outside door, and that's all I want- 
 ed. I didn't tell nobody of my plan, and didn't ask no- 
 body's advice. I did it all on my own account. All 
 that night I walked. Every house I come to, the next 
 day, I stopped and begged for somethin' to eat ; and in 
 some places I asked the people if they wanted to hire 
 a girl for help. They would look down at me, as if 
 they wondered what such a little one as me was worth, 
 for work; and then they'd shake their heads, doleful 
 like, and say they didn't want no help. But they all 
 stared at me so strange, as if they thought I must be a 
 runaway from somebody. And so I went on, and the 
 most that troubled me was, that somebody'd be after
 
 96 DOVECOTE. 
 
 me and carry me back where I come from. But they 
 didn't 
 
 " I got into Byeboro', b/m by ; and here I've been 
 ever sence. The seleckmen tried to make me tell 
 where I come from ; but I never'd tell. I'd no notion 
 o' bein' sent back to Miss Wetherby's, and gettin' my 
 hair, every spear on't, pulled out o' my head ; for it's 
 jest as good to me as other folks' hair is to them, if 'tis 
 red. I can't help the color, you know ! " 
 
 Milly seemed deeply interested, both in the narration 
 of Snarly Moll and in the manner in which she went 
 through with it ; and when, an hour after, they together 
 rose from their seat on the log, they appeared the best 
 of living friends. The mildness of Milly had complete- 
 ly won over the other one's heart
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 IN AND OUT. 
 
 ADAM DROWNE, in his wanderings, had got back to 
 the Byeboro' poorhouse again. 
 
 He found Milly by the river, whither he had gone in 
 quest of her, and at once proceeded to break to her his 
 purpose. 
 
 " I've got back again," said he, his blue eyes spar- 
 kling. 
 
 There he stood, indeed, with the same indented hat 
 on his white head, and the same darned coat on his 
 back. 
 
 " I've been thinkin' of you," said he, " ever since I've 
 been gone. I told you, you know, that this wasn't the 
 place for you." 
 
 " But I've no better one to go to," protested Milly. 
 
 " You mayn't know that ; nor I mayn't know it, 
 neither. Perhaps there's some sort of a place to be 
 found. What do you think, now ? " 
 
 " I don't know," replied the child. 
 
 " No, I know you don't. But that ain't it. What we 
 want, now, is to find it ; and, what's more, I think I 
 can ! " 
 
 Milly's eyes lighted up immediately. A new ex- 
 pression, more pleasant than any she had worn since 
 she had been confined there, broke out over her coun- 
 tenance like sunshine. Adam Drowne read the mean- 
 ing of it all at a single glance.
 
 98 DOVECOTE. 
 
 " Should you like to go away from here ? " he asked. 
 
 " If I knew where to go," answered Milly. 
 
 " But if I should take you to a good place," pursued 
 Adam, " would you then 1 " 
 
 " I would like to go away from here," she replied. 
 
 " Then you shall! There's no more to be said. I'll 
 go off with you myself. I'll take you where 111 find 
 some kind friends for you." 
 
 " Have you got any friends ? " innocently inquired 
 Milly. 
 
 " Umph ! They're all dead, long ago ! But I can 
 find 'em a plenty for you. Will you go with me ? Will 
 you "go ? " 
 
 " But I don't know wliere." 
 
 " Wliere? why, where /go." 
 
 " But you havn't got any friends. They're all dead. 
 Then where will you go ? " 
 
 " Milly," said Adam, lowering his voice, " look here." 
 
 The child gave him her undivided attention. He had 
 succeeded in enlisting her interest completely. 
 
 " When I go from here, nobody knows where I go to, 
 of course. I wander, and that's all any body knows 
 about it. I go into houses that nobody" d believe me, if 
 I told 'em. There's some pretty fine houses, too, that I 
 stop at and get my breakfast, or my dinner, or my sup- 
 per, or, mayhap, sleep in all night. Nobody thinks of 
 turning me off, and I never have to ask a favor of any. 
 If it's meal time, or if it ain't meal time, as soon as I 
 go through their doors, they say to me, ' In a minute, 
 Adam, as soon as we can get the table set for you ! ' 
 and so I wait for 'em to get me what they have to eat, 
 and set up to the table and eat it. There ain't no ques- 
 tions asked at all. I have my meals to myself. And 
 then, when I get through, I set a while and rest me, and 
 go on again."
 
 IN AND OUT. 99 
 
 " But people would ask questions," said Milly, "if / 
 was with you." 
 
 " Would they ? " returned Adam, a little confused, 
 " What makes you think so ? " 
 
 " They would wonder who the little girl with you 
 was." 
 
 Adam's eyes were fixed upon her face, and they 
 sparkled strangely enough. Perhaps he had not ex- 
 pected to find her so astute an objector. 
 
 " But they wouldn't know" said he. 
 
 " Wouldn't they ask ? " 
 
 " Well, what then ? " 
 
 " You would have to tell them." 
 
 " No, I shouldn't. Why should I ? 
 
 " You would have to ! What should you say, if you 
 didn't?" 
 
 " Say nothing." 
 
 Milly smiled. 
 
 " Get up and walk out doors." 
 
 She suddenly became very sober in her look. 
 
 "And never go into that house again ! " added Adam, 
 with much earnestness in his tone. 
 
 " But if the people should tell Mr. Flox of it ? " again 
 suggested Milly. 
 
 " How'll they ever see Mr. Flox, now ? Nobody 
 knows him where /go." 
 
 " If he should follow after me ? " said Milly. 
 
 " He'll never do that, dear ! he'll never do that ! He'll 
 be too glad to get rid of you. He'll make so much the 
 more for losing you." 
 
 Milly was very thoughtful. 
 
 " I'll warrant you," said Adam, " that he will give you 
 away the first chance he has. The first person that 
 comes here and takes a fancy to you, he'll give you to ;
 
 100 DOVECOTE. 
 
 and then you'll go, you don't know where. You'd much 
 better take your chance with me, and you may be pretty 
 sure that you wouldn't get any worse place than it is 
 here, or where Mr. Flox might send you. Come, what 
 do you say ? We'll go at once ! " 
 
 " I'm afraid," said Milly. 
 
 " Poh ! poh ! " said Adam. " When there's nothing 
 at all to be afraid of! Mr. Flox'll never come after you, 
 and I'll take care that he'll never hear of you again." 
 
 Yet there was something fearful to the child in the 
 very thought of changing her home, though the change 
 was to be all in her own favor. The reality that was 
 then and there about her she well understood. She 
 could comprehend it all, in its length and breadth. But 
 the future was untried. She knew nothing of what it 
 might have in store for her. Even had it all been 
 sketched out to her vision, she would instinctively have 
 shrunk from contemplating it, for it was something whose 
 reality she could not yet grasp and comprehend. 
 
 " Do you hesitate now ? " he pursued. " You know 
 that I don't think this is such a place as you ought to 
 live in, and I never did think so. You must go away 
 from hero. I can get you as good a place to live in as 
 you ever will get, I'll promise ; and then, if you don't 
 happen to be contented, why, I'll try it again. Will 
 you go with me ? " 
 
 She hardly knew at first what to say. She cast her 
 eyes thoughtfully on the ground, and for a long tune 
 kept them there. 
 
 Adam, however, had no thought of losing the advan- 
 tage he had apparently gained thus far ; so he continued 
 talking to her while she pondered on the project, telling 
 her of the new friends she would have, and the new 
 places she would see, and the new feelings she would
 
 IN AND OUT. 101 
 
 enjoy. If Adam Drowne was never earnest about any 
 thing before, he was certainly earnest about this. Mil- 
 ly's welfare had become an object of the deepest inter- 
 est to him. He seemed to see some secret in her life 
 that another would have failed to see. One would 
 naturally have thought that there must be some pecu- 
 liar reason for his attachment to her, and she a mere 
 child. 
 
 He carried his point, however, at last. Milly prom- 
 ised him that she would leave that place, and with him. 
 He enjoined the strictest secrecy and silence on her, 
 and they separated, Adam not wishing to be seen talk- 
 ing with her by any of the rest of the household. 
 
 The second night after this, all things being ready, 
 when the house was hushed in slumber, Adam softly 
 stole along the entries until he reached the room where 
 Milly with the others slept, and slowly opened the door 
 and looked in. The moonlight was streaming pleasantly 
 through the windows, and lay in silver whiteness across 
 the hard oak floor. He caught the deep breathing of 
 the sleepers, all of them passed from their daily misery 
 into a state of blessed forgetfulness. 
 
 Stepping stealthily along a-tiptoe, he found the little 
 bed where the child lay, and, leaning down over her, 
 saw by the reflected light of the moon that she was 
 asleep. He touched her gently on the shoulder, think- 
 ing to waken her easily. But she was buried in a deep 
 sleep. Poor child ! the troublesome and saddening 
 thoughts of each day made her sleep as sound almost as 
 the sleep of death. 
 
 Finding that this gentle means did not rouse her, he 
 
 resorted to more earnest ones, and took hold of both 
 
 her shoulders, lifting her up in the bed. The name 
 
 " Mother " was faintly whispered from her lips. Adam 
 
 9*
 
 102 DOVECOTE. 
 
 Browne's heart beat quicker, and his impulse to rescue 
 her became suddenly stronger and greater than ever. 
 
 Milly awoke after a little shaking, and gazed wildly 
 about her. 
 
 " It's me, Milly," said Adam. " It's only me ! Come, 
 dress yourself as softly as you can, and let's be gone ! 
 Come, I will wait for you in the entry." 
 
 It took but a minute or two for the child to go through 
 with the task of clothing herself for her journey, and she 
 stood by the side of her newly-found friend. 
 
 "Are you all ready ? " asked Adam. 
 
 " Yes," answered Milly. 
 
 And he led her softly out through the door that he 
 had unfastened.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 A JOURNEY BEGUN. 
 
 ROUND and red the great bright moon hung in the 
 sky, as they issued forth from the door of the Bye- 
 boro' poorhouse, offering to light this oddly-matched pan- 
 on their journey. The branches of the trees, the boughs, 
 the leaves, and even the lighter sprays were pencilled 
 delicately upon the ground, and the poorhouse itself 
 cast a long black shadow behind it in the edge of the 
 meadow. 
 
 The frogs were to be heard faintly whirring at the 
 distant marshes and pools, and crickets had just begun 
 to make their cry heard all the night long in the grass. 
 They passed across the chip yard quietly, and by the 
 dilapidated corn crib, under which the pigs slept and 
 the few fowls roosted, and had finally crossed the Little 
 bridge of flat stones that gave them a dry passage over 
 the brook that babbled its story through the still night 
 watches, and then Milly cast a quick glance behind her, 
 and drew a deeper breath, as if she felt safe. Well- 
 might the child have thought that she was escaping 
 from the jaws of a creature more hungry and cruel than 
 Want merely the relentless jaws of the poorhouse, 
 where paupers were sold out from year to year to 
 the man, no matter whom, who would keep them alive 
 for the least money ! 
 
 Adam did not seem inclined to say much as they 
 went on, keeping his thoughts quite to himself. They 
 
 (103)
 
 104 DOVECOTE. 
 
 travelled steadily through the village street, whose 
 white houses glistened pleasantly among the waving 
 elms and shading maples, Milly looking about her and 
 wondering. When they started from the poorhouse it 
 was just midnight, and at three o'clock in the morning 
 they had made a distance of eight miles. This was 
 rapid walking for Milly, and must have greatly wearied 
 her ; but her spirits, and the frequent representations of 
 Adam, served to keep her up. If any thing else had 
 been needed, there was the fear of return to the hands 
 of Caleb Flox again, and that was enough. 
 
 Adam had thoughtfully provided food enough, of a 
 simple kind, to supply their wants until they should be 
 far out of the reach of Byeboro'. It was his intention 
 to keep as much away from the main road as possible 
 after daylight, while for the night he had no fear. 
 When the faint rays of day began to stream up from 
 the east, they had toiled to the summit of a long hill, 
 from which they commanded a dim and distant view of 
 the town they had just left. On this hill they stopped 
 a while to rest. 
 
 They had their faces turned to the east. After the 
 gray light had begun to steal up over the edge of the 
 sky, driving back the legions of gloomy shadows that 
 had held possession of the field of the heavens all 
 night, then came dancing and flickering along brighter 
 colors, not yet tints, but foreshadowings of the tints. 
 And next the veriest shades of tints themselves, now 
 shooting and spouting up like flames from some vast 
 crater below, and now melting and blending all over 
 and" into the face of the heavens. 
 
 And then the colors flamed up, some with the glow 
 of orange, and some of copper, and some of crimson, 
 and of purple, and of red. And now the fires, flaming
 
 A JOURNEY BEGUN. 105 
 
 like waving flambeaux ; bright, and dazzling, and 
 golden ; leaping and writhing upwards, as if they 
 would reach the very zenith and burn out the shadows 
 that still lingered there ; spreading and circling on 
 every side ; lighting up the eastern hills till* they be- 
 came ruddy in the brightness. It was a splendid pic- 
 ture, the whole of it. Adam and Milly both stood mute 
 before it, and one might have taken them for the true 
 " fire worshippers." 
 
 " Did you ever see any thing like that before ? " 
 asked Adam. 
 
 Milly only shook her head. Her heart was full of 
 what she had seen. 
 
 Just then the great globe of fire itself bounded up 
 from behind the hills, and the earth and sky were light- 
 ed with srmles. The sun gilded the fleecy fogs that 
 were creeping up the hillsides ; and made molten gold 
 of the little streams that wound along so quietly about 
 their feet ; and tipped the tree tops with a wealth of 
 colors ; and made bright carpets of the distant farms, 
 their patches, and figures, and squares all woven togeth- 
 er as in a loom ; and tinged anew the dull clouds that 
 were drifting over the heavens, till they looked like gay 
 argosies, freighted with the wealth of which they had 
 been in quest. 
 
 Milly stood and admired, and wondered ; and all the 
 time she was mute. 
 
 " Let's eat our breakfast now," broke in Adam ; and 
 the whole charm that the silence had helped create was 
 immediately broken. 
 
 They sat down upon a log that was lying across the 
 edge of the hill, where a woodman had, the year before, 
 felled a huge chestnut tree, and Adam proceeded to take 
 the frugal meal from his pocket, it was carefully fold-
 
 106 DOVECOTE. 
 
 ed in a piece of brown paper, and, distributing equal 
 portions of it, as carefully rolled up the rest in the paper 
 again. Then they fell to. Their long walk had served 
 to whet their appetites sharply, and the brilliancy of the 
 new morning, fresh with its airs and its dews, gave the 
 food an additional relish. 
 
 " We shall walk but a little ways this forenoon," said 
 Adam ; " so, when it begins to come on hot, we'll rest 
 somewhere. Perhaps you'll feel like taking a little nap 
 by that time. Are you tired ? " 
 
 " Not much," replied Milly, determined to be a 
 heroine. 
 
 " Not much ! " laughed Adam. " But you wiR be, 
 come 'leven o'clock. You'll want a resting spell then. 
 Leastways, 'twill be best for you. I take one myself, 
 then, sometimes, when I'm travelling ; ai*J I imagine 
 your little feet'll ache by that time. Don't you want 
 me to carry you a little piece, when we get along ? " 
 
 " O, no," said the child, astonished at such a proffer. 
 " I'm sure I can walk myself ! And you were so good 
 to take me along with you, too ! O, no ; I can walk ! " 
 
 " Well, so be it, then. Are you done your breakfast ? 
 Have you rested long enough ? The sun's getting well 
 up, you see." 
 
 Milly signified that she was both well rested and 
 quite ready for commencing the journey again. And, 
 taking her by the hand, Adam Drowne struck off into 
 the road again. 
 
 He said little to her as they went along, except to 
 answer such of her numerous questions as he chose to 
 answer, but kept his lips mumbling over the frag- 
 mentary thoughts or fancies that entered his brain, 
 Milly looking up in his face, now and then, to try to 
 learn what he meant. Sometimes he swung his disen-
 
 A JOURNEY BEGUN. 107 
 
 gaged hand quite furiously to and fro, and then his lips 
 worked much more vigorously than ever before, and his 
 head shook this way and that with great emphasis. 
 There was a secret, and a great secret, wrapped up in 
 his life, and even a child like Milly was led to make 
 the discovery. 
 
 They travelled on through long reaches of cool forest 
 border, the road winding on through the pleasantest 
 shades, and streaked on either side the cart track with 
 lines of thick turf; and heard the sharp cry of the squir- 
 rels on the walls, or among the boughs, as they gam- 
 bolled about, in the middle of this warm summer fore- 
 noon ; and watched the glinting of the little brooks, as 
 they stole along through the edge of the woodland, emer- 
 ging pure and clear from the dark, boggy places that 
 sought to dam them up, and then slipping away into 
 beds of cool, green moss, and so down into the secluded 
 forest silences. 
 
 And over hot roads they went, too, where they could 
 see the summer heat rise and waver above the dusty 
 ground ; and where the flowers, and even the grass, 
 seemed panting for breath by the baking roadside ;, and 
 where were no brooks that had not long ago dried up in 
 their shallow beds, and only little muddy pools offered 
 the sight of their waters, streaked with marl and clay. 
 At length Milly exclaimed that a house was in sight. 
 Adam had been looking steadily at the ground, and did 
 not see it. As soon as she gave the intelligence to 
 him, he said that they would go round to the barn, and 
 there rest themselves. 
 
 " But I had rather rest myself in the house," said 
 Milly. " Only see how cool it looks all round it, all 
 that green grass before the door, and those trees that 
 are so shady, too ! Let's go to the house ! "
 
 108 DOVECOTE. 
 
 Adam told her that he was not quite sure it would be 
 safe. 
 
 " I know they won't hurt you" said she. " They 
 won't ask you where Jcame from. Come ; I'll go into 
 the house. Was you ever here before ? " 
 
 " No," said Adam ; " and that's why I am afraid." 
 
 " Then I ain't afraid a bit," returned she. " They'll 
 think I'm your girl ; and I'll go in. I won't tell them 
 that we run away from Byeboro' poorhouse, if they ask 
 me." 
 
 " You must promise me certain," said Adam. " You 
 mustn't talk at all. Only don't talk ! " 
 
 " No, no," she answered, " I'll keep my words so close 
 to myself ! I'll not tell them a thing of where we came 
 from ! " 
 
 And after the delivery of a few more injunctions from 
 Adam, they walked on in the direction of the house. 
 
 It was a pleasant place, as the quick eyes of the child 
 had first told her. The carpet of grass that was spread 
 before the door was soft looking- enough to roll upon. 
 The maple trees thrust their boughs and leaves quite 
 up to the windows. A sheep was grazing upon the- 
 lawn, keeping the grass cropped close to the ground. 
 There were no blinds upon the dwelling, but the grate- 
 ful shade that had been provided with such tastefulness 
 seemed to make all amends. 
 
 They crossed the grass plot, and walked round to the 
 back door. It was shut. Adam knocked loudly, and 
 afterwards more loudly, with his fist ; but no one an- 
 swered. For several minutes he kept trying to raise 
 some one of the inmates ; but none came to the door. 
 They had apparently all gone away.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 AFOOT AND ALONE. 
 
 " THERE'S nobody here," said Adam. " I guess 
 they've all gone. Are you very tired, Milly ? " 
 
 She did not want to say outright that she was, but 
 her looks betrayed the true state of the case sufficiently. 
 
 " We must have a little sleep," said he, looking at 
 her. " I see how 'tis ; we must go to the barn." 
 
 And he conducted the little wanderer over the back 
 of a gentle knoll to a brown barn that was nestled in the 
 cosy hollow beyond. They entered this, and climbed 
 to the remnant of the mow upon the loft. Carrying 
 clean and sweet hay enough to one spot to suffice for a 
 comfortable bed and pillow for Milly, he bade her 
 stretch out her weary limbs on this rustic couch, while 
 he lay in an opposite corner and tried to fall asleep. 
 And following the advice given, in less than ten min- 
 utes she was sound asleep. And Adam followed along 
 but a short time after. 
 
 It was something to arrest the attention of any one 
 who might have looked in there at that hour, to see that 
 child of innocence and misfortune so quietly slumber- 
 ing, perchance dreaming, on that coarse bed of hay ; 
 one little arm placed carefully under her head, and the 
 other crossed so prettily over her breast ; her lips slight- 
 ly parted, and a pleasant smile still lingering about 
 them ; her auburn hair tangled about her shoulders, the 
 haystalks intertwisted with their silken fibres ; and that 
 10 ( 109 >
 
 110 DOVECOTE. 
 
 sweet look of innocence, pure as the expression of a 
 seraph, resting so lightly on her countenance, as if she 
 feared nothing, hoped for all things, and was at heart 
 at love with all the world. It was a sight such as few 
 see in this every-day life in which they go through the 
 world ; a sort of dream that plays with their waking 
 thoughts sometimes, or leads them on to a new exist- 
 ence in the stillness of their night slumbers. 
 
 For quite an hour they slept. Adam was the first to 
 wake. He rose from his bed, and walked slowly in the 
 direction of the child. 
 
 As the picture greeted him, one to which his eyes 
 were little accustomed, he stood for some time before 
 it, regarding it in silence. With the rapidity of thought 
 he went back again to his days of childhood, for even 
 a man with as white a head as Adam Drowne must 
 have had a childhood, in many points, just like this, 
 losing himself among the genial and sunny memories 
 of that former time, his eyes moistening with the sights 
 that again rose and swam in them sights of green 
 meadows, with boys clapping broad-brimmed straw 
 hats over butterflies that had lit on the clover bells, 
 and of lawns where children trooped to the light and 
 airy tread of their own spirits, and of pleasant gardens 
 full of blooming flowers, and of summer mornings pic- 
 tured out so palpably on the glowing landscape, and of 
 churches, and mothers, and home. 
 
 All these, and much more than these, filled and fired 
 the poor wanderer's fancies. All these he saw in the 
 sweet expression that was as radiant as some rare 
 vision upon the countenance of the sleeping child. His 
 heart laughed again, as it laughed within him in his 
 fresh boyhood, when he caught her faint but luminous 
 smile. Again his brain swam with fragments of the
 
 AFOOT AND ALONE. Ill 
 
 olden feelings that just draped their lowest edges 
 against it as they swept across ; and he grew dreamy 
 with this sudden return of the old-time thoughts. He 
 was falling unconsciously into a revery. 
 
 Just at that moment the child awoke. As she 
 opened her pleasant eyes they stared wildly at Adam, 
 as if she would ask him by a single look who he was 
 and what he wanted. It was some little time before he 
 seemed fully to recover himself. 
 
 " Come, are you rested ? " at length he asked. 
 
 Milly sat upright on the hay, and now began to rub 
 her eyes. 
 
 " Have you had a good nap ? " he pursued, looking 
 up at the swallows that were swarming and twittering 
 about the window of the old barn. 
 
 " Yes," replied Milly ; " but I feel lame." 
 
 " I expected your long walk would make you a little 
 stiff at first," said he ; " but you'll soon get over that as 
 you begin to move again. We'll start on, if you're 
 ready." 
 
 Milly moved to the door after him, and they went out 
 together. This time they did not go to the house where 
 they had vainly called before, but took a circuitous path 
 through the meadows and a piece of tanglewood, and 
 finally emerged upon the open road again at a point 
 where it forked, and where Adam hesitated. 
 
 " I wonder which way this one leads," said he to him- 
 self, and pointing in the direction of that on the left 
 hand. " I'm sure I should want to take the one that 
 would carry us farthest from Byeboro'." 
 
 " And so should I! " exclaimed the child, whom he 
 had not suspected of listening to him. " Let's get 
 away as far as we can from Byeboro' ! " And she 
 tugged stoutly at his hand towards the left-hand road,
 
 112 DOVECOTE. 
 
 which was sufficient, in his present state of mind, to 
 settle the question. So onward they trudged by the 
 left-hand road, the child looking inquisitively forward 
 and backward at every rod. At length something 
 appeared in sight. 
 
 " We'll get over this wall ! " said Adam. 
 
 " What for ? " innocently asked Milly. 
 
 " Because we don't know yet who 'tis," answered he. 
 " Can you tell ? Can you see ? What is it ? Is it a 
 man afoot, or a wagon ? " 
 
 The poor man was moved with a deep excitement, 
 which bordered so closely upon fear that it passed the 
 child's comprehension. 
 
 The object in the distance began now to come nearer. 
 
 " I can see it now" exclaimed the child. " It's a car- 
 riage ; and there's a lady in it, too." 
 
 She seemed delighted with her discovery. 
 
 " Yes, and there's a man with her," he immediately 
 added, straining his vision. 
 
 " Yes," said Milly, " a gentleman and a lady." 
 
 " I wonder who they be ! " exclaimed Adam. " Why 
 not get over the wall, Milly, till they get by ? " 
 
 " Will they touch us ? " she inquired. " Will they 
 take me away from you ? " 
 
 " I don't know," said Adam. " I'm afraid. I don't 
 know what may happen." 
 
 Milly half stopped, and clung closer to her companion 
 and protector. 
 
 " I hope they won't stop us," said she, tremulously. 
 
 " It's too late now," said Adam, " We can't hide 
 now. They're too close to us. They see us. Let's 
 walk on as if nothing was the matter." 
 
 And so Milly determined to walk, still clinging to his 
 hand.
 
 AFOOT AND ALONE. 113 
 
 The carriage drew near. It came up before them. 
 It was now close upon them. It stopped ! 
 
 Adam trembled from head to foot, as did Milly like- 
 wise. He would keep straight on ; but that would be 
 the very means of arousing suspicion that all was not 
 right with him. He would stand perfectly still, waiting 
 to hear what the travellers might have to say ; but that 
 was just the hardest thing in the world for him to do. 
 
 The gentleman in the carriage relieved him by ask- 
 ing. 
 
 " Which way do you come from, this morning ? " 
 
 Adam impulsively pointed over his shoulder, without 
 answering a word. 
 
 " Can't you tell me how far it is to Milton ? " pursued 
 the gentleman. 
 
 Adam did not know a bit about it ; but he was ready 
 with an answer. 
 
 " About twelve miles, I should think, sir." 
 
 " A straight road ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; near straight as can be." 
 
 " Isn't there a stopping-place on beyond here ? " 
 
 " None that I know of, sir, short of Milton," said 
 Adam. 
 
 The gentleman was about gathering up the reins 
 tightly in his hands again, preparatory to driving on, 
 when the lady at his side asked Milly how far she had 
 walked, for she looked very tired. 
 
 " Only a few miles," answered Adam for her, while 
 she hung down her head. 
 
 ' And hasn't many more to walk, I hope," added the 
 lady, regarding her with unaffected sympathy. 
 
 " No, ma'am ; I think 'twon't be a very long time now 
 before we get to our stopping-place ; " and Adam made 
 10*
 
 114 DOVECOTE. 
 
 a forward movement that betrayed his fear and impa- 
 tience. 
 
 " Twelve miles to Milton, you say ? " asked the gen- 
 tleman again, his horse beginning to move. 
 
 " About that, I should think, sir," replied Adam, start- 
 ing on. 
 
 And they parted. 
 
 Milly looked behind her many times, after the car- 
 riage had passed out of sight, fearful that it might 
 return for her; and then, as she finally threw up her 
 eyes so gratefully to her companion, her cheeks were 
 burning with color, and a profuse perspiration stood all 
 over her forehead and temples. 
 
 A walk through a piece of wood, to which they for- 
 tunately came next, was much needed to cool the fever 
 of her blood, and quiet the deep agitation of her feel- 
 ings. She felt and Adam felt hardly less so that 
 she had narrowly escaped ; though from what it would 
 have been impossible for either one to tell.
 
 CHAPTER XVL 
 
 BEWILDERMENT. 
 
 SOME time in the afternoon, they came to a house at 
 which the cravings of hunger finally compelled Adam 
 to stop. 
 
 It was a low-roofed building, of but a single story, 
 and painted red. The very color of it made Milly 
 shudder ; for red happened to be the color of the Bye- 
 boro' poorhouse. Adam advanced to the door with a 
 courageous manner, and was about to knock against the 
 wall, the door being open, when a woman presented 
 herself. She was old in her looks, with sparse, gray 
 hair and large eyes. There were crows' feet about her 
 temples, and her hands were shrivelled and dried like 
 vellum. She stood waiting for Adam to prefer his 
 request. 
 
 " We're nothing but travellers," said he, " and want 
 something to eat. We've nothing to pay with but 
 thanks ; and of them you shall have a plenty. If you'll 
 only feed us with a crust, or a bone, or any thing you 
 feel willing to give away, you shall always be remem- 
 bered." 
 
 The plea was well put, and should have at once 
 reached the woman's sympathies. 
 
 " So you've got no money, hey ? " she inquired, star- 
 ing at Milly. " Then how happens it that you're travel- 
 ling ? Folks don't generally travel till they put some- 
 
 ("5)
 
 116 DOVECOTE. 
 
 thing to pay their way into their pockets. You don't 
 belong round here, I guess." 
 
 " If you'll only give us something to eat ! " prayed 
 Adam, wishing to break in upon her inquisitiveness. 
 " We're half starved ! " 
 
 " Sartain ! sartain ! " said she, and immediately began 
 to put some brown bread and milk upon the table. 
 
 " You love milk, deary, don't ye ? " she asked Milly. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," answered the child. 
 
 " Yes ; she loves bread and milk," chimed in Adam, 
 wishing to keep the woman from interrogating Milly ; 
 " and so do I ! " 
 
 " Then jest set down there," said she. 
 
 And they drew up to a low table of oak, with heavy, 
 carved legs, and a surface as smooth, and hard, and 
 white as oak could by rubbing and scrubbing be made. 
 
 The repast was relished exceedingly by both of 
 them ; as, indeed, so long a journey and such long fast- 
 ing would be likely to make it much relished. They 
 sat for some time after they had finished, Adam think- 
 ing it a good place to rest himself. 
 
 " Where does this road lead me to ? " he at length 
 inquired. 
 
 " Then you air a stranger in these parts ! " exclaimed 
 the woman. " Wai, and so I thought you was. This 
 road leads you to the river, if you follow it long 
 enough." 
 
 Milly looked at Adam for an explanation. 
 
 " To the river ? " said he. " What river ? " 
 
 " Why, don't you know ? But you're a stranger here ! 
 Why, to the river where the boats come up to the 
 Hudson. It's a great river, and not a great many miles 
 away from here, either." 
 
 " Is there a village there ? " asked Adam.
 
 BEWILDERMENT. 117 
 
 " Sartain. Where should there be one, if not there ? " 
 
 There was a brief silence. 
 
 " Where are you goin' with that gal ? " she recom- 
 menced. " It's a long ways for her to the river." 
 
 Adam did not vouchsafe a reply. 
 
 " Deary," pursued the woman, addressing Milly, 
 " where did you come from ? You're a purty thing, 
 now, and I'm thinkin' it's a shame to keep you walkin' 
 so. Where did you come from, deary ? " 
 
 " She came from a good ways off," interposed he. 
 
 " Is she yours, then ? " 
 
 Adam hesitated, looking at her and at the floor. 
 
 " She ain't yours, and any body can see that for 
 themselves. Where did you get her, now? Where 
 be you goin' to carry her to ? " 
 
 " Come," said Adam, addressing Milly, and himself 
 rising to his feet. " We'd better be going." 
 
 " You had, ef you're thinkin' o' gittin' to the river to- 
 night" said the woman. " But it's too bad to carry that 
 poor child round in that sort of a way ! It's too much 
 for her ! " 
 
 Adam led her out at the door. 
 
 " We're very much obliged," said he, as soon as he 
 found himself fairly out of the house. " God bless you 
 for your kindness ! " 
 
 " But I'm afraid he never will you, ef you think o' 
 takin' that child on to the river sich a hot day as this ! 
 Why not leave her here with me, and go on alone ? 
 I'll take the best care of her." 
 
 Milly clung closer to him, as if even then she feared 
 she might be taken away. 
 
 " O, don't want to stay, eh ? " said she, seeing the 
 child's symptoms of fear. " Well, then, go on ! and joy 
 go with ye both ! I hope you won't brile in this sun ; 
 that's all."
 
 118 DOVECOTE. 
 
 And the poor wanderer pushed on down into the road 
 again, Milly confidingly keeping close to him at every 
 step. The simple attention that she excited from every 
 one that saw her was what served to keep her in a state 
 of constant alarm. She would have had it otherwise, 
 but it was a something against which neither herself 
 nor Adam had power to make provision. 
 
 The remainder of that afternoon they kept on then- 
 way. As the evening began to fall, the long shadows 
 creeping stealthily up over the heavens as the red sun 
 went down, Adam felt puzzled where to pass the night. 
 If it should be at a house, he stood in danger of finally 
 losing the child. Every motive induced him not to 
 think of that. He had intended, it is true, to procure 
 her a good home somewhere, but he felt that he was 
 not far away enough from Byeboro' yet. And so he 
 kept on. 
 
 " Shan't I carry you now ? " he would frequently ask 
 the child. 
 
 " I am not tired ; I can walk," was her invariable and 
 prompt reply. 
 
 After dusk they came to the wide door of a huge 
 smithy, where great fires were roaring within, and sooty 
 men were bringing down heavy blows upon large bars 
 of iron, and bright sparks, like meteors, were flashing 
 and flying this way and that from under the heads of 
 the hammers ; and there by the door for a long time 
 they stood, Adam lost in the roar of his own swift 
 thoughts, and Milly in the roar of the great bellows that 
 blew the fires. 
 
 The workmen glanced round upon them, but did not 
 stop their work. Here was one place where they might 
 stop and look at human beings, begrimed and black- 
 ened though they were, and not feel afraid of questions.
 
 BEWILDERMENT. 119 
 
 Up the wide throats of the narrow chimneys the fires 
 kept flaming as the bellows lifted ; and the bars were 
 white with heat when they took them out of the coals 
 and placed them across the anvils ; and the fiery flakes 
 flew every where as the hammers pounded and made 
 their crystal ring. There was something extremely 
 novel to the child in the dusky place, thus peopled with 
 sooty beings that looked like Vulcans, and in the bright 
 fires, and the rows of iron shoes that hung from long 
 poles running across the beams overhead, and the ring- 
 ing of the hammers upon the anvils. She found her 
 head full of wonder, and would have been glad to ask 
 a hundred questions at once ; but her puny voice could 
 no more have been heard in the roar of that place than 
 the faint pipings of a sparrow in the rush of a storm. 
 All that she could do, therefore, was to look and won- 
 der. The picture of the old Byeboro' poorhouse came 
 up to her again, she could see it in the red coals, 
 and her heart gratefully acknowledged the contrast be- 
 tween Caleb Flox and even men that looked like these 
 stalwart and smutty smiths. 
 
 She looked up to the heavens. The stars were just 
 peeping out on the field of the summer sky, but her 
 eyes saw them not. The glare of the fires within had 
 obscured them all. Yet the breath of the night breeze 
 drew pleasantly upon her cheeks and forehead, and re- 
 freshed her. 
 
 That night they took shelter in a barn again. It was 
 no new thing, now, for Milly, and she slept as sweetly 
 as ever in her little bed. Early the next morning they 
 had started upon their journey, Adam being determined 
 to reach the river that afternoon. They broke the wel- 
 come bread of charity once more, and managed to se- 
 cure enough provisions to carry them through the
 
 12U DOVECOTE. 
 
 day, let the heat of midday overtake them where it 
 would. 
 
 They lunched at noon in a little grove that capped a 
 knoll by a creek, and relished it as much as any of the 
 many frugal meals they had yet taken. Water at the 
 spring they drank by getting on their knees and half 
 immersing their faces in it ; and it certainly refreshed 
 them. Just at night again they had come to the river 
 of which the woman in the low red house had told 
 them. It was very wide, and many vessels were to be 
 seen drifting on its bosom. The sight of it astonished 
 Milly, who was prepared for no sight on so large and 
 grand a scale. 
 
 Adam tarried about the place until eight o'clock, 
 learning that at that time the boats would come up. 
 He had an undefined purpose in his mind of boarding 
 the first one that landed, and going where it might carry 
 him. He had no money ; but he had gone so far through 
 the world without money, and he did not see why he 
 was to be stopped now. 
 
 At the exact time the leviathan steamer came up, 
 riding like a world in itself straight to the dock. Adam 
 and Milly were among the first to go aboard, she hold- 
 ing on by his hand. He led her to a seat among some 
 boxes, and told her to sit perfectly quiet till he came 
 back to her again ; and went ashore. The thoughts of 
 a demented man must have been his, for he had no er- 
 rand on shore save the gratification only of his childish 
 curiosity. He wanted to see all, to hear all, and to be 
 every where at the same moment. While he was 
 straggling about, and was being pushed this way and 
 that in the crowd, he looked up at the stately steamer 
 to admire the manner in which she was pictured against 
 the dark sky. He saw that she was in motion !
 
 BEWILDERMENT. 121 
 
 He gave a yell and a shriek, hurrying to find the plank 
 by which he had come down. It was too late. It was 
 taken in. The boat was ten yards from the quay al- 
 ready. Adam was dumb with fear and his bewildering 
 sensations. 
 
 11
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 A QUIET NOOK. 
 
 Ir was just about sunset when a wagon drove up 
 through the ancient avenue to Dovecote, containing a 
 lady and a little girl. The day had been extremely 
 warm, and the laborers had just returned weary from 
 the fields, their waistcoats dangling from their arms. 
 Some of the younger ones ran out before the house, to 
 see what the new arrival was to be ; and at once there 
 rose a childish shout, which was rapidly passed from 
 mouth to mouth, telegraphically announcing that Miss 
 Nancy had come. And as she came nearer, we could 
 see that she had a little girl on the seat beside her. 
 
 The child was Milly. 
 
 Miss Nancy was not exactly a relative of ours, but 
 had long had carte blanche of our parents to make the 
 place her home while it might be agreeable to her ; all 
 this in consideration, firstly, of her being an old school- 
 mate and friend of my mother's, and, secondly, of her 
 having one of the sweetest natures any where discover- 
 able. Her real name was Miss Nancy Gregory; and 
 she was now returning from her annual visit to some of 
 her old friends in the metropolis. As she was helped 
 to the ground, she first exclaimed, 
 " How good this soft turf feels again -to the feet ! " 
 and a moment afterwards, 
 
 " You see I've brought home a little visitor." 
 
 (122)
 
 A QUI.ET NOOK. 123 
 
 We alL looked in astonishment, the younger ones 
 especially. 
 
 " Come, Milly," said Miss Nancy, offering to take her 
 from the wagon. 
 
 " What is her name ? " asked my mother. 
 
 " Milly a pretty name, isn't it ? " 
 
 " A very pretty name," said my aunt ; " and a very 
 pretty girl, I should think, too. Bring her in ! " 
 
 Miss Nancy went into the house, leading the little 
 stranger by the hand, the rest of us following close 
 behind, and staring. 
 
 " I picked up a little friend on my way home," said 
 Miss Nancy, " and thought she might come along with 
 me. She appeared to be lost and friendless ; and so I 
 befriended her. She appears to be a very sweet child. 
 You will like her, I know," said she to my mother, " if 
 you allow her to stay." 
 
 " But how did you find her ? " inquired my mother. 
 " Where did so little a thing happen to come in your 
 way?" 
 
 " I picked her up on the boat, on my way up the 
 river. It was just at night." 
 
 " On the boat ! and alone ! " exclaimed my mother, in 
 great astonishment. 
 
 " Yes ; I found her wandering about the cabin, crying 
 as if her heart would break. I took her by the hand, 
 and asked her what was the matter. She said she had 
 got lost. ' But where are your friends ? ' I asked. She 
 said that she hadn't any living. Her mother was dead ; 
 she had no father ; and she had lost her way. I pitied 
 her, and asked her if she would go home with me, and 
 told her all about the place where I lived. She mani- 
 fested the greatest joy immediately, and clung to me 
 as if she had always known me."
 
 124 DOVECOTE. 
 
 " Poor thing ! " murmured both my mother and aunt 
 together. " Poor thing ! " 
 
 " I placed her in a berth next my own for that night, 
 and awoke in the morning to find her much improved 
 in spirits. I got her ready to leave the boat as soon as 
 she landed, and, soon after our early breakfast, took her 
 with me into the stage for pleasant old Dovecote, in 
 pleasant Kirkwood. Quite a little adventure, isn't it?" 
 
 It was agreed that it was really what Miss Nancy 
 was pleased to call it. This adoption of a little stran- 
 ger like Milly into our home nest was an event in our 
 childish lives. She came among us like a vision. We 
 had been least thinking of such an occurrence ; and so 
 it took us all the more with surprise. 
 
 For a long time my mother and Miss Nancy sat by 
 themselves talking over the matter, in the course of 
 which conversation all the secrets that Milly had hith- 
 erto given up respecting her former life were confided 
 to my mother, to be kept sacredly for the child. They 
 seemed to belong to her as much as her clothing ; and 
 so little was told us, at the time, of the history of the 
 little unfortunate who had finally had the good fortune 
 to drift into a nook as quiet as ours. 
 
 While Miss Nancy and my mother were so deeply 
 engaged in their talk, and my aunt was busy with her 
 preparations for supper, such as baking her hot biscuit, 
 and getting out the honey, and pouring out the milk for 
 those of us who loved it, we children were intently 
 occupied with Milly. The girls had carried her out the 
 door, and asked her name several times apiece, each 
 time telling her they thought it a very pretty name, and 
 had shown her all the flowefbeds, and named every 
 variety of the simple flowers, and danced her up and 
 down the walks, and made her jump on the green turf
 
 A QUIET NOOK. 125 
 
 to feel how soft it was, and brought her round to the 
 door again. It was a great novelty ; and we all meant 
 to enjoy it as long as it lasted. 
 
 Milly said but little, only admiring the trees, and the 
 grass, and the flowers in her own quiet way, her eyes 
 not yet quite dry, it seemed to us, from her recent tears, 
 and the smiles upon her face best speaking the grate- 
 fulness of her heart. 
 
 " O, I hope you're going to stay here ! I hope you'll 
 live with us ! " said one of us. 
 
 " Mother'll never let you go away now," added an- 
 other. 
 
 " Where would you go to, if you went ? " pursued a 
 third. 
 
 " No, Miss Nancy will keep you," said a fourth. 
 " Miss Nancy brought you here, and you are her' girl." 
 
 " We will have such good times together ! " said 
 Nelly. " We can go into the woods and get the flow- 
 ers where they grow wild, and run in the meadows 
 when the boys go fishing in the little river, and go to 
 school together, and to meeting, and have such good 
 times ! I know you'll stay, won't you ? " 
 
 " Yes," added another ; " say you will. We'll have 
 such famous times here now ! " 
 
 "I should love to," said Milly. "But perhaps " 
 
 " O, there ain't any ' perhaps ' about it ! No such 
 thing!" 
 
 " No, no ; you must stay ! " 
 
 " Can you be contented here ? Shan't you want to 
 go and see your old friends ? " asked Nell. 
 
 " I haven't any friends now," answered Milly. 
 
 " No mother, either 1" 
 
 She shook her head mournfully. 
 
 We all looked at her in deepest pity. Her brief 
 11*
 
 126 DOVECOTE. 
 
 narrative, conveyed in a question and an answer, 
 touched our sympathies till they infolded her deeply 
 in their impulsive embrace. We loved the child much 
 for what she appeared to be ; but we loved her for 
 sympathy with her sorrows more. 
 
 Supper was soon announced, and we were all called 
 in. As we ranged ourselves around the table, Miss 
 Nancy spoke to my grandfather and grandmother of 
 Milly, telling them in few words who she was, and how 
 she had fallen in with her. Both the old people spoke 
 to her in their kindest way, my grandfather shaking her 
 hand gently, and nay grandmother embracing and kiss- 
 ing her. She then went round and took her seat by 
 the side of Miss Nancy ; while the rest of us stared at 
 her with all the eyes we had, some wondering at her 
 beauty, some admiring her simple manners, and all 
 hedging her closely about with their .sympathies. The 
 evening meal was finished in quietness, every one talk- 
 ing, and laughing, and full of the best of spirits. 
 
 After supper, there was the usual summer evening 
 circle around the rpom, and the usual gathering of the 
 younger ones near the door; and as the shadows of 
 evening closed about us, my grandfather offered the 
 fervent prayer, kneeling with uplifted right hand, and 
 we all said " Good night," and separated. Milly was 
 introduced among us as the special friend and compan- 
 ion of Miss Nancy ; and with her she retired for the 
 night, each one eagerly looking forward to the morning 
 again. 
 
 The morning came ; and Milly came with it, more 
 charming to us than ever. She had that same pleasant 
 expression on her countenance, and the same sweet 
 and simple manners, that had at first won all our hearts. 
 She accosted us gracefully, very gracefully for so
 
 A QUIET NOOK. 127 
 
 young a child, and responded to our childish hopes 
 that we should be able to have many a " good time " 
 before the day was over. 
 
 I wondered how the breakfast table must look to her, 
 spread with its clean, white cloth, and covered with its 
 yellow butter almost fresh from the churn, its white 
 and brown bread, its capacious bowls of milk for the 
 younger ones who chose them, its ham, cut in such 
 round and tempting slices, and its eggs, and the savory 
 steam of the coffee rising above all, a sort of incense 
 from that domestic board. I watched the perceptible 
 glow and sparkle of her eyes, as, rising in the freshness 
 of the morning, she was greeted with a sight so wel- 
 come. It gave me quite as much joy as any other 
 sight could possibly have given her. 
 
 That day was a day of pleasure. It seemed to us 
 all a holiday. There was no rest for the soles of our 
 feet from early morning to nightfall. We felt it incum- 
 bent on us, as new entertainers of so choice a guest, to 
 see to it that nothing worth seeing be overlooked by 
 her, in the rounds we made with such persevering ear- 
 nestness. She was taken over the corn crib, and the 
 barns, and the sheds ; and shown into the mysteries of 
 the pens, and stalls, and coops ; and carried to inspect 
 the ledges whereon the girls loved to build their play- 
 houses, using broken bits of crockery for household 
 Tvares, and fencing off their several domains with small 
 cobble stones ; and made to express her astonishment at 
 the great fields of corn that were waving in all their 
 verdure within view ; and at the meadows sloping away 
 from the hillsides for acres and acres ; and at the cattle 
 that were quietly grazing over them, dotting the land 
 picturesquely; and at the number of roofs that combined 
 to make us so famous a homestead, offering to the
 
 128 DOVECOTE * 
 
 eye the appearance of a compact settlement of many 
 families. 
 
 In short, we tired her out ; and so we did ourselves. 
 When we got through at night, we were glad enough to 
 crawl off to bed with as few complaints as possible, 
 trusting to the slumbers of the night to refresh us for 
 the day that was to come. 
 
 It was hardly so bad the next day, for the novelty of 
 the thing had in a degree subsided. There was less 
 walking, and, perhaps, more talking. We began to 
 turn the subject over a little, to look at it on all sides. 
 Milly had not so much to see nor to wonder at ; she 
 had only to find her way into our youthful affections. 
 And this was an easy task for her, for the road was a 
 smooth and open one. 
 
 The days at length began to flow on like the smooth 
 run of a river. There were pleasant banks on either 
 side of them, and many flowers ; and the limbs of the 
 trees draped the surface of the stream, and just broke 
 the smooth glassiness of the mirror. 
 
 The old homestead grew dearer to the little stranger 
 all the time. She had her own room, near that of Miss 
 Nancy, and there her young domestic feelings seemed 
 to centre. She was up betimes in the morning, and 
 opened her window before some of us had qpeued even 
 our eyes. Her face was early in a glow, and she 
 breathed the incense of the earliest breezes. She 
 romped up and down the walks with us a little while 
 before breakfast, to whet her appetite, and her eyes 
 glistened with the delight every new day afforded her. 
 
 The haying season came and went, during which she 
 accompanied us on our errands to and from the fields, 
 and helped us carry drink and luncheon to the work- 
 men in the meadows, and tossed about the grass in the
 
 A QUIET NOOK. 129 
 
 forenoon sun to dry, and tried to help rake the fragrant 
 piles at night. That was all new to her. Its influences 
 on her heart were deep, and the impressions of the time 
 were such as could never be effaced. The haymaking 
 scenes must have been rare pictures, I ween, in the 
 cabinet of her memory the men and the children 
 tumbling in the heaps, pitching and tossing it up from 
 the little conical stacks to the carts, and slowly follow- 
 ing the winding wains home again from the long and 
 weary day's labor. 
 
 And afterwards the fruits began to ripen, peaches, 
 and plums, and raspberries, and there were so many 
 curiosities for her in the garden besides, when the vines 
 began their generous yield, and the beet tops began to 
 show their long, red ears, and the bean pods to cluster 
 about the poles, ready for the baskets and pans that 
 were not vainly held under them. Amidst this little do- 
 mestic confusion she was quite at home, and appeared 
 to enjoy it thoroughly. She assimilated to all there was 
 around her with great readiness, and became part and 
 parcel of us and our domestic fortunes almost from the 
 first day after her unexpected arrival. 
 
 With the servants she soon became a general favor- 
 ite, more especially with a man servant named David, 
 and a woman named Abigail. David would hold her 
 on his knee, whenever the opportunity favored, and en- 
 gross her attention with stories about the old times, all 
 of them exceedingly improbable at best, but still well 
 calculated to filagree the fancies of such a child as she. 
 Old chimney-corner^Stories were such, smoked with the 
 fires that had bujned these many years, and savory with 
 the memories of former days and generations. 
 
 The summer passed away more rapidly to us than 
 ever, now that we had an accession to our number.
 
 130 DOVECOTE. 
 
 And the long days of autumn drew on, casting their 
 pleasant shadows over our future, and awakening afresh 
 in us the expectant delights of the season. The morn- 
 ings now began to be cooler, and the evenings grew 
 damp ; it was only during the day that it was pleasant 
 to lose one's self rambling about the homestead, wheth- 
 er in the garden and the yards, or over in the meadows 
 and the woods. 
 
 The air was invigorating, yet genial in the extreme. 
 It had not the balminess and freshness of spring, but 
 was much more tempered, and soft, and agreeable. 
 The distant hillsides began to wear their livery of blue 
 haze, and the trees to put on their gorgeous colors. 
 Such were sights that Milly in her life had never seen ; 
 and they afforded her, and the rest of us through her, 
 new delight every day. 
 
 It was now but one continued round of pleasure and 
 happiness. Milly was adopted into our new home, and 
 already had made herself tenderly beloved of us all.
 
 CHAPTER XVIIL 
 
 ON THE UPLANDS. 
 
 " When the maple boughs are crimson, 
 
 And the hickory shines like gold, 
 And the noons are sultry hot, 
 And the nights are frosty cold ; 
 
 THAT was the time, of all others, when we loved to 
 tliread the woods and roam the uplands the autumn 
 time ; the season dear to our hearts, fullest of bright 
 fancies, and most crowded with beautiful pictures. 
 
 It all comes back to me, now, with its rich memories. 
 They are broken, like the bits of a shattered mirror, but 
 each fragment holds a picture. 
 
 There are the cattle paths, leading back across the 
 pastures from the shed until their brown tracks lose 
 themselves in the woods that come down from the hills 
 to receive them. There are the lichen-spotted walls, 
 running their lines of boundary across the fields, in 
 whose angles crowd armies of nettle weeds, and from 
 whose rolling stones dangle briery vines, now turned a 
 ruddy red. 
 
 There stand the trees on the sides of the hills, among 
 whose boughs are flashing the colors of the autumn, 
 and within whose shade are nestling spots of the yel- 
 lowest and most golden sunshine. The rocks, moss- 
 mantled, the narrow passes and miniature gorges 
 through which we climbed upward, the bubbling 
 springs by the way, gushing out their crystal at our 
 
 (131)
 
 132 DOVECOTE. 
 
 feet and spreading off over the lowlands, all these 
 come back again. 
 
 The crows are flying and wheeling overhead, sending 
 their croaking " caws " dismally through the solitudes. 
 Sometimes they light on the crests of the tallest chest- 
 nuts, where they look, as I catch sight of them across 
 the field of gold, like dastardly pirates, painted all over 
 black, that are cruising about overhead for some ex- 
 posed craft weaker than themselves. They foretell 
 winter; and I hear .the chill winds in their dismal 
 " caws." 
 
 Flocks of plump redbreasts flutter away over the 
 ledges, where the purple and dark chokeberries dangle 
 in necklaces from their stems, and the rank sedges 
 wave from gaping gashes in the rocks. I can hear the 
 silken rustle of their wings, as they go by ; but not a 
 note of joy have they for the season that is coming. 
 Perchance I shall make the acquaintance of some of 
 this same flock before the snows shall have melted and 
 sunk into the pasture lands again. 
 
 The sky is clear and dreamy. It is not patches of 
 blue, it is all blue deep, distant, and Boundless. 
 Strange feelings crowd to the heart, and great thoughts 
 throng the brain, as one looks up into the silent ex- 
 panse feelings that must gush o Lit in a torrent if they 
 come at all, and thoughts that will never run " tripping- 
 ly on the tongue " in expression. 
 
 As we crumple the few dried leaves beneath our 
 feet, now helping Nelly, and now little Alice, over the 
 rough surfaces, shouting encouragement to others some 
 of the time, and some of the time feeling it all we can 
 do to encourage ourselves, the gray woods ring with 
 the glad voices, as if they were peopled with living 
 echoes.
 
 ON THE UPLANDS. 133 
 
 We come to grape vines that have clambered to the 
 tops of some of the tallest trees, twisting themselves 
 tightly about branch and stem ; and, looking up, behold 
 leafy festoons overhead, into which plump bunches of 
 grapes, ready to burst their swelling skins, have let 
 themselves down, half hidden in their purpling clusters 
 among the tinted leaves. It looks like a vast basket 
 work in the air, filled with pulpy fruit, and ornamented 
 most fancifully with skilfully-dyed leaves. 
 
 We see squirrels on our right hand and on our left ; 
 and if on our right hand, we say it is a sure harbinger 
 of good luck. Theu: cheeks are crammed full with 
 nuts, or with the yellow corn they have been provident 
 enough to harvest from the neighboring field in the val- 
 ley. They flourish their bushy tails on their way, like 
 a dandy making boast of the outside growth of his head. 
 Away among the boughs, down one trunk and up 
 another, across the backs of branching limbs, up among 
 the mottled masses of the leaves, now lost in a patch of 
 gold and now in a patch of crimson, frisking, chattering, 
 and jumping, they make their swift journeys to their 
 winter dens. And they tell me more feelingly of the 
 * coming season than all the rest. 
 
 Alice cries because she cannot climb among the 
 jagged stones, and wants to be helped across the beds 
 of the brooks. 
 
 We all run to her, and she is borne triumphantly over 
 all difficulties, no one knows how. 
 
 " I was afraid ! " said she, whimperingly. 
 
 And then we laugh loudly at her for her fears, and 
 trut stoutly about in a strip of sunshine, looking like 
 dashing soldiers at the trees, and trying by such means 
 to assure her that we are not afraid ! 
 
 And we all offer at once to take her by the hand, and 
 12
 
 134 DOVECOTE. 
 
 tell her that ohe shall go where the nuts are plenty, and 
 where she need not be afraid. And when we see the 
 big tears sailing about in her eyes, just ready to break 
 away from the lids and roll down her cheeks, our hearts 
 are insensibly touched with a kind sympathy for our lit- 
 tle sister, and we can hardly seem to do enough for her, 
 for the moment. 
 
 When does the world touch so tender a chord in the 
 heart as this ? How often are the sympathies so deep- 
 ly stirred, and by such trifling causes ? 
 
 But it has all the semblance of real trouble to us. It 
 is a little episode in our afternoon's ramble ; and we 
 meet with few more moving ones as we get bravely on 
 in life. 
 
 From the top of the hill we take in large views on all 
 sides of us. Yonder are cornfields, the yellow heads 
 of grain shining like ingots and bars of gold in the 
 sloping sun. Big and round pumpkins, filled to the rind 
 with rich meal, spot the fields thickly, so that they look 
 as if they were auriferous placers. But gold itself is 
 not worth more to the New England husbandman, 
 when the white-headed patriarchs and the prattling 
 younkers gather about his abundant board at the 
 Thanksgiving ! 
 
 The lawns and the meadows stretch away below us, 
 till their boundaries are lost in the blue haze that lies 
 upon them. The brooks lace them, crossing each other 
 like threads in a skein. The far-off bars and latticed 
 gates dwindle till they look like playthings, opening 
 upon fanciful squares and figures in a clean carpet, all 
 green. 
 
 Kine straggle and browse here and there, or stoop to 
 drink at the limpid rivulets ; and look up with almost 
 human eyes, while the frisking heifers push each other 
 to and fro with their silver horns, just grown.
 
 ON THE UPLANDS. 135 
 
 The sounds that come up to the height on which we 
 are grouped come softened and subdued. Even the 
 sharp barking of the dog, that has hunted the wood- 
 chuck to his hole, sounds musical. The cry of the la- 
 borers to their oxen is most welcome to the ear, as we 
 trace the slow teams dragging across the fallow fields. 
 
 We romp the afternoon away, and not until the pur- 
 ple piles with the crimson and gold in the west, and the 
 sun's rays slant low across the meadows, do we troop 
 off home again. 
 
 The nuts are gathered in baskets, and every basket 
 is full. The older ones carry a double load, relieving 
 the younger, and leading them carefully among the 
 rocks and over the knolls. Alice is so tired she can 
 scarcely tottle, and we all walk slower on her account. 
 She keeps asking " if it's a great way home," and " if 
 it's much farther home," and " if we shall see mother 
 again soon." And we keep assuring her the best way 
 we can, telling her how delighted mother will be to see 
 how many nuts she has gathered, and what a time she 
 will have spreading them over the garret floor. And 
 between talking and shouting, and silence and patient 
 plodding, the chimneys of the old home come into view 
 among the trees at last 
 
 Are there any pleasures in after life like these simple 
 pleasures ? Are there any affections so warm and so 
 single ? Are there any feelings so free from taint and 
 alloy ? 
 
 Does any one ever find along the highways of the 
 world one of the pure, healthful, happy hours that were 
 strung so thickly along the thread of his youth ? Can 
 a single gush of such sweet sympathy well up from the 
 heart again as bubbled up on these soft and halcyon 
 days of childhood? Does ever a soft, low whisper
 
 136 DOVECOTE. 
 
 breathe into the ear that can marshal such feelings at 
 its bidding as the low tone of this little, timid sister ? 
 
 The touching lines of Hood steal across my memory 
 as I recall these woodland excursions and the strange 
 feelings they begot : 
 
 " I remember, I remember, 
 
 The fir trees dark and high , 
 I used to think their slender tops 
 
 Were close against the sky. 
 It was a childish ignorance ; 
 
 But now 'tis little joy 
 To know I'm farther off from heaven 
 
 Than when I was a boy." 
 
 There was a new life for us on the uplands in the 
 autumn. We were lifted above the atmosphere we 
 had lived in, and seemed to feel braced by the change. 
 The spirits danced to livelier tunes, and the blood tin- 
 gled pleasantly in the veins. The nuts fell about our 
 heads like a storm of hail, while we screamed in de- 
 light. The squirrels ran busily on all sides. There 
 was a silvery gloss to the scraggy moss that clung to 
 the trees and the rocks, as the sun glinted among its 
 scattered patches. 
 
 And the sun itself was so genial ! and made us all 
 take to the woods with such eagerness ! and lit up the 
 stained arches beneath which we walked with such a 
 bewildering beauty ! 
 
 I doubt not there are many, many more attractive 
 places to a man in after life than a versicolored wood ; 
 but I question if he will come away from any so filled 
 with rich fancies and genial feelings. The spirit of the 
 place is upon him here ; and no genius loci is so loath to 
 part company with you. 
 
 In the woods, and across the sloping and swelling
 
 ON THE UPLANDS. 137 
 
 uplands, you have a vast picture gallery about you. 
 There are landscapes that the pencil of Claude could 
 not copy. There are blent tints in the sky to which 
 Raphael was never equal. Fancies hang in thick clus- 
 ters among the banner-fringed boughs, and dreams sail 
 softly and insensibly to the brain through the leafy- 
 roofed aisles. 
 
 The sun's rays lodge in the branches, piercing the 
 masses of foliage with their golden arrows. Soothing 
 airs draw about the temples, lulling you as to slumber. 
 Quiet thoughts brood every where thoughts that are 
 themselves full of the deep influences of the place and 
 the time. 
 
 A fall day on the uplands is a day all .of pleasure. 
 It was ever so to me, and not less even at this time 
 than in the golden cycles of my childhood. Its sooth- 
 ing winds sweep pleasantly through every chamber of 
 my heart. Its generous and genial suns warm gently 
 every impulse of my brain. 
 
 The trees ; the fruit-clotted vines, holding their tro- 
 phies proudly and high in the sunshine as they climb 
 the natural trellises of the branches ; the dim and dis- 
 tant meadows, seeming to melt in the halo that mantles 
 them ; the fields, red with the buckwheat stubble, or 
 golden with the slim-eared maize and the ponderous 
 pumpkins, all these visions swim again in my*brain. 
 Very dear to me are they all. Very rich are they in 
 their memories. 
 
 Alas ! but they can never live again save in memory ! 
 Alas for the days that are gone ! 
 12*
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE OLD GABRET. 
 
 THERE are FANCIES in a garret ? 
 
 And why not, pray, in a garret ? and even in an old 
 country garret, too ? 
 
 Though the sun doth not flood the gloomy crannies 
 and angles, and though dangling and ragged webs from 
 spiders' looms swing from one dark beam to another, 
 yet may there be no pleasant fancies brooding there 
 fancies themselves golden with sunshine, and fringed 
 with a fine web of beauty ? 
 
 No ; it is not in smooth-shaven meadows alone, nor 
 beneath broad-reaching trees, nor beside brawling brooks, 
 that one's better feelings will let themselves out in a 
 genial flow ; it is not in the woods only that our inner 
 nature will take airy wings, and revel in speculations 
 and reveries far more real, after all, than the very real- 
 ities about us; but it is here it is there every 
 where it is even beneath the wormeaten rafters of a 
 dim, dusty, lumber-laden garret ! f 
 
 I have got a little apartment in a corner of one of 
 these thought-prompting garrets none at all too spa- 
 cious, to be sure, lighted by but a single window, and 
 walled in on all sides by the weird influences that 
 haunt the place. To this cosy retreat I am accustomed 
 to betake myself when I would indulge in that soothing 
 siesta of the senses a revery. 
 
 Here are no interruptions; nothing to throw its 
 
 (138)
 
 THE OLD GARRET. 139 
 
 shadow between conception and enjoyment. Of a 
 warm summer day I open the door, and suffer the cool 
 wind to draw through the room from the window. 
 Sometimes, on entering, it catches hold rudely by the 
 comers of my manuscript leaves, whirls them uncere- 
 moniously to the floor, performs a pirouette, and then 
 whisks gayly out at the door. There it dances away at 
 its own elfish pleasure in the spacious garret, piping for 
 itself low music, and kicking up with its airy feet the 
 dust of venerable years. 
 
 When the sunlight blazes upon the crisped shingles 
 it seems to me that it is night, and that I behold innu- 
 merable stars where the light streams through the hun- 
 dred holes in the roof. The effect is singular enough. 
 And I go groping about in the darkness and the dust, 
 crouching beneath huge beams, crawling carefully into 
 dim archways and quaint angles, ransacking the lum- 
 ber of years' accumulation, and raising clouds of dust, 
 which the slender lines of sunlight through the roof 
 fashion into shining threads of gold. 
 
 All the influences here at times are sombre ; yet they 
 are not so sad as to depress me. T have a strange feel- 
 ing of being momentarily out of the world. I do not 
 feel lost only isolated. Neither have I a thought 
 of being utterly lonely ; for olden associations come 
 thronging strangely to my heart, so that I may readily 
 imagine myself surrounded with beings of life and 
 thought. 
 
 As I wander and grope about in this spacious garret, 
 I lose myself in the varied play of my feelings. My 
 eyes fall on old bits of trumpery that were vastly 
 counted on fifty years ago. Here are children's play- 
 things, worn, faded, and broken the bawbles and 
 hobby horses that absorbed minds now impressing
 
 140 DOVECOTE. 
 
 themselves upon the world. Here still clasping an 
 oaken beam are the ends of the rope by which chil- 
 dren swung themselves full a half century ago ; and 
 the whole dusky beam seems circled round and round 
 with rings of childish laughter. Here are dark corners, 
 and cosy angles, and curious spaces, where each erect- 
 ed spacious playhouses, that might, in mimicry, have 
 rivalled the establishments of the jealous Montagues 
 and Capulets. 
 
 And I pick out from the rubbish, or take down from 
 the edges of beams and rafters, remnants of ancient 
 china sets, with their quaint devices shattered into oth- 
 er and odder ones all of them faithful souvenirs of 
 .the days and the habits of our godly grandmothers. 
 And hidden away in the dusty lumber are a few old 
 and badly-bedimmed portraits, coarsely enough done, 
 but once, probably, objects of secret pride and gratifica- 
 tion to their owners. 
 
 And thus, standing in the midst of this museum of 
 time, I perceptibly feel the influence of the deep silence 
 and the dim light ; and I say to my beating heart, Why 
 should not a garret be the place, of all others, fullest of 
 living fancies ? 
 
 De Maistre wrote a volume that was filled with only 
 the records of a journey about his chamber ; in good 
 hands, quite as much might be done for an old garret 
 
 This garret I am now in carries me back again to the 
 old one. There were two broad and large windows at 
 either end, through which came all the light by which 
 we played. There were stout swings depending from 
 the heavy crossbeams, where we each of us took our 
 turn at swinging ; and it was always a matter of am- 
 bition with us to be able to touch the roof itself, in our 
 flights, with the tips of our feet,
 
 THE OLD GARRET- 141 
 
 The girls ever seeking some more quiet mode of 
 enjoyment made wonderful little playhouses in the 
 corners, partitioning off their separate domains by the 
 massive oaken joists that ribbed the whole structure of 
 Dovecote. They set tables, and made ceremonious 
 visits, and " passed the afternoon," and went through 
 with all the formulas of mature tea-drinking. Even 
 then the germ of maternity was alive in their hearts. 
 No real mothers could in any wise be older than they. 
 
 Of a rainy day in summer, if we could but get leave 
 to play in the garret, we were happy. No desire was 
 stronger at such times than this. We trooped off 
 through the back passages, little Alice always behind, 
 and welcomed the privilege as we went with shouts of 
 gladness. There was one to claim one thing, as soon 
 as we reached the head of the garret stairs, and another 
 to claim another ; and we were very sure to hear the 
 voice of our aunt, or our mother, close after us, check- 
 ing the boisterousness of our childish mirth, and never 
 forgetting to warn the older ones to look carefully after 
 little Alice. 
 
 There was a large trap door, moving on hinges, that 
 we shut down after us upon the stairs, and thus a 
 larger space was left us for our romping. It was our 
 habit to make all the room we could, and to use quite 
 the whole of it afterwards. 
 
 There were old barrels, stowed full of newspapers, 
 and I know not what beside, under the eaves ; and big 
 paper parcels of my aunt's savory herbs, for healing 
 drinks ; and an old side-saddle, I remember it well, 
 upon which we took turns in imaginary rides through 
 all parts of the thereabout country ; and odd legs of 
 brass tongs, bereaved forever of their mates, the shov- 
 els ; and a few curious old-fashioned coats, that we de-
 
 142 DOVECOTE^ 
 
 lighted to slip over us, to make the younger ones laugh ; 
 and the wreck of a once busy spinning wheel, silenced 
 forever from its droning hum. 
 
 And when we ran far under the eaves, essaying to 
 bring back the strangest and the quaintest articles 
 imaginable from our forbidden forrays, I remember well 
 the queer trumpery that used to be drawn forth from its 
 lengthened slumbers. Bits of mechanism, accounted 
 truly wonderful in their day ; fragments of garments 
 that had got thus stowed away by some process un- 
 known to any body ; baskets, and boots, and books, 
 and papers, they were all to be found as individual 
 ingredients in the strange mixture. 
 
 How we loved to listen to the sound of the rain on 
 the roof ! Even for hearts as untutored as ours it had 
 a magnetism in its influence. How we stopped in the 
 midst of our sports, when it came in stronger gusts upon 
 the shingles, and fell dripping back into the eaves and 
 gutters ! What an indescribable feeling had we of 
 being hemmed in the closer from the world, so that our 
 young hearts grew suddenly warmer and larger towards 
 each other in their sympathies ! 
 
 Some sat at the dusty and cobwebbed windows, lost 
 in the reading of " poor Robinson Crusoe ; " or touched 
 with the tenderness of the sweet tale of Bernard St. 
 Pierre ; or wrapped in the interest that hung about the 
 Tales of a Grandfather ; or even firing their imagina- 
 tions with the glowing pictures that abound in the 
 Arabian Nights books that we had smuggled up 
 with us from time to time from below, and which we 
 kept hidden away, to be read in the mystic atmosphere 
 and by the dreamy light of the old garret. Ah, blessed 
 blessed be books and their authors ! thrice blessed, 
 when they can take deep hold of the child heart, and 
 mould it all as they will !
 
 THE OLD GARRET. 143 
 
 We talked with each other of the men and women 
 of whom we read ; wondering greatly if they could be 
 real characters, and whether they could have felt all for 
 which the good old authors made them accountable. 
 We kept swinging and kept talking. We walked away 
 into farther recesses, still painting over again the scenes 
 that had so warmed and illumined our imaginations. 
 
 Not unfrequently, too, some of us personated the 
 characters that had so engrossed us in the stories we 
 read ; and this seemed to be especially the case in the 
 matter of Robinson Crusoe. One would act out the fa- 
 mous solitary himself, walking thoughtfully on the 
 beach formed by a single oaken board ; while another 
 played the character of his man Friday, making all sorts 
 of supplicant gesticulations to him, as he feared from 
 the same fatal weapon by which his cruel captors had 
 fallen. We built grottoes, and constructed caves, and 
 kept kittens for goats, when we could get them, and 
 fairly picketed in our rude castle, as if fortifying it 
 against a regular siege. I know not what the element 
 is, in childish character, but it is certain that children 
 love to play at nothing so much as solitude. It might 
 be better for many of us, if we made somewhat of a 
 serious play of it as we get on. 
 
 What food is there for the heart in country garrets, 
 crowded to the roof with their memories, just as they 
 are stowed so thickly with the rubbish of rusty years ! 
 How softly fall the influences of the place upon the 
 thought, soothing its quick pulses, and gently holding 
 the feelings in their silken leash ! How sacred are all 
 the associations that sleep in the dust of their angles 
 and recesses, knitting together again days far apart, and 
 weaving in their subtle looms cloths on which are 
 wrought the pictures of many and many a lifetime !
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 AFTER dinner, on one of the very pleasantest of those 
 pleasant autumn days, Milly put on her little hood and 
 shawl for a stroll by herself about the garden. Un- 
 consciously she wandered along through the garden into 
 the meadow, and kept walking on, she knew not how 
 far, until she found herself stopped by a high rail fence 
 that exactly crossed her path. As she looked up to 
 measure the formidableness of its height, her eyes were 
 greeted by the sight of a girl, somewhat older and larger 
 than herself, sitting on the top rail ! She drew back in 
 astonishment. , 
 
 For at least two or three minutes the two girls deliber- 
 ately surveyed each other, neither of them offering a word. 
 
 At last the one that kept watch on the rail fence ven- 
 tured to acknowledge the presence of Milly, by asking, 
 " Who are you ? " 
 
 " My name is Milly," said the other. 
 
 " Milly ? Where did you come from ? " 
 
 " From Dovecote," answered Milly. " Over there." 
 And she pointed to the distant roofs and chimneys. 
 
 " But you don't belong there," persisted the stranger. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Not always belonged there ? " said she. " / never 
 see you there." 
 
 " No, not but a little while." 
 
 " Where did you come from ? " 
 
 (144)
 
 NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 145 
 
 Milly evaded a direct answer. 
 
 " Are you going to live there ? " persisted her in- 
 terrogator. 
 
 " Yes, I hope so," answered Milly. 
 
 " Are the folks there your relations, then ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Then how did you know 'em before you come ? 
 How did you find the way there ? " 
 
 " I didn't come alone ; I came with Miss Nancy." 
 
 " Is she a relation, then ? " 
 
 " Not as I know," said the child. 
 
 " That's odd, now ! What a queer little thing you 
 be ! Where be you going now ? " 
 
 " Any where nowhere." 
 
 " You are as cur'ous a little body as I've seen this 
 good while. I was thinking I'd go down to Dovecote 
 myself; but I guess I won't, now. Til stay here and 
 keep you, company." 
 
 " I don't want to stay here" said Milly. 
 
 " Where then ? " 
 
 " I want to walk about, to see the trees and all the 
 beautiful things round here." 
 
 " Didn't you never live in the country before ? " asked 
 the stranger. 
 
 " Not like this, I didn't," answered Milly. 
 
 " What kind of a country was it, then ? " 
 
 " Not half so pleasant as this. I never saw any thing 
 so pleasant before as it is here." 
 
 " Dovecote is a pleasant place, and every body says so. 
 I love to come down here myself; but it's only once in 
 a while. I don't come often. 'Tain't likely they want 
 to see such as me round here much." 
 
 " Why not ? " asked Milly. 
 
 " O, because," she replied. 
 13
 
 146 DOVECOTE. 
 
 " Because what ? " persisted Milly. 
 
 " O, because I ain't like the children there. I'm an 
 odd one ! " 
 
 Milly looked at her for an explanation. 
 
 " Don't you know what that means ? You look at 
 me as if you didn't." 
 
 " No," said the child. 
 
 " Well, I'll tell you. It's to be different from every 
 body else round you. It's to be alone all the time, and 
 to keep your thoughts all to yourself, and to cry by 
 yourself, and laugh by yourself. I'll tell you what it is, 
 Milly ; it's to be miserable ! I hope you never'll be an 
 odd one." 
 
 The girl had touched the little wanderer's sympa- 
 thies. She looked the pity she could not express, but 
 only feel. 
 
 " But where do you stay, if you don't come here 
 often ? " asked Milly, picking in pieces a late flower she 
 had plucked from near her feet. " Where do you 
 live ? " 
 
 " Up in the woods." 
 
 " In the woods ? " exclaimed Milly. 
 
 " Yes ; why not ? " 
 
 " What, sleep in the woods ? " 
 
 " Certain." 
 
 " And live in the woods ? " 
 
 " Certain ; didn't you never hear of such a thing as 
 that before ? " 
 
 " No," said Milly ; and it is to be questioned if, grad- 
 uate of the poorhouse that she was, she ever had heard 
 of a life that seemed to her so wild and strange. 
 
 " Then you'd like to see where I live, I know," said 
 the girl. " Would you ? " 
 
 " I don't know," said Milly.
 
 NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 147 
 
 " Why, I should think you'd know whether you'd like 
 it or not. "Why shouldn't you ? " 
 
 " I'm afraid." 
 
 "Afraid! Poh ! Why ain't I afraid, then? I've 
 lived there so long, too." 
 
 " I should think you would be," said Milly. 
 
 " Well, but I ain't ! And now, if ymt, could but see 
 the place, I know you'd like it, too. Why not ? It's 
 as pleasant as Dovecote is, in its way." 
 
 Milly stood and pondered upon it. 
 
 " Let's go up there now," offered the girl. 
 
 " Where is it ? " asked Milly, looking up into her 
 face. 
 
 " Up yonder," said she ; " up the mountain." 
 
 She pointed in the direction it would be necessary 
 for them to take. 
 
 " It's not a long walk," urged she, " and I'll come 
 back with you again. I'll bring you back to this very 
 spot." 
 
 " Who's up there ? "-asked Milly. 
 
 " Nobody lives there but my grandfather and me," 
 said the girl, " and he ain't to home now ; he's gone 
 a-fishing. He won't be back, 'tain't likely, till night. 
 Come ! " 
 
 Milly needed no more pressing, but immediately 
 started off with her newly-found companion. They 
 climbed the fence, and went rambling across the pas- 
 tures, and up over the sloping hillsides, until they were 
 finally lost from view. The girl took her on by cir- 
 cuitous paths, where her feet had never trod before, and 
 through tangled underwood, and around huge rocks 
 that seemed to have rolled from their places, and finally 
 began to climb the steep acclivity that went by the 
 name, thereabout, of " the mountain."
 
 148 DOVECOTE. 
 
 All the way they continued their desultory and child- 
 ish conversation, each of them putting the other as 
 many questions as entered her head, and offering such 
 queer opinions and speculations as swim only in the 
 brains of children. 
 
 " You've told me your name," said the stranger girl, 
 " and now I'll tell you mine. It's Daisy ; and I live 
 with my grandfather, and nobody else. We live all 
 alone up here ; and it's pretty lonesome, too, some- 
 times." 
 
 Milly told her that she thought it must be. 
 
 " Yes," said Daisy ; " but then they tell me it's lone- 
 some every where, at times. It's jest as a body hap- 
 pens to feel, you know. Now, up here I can enjoy 
 myself as much in the woods round the door as other 
 folks do in their gardens. It's all the same to me as if 
 I was right in the midst o' folks. I'm jest as happy. 
 I look up to the sky, and see jest the same clouds other 
 folks see ; and I look off, and see the very same village 
 that people li ve in ; and it looks all the pleasanter, you 
 know, for the distance. I love the woods, too, and the 
 flowers, and the rocks, and the vines, and the grass." 
 
 " But I should think you'd want your mother to live 
 with you," said Milly. 
 
 " I haven't got no mother," answered Daisy. " I wish 
 I had." 
 
 There was a thoughtful pause, during which these 
 two young hearts beat in deep sympathy together. 
 Each of them motherless ! how well worthy of pity, 
 both of them ! 
 
 " My grandfather," Daisy went on, " is all the relation 
 I've got all the friend I've got ; and he ain't with me 
 much of the time. He's off fishing or hunting gen- 
 erally. That's the way he lives, only when he's to
 
 NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 149 
 
 home, in the rainy days and the winter days, to make 
 baskets." 
 
 " What's his name ? " asked Milly. 
 
 " Every body calls him Jarvie ; Jarvie Thatch is his 
 whole name ; and I'm his only relation." 
 
 " Do you like to stay up here so much alone ? " 
 
 " I love my grandfather," said the girl. " I couldn't 
 leave him to live any where. Would you ? " 
 
 " I should want him to live somewhere else," said 
 Milly. 
 
 " Perhaps you won't say so," replied Daisy, " when 
 you come to see what a pleasant spot our hut's in. 
 Besides, he's so good to me ! he does every thing for 
 me." 
 
 " Then he ought to let you live nearer people." 
 
 " But I tell him I am happy up here. I don't want 
 to live any where else. I've got use* to this place ; 
 and I couldn't go away now, I don't think." 
 
 " Shouldn't you like to live at Dovecote ? " asked 
 Milly. 
 
 The question staggered her. She was at a loss how 
 to answer. 
 
 And in this way they talked while they walked, 
 gleaning items of intelligence from each other in the 
 very natural way of question and answer, steadily 
 climbing the ascent, and winding upwards by the devi- 
 ous paths, until they at last reached the edge of a little 
 clearing. As the spot broke on their sight, Daisy went 
 forward of her companion quickly, and, holding out 
 both hands, exclaimed, 
 
 " This is where I live ! There's the hut, yonder ! " 
 
 And with the words, they emerged upon the little 
 opening. 
 
 The place seemed to be a naturally-constructed shelf, 
 13*
 
 150 DOVECOTE. 
 
 or fragment of table land, set snugly into the side of 
 the mountain. Hemlock and spruce threw down their 
 dark shadows upon the ground, and old logs, the trunks 
 of fallen trees, lay stretched across each other, to decay 
 in the storms and sunshine. There was a fair growth 
 of coarse grass upon the plain, sufficiently thick to form 
 a carpet for the feet of the recluse inmates of the hut, 
 and dotted here and there with a clump of dwarfed 
 savin and juniper. There was not the least appearance 
 of a spirit of thrift, or any thing that resembled it All 
 was as wild as the felling of the trees and the erection 
 of a hut had left it. 
 
 The latter was somewhat of a curiosity. It was 
 built against the shoulder of a square fragment of 
 ledge, that seemed made there expressly for its con- 
 venience, with one window, and a low, wide door ex- 
 actly in the middle. The structure was almost wholly 
 composed of rude logs, dovetailed together at the two 
 front corners, and closed up at the narrow interstices 
 with streaks and patches of mud. The roof was hur- 
 riedly put together ; and where the boards came from, 
 few as they were, was altogether a mystery. It was 
 but a step from the sill to the hard ground, with nothing 
 like a doorstone beneath. A multitude of dried bushes 
 savin, and hemlock, and white oak boughs were 
 strewed about at the sides and on the top of the hut, 
 probably having done their little service towards keep- 
 ing off the biting winds of the last winter. 
 
 From the spot there was a beautiful view, indeed, as 
 Daisy had already hinted to her young companion. In 
 the distance was the pleasant little village of Kirkwood, 
 with its row of white houses, half hidden by maples, 
 and sycamores, and elms ; and its slender church spire, 
 pointing straight to heaven, as if it would say there
 
 NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 151 
 
 was but one path there ; and its village of graves, the 
 ground dotted thickly with white and brown headstones. 
 As the eye drew its vision nearer the mountain, all the 
 pleasant domain of Dovecote stretched out before it, 
 forming a complete cabinet picture by itself ; while at 
 the foot slept a sullen, gloomy -looking mass of forest, 
 the ambitious chestnuts aspiring far above the rest of 
 the dense growth, and all the mass stained and blotched, 
 at this season, with, colors that were enough to bewil- 
 der the brain. Milly did not stop long there to look on 
 this grand picture, for her companion hurried her along, 
 inviting her to enter the hut. 
 
 The door was already wide open. No need of locks 
 and bolts on a structure so frail as the hut of old Jarvie 
 Thatch; and little was there, either, that the most 
 vicious thief would have felt disposed to steal. 
 
 They went in ; and Daisy seated her friend in an old 
 chair that had been newly bottomed by her grandfather 
 with clean strips of ash. Milly looked inquisitively 
 about the apartment. It was almost as rude within as 
 without. The floor was partly of oak and partly of 
 chestnut, with gaping chinks and seams between the 
 planks, and not so much as a narrow strip of carpet to 
 cover one of them. There was a fireplace in the rude 
 stone chimney, and a large flat stone had been laid for 
 the hearth. In the corner was a bed, on which old 
 Jarvie slept. In an opposite corner, screened partly 
 from sight by the ragged drapery of an ancient bedquilt, 
 was the cot where Daisy slept. There was an old, 
 faded, red chest standing against the wall, and next it 
 a plain table of pine ; and on the table lay a large book 
 a Bible. A few chairs, made by the ingenuity of 
 Jarvie himself, completed the list of the furniture. A 
 black cat lay snuggled up before the hearth, who stared
 
 152 DOVECOTE. 
 
 at Milly when she entered, and, seeing all was right, 
 curled herself up and grew drowsy again. 
 
 A shadow fell across the door, and a man entered. 
 It was Jarvie ! Milly looked at him half in affright. 
 He wore a slouched felt hat, and carried a small string 
 of some kind of fish in his left hand. His eyes were 
 wild in their expression, and pierced Milly as if they 
 would pierce her through. He had suffered his beard 
 to grow rather long, which, with his ragged jacket and 
 pantaloons, and hardworn shoes, and slouched hat, and 
 wiry frame, made him look enough, thought Milly, to 
 frighten any one. The cat instantly roused herself on 
 hearing his step, and at once began rubbing herself 
 backwards and forwards against his leg. 
 
 He threw down his fish on a little bench near the 
 fireplace, and listened attentively to Daisy while she 
 narrated the brief history of her acquaintance with 
 Milly, and their mutual experience up the mountain. 
 He did not put the child many questions, but his eyes 
 dwelt so fixedly on her face, and with such a strange 
 glare, betraying both thoughtfulness and curiosity, 
 that she felt as if she would rather be any where else 
 than there ; and in a short time she did go, escorted 
 down the mountain again by Daisy, according to 
 promise.
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 MR. BRIMMER'S BEE. 
 
 SLOWLY the reddening suns of autumn went south- 
 ward, and the white frosts came creeping on, and the 
 leaves fell whirling here and there from the trees. The 
 days grew shorter, arid concentrated all their feeble 
 warmth into the noons. The school "let out" earlier, 
 that the children might be home seasonably ; and the 
 tea table was laid at an hour just between the short 
 twilight and the dark. 
 
 And autumn slipped away altogether. The very last 
 day was gone. December came in howling and blus- 
 tering, as if it were about to carry the town by storm. 
 But many of the old people had seen winters before ; 
 and they only piled up larger fires, and wrapped them- 
 selves in more comfortable clothing, and raised their 
 spirits correspondingly, and stood their ground. 
 
 It was a bitter winter, and people all began to ad- 
 mit it before the year turned the corner. When the 
 new year opened the roads were banked with snows, 
 and all hands turned out to "break paths" with ox 
 sleds and huge shovels. There was a universal look- 
 ing forward to the evening of that day, for it was to be 
 the occasion of a famous reunion at the house of the 
 minister. In short, there was always a " bee " at the 
 minister's every New Year's day. 
 
 The good man's name was Mr. Brimmer ; and by his 
 kindly offices every where, his faultless walk before all 
 
 (153)
 
 154 DOVECOTE. 
 
 eyes, his geniai and generous sympathies with his hum- 
 ble little flock, he had laid away for himself uncounted 
 treasures in their memory. The good people of Kirk- 
 wood rarely did any thing of this kind by halves ; and 
 if they liked their minister at all, they loved him ; if 
 they made aught of him, they idolized him. So that 
 it may be no subject of wonder, that all the men, women, 
 and children of the village steadily looked out for snow 
 days before the event now expected, and flatted their 
 noses against the window panes early on this New 
 Year's morning, to learn if the weather was, as usual, 
 to be propitious. 
 
 People never could have asked for more. It was ex- 
 actly to their minds. 
 
 There were few of the children at Dovecote that were 
 generally allowed to mingle in this festival with their 
 elders ; but on this particular occasion Miss Nancy had 
 concluded to take Milly along with her to the minister's, 
 desirous of having her see the many good people that 
 yearly flocked to his help, and of giving her sound 
 views of pleasure, and duty, and affection. Besides 
 this, it would be quite a new sight to the child, and 
 could not fail to inspirit her afresh. So, when the large 
 family party was finally made up at Dovecote, and the 
 great working horses had been hitched to the huge 
 sleigh that went by the name of the " pung," Milly 
 found herself stowed snugly away she knew not 
 where or how among cloaks, and coats, and furs, 
 braced by the raw air that found its way to her seclu- 
 sion, and gliding swiftly along to the jangling music of 
 many rows of bells. 
 
 They arrived safely at the parsonage, where the good 
 Mr. Brimmer was ready to receive them in the entry, 
 shaking hands with noticeable cordiality with the old
 
 Mil. BRIMMER'S BEE. 155 
 
 people, and welcoming the younger in a pleasant way 
 that none understood better than he. The various ar- 
 ticles of defence against the cold were piled promis 
 cuously in one family group, and all moved quietly into 
 the room of reception. Few had as yet arrived ; and 
 Mr. Brimmer sat talking with my grandparents about 
 the coldness of the present winter, compared with some 
 other winters that they knew something of. The atten- 
 tion of Milly was chiefly taken up with the questions 
 of the minister's wife, who had beguiled her to the win- 
 dow, and was showing her some of the samplers she 
 had wrought in her younger days, which must have 
 been very long ago. 
 
 Presently the sleighs began to drive up before the 
 door in good earnest. There was little else but a 
 steady jingle, jingle of bells. The ladies were helped 
 out, and ran immediately into the house, as fast as their 
 bundled condition allowed ; and the men drove their 
 horses round to the barn, and soon afterwards joined 
 those they had brought. 
 
 Mr. Brimmer was glad to see all. So was Mrs. 
 Brimmer. And it was gratifying to observe the delicate 
 attentions which the very roughest and most thought- 
 less of the men voluntarily paid my grandparents. 
 Every one had a kind word for them ; and the old peo- 
 ple appeared to be in their element. 
 
 There came the Bradshaws, in a double sleigh drawn 
 by a red horse and a white one, the white one consid- 
 erably the largest ; and then the Featherfews, the old 
 lady and five girls of them, and a ringing set of girls 
 they were, too ; and then the Gerrys ; and the Apple- 
 bys ; and plain Mr. Olney, the postmaster, with all his 
 stern ofiicial dignity, and his wife ; and Mrs. Bayberry, 
 with a raw son and a very tall daughter, whom some
 
 156 DOVECOTE. 
 
 were rude enough to liken to a tallow candle with a 
 good deal of bayberry in it ; and Miss Sparhawk, the 
 old maid, with a very sharp nose and chin and a very 
 acidulous face ; and Mrs. Weatherwax, the woman who 
 played the part of the Great Mogul in village gossip, 
 fleshy and imposing, with a face as red as a roasted ap- 
 ple ; and afterwards the village doctor, his face much 
 stained with snuff, and a young student of his, named 
 Sky pepper, who wore very tight pantaloons of blue, 
 with very long leather straps to keep them down, and 
 brushed his black hair like a steeple over his forehead, 
 and showed his great teeth to their best advantage. 
 
 It was a merry party indeed, and quite as curious as 
 it was merry. Yet, for all its seeming incongruities, 
 every one appeared to know exactly his or her own 
 place, and slipped into it with as little fuss as statues 
 are lodged in the niches prepared beforehand for them. 
 The supper was a famous one. Every thing was on 
 the table, and every body was there to help eat it. All 
 brought eatables with them, however, contributing to 
 the common stock. Some only sipped a cup of hot 
 tea ; others simply broke a piece of light cake ; some of 
 the more earnest eaters laid away comfortable internal 
 supplies of meat, of which various kinds had been fur- 
 nished cold ; brown hands broke browner biscuits, of 
 the size of saucers ; and all talked, and laughed, and 
 talked again. 
 
 After supper the company adjourned to the next 
 room, where each donated his or her yearly gift to the 
 minister, calling it off with then: names. The room was 
 full of gifts and people. One offered a good sack of 
 yellow meal, yellow as gold ; another a barrel of flour ; 
 another a pair of smoked hams ; another a round of 
 beef; and others cake, and pies, and loaves of bread,
 
 MR. BRIMMER'S BEE. 157 
 
 white and brown, and garments of various uses and 
 descriptions, and pieces of cloth that would be useful 
 in their time. And last of all, while the company were 
 still crowded in the room where these things mostly 
 were, up before the door came a huge load of wood, 
 drawn by twelve yokes of oxen, each yoke driven by a 
 young man of the town. The sled containing the 
 wood had been made expressly for this occasion, and 
 must have carried eight or ten cords. It was hailed 
 with vociferous cheers and commendations from within ; 
 and then the young men drove it round the house into 
 the yard. When they finally entered the room where 
 we were, later in the evening, it may be safely calcu- 
 lated that they received the especial praise and compli- 
 ments of every body. 
 
 Then some of them commenced playing at blind 
 man's buff, a game at which Miss Sparhawk declared 
 no one but a fool would play. 
 
 " The fools ain't all dead yet ! " said Mrs. Weather- 
 wax, bridling, yet looking only at the players. 
 
 " No ; I see they ain't ! " retorted Miss Sparhawk, 
 setting her gray, gimlet eyes fixedly upon Mrs. Weath- 
 erwax. 
 
 These two ladies were the flint and steel of the town. 
 Whenever they came in conflict, fire was pretty sure to 
 follow. 
 
 Mr. Skypepper strutted that way. 
 
 " Did you ever, Mr. Skypepper ? " said Miss Spar- 
 hawk, languishingly for her. " Did you ever see such a 
 foolish game as this ? " 
 
 "Really, I I " 
 
 "Did you ever know any one, Mr. Skypepper, that 
 found so iruich fault with games she couldn't play at 
 herself?" interrupted Mrs. Weatherwax. 
 14
 
 158 1JOVEUOTEE. 
 
 Miss Sparhawk threw her an indignant glance. " Why 
 can't I play at so silly a game as blind man's buff, I 
 should like to know?" said she. 
 
 " O," returned Mrs. Weatherwax, very dignifiedly, 
 " because you're much above it, you know. It's below 
 you, Miss Sally." She always called her " Miss Sally " 
 when she wished to be particularly provoking. " That's 
 one reason." 
 
 " Umph ! And what's the other ? " 
 
 " I rather think, Miss Sally," replied she, " you're a 
 little afraid you won't get your share of the kisses ! " 
 And Mrs. Weatherwax laughed with a great explosion. 
 
 Mr. Skypepper blushed, as what young man in like 
 circumstances would not ? Miss Sparhawk turned red 
 in the face, till her face looked decidedly like a hot 
 stove. There was certainly a good fire beneath. 
 
 "Just as if," said she, angrily, "just as if " 
 
 " Yes, just as if, Miss Sally, it wasn't just so, every 
 bit of it ! " 
 
 " I admire to see people jealous, don't you, Mr. Sky- 
 pepper ? " said Sally, looking up in his face. 
 
 Mr. Skypepper glanced at Mrs. Weatherwax to see 
 if he might venture an opinion secure of attack, and 
 then dropped his eyes to his straps. During the course 
 of this operation, the steeple on his head came tum- 
 bling down in ruins about his forehead, making quite 
 another man of him. No one would have taken him 
 for Mr. Skypepper then. 
 
 Mrs. Bayberry and her "tallow-candle" daughter 
 intruded. 
 
 " Why, Mr. Skypepper ! " exclaimed she ; " is this 
 you ? I haven't laid eyes on you this long time. Mar- 
 garet," this is Mr. Skypepper ; you remember my Marga- 
 ret, Mr. Skypepper?"
 
 MR. BRIMMER'S BEE. 159 
 
 " O, perfectly," said he, half bowing to the tall young 
 lady. 
 
 Miss Sally Sparhawk was eying the unfortunate 
 daughter from head to foot, and so back again. Her 
 attention finally settled upon her face, where she stud- 
 ied every flaw discoverable, and found faults that other 
 eyes had never found before. 
 
 Poor Mr. Skypepper ! They had him there in dur- 
 ance for a long time. Mrs. Bayberry cordially invited 
 him to her house. Mrs. Weatherwax laid her head 
 back in her chair, and, half laughing, told Miss Sally 
 that her laurel plants needed looking to ; at which Miss 
 Sally looked unmuttered thunder at her, and conde- 
 scended no reply. Between the old maid and the 
 younger one, Mr. Skypepper found himself kept won- 
 derfully busy ; and as for Mrs. Weatherwax, she looked 
 on and laughed as long as she could enjoy it as a nov- 
 elty, and then withdrew, as Mrs. Bayberry had done 
 before her. Mr. Skypepper went home with Miss 
 Sally, however, that evening; but Mrs. Weatherwax 
 always insisted, afterwards, that the young gentleman 
 accepted her escort, and not she his ! 
 * In other parts of the room, all the romping having 
 long ago been transferred to the spacious kitchen, 
 grouped the postmaster and the doctor, with one of the 
 selectmen and the storekeeper ; and two or three ladies 
 sat talking very interestedly with Milly, bringing out 
 her many charming qualities with their rapid questions, 
 and turning to Miss Nancy to apprise her of* their ex- 
 alted opinions of her little protegee. Milly, of course, 
 was delighted with the whole scene. The good minis- 
 ter took her on his knee, too,' and held her with his talk 
 for some time, most of all pleased with the candid and
 
 160 DOVECOTE. 
 
 truthful answers she made to his questions. He must 
 have paid her more attention, at first, in consideration 
 of her many misfortunes hitherto, of which the outline 
 had already been given him ; but after he found for 
 himself how sweet her whole nature was, she became 
 his favorite at once ; and both he and Mrs. Brimmer 
 insisted on Miss Nancy's bringing her over to see them 
 as often as she could, and making their visits just as 
 long as agreeable. And it came about, in time, that 
 she staid with the minister's family a great deal 
 insomuch that the rest of the children at Dovecote grew 
 often weary of her absence, and suffered her departure 
 with much protestation and wretchedness. 
 
 This bee of Mr. Brimmer's led to many a happy day 
 for the child. It added to her list of friends, and added 
 some strong and profitable ones. And Milly grew more 
 and more contented in her new life continually.
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 BILLY STOKES AND HIS FRIEND. 
 
 THE remainder of the winter wore slowly away. 
 During all this time, Milly had not seen her friend 
 Daisy, though old Jarvie came occasionally about the 
 house to dispose of his baskets and herbs. The days 
 were growing warmer and longer, and finally spring 
 itself smiled in the sky, and burst laughingly out of the 
 ground. 
 
 Billy Stokes was coming home late one evening, 
 it was getting to be just about a year since Milly's 
 going away to Byeboro', whistling his way along 
 down the narrow street where his mother lived, and 
 thinking of nobody so much as her and Milly, when 
 a ragged girl accosted him with extended hand, asking 
 him for charity. It was a new appeal for Billy to hear ; 
 and he drew up before her, looking her steadily in the 
 face. 
 
 "What!" said he, after she had got across the 
 threshold of her story, " hain't you got any home ? " 
 
 " No," said the girl. " I'm hungry, too. If you'll 
 only get me a crust any thing to keep me from 
 stealing ! " 
 
 " If a crust of bread'll do that," he answered, " then 
 a crust of bread you sh'll have, and a good deal besides. 
 Come along with me ! " 
 
 The girl walked on by his side, filling his ears with 
 the fragmentary stories of her life and experience, to 
 
 14 * (161)
 
 162 DOVECOTE. 
 
 which at the time he however gave little heed, but con- 
 ducted her straight to the door of the house where he 
 lived. 
 
 " Now all you've got to do," said he, " is to follow 
 me." 
 
 And they tramped along through the dark hall, finally 
 reaching the door of the Stokes's domicile. 
 
 " Mother, here ! " he called to Mrs. Stokes, still hold- 
 ing on by the door and pointing to the stranger. " This 
 girl says she's hungry ; and unless somebody feeds her, 
 she'll steal ! " 
 
 " Steal ?" exclaimed Mrs. Stokes. " Steal ? " 
 
 " I hope I shan't have to," answered the girl ; " but 
 which is hardest to do that, or starve ? " 
 
 " There isn't no need o' doin' either," said Mrs. 
 Stokes, setting instantly about getting together the 
 fragments of their dinner and placing them before her. 
 
 The light fell in her face : it was that same freckled 
 face. She took off' her bonnet : it was that same red 
 hair. The beggar girl was Snarly Moll ! No one who 
 had ever seen her could be at a loss to recognize her. 
 
 Mrs. Stokes told her kindly to sit up and eat what 
 she wanted, an invitation that needed no repetition. 
 
 Moll immediately drew before the table and eat like 
 one nearly famished. 
 
 " I never'll turn the poor away from my door," said 
 Mrs. Stokes, darning doggedly on the heel of one of 
 Billy's stockings. " I know myself what it is to be 
 poor ; and nobody feels that sort o' sympathy for hungry 
 and destitute folks that hungry and destitute folks does 
 themselves. Where did you come from ? " she con- 
 tinued. 
 
 Snarly Moll had now quite finished her meal. She 
 therefore turned round to her hospitable questioner, and
 
 BILLY STOKES AND HIS FRIEND. 163 
 
 prepared to make a full and satisfactory answer to the 
 interrogatory. 
 
 " From Byeboro'," answered the girl 
 
 " Byeboro' ! " exclaimed Billy. 
 
 " Byebaro' ! " added his mother, with still more em- 
 phasis. 
 
 " Have you been there ? " Moll was induced to ask. 
 
 " Certain I have," said Mrs. Stokes. 
 
 " Know any body there ? " 
 
 " Know any body there ! I guess I know the Trev- 
 elyns ! " 
 
 " Wai, but they're gone now, so they say." 
 
 " Gone ! " exclaimed Mrs. Stokes again, uplifting both 
 palms. 
 
 " Yes ; Mr. Trevelyn killed himself " 
 
 " Killed himself? "' 
 
 " And they broke all up." 
 
 " What can have become o' Milly ? " said Mrs. 
 Stokes. " O, poor Milly ! I wish you'd staid here with 
 me. You'd been a sight better off, I know. Killed 
 himself, did you say ? Mr. Trevelyn kill himself? I'd 
 never ha' believed it ! " 
 
 " He's the same man, mother, as shot himself and 
 another man at the hotel here, a good time ago," said 
 Billy. " I remember somethin' about it now. I'd for- 
 got all what his name was ; there's so many things to 
 remember nowdays. I wonder, mother, where Milly 
 is?" 
 
 " Did you know her ? " asked Snarly Moll, looking at 
 Billy. 
 
 " Know her ? I guess I did ! She lived here once, 
 and I guess I use' to know her some then ! " 
 
 " Did you ever know her ? " asked Mrs. Stokes, in a 
 very excited way.
 
 164 DOVECOTE. 
 
 " Know her ? Yes'm ; she lived with me, too ! " 
 
 " Now do tell me," said Mrs. Stokes. " And where 
 was that, pray ? Is she livin' there yet ? If she is, I'll 
 go straight off and bring her back here agin ! Where 
 was it ? " 
 
 " 'Twas in Byeboro' poorhouse," answered Moll, 
 rather sadly. Born as she was in a poorhouse, she yet 
 felt backward in acquainting people with her mis- 
 fortunes. 
 
 " In the poorhouse ! " Mrs. Stokes was obliged once 
 more to exclaim. " How came she there ? " 
 
 " Same's /come there," said the girl. " I s'pose she 
 hadn't no better home." 
 
 " Poor darlin' ! If I'd but known it ! " 
 
 "'I wish you had," said Moll, " for you would ha' seen 
 that she was taken care of. But nobody ain't sure o' 
 that now. She's gone agin." 
 
 "What is all this you're tellin' of me? Gone! 
 Where's she gone ? Do you know ? " 
 
 " No'm, I don't. I wish I did. I guess nobody don't 
 know whether she's dead or alive. She slipped off one 
 night, and never's been heard on sence ; and 'twan't a 
 great while after that 't I come out o' the poorhouse my- 
 self, the same way." 
 
 " Run away ? " asked Billy. 
 
 " Run away," answered Moll. 
 
 Mrs. Stokes sat divided between wonder and grief. 
 She began seriously to reproach herself for having suf- 
 fered Milly to go out of her hands at all. Her eyes 
 were fixed on Moll, while her thoughts were all along 
 the road by which she imagined the little vagabond 
 must have travelled to reach the city. She was tem- 
 porarily in a dream ; but it was a dream entirely of 
 wonder.
 
 BILLY STOKES AND HIS FR.IEND. 165 
 
 " I wonder where she is," said Billy, evidently trying 
 to get at the heart of the mystery. 
 
 " And so do I," added Moll. " She was a little 
 beauty, she was, and every body loved her." 
 
 " We all did," said Billy. 
 
 " Yes, so we did," added his mother. 
 
 " / did," continued Moll. " But she's gone now. I 
 hope she's got a good home somewhere. She deserved 
 one, if ever any body did." 
 
 " Don't you know where the Trevelyn folks be ? " 
 asked Mrs. Stokes. " Don't they know where she is ? " 
 
 " After they broke up, I never heerd folks say nq 
 more about 'em. They went off; but I never knew 
 where." 
 
 " It seems so strange," again exclaimed Mrs. Stokes, 
 slow to get the better of her wonder, " to see any body 
 who's seen Milly ; and seen her in the poorhouse, too ! 
 Jest to think on it ! " 
 
 They insisted that Snarly Moll should stay with them 
 that night, and after that they thought she might in 
 some way be provided for. The girl took a great liking 
 to the baby, bestowing marked attention upon her a 
 fact which neither Mrs. Stokes nor Billy were slow to 
 notice, and which might have had not a little influence 
 in determining their feelings finally towards the 
 stranger. 
 
 They found some kind of work between them for her 
 to do, after that, and did what was in their power to 
 provide her with a place that she might temporarily call 
 " home." Her story was listened to by them with 
 eagerness, while she earned all their sympathy in the 
 recital of her many misfortunes. 
 
 Her manners were quite odd in the eyes of the hum- 
 ble little family of Mrs. Stokes ; yet they soon grew
 
 166 DOVECOTE. 
 
 accustomed to them. Her singular devotion to the baby 
 seemed to supply every shortcoming. 
 
 " And to think," said the baby's mother to herself, 
 " that that very child was loved jest the same by Milly ! 
 Poor little thing ! I wonder where you can be now ? " 
 
 Before spring had far advanced, Snarly Moll came to 
 be quite an essential in the Stokes household. In her 
 way, no one could be smarter than she. She meant to 
 be what people call " smart as a steel trap ; " and some- 
 times Mrs. Stokes was obliged to give her gentle 
 checks, that she might not seem to get on faster than 
 would be for the interest of all. 
 
 Billy liked her more and more, and kept on selling 
 his newspaper wares rejoicing. 
 
 Yet Milly was the subject of serious thought through- 
 out the little circle. Not a day but they talked of her 
 among themselves with deepest sympathy and feeling.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 A SPRING MORNING. 
 
 DOWN the long lanes, leafy and green, over the 
 sloping meadows, spread anew with verdure, into the 
 swelling woods, where luxuriant sprays begin to ramble, 
 beside laughing water brooks, threading through 
 meadow, furze, and fen, there go we on this golden 
 morning of spring ! 
 
 There is a new life in every thing. Earth has taken 
 a new lease of existence. 
 
 Breaths that are with fragrance laden 
 
 Beat upon the fevered brow, 
 And the pulses leap full wildly 
 
 With the new life in them now. 
 Life is in the earth and waters ; 
 
 Life jets up in every tree ; 
 Every thing is leaping upward 
 
 In a life all fresh and free ! 
 
 The bright sun throws his arrows from a full quiver, 
 and just stops to touch pictures that never human hand 
 can copy. The brooks are brimming, and gems of 
 landscape are swimming in their smiling faces. Where 
 osiers, and sedges, and rushes grow by the water's 
 brink, green-coated frogs are sounding the deep bass or 
 twanging the discordant treble. Lilycups sit floating 
 on the breast of the lake, like stately little palaces of 
 ivory, then* bases washed by the refluent wave. In 
 little glens the grass grows of a deeper green, where 
 
 (167)
 
 168 DOVECOTE. 
 
 hidden rills ooze softly through the dark turf to the 
 river or the pond. Banks of emerald are enamelled with 
 buttercups and daisies ; and down in the moist meadows 
 yellow cowslips draw their gaudy scarfs about their 
 shoulders, and sit like coquettes admiring their own 
 charms. 
 
 Bees are driving briskly a-field, hunting the thyme 
 and the clover beds, from which they return laden with 
 golden spoils. In the sprays the birds are building and 
 twittering, making their own mortar and finishing their 
 own homes. The swallow, with his steel-blue wings, 
 cleaves the air above the pond and disappears again. 
 Where the willow and the hazel hang low over the 
 water, little round nests are growing for the callow 
 young. 
 
 Tribes of gay insects, decked in colors of purple, and 
 crimson, and gold, are skimming upon the surfaces of 
 little coves, whose smooth mirrors the glancing fish 
 break with a leap and a plash ; or go sailing, like tiny 
 argosies full freighted with treasure, over the glistening 
 grass and the brilliant beds of flowers. 
 
 In the field the oxen are plodding slowly down the 
 freshly-opened furrows, throwing back the thick turf, 
 and turning up the rich black soil to the sun. You can 
 hear the sturdy " gee " and " haw," and catch the echo 
 of the shrill whistle. 
 
 Heifers with sprouting horns butt idly near the barn- 
 yard wall, and occasionally stop to snuff the fresh spring 
 odors from the distant pastures. Hither and yon the 
 white lambs are leaping and frisking, their patient dams 
 gazing at them with apparent delight, if not downright 
 astonishment. Stately oxen, turned out for fattening, 
 gaze thoughtfully at you, lifting their frizzled fronts and 
 branching horns. The cows are lowing for their calves
 
 A SPRING MORNING. 169 
 
 in far-off places ; and the sound of their cries mixes 
 pleasantly with the thousand other sounds of this burst- 
 ing and brilliant morning of spring. 
 
 Speckled trout are leaping in the glistening brooks 
 at the venturous flies ; and little minnows are scudding 
 in shoals from one spot to another, or playing in the 
 shadows just under the edge of the old rustic bridge. 
 The big, round wheel at the mill is plunging, and dash- 
 ing, and dipping into the frothy water, making the huge 
 stones go round and round that grind the golden grain. 
 Its rumbling echoes roll steadily up through' the wood- 
 ed valley, while from the great wheel itself drip rows 
 of glistening pearls. The swift milltail runs far out into 
 the foaming river, making eddies, and cross currents, 
 and whirling dimples in the stream. 
 
 In the woods squirrels are chattering, whisking their 
 bushy tails as they frisk from tree to tree. There are 
 the old rabbit snares, and there are the quail traps, set 
 so carefully in the autumn before, beneath the tall 
 chestnuts and just at the edges of the buckwheat fields. 
 Straggling cattle are breaking down the tender limbs of 
 the birches with their brawny sides, browsing as the*y 
 go, and stopping to look at the intruder with a gaze of 
 deep seriousness. The jay is screaming in the tops of 
 the highest trees, and the partridge is just beginning his 
 muffled drum. A glassy fountain swells at your feet, 
 and, overflowing its soft bounds of turf, goes trickling 
 down through the narrow throats of the little gorges, 
 making a low melody like the ringing of silver bells. 
 
 The old elms toss high their leafy crests, showering 
 down their dingy blossoms on the roofs and over the 
 yard, as their giant arms sway protectingly in the wind. 
 There are odors, too fragrant to describe, sailing up to 
 your nostrils on the sluggish currents of the breeze from 
 15
 
 170 VOVECOTE. 
 
 many a bank of violets and many a sea of lilies. The 
 flowering lilacs at the garden gate load the air about 
 the house with their fragrance ; and children are pluck- 
 ing the blossoms in heavy bunches, and sticking them 
 in broken-nosed pitchers for flower pots. 
 
 In the house the windows are opened wide, that the 
 breath of the fresh spring morning may draw in. The 
 walls, and the oaken beams, and the ceiling have all 
 been newly whitewashed again, till the rooms smell as 
 sweet as the spring airs in the yard and the garden. 
 Asparagus boughs are stuck in with evergreen at the 
 fireplaces, and carpets have been taken up, that the 
 hard, oaken floors may be regularly washed. 
 
 The pinks line the walks in the garden, mingled in 
 with carnations, and crocuses, and narcissuses ; and 
 they blush to find themselves looking so gay in the glad 
 morning sunlight On the currant bushes hang myriad 
 clusters of green fruit yet unformed ; and bits of muslin 
 are strewn over some of the branches to bleach and dry. 
 
 The fowls are let loose ; and they wallow, as if it 
 were a delightful privilege, in the mellow mould. 
 Chickens of the last year's growth lie banked up in the 
 strips of warm sunshine under the fences and walls, 
 their long, yellow legs stretched out lazily behind them 
 in the dirt and sand. 
 
 The roses are blowing some red, some purple, and 
 some a melting of all the tints in the florist's vocabulary. 
 Tulips, like other Ganymedes, stand holding their ruddy 
 goblets to catch the rain and the dew. Honeysuckles 
 are clambering up by loose and decayed boards, 
 and winding themselves affectionately about rails, and 
 posts, and pilasters. Woodbines are thatching low 
 roofs, and hanging their glossy green leaves in dense 
 masses over brown eaves and latticed windows.
 
 A SPRING MORNING. 171 
 
 There are pale, white blossoms by the million on the 
 plum trees, and ruddy blows in like number on the 
 rough stems of the apple trees. And the bees keep up 
 their busy hum, buzzing in swarms in and out the 
 branches. And the drum of the far-off waterfall chimes 
 in strangely with the sound, lulling the senses to slum- 
 ber, and lapping the soul in a sweet Elysium. 
 
 Every syllable of the poet has a deep truth in it now, 
 as he says, 
 
 " From the hot, angry, crowding courts of doubt 
 Within the breast, it is sweet to escape, and soothe 
 The soul in looking upon natural beauty. 
 O, Earth, like man, her son, is half divine ! " 
 
 Gushing out with freshness, and beauty, and glory, 
 are all these bright spring days. Like brimming foun- 
 tains, they swim with sweet pictures. Like babbling 
 brooks, they are full of joy. It seems, indeed, a " bridal 
 of the earth and sky," then. 
 
 It is on these mornings, when the fogs, like fleecy 
 lambs, have been folded from the mountains and the 
 hillsides, that the spirit goes forth to the stirring in- 
 fluences of the hour. The heart is freshened with the 
 morning dew. The soul revels in the round of charm- 
 ing scenes and sounds. 
 
 Standing on the hills, the spirits grow elevated at 
 contemplating the many sights that crowd to the eye. 
 There is a quick bound to the pulses, and a brisker 
 beating of the heart. The feelings glow, and the 
 thoughts quicken, and the fancies fire at the sight of 
 the living and breathing landscape. The meadow 
 brook, hurrying from its mountain hiding-place, and 
 winding down in a silver flood through the deep 
 field of emerald, the long lines of fruit trees, set out
 
 172 DOVECOTE. 
 
 in regular rows, and every row liveried in the bright 
 colors of the season, the white and brown cottages, 
 squatted in the scooped hollows, and intrenched behind 
 stockades of flowering bushes and fruit-bearing boughs, 
 
 the acres of green meadow, the vast reaches of 
 rolling upland, the dense masses of darkened wood, 
 
 and the checkered patches of ploughed farm land, 
 all these awake the heart to new life and to fresh 
 ecstasy. 
 
 In the alembic of the thoughts, at such a time, there 
 is produced one single thought, more elevated and more 
 spiritual than all the rest. It takes hold, for the mo- 
 ment, upon the whole being, moulding and controlling 
 it It washes away the dikes of conventional and con- 
 strained feeling, and fills the soul with nothing but its 
 own clear wave. That single thought is of GOD. 
 
 The secret influence comes upon you from the very 
 air you take into your nostrils. It flows into your heart 
 on the dancing wavelets of the waterbrooks. It sails 
 into your soul with the bright tints that make such pic- 
 tures in your eyes. You drink it in unconsciously with 
 the dews that freshen the fragrance of the lilacs, and 
 the roses, and the apple blossoms. It surrounds you 
 like a blessed mantle, as the yellow sunshine wraps you 
 in its genial folds. 
 
 The spring morning is a favored time. Then are all 
 God's created things to us most in seeming harmony. 
 Buds and birds, bees and brooks, they have but a com- 
 mon bliss ; and the tie that thus holds them is golden. 
 I see the same glory in the dew-besprent grass, and in 
 the lily from which I shake the rain, that shines in the 
 bright cloud that drifts through heaven. I find the 
 same glittering fancies, and the same gushing feelings, 
 in the deep, green hedgerows, and down the leafy lanes,
 
 A SPRING MORNING. 173 
 
 that weave themselves in the starry vestment of the 
 night, or break their bounds when the great eastern 
 gates are opened, and " jocund day stands tiptoe on the 
 misty mountain tops." In each and all there glows a 
 living charm. Pray Heaven your own heart may not 
 be dead to the influences ! 
 
 Not less than this is the memory of a spring morning 
 at Dovecote. Would that tongue or pen could seize the 
 rich colors that clothe these memories, as they rise 
 again to the heart of him who loves so well to feed 
 upon them all ! 
 
 15*
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 A DAY AT THE BROOKS. 
 
 WHERE twisting brooks, like silver threads, go bab- 
 bling and braiding through the lowland where the 
 willow buds start early in the spring, and the maples 
 don their red jackets, and the cowslips dally with the 
 laughing water where smokes go up from the ground, 
 straggling along through ravines and climbing the bared 
 hillsides where frogs begin to whir seasonably, and 
 speckled turtles to poke their slim heads out of the win- 
 ter's mud there I betake myself with the first genial 
 days of spring. Not until the heart of winter is broke, 
 and then the time has come. 
 
 Later than this in the season, however, the charms of 
 earth seem to be in blossom. There is a profuseness of 
 beauty every where. The airs blow blandly, and cool 
 the fevers of the blood. The voices come in still and 
 melodious circles to the ear. The sounds of life, rising 
 freely on every hand, crowd about the soul with influ- 
 ences never so healthful and happy. 
 
 There is a quiet pleasure in following up the brooks 
 on a spring day, different from all other pleasures. It 
 takes you through the grandest and the sweetest 
 scenery. It fills your eyes, your ears, and your heart, 
 till all are surfeited. It opens the sluices of your na- 
 ture, closed by the frigid conventionalisms of life, and 
 lets the tide of natural influences set freely in. 
 
 With a rod across your shoulder, you shall nowhere 
 
 (174)
 
 A DAY AT THE BROOKS. 175 
 
 find such simple and such sufficient delight. Threading 
 your difficult way among the close-growing bushes, 
 leaping from stone to stone through the oozing quag- 
 mires, fighting your passage against resisting brush and 
 brake, and now rising a little headland, or coming 
 unexpectedly out upon an open plain, with the living 
 brook flashing in the sun before you, your heart shall 
 be stirred from its depths with influences of which, at 
 other times and in other places, you are but too igno- 
 rant. It is well to go on these excursions, tracing the 
 brooks to their fountains. 
 
 Through the trees, now enrobing themselves anew, 
 are to be seen vistas of enchantment. In the skies 
 swim visions of fresh glory and beauty. On the land- 
 scape rests a golden halo, through which gleam bright 
 edges of pictures, that never wholly entered the eye or 
 even the imagination. 
 
 The waterbrooks, after which the heart that is truly 
 in love with nature pants, fill the eye and the soul with 
 their ceaseless little joys. They come racing down 
 from the thickets, and the jungles, and the copses, 
 of hazel, and birch, and willow, and begin their 
 laughing course to the sea. Branches that drape their 
 banks dip gently in the limpid flood, and shower down, 
 as they lift themselves, rows of dripping pearls again. 
 Watercresses that grow near their margins, leaning 
 down to drink of the strength of their streams, tremble 
 and quiver against the course of the waters, and trem- 
 ble and quiver all through the day. Little birds seek 
 out sly nooks along their borders, where they may rear 
 their fledglings within sound of the lulling waters, and 
 without the reach of malice and molestation. 
 
 There is a soothing, dreamy, beguiling music in their
 
 176 DOVECOTE. 
 
 dashing, and plashing, and rippling. It fills the heart 
 with a flood of the most liquid melodies. It washes it 
 clear of the tainting world thoughts, that do but deform 
 so fair a structure. I can sit on a little headland by the 
 brookside/and feel the change that is going on within. 
 The brook will do it all the brook and its influences. 
 Yet the heart should be properly attuned beforehand. 
 
 The leap of a frog, as he throws out his long legs 
 behind him, and plunges beneath the water to the 
 opposite bank, will start you to a new train of thought. 
 The plash of a lively troutlet, as he springs boldly from 
 the surface for his prey, will excite you to the strangest 
 emotions. The babbling of the sylvan nymph itself, 
 singing its own idle song as down through the meadow 
 it goes, will fill your ears with broken snatches of the 
 most charming melodies. 
 
 By the brookside one learns much that nowhere else 
 he can learn. Nay, much that should never have been 
 received into the heart will here be unlearned again. 
 It will thus be better for the afterlife. It will pave a 
 clear way for good intentions, and high resolves, and 
 pure thoughts. 
 
 One learns, above all else, contentment here as it 
 can hardly be learned elsewhere. There is every sur- 
 rounding influence to make the school a good one ; and 
 the precepts, too, are by no means formal or trouble- 
 some. They fall upon the heart like still summer rains 
 on fallow ground. In these dear old places, the words 
 of that charming philosopher and patient angler, Izaak 
 Walton, come to me ; and such words will never tire 
 one with repetition : 
 
 " That very hour which you were absent from me, I 
 sat down under a willow by the water side, and consid-
 
 A DAY AT THE BROOKS. 177 
 
 ered'what you had told me of the owner of that pleas- 
 ant meadow in which you left me that he has a plen- 
 tiful estate, and not a heart to think so ; that he has, at 
 this time, many lawsuits depending ; and that they both 
 damped his mirth and took up so much of his time and 
 thoughts that he himself had not leisure to take that 
 sweet comfort I, who pretended no title to them, took 
 in his fields ; for I could there sit quietly, and, looking 
 in the water, see some fishes sport themselves in the 
 silver streams, others leaping at flies of several shapes 
 and colors. Looking on the hills, I could behold them 
 spotted with woods and groves ; looking down upon the 
 meadows,- 1 could see, here a boy gathering lilies and 
 lady-smocks, and there a girl cropping culverkeys and 
 cowslips, all to make garlands suitable to this present 
 month of May. 
 
 " I say, as I sat thus joying in my own happy condi- 
 tion, and pitying this poor rich man that owned this and 
 many other pleasant groves and meadows about me, I 
 did then thankfully remember what my Savior said 
 that the meek possess the earth, or, rather, they enjoy 
 what others possess and enjoy not; for anglers and 
 meek-spirited men are free from those high, those rest- 
 less thoughts which corrode the sweets of life ; and 
 they, and they only, can say, as the poet has happily 
 expressed it, 
 
 ' Hail, blest estate of lowliness ! 
 
 Happy enjoyments of such minds 
 As, rich in self-contentedness, 
 
 Can, like the reeds in roughest "winds, 
 By yielding, make that blow but small 
 By which proud oaks and cedars fall.' " 
 
 Was ever an argument for contentment so neatly
 
 178 DOVECOTE. 
 
 and so gently put? and by an angler, a brook lover, 
 too ! 
 
 When I used to turn my weary feet homeward from 
 the hillsides at night, just as the gloaming began to set 
 into the valleys, I felt that I had spent a day as it could 
 nowhere else be spent. As I dabbled my hands in the 
 running water, I made secret promises to myself and 
 the seclusion that I would come back to the spot again 
 at no far-off time. While I strung my speckled trout, or 
 turned them over in my osier basket to count them, or 
 banded together anew the wild flowers I had gathered 
 on my way, I did not forget also to count up the pure 
 and hearty pleasures of the day, and string them along 
 in my memory, where they could readily be mine when 
 I wanted them again. 
 
 In such a mood danced what follows from my heart. 
 If it can claim no other title to existence, it at least has 
 that of being born of an honest and an earnest feeling. 
 
 You may look for me when the south wind 
 
 Is blowing on meadow and lea, 
 And the waterbrooks slip from their chains, 
 
 And laugh in their gladness and glee. 
 When the buds have burst out from the boughs, 
 
 And the birch tassels to and fro swing, 
 You may look for me then by the bridge ; 
 
 For I shall be there in the spring. 
 
 When the gadding Tines sway in the wind, 
 
 And the sprays drop their shadows below ; 
 When the shoots and the tendrils are green, 
 
 And the grass is beginning to grow ; 
 When the frog shrilly pipes at the pool ; 
 
 When the woods with the bird voices ring, 
 You may look for me then at the brooks ; 
 
 For I shall be there in the spring.
 
 A DAY AT THE BROOKS. 179 
 
 You may look for me when the fresh flowers 
 
 Are springing from upland and wood ; 
 When the cowslips the broad meadows gem 
 
 For many and many a rood. 
 When the brook willows put on their green ; 
 
 When the insects are all on the wing, 
 You may look for me then in the mead ; 
 
 For I shall be there in the spring.
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 AN aunt is apt to be a notable woman. She is either 
 very much in a household, or else veryjittle indeed. 
 With my aunt, the former happened to be the case. 
 
 I picture her now a maiden lady of the old school, 
 with liberal feelings towards us children, overflowing 
 with the milk of human kindness, full of odd sayings 
 and witty conceits that smacked of the olden time, frol- 
 icking often with the rest of us, always looking oiU for 
 our little comforts, and adopting one wee child for her 
 special pet ; what aunt was ever more than she ? 
 
 Early in the morning she struck up her light, and went 
 down to see that the fires were properly made, and the 
 preparations for breakfast were properly begun. It was 
 often quite as early as four o'clock when the flash of her 
 light danced along the passages from the chambers, and 
 I was waked at catching the sound of her shoes on the 
 uncarpeted back stairs, as she went trippingly down. 
 
 No one ever loved the out-door country life more than 
 she. She had care of all the poultry ducks, hens, 
 and turkeys ; and in the early days of spring it was her 
 special office to hunt up the stolen nests of the latter 
 in the woods, and among the ledges, and in the bud- 
 ding birches, so that the young poults might not get 
 strayed away when they came through the shell. She 
 reared young chicks, brood upon brood ; and, as the 
 days grew unusually wet and cold, in the spring, she 
 
 (180)
 
 MY AUNT. 181 
 
 brought in one little callow nursling after another in her 
 apron, shivering and bitterly lamenting, and warmed 
 them carefully in baskets stuffed with cotton or wool. 
 Such pets as she made of some of them, the like was 
 hardly seen before ! It would have made one laugh a 
 long time, as it always did us, to see her plump a little 
 downy-headed chick, scarce bigger than a small lump 
 of dough, into her mouth; and we screamed, till we 
 could not control ourselves, when the frightened thing 
 gave a muffled " peep " in her mouth, like a living voice 
 from a tomb ! 
 
 On the clear June mornings she was a-field before 
 even the dews were dried from the grass, hunting for 
 the estray droves of her turkeys, that delighted to roam 
 off into the woods and over the hillsides ; and I have 
 many a time followed her far-off wanderings with my 
 eye, and wondered within myself if any pleasures could 
 be purer, and healthier, and heartier than hers. 
 
 She gathered chestnuts with us in the fall, as the 
 winds rattled them down from the high tree tops about 
 our heads, making us all spring to our work the livelier ; 
 while she kept both hands busy at her own basket, 
 and telling us that she would . get more than all of us 
 together. She picked whortleberries, too, in the old 
 pastures on the side hill that abutted on the river, and 
 her bark measures, baskets, and pails were always 
 filled first ; when she kindly came round to each of us, 
 and slyly, and without a word, slipped heaped handfuls 
 into our baskets. 
 
 She had beds of marigold, and beds of thyme, and 
 clumps of sage, and rows of red and glossy peppers 
 growing in the garden, to the proper husbanding of 
 which not a little of her time was in the autumn de- 
 voted. She kept huge paper bundles of choice herbs 
 16
 
 182 DOVECOTE. 
 
 stowed away under the eaves of the garret and the 
 storeroom, to which she was accustomed to apply for 
 soothing consolation for some one of us almost every 
 night in the winter. And the savory drinks that she 
 decocted from their leaves, they were enough, I used 
 to think, to tempt a very sybarite. 
 
 She always wore a cap, and, beside this, in the very 
 cold winter mornings, a hood, upon her head. A 
 pleasant expression sat continually on her face, so that 
 there always seemed to be sunshine in the room where 
 she was, even in the dismalest of rainy days. There 
 was a look of resignation in her features, as if she had 
 long ago made up her mind to find happiness for her- 
 self in all things just as they came along. 
 
 I know that I used to wonder if others ever were 
 blessed with such aunts. I loved her, I thought, quite 
 as much as I did my own mother ; yet it must have 
 been a somewhat different affection. She seemed to 
 me like a very dear friend, while she was likewise a 
 very dear relation. In my thought of her, and of her 
 character, there was much that properly belonged to 
 my estimate of my mother ; and much, also, that be- 
 longed to nothing so much as my estimate of herself. 
 
 She made cats' cradles with strings for the children, 
 on her fingers ; ana stocked the girls' playhouses with 
 bits of broken china that she had hauled out of unknown 
 corners ; and sang snatches of the oddest and most 
 laughable songs and ballads. We thought there must 
 be nothing in the world that she could not do. 
 
 There was a spinning wheel in an old chamber, that 
 seemed to be in an out-of-the-way place ; and to thaf 
 room she used to carry rolls of carded wool by the arm- 
 ful, and turn it off the spindle in threads of yarn, which 
 were afterward wound in balls and deposited in cedar
 
 MY AUNT. 183 
 
 trays. The drowsy hum of that old spinning wheel is 
 in my ears now. The sound began slowly and low ; 
 then it quickened itself; then it seemed to deepen 
 as it quickened ; and then it made an almost deafening 
 buzz, till every room in that part of the house was filled 
 with the monotonous roar. And, finally, it died away 
 again as it had begun, till there was nothing to be heard 
 but the dull hum of the cord that spanned the wheel, 
 drowsy and indistinct. 
 
 I remember that at times we lost our patience alto- 
 gether with the old wheel, and not often with the per- 
 son who kept up its music so perseveringly. We used 
 sometimes to wish it was out the window, or any where 
 else, in fact, where its buzz, buzz, buzz should be 
 stopped. I suppose we must have got fairly sick of it. 
 It grew absolutely tedious. 
 
 But I have no such feelings now ! 
 
 I could sit now by the hour, listening to only that dull 
 sound, and feel myself happy. Its recurring roll of 
 music would carry me back to the old days that are 
 sunk and covered up in the fog banks of time. Its very 
 monotony would be sweet melody to me. It would 
 wake all the old echoes that so long have slept in my 
 memory. It would bring before me again the old faces, 
 the old figures, the old voices. I should lose myself in 
 its droning music, and my senses would be lapped in 
 the quietest pleasure. 
 
 When company came, there was no one in the house 
 more actively employed than she in trying to make 
 them happy. She had a few words with them, gen- 
 erally some pleasant jest, and immediately ran out of 
 the room to oversee the preparations for the table, or 
 whatever came along next in order. Wherever she 
 happened to be found, with young or old, or with both,
 
 184 DOVECOTE. 
 
 she determined that enjoyment should be the first and 
 only thing thought of. Sometimes she seemed even to 
 outdo herself, in her desires to scatter happiness about 
 her. 
 
 Would to Heaven there were more of such genial 
 and sunny souls in this clouded world ! How much 
 smoother would every thing go on for the auspicious 
 change ! 
 
 Avast array of aunts maiden aunts and spinsters 
 have much to answer for. They are generally given 
 to querulousness and investigation, particularly to the 
 latter. A carriage cannot pass in the road but they 
 must wonder, and so set all the rest to wondering, who 
 is in it, and where they can be going, and what can be 
 their business. They pry their way between others, 
 and pluck out somehow their dearest secrets. They 
 deal in large stocks of inuendoes, and blast with a 
 breath what they could not stir with a storm. Every 
 body's business is their business. They pick up the 
 ragged bits, the shorn edges, the frayed threads of a 
 conversation, and, by some process patented only of 
 themselves, manage to weave it into a whole cloth. 
 
 Such an aunt was not my aunt, however. She be- 
 longed to no such class as that. We sometimes thought, 
 to be sure, that she put us quite as many questions as 
 we wanted to answer; but the feeling passed away 
 with the moment, and made nothing 'like a permanent 
 impression. 
 
 I well remember now how, of a Sunday evening, she 
 used to place her round-eyed spectacles across her 
 nose, and ponder as she perused in silence the pages 
 of her large Bible, and how she often asked me to 
 come to her side and read aloud a chapter or two to her, 
 while she shoved back in her seat, and looked with that
 
 MY AUNT. 185 
 
 same face of saintly resignation, first at the page I read, 
 and then at me. I remember, too, the plain and earnest 
 remarks she was wont to attach to the reading, in which 
 her deep and earnest feeling not unfrequently got the 
 better of her power of expression, and so each became 
 suddenly lost in the other. 
 
 Usefulness was the warp of her nature ; and this 
 was the whole secret of her constant and unvarying 
 happiness. A gleam of sunshine shone out always on 
 her good face. There was always a genial warmth in 
 her eyes, always a smile about her mouth. 
 
 There is no need that her picture should hang against 
 the wall opposite me. The picture is even now in my 
 memory ; nay, it lives in the secret place of my heart. 
 
 Next to a mother, give me an aunt. She is the one 
 to whom all the troubles of childhood may be safely 
 carried. She will counsel and condole, sympathize 
 and encourage. Like her heaped work basket, full as 
 it already is with its varieties, her heart will still find 
 room for you. It is she who will sleek down your hair 
 on your forehead of a Sunday morning with her glove, 
 and just once more adjust the little white collar that 
 needs no alteration at all. It is she who will sit next 
 you at church, and quietly slip into your hand a piece 
 of flag, or a bunch of dill, or some other harmless aro~ 
 matique; or she will kindly seat you on the spacious 
 cricket at her feet, and lay your head in her lap, 
 smoothing your child's head with her hand till the 
 tones of the good clergyman are lost in a sweet slum- 
 ber. 
 
 Blessings on the whole race of aunts ! Theirs is a 
 peculiar mission. Pray Heaven they may but fulfil it 
 all as they should ! 
 
 Heaven bring all its serenest joys to the heart of my 
 16*
 
 186 DOVECOTE. 
 
 aunt especially ! She has deserved much ; for much 
 has been given her to do, and it has been done faith- 
 fully. 
 
 Let it be long before the lustre in the eyes shall 
 grow dim, or the strength of the busy hand grow pal- 
 sied. Let the descent be slow, every step opening 
 new promises beyond. And may the heart still beat 
 whole, and the mind keep clear, till the new eyes look 
 with delight on the celestial land, with its meadows, its 
 mountains, and its skies, far transcending any that 
 wake our thoughts to happiness here !
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 THE GARDEN. 
 
 " HAPPY," said the poet Gray, " are they who can 
 create a rose, or erect a honeysuckle ! " 
 
 " I never had any other desire," wrote Cowley to his 
 friend Evelyn, "so like to covetousness as that one 
 which I have always had that I might be the master 
 at last of a small house and a large garden, and there 
 dedicate the remainder of my life only to the culture 
 of flowers and the study of nature." 
 
 I think of the calm delight of Cowley at his little 
 retirement in Chertsey, of Addison in his rustic nest 
 near Rugby, of Pope in his five-acre Elysium at Twick- 
 enham, of Shenstone, refining upon nature itself at the 
 Leasowes, and of all the great and good men that since 
 then have tasted the sweetest and quietest pleasures 
 of life in their gardens ; and my heart turns once more 
 to the memory of the old familiar garden at Dovecote. 
 
 It was not at all after art ; it was nothing but nature. 
 In those earlier times, people had not yet begun much 
 to refine upon their out-door possessions ; so that I fear 
 the most of its charms will be found nowhere but in 
 association and memory. 
 
 Yet it was a sweet little plot, stretching back from 
 the old brown lodge for nearly an acre's space, terraced 
 broadly, and substantially banked with the richest turf. 
 
 A mossy pale girded it on the side nearest the house, 
 and the remainder of the cincture consisted of stone 
 
 (187)
 
 188 DOVECOTE." 
 
 walls, firmly laid, and embossed all over with gray and 
 crisp lichens. 
 
 There were rows of peach, and apple, and plum 
 trees, standing just at the edge of the wall, their rich 
 fruits glistening in the summer's sun like the fabled 
 apples of the Hesperides. Double lines of currant 
 bushes stretched through nearly the whole garden, 
 where we were busied with picking the red bunches of 
 fruit, to be used in making light domestic wine. There 
 was a half-decayed summer house near the end of this 
 avenue of bushes, over which, on one side, an ambitious 
 grape vine was stretching its clasping tendrils, and, on 
 the other,. a vigorous rose bush was reaching with its 
 thorns, flowers, and leaves. A tame robin came to build 
 her nest there every spring, and we climbed up by the 
 benches and the lattice work to see the fledglings raise 
 their ugly heads; and open their long, yellow throats. 
 
 In one spot was a long row of beets, whose glossy 
 tops reddened in the morning sun till they seemed 
 streaked with blood. In another was a row of carrots ; 
 and then of parsnips ; and then of onions, their slender 
 tops looking like spires above the soil. 
 
 On the terrace below there was a well-preserved bed, 
 where my aunt cultivated her herbs, such as marigold, 
 and valerian, and marjoram, and mint, and where, in 
 the first warm days of spring, there was nothing but 
 taking up and setting out again. Beyond this bed, the 
 broad leaves of the squash vines lifted in the wind, dis- 
 closing the yellow blossoms or the streaked rind of the 
 unripe squashes ; and the green and prickly cucumbers 
 nestled near the ground, as if to hide themselves ; and 
 a bed of Savoy and coarser cabbages, still beyond this, 
 showed like a platoon of troops, with big, round caps 
 on their heads, stiffly performing some skilful evolution.
 
 THE GARDEN. 189 
 
 Then came another terrace below this, the rich bank 
 of turf inviting you to roll down it, and land on the 
 strip of grass at its base. 
 
 Here was a little patch of clover, where the bees 
 swarmed in the summer mornings, and over which the 
 large butterflies hovered in their gay cloaks of gold, 
 with dark, velvety borders. And here, too, stood a 
 phalanx of young apple trees, thrusting the round and 
 tender greenings through the clustering leaves. 
 
 Where the three terraces all merged at their farther 
 extrenn'ties into one common ground, there was a com- 
 pact army of bean poles, whereon clustered vines and 
 leaves without number, and from which dangled scarlet, 
 and purple, and dainty white bean flowers ; and there 
 the .airy humming birds used to poise themselves on 
 their gossamer wings, drinking dew from these bril- 
 liantly-tinted goblets with their slender bills. When 
 the long, streaked pods hung down in such thick rows 
 from the vines, we used to gather them into baskets by 
 the handful. 
 
 And then came a high, double row of pea vines, 
 making a complete network upon the birch brush, so 
 that one could easily conceal himself there ; and then a 
 large patch of early potatoes, checkering the little reach 
 of ground so that it looked like a very carpet. 
 
 Raspberries grew red upon the edges of the farther 
 wall, and tomatoes held up their pale-green offerings to 
 the ripening sun. Then came a little spot of grass in 
 the distant corner, where a pet calf, secured to a stake, 
 was suffered to wind up its rope as often as it would, 
 and invited to give first indulgence to its graminivorous 
 propensities. 
 
 Back again by the avenue formed by the currant 
 bushes, you came to the garden gate. Just at the post
 
 190 DOVECOTE. 
 
 in the corner were stationed large clumps of lilacs, 
 
 purple, and white, and red, raising their spiked 
 bunches of flowers for every one's enjoyment and ad- 
 miration; and a few stately hollyhocks stood around, 
 with the mien of sentries ; and here and there a great 
 sunflower lifted its head above all the rest, a bright, 
 golden rim encircling the field of black seed within. 
 
 And young chickens got strayed away among the 
 beds from their clucking mothers, jumping up at the 
 bugs that swarmed among the leaves, or chasing the 
 venturous flies upon the patches of grass. I sometimes 
 took the responsibility upon myself of seeing that they 
 all got safely home again after their long wanderings. 
 
 In the spring, it was my highest delight to be at 
 work in the garden, spading, and hoeing, aud weeding ; 
 though I confess I liked the last employment not a 
 whit better than boys generally do. There was then 
 such life and freshness in every thing. In the summer, 
 too, I loved to straggle in the shadow of the bushes, or 
 sit down in the rustic arbor beneath the leafy grape 
 vine, or watch the blue and purple cheeks of the plums 
 as they grew daily blacker and riper, or immure yellow 
 humble bees in the hollyhock flowers and the squash 
 blossoms. In the autumn, it was a busy harvest time 
 
 when the yellow tomatoes, and the blood-red pep- 
 pers, and the rattling bean pods, and the rich-colored 
 squashes were all coming in ; when the chickens, now 
 grown large, went searching busily about for a taste of 
 the esculents that might have fallen behind ; and the 
 snn fell slantwise through the yellow bean vines, and 
 upon the mossy walls ; and every feeling, and every 
 thought, and every association was of the pleasant 
 days about the home hearth that were yet to come. 
 
 The old garden became an invaluable teacher to me
 
 THE GARDEN. 19l 
 
 at the last. It becomes a healthful instructor to every 
 one. 
 
 He who is given to quiet and meditative labor in his 
 garden is not the one in whose thoughts was ever born 
 a crime. Horticulture has an effect, secret and silent, 
 to rein in the too impulsive feelings, and to tone the 
 heart to sentiments of gentleness and love. 
 
 Of course, there are enough whose unconditional 
 praises of mortar and brick, street and number, will 
 never end. They were made for the town, and ex- 
 tremely one-sided creations are they, too. Only when 
 in town do they live. For such people, an employment 
 like gardening can hold out not the first charm. By 
 the side of good, healthy, garden dirt, they could think 
 of nothing but soiled clothes and smutty hands. They 
 could never learn to write to their friends in town as 
 Bolingbroke wrote to Swift : " I am in my farm ; and 
 here I shoot strong and tenacious roots. I have caught 
 hold of the earth, to use a gardener's phrase ; and nei- 
 ther my friends nor my enemies will find it an easy 
 matter to transplant me again." 
 
 To a well-furnished mind and a healthy heart there 
 can be no calmer and deeper enjoyment than that 
 drawn from a good garden spot. The very hoeing of 
 the clods is but another process of turning over the 
 thoughts again. The sprouting of the seeds, their si- 
 lent but steady growth, and the tender and watchful 
 culture bestowed upon them, are but so many illustra- 
 tions of the birth, growth, and culture of the hidden 
 feelings of the heart. 
 
 In a garden is learned contentment; and repose 
 grows as a mental habit out of it. Peacefulness distils 
 gently on the heart, as dew is distilled from the sky
 
 192 DOVECOTE. 
 
 upon the flowers. Thought engenders thought; and 
 the soul finds all the pictures of heaven mirrored in its 
 own depth, unshattered by the ruthless violence of the 
 
 world. 
 
 " Henceforth I shall know 
 That Nature ne'er deserts the wise and pure ; 
 No plot so narrow, be but Nature there, - 
 No waste so vacant, but may well employ 
 Each faculty of sense, and keep the heart 
 Awake to love and beauty."
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 SUNDAY IN SUMMER. 
 
 IT always seemed the stillest day in the whole year. 
 There was a hush in the talk in which all indulged, so 
 that it seemed solemn. The house was always more 
 quiet than on the other days of the week; and the 
 spirit communicated itself in some way to the animals 
 and the fowls out of doors, nay, to the very birds that 
 sang so much more sweetly in the tree tops. 
 
 Perhaps a good part of this was only imagination, 
 after all ; yet it must be confessed it wrought on our 
 minds as it had power to do at no other time. 
 
 Those clear, calm, holy Sabbath mornings ! How 
 brightly they dawned in the sweet summer time ! What 
 a religious aspect wore Nature herself, as men ceased 
 from their work, and the fields lay spread out silently 
 in the sun! What a balm was in the air of lilacs, 
 and laburnums, and honeysuckles, and roses ! How 
 quietly the doves sat and dressed their plumage on the 
 sill of the old dovecote, as if they would not forget due 
 preparation for the day ! How pleasantly the old Tab- 
 itha looked in the sun, licking her coat smoothly till it 
 glistened and shone under her tongue ! 
 
 I remember it all but too well. Alas ! alas ! what 
 
 boy is there that does not remember very freshly, what 
 
 grown man is there that does not live it all over again, 
 
 when he takes a Sunday morning walk over the meads, 
 
 17 0>
 
 194 DOVECOTE. 
 
 and down through the valleys, and beside the flowering 
 hedgerows ? 
 
 I plucked a large branch of the lilac that blossomed 
 near the garden gate, and robbed a rose tree of the 
 flower I had religiously watched through the week. 
 This latter went into ray button hole. In the garden I 
 found all that its simple variety offered at my disposal 
 bachelors' buttons, foxglove, violets, and pinks, and 
 larkspurs. 
 
 The Sabbath prayer rises even now to my ears, com- 
 ing from the lips of a pious father gone to his reward. 
 The sun still shines in at the eastern windows, so that 
 they blaze from afar in the eyes of the traveller. There 
 is the same gentle hurrying up stairs and down stairs, 
 into the sitting room, into the parlor, some for one thing, 
 and some for another. The same sober procession a 
 family procession marches off down the avenue to 
 the road, and winds away through sunshine and shadow 
 to the village church. 
 
 As we come to a patch of woods, through which the 
 old country road is cut, we see the squirrels springing 
 from their leafy coverts, racing along on the moss- 
 spotted stone walls, and disappearing again in the deep 
 green around them, and hear the scream of the wood 
 birds in the secluded aisles of the forest as they mingle 
 then- chants for the sacred day, and stop a moment to 
 watch the purling of a little brook, or listen to its prattle 
 and babble as it goes to hide itself in the wood again. 
 
 The plot of green grass before the church is covered 
 with men, who have assembled in knots and groups to 
 chat over the rustic events of the week. The church 
 windows are raised ; and, as we file into the capacious 
 old family pew, a fresh drift of air comes pleasantly
 
 SUNDAY IN SUMMER. 195 
 
 through, turning over the leaves of the opened hymn 
 books in the windows, and rustling the faded fringe 
 that skirts the base of the pulpit. Old ladies are early 
 in their seats in the corners ; and they dispense dill and 
 caraway freely among the young children near them, 
 telling them, in a whisper, that they must be careful to 
 make no noise. 
 
 The members of the choir straggle in, one by one, 
 and the busy chorister, bustling among the heaps of 
 oblong books, talks loudly, and reaches over familiarly, 
 yet with an air of authority, to the females. The 
 strings of the violin begin to twing twang sharply, as 
 preliminary to the harmonies of the day. Ever and 
 anon the deeper viol throbs out one of its bass sounds, 
 that seem, in comparison with the other, like the surge 
 and swell of the ocean. The chorister carries his head 
 stiffly, and of necessity ; for extravagantly high shirt 
 collars, extravagantly starched, seem to annoy him quite 
 to the verge of his endurance. And all the male sing- 
 ers wear such large bows to their cravats, and have 
 their hair brushed so smartly, and affect such worldly- 
 wise looks among themselves, that they are to be 
 known among thousands as the singers in the village 
 choir. 
 
 During the sermon, which is apt to be long on these 
 weary days of summer, many a child lays his head in 
 his mother's lap, and falls soundly asleep ; and many a 
 good deacon, probably satisfied that all is going on as it 
 should, falls asleep likewise, leaning his nodding head 
 upon his hand. The sermon has a great many divisions 
 and subdivisions ; and I used to think sometimes it had 
 more "lastlys" and "finallys" than all the rest of it 
 together. 
 
 At length it draws to a close. The people rise at the
 
 196 DOVECOTE 
 
 last prayer and for the benediction. The "intermission" 
 comes next, which is passed in friendly talk about the 
 church, and in at the neighbors' dwellings, the boys 
 stealing around behind the church to tell their exploits 
 to each other, or to " swap " jackknives, and the men 
 talking of their produce and their cattle, and the great 
 good done by the recent shower. 
 
 As the congregation separate at night for another 
 week, the great doors of the church shut heavily after 
 them, and the old temple is soon quiet and deserted. 
 The hymn books lie just as they were strewn about 
 on the seats, and the singing books of the choir are in 
 confusion. Yet there they will lie without molestation 
 for the seven still days to come. 
 
 Walking slowly home again, the afternoon being yet 
 but half spent, we watch the shadows of the clouds on 
 the far-off grainfields, as the sun chases them to their 
 coverts in the woods. Every thing says " Sunday." 
 Every thing looks " Sunday." The very stillness in 
 the air breathes " Sunday." The holy spirit of the day 
 settles down upon us all, not *once depressing, but all 
 the while subduing, our spirits and our thoughts. 
 
 We pass pleasant country cottages, embowered in 
 shrubbery, and plain white houses, with not a bough or 
 a vine to keep off the fierce and gairish sun. Some of 
 the latter put in us odd thoughts of people's ideas of 
 comfort and of taste as if it cost any more to suffer a 
 pretty shade tree to grow, or a flowering rose tree to 
 cling, or a leafy vine to clamber. Before some such 
 houses, the hot sun pouring down in an unbroken flood, 
 and the lines of heat wavering and streaming from clap- 
 boards and shingles, sickly poultry wallow, and rank 
 weeds wilt and die. There are no blinds ; nothing but 
 gaudy paper curtains within, with a big figure and a
 
 SUNDAY IN SUMMER. 197 
 
 dazzling or a fiery ground. The sight impresses one 
 almost as deeply as the sight of real destitution. Ei- 
 ther makes a dismal picture of desolation. 
 
 Arrived home again, we seat ourselves about the 
 table that stands spread for us all, and, after our repast, 
 the children read aloud in the family Bible to parents 
 and grandparents, when the servants likewise are some- 
 times called in. Then comes the good old family re- 
 union ; when conversation goes on at a pleasant rate, 
 and the events of the day, more especially the sermon 
 of the minister, are commented on in a spirit of candor 
 and kindness. 
 
 And after this was a walk in the garden, where I was 
 wont to stroll down the little avenue formed by the cur- 
 rant bushes, or hide myself from sight among the bean 
 vines, or stretch out on the fresh grass beneath the fruit 
 trees, watching the insects, and listening to the birds, 
 and gazing up into the azure vault of heaven, seeming 
 never so distant, and Limitless, and deep as now. The 
 poet's beautiful Lines come to me at this time, as I think 
 of the feelings that then used to scud over my soul, 
 when a light cloud straggled across the face of the 
 sky:- 
 
 " I would I were like thee, thou little cloud, 
 Ever to live in heaven ; or, seeking earth, 
 To let my spirit down in drops of love ; 
 To sleep with night upon her dewy lap ; 
 And, the next dawn, back with the sun to heaven ; 
 And so on through eternity, sweet cloud ! 
 I cannot but think some senseless things 
 Are happy." 
 
 And when at last the night came down, calm, se- 
 rene, and holy, it always seemed night worthy to be 
 married to such a day. Far into the evening we sat at 
 17*
 
 198 DOVECOTE. 
 
 the open windows, or in the doors, talking to each other 
 in low tones, and counting the stars that were coming 
 through the blue above us, and listening to the " droning 
 flight" of the beetle. 
 
 The day went out as it came in, leaving the heart 
 full of the highest and the holiest feelings. It was 
 always a day of rest. From that point the spirits 
 bounded forward to the duties of the week, refreshed 
 and vigorous. 
 
 A Sunday in summer seems hardly Sunday to me 
 now, except in the heavenly quiet of the country.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIIL 
 
 THE OLD SCHOOL HOUSE. 
 
 BOYHOOD boyhood! What an age is it of hope 
 and enjoyment, of trial and sorrow ! How big are all 
 our little griefs, and how limitless seem the threescore 
 years of human life ! With how much of imagination 
 are all our thoughts tinted, and with what strangely- 
 blent colors are our pictures of the world all drawn ! 
 
 There comes to a man but one boyhood ; would to 
 Heaven many are ready to say our manhood were 
 but the childish age lived over again ! 
 
 It was a walk of a mile and more to the old school 
 house, and, on the summer mornings, we reached it a 
 full hour before the " master." Then what gay times 
 were sure to follow ! The door was open, and the win- 
 dows ; and through first one, and then the other, we 
 kept up the wildest sport tolerated on the hither side of 
 Chickasaw villages and hunting grounds. 
 
 The school house itself was one of the remaining cu- 
 riosities of the back age. It was of but a single story, 
 and had windows thickly set in on every side, and a 
 very spare chimney, exactly in the middle of its many- 
 sided roof. The panes were very small, scarce large 
 enough for even the whole of a child's face to flatten it- 
 self upon. The outer door was clumsy and heavy, and 
 painted blue ; and when it was fastened at all, it was 
 with a rusty padlock, as much past its proper time of 
 service as the old school house itself. 
 
 (199)
 
 A single row of desks was secured to the wall on 
 each side of the room, and benches were placed on the 
 outside. There were no such needless encumbrances 
 to these as backs, and here many and many a promis- 
 ing boy learned how to make a round-shouldered, 
 stooping man. 
 
 The long box stove, of cast iron, stood as nearly in 
 the middle of the room as may be, and when in winter 
 it was not almost at a red heat, it was sure to be dis- 
 mally black and cold. And, with such sudden varia- 
 tions of temperature, we managed, under favor of 
 Heaven, to go through our school days without Death's 
 laying his chill hand upon us. We had never heard of 
 such inventions as ventilators in those primitive times ; 
 but when the room grew so hot that almost every other 
 child's face was as red as a roasted apple, the thought- 
 ful "master" opened wide the door, and let in the bleak 
 wintry air upon us in most plentiful draughts. 
 
 In the winter noons, after our baskets and tin pails 
 had been cleared of the " dinners " brought in them, 
 some of us took to building snow forts near the school 
 house, in which one party would obstinately intrench 
 themselves, while the other played the none too gentle 
 part of besiegers ; and at such times the snowballs flew 
 thick and fast, till the air seemed full of whizzing lumps 
 of snow. How many a battered back and bruised face 
 was there at such a time ! and what a sorry-looking 
 mess the besiegers grew to be, before they succeeded 
 in carrying the white fortress by storm ! and how many 
 a play of this kind turned into serious quarrel before it 
 was over ! And then, to begin the afternoon hours, we 
 had red and wet hands, and wetter and colder feet, and 
 how feet were rubbed fiercely together for the biting 
 " chilblains ' "
 
 THE OLD SCHOOL HOUSE. 201 
 
 On the long days of summer, we had many a pleas- 
 ant romp with the rosy-faced girls before the school 
 began ; and we did not scruple at times, either, to haz- 
 ard all our old friendship with each other for the sake 
 of playing a chivalrous part before the fair one whose 
 smiles were then worth the world to us. How foolish 
 it all looks now ! and yet what has mature life any 
 different ? We do but pine, and grow jealous, and lay 
 awake nights to plot schemes, and go hungry days for 
 anxiety, and all this for dear woman. For her we 
 strive ; for her we are ambitious ; for her we labor to 
 outdo each other. She fires our hearts with passions, 
 and is as able now as in the schoolboy days to intoxi- 
 cate us with a smile, or make us go mad with her scorn. 
 What is this all but the old school time come back 
 again ? 
 
 There was no shade about the school house of any 
 description. They used to say the building had been 
 painted white once ; but it was nothing but brown now, 
 and the very dingiest brown at that, too. Yet better 
 so than a glaring, flashing white, without a blind to a 
 window, and no shade trees within a quarter of a mile. 
 
 Children have need to be thankful that such recep- 
 tacles are not open for them now. 
 
 On Saturday afternoons, some few of us met, by pre- 
 vious concert, at the school house, to pass away the 
 time till dark in " playing ball," at which we had quite 
 a variety of games. Sometimes, too, we did nothing 
 but play at "hide and whoop," tearing like mad buffaloes 
 about the old building, yelling like so many infuriate 
 Indians, and disturbing though we none of us stopped 
 to think of it then the peace of the neighborhood for 
 a quarter of a mile. 
 
 Oftentimes we strolled off into the woods not very
 
 202 DOVECOTE. 
 
 far distant, where we made roaring fires under the 
 farmers' walls, especially in the autumn days, and 
 roasted potatoes that we had filched from the big bins 
 at home, or played impromptu Indian games, holding 
 war councils, and giving ourselves up to uproarious fes- 
 tivities. Those were famous times for us in the woods, 
 and will stand out distinct on the plane of my memory 
 till the " last syllable " of time that is " recorded " for 
 me here. 
 
 Standing as it did at the corner of two roads that 
 crossed each other, the old school house, when filled 
 with life, seemed to the traveller like a hive of swarm- 
 ing bees. Such a buzzing all the time went up, one 
 would have thought the place to be Hymettus itself I 
 
 Some of the scholars studied very hard and very 
 loud, holding on by either side of their book, and 
 moving their bodies steadily forward and backward as 
 their lips let out the words. Some sat lazily leaning on 
 one palm, with their book moved a good distance from 
 them, and their eyes still farther from their book, out 
 the window. Some of the younger and roguish ones 
 watched gathering knots of flies in the sun on the floor, 
 and slyly improved their opportunity, when the teach- 
 er's back was turned, to deluge them by spitting. And 
 the very small children sat on very small benches, and 
 half the time were stretched out asleep, when they 
 were not intently studying the antics of those older 
 than themselves. 
 
 What a mixed community is a country school, sure 
 enough ! Children of all ages, dispositions, and capaci- 
 ties are temporarily garnered there, some of them to be 
 afterward picked out with the wheat of the world, and 
 others to be blown about here and there with the chaff. 
 Humanity is within that small compass condensed. It
 
 THE OLD SCHOOL HOUSE. 203 
 
 is but in pleasant miniature. The passions, the hopes, 
 the vaulting ambition, the deep and lasting affections, 
 there are none of them yet grown. They have 
 hardly thrust their head through the warm and mellow 
 heart-soil. Their characters, their influence, their des- 
 tiny, they remain to be written. The fair sheet is 
 yet without a line or a blot. 
 
 On the low, wooden benches are mapped out fields 
 of action that the deeds of a lifetime- afterwards shall 
 hardly be able to cover. By the opened windows, the 
 summer airs drawing softly in, fire is set to imagina- 
 tions that may come some day to charm the world. 
 Idle hours slip away, when young and bright eyes 
 chase wanton butterflies over the green turf, or watch 
 the birds building nests in the apple-tree boughs ; and 
 perhaps during those very hours fancies are budding 
 and bursting that shall, in the hereafter, make some 
 poor soul's life seem, after all, but a long holiday. 
 
 We cannot tell what lies in so little as a " master's " 
 frown. We know not what trifling matter it is that 
 may give a color to the child's whole afterlife. There 
 is no saying what short day in the school year may of 
 itself, with its hundred little incidents, fill up the young 
 heart with a sentiment and a purpose that will distin- 
 guish the man through all his earthly years. 
 
 Droning hum of the old school house ! it is by this 
 that we know the honey is being gathered !
 
 , CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 A PICTUKE WITHOUT A FRAME. 
 
 WHEN we came home from school, one afternoon in 
 summer, the old man was sleeping soundly in his chair. 
 It was much earlier than usual, and the sun fell across 
 the floor at his feet He was sitting just before the 
 door, where he must have been thoughtfully looking 
 out over the lawn when this deep sleep surprised him. 
 
 There he sat, his shrivelled hands folded in his lap, 
 and his snowy head partly dropped on his bosom. He 
 had such a simple and such a childlike expression 
 about his countenance that I stopped quite involuntarily 
 to regard it. 
 
 The flies were swarming in the sun, and buzzing 
 about on the upper half of the opened windows, and 
 making silent circuits about the middle of the room ; 
 and the droning music of their buzzing seemed to har- 
 monize indescribably with the time, the place, and the 
 touching scene. 
 
 It seemed like Sunday in the room, so sacred was 
 the silence. The shadows of the elm-tree leaves 
 played gently over the doorstone, as the summer winds 
 drifted lazily through the branches overhead; and I 
 fancied they might checker the old man's dreams. 
 
 Was he really dreaming? Were his thoughts as they 
 were fifty or sixty years ago ? Did his feelings go back 
 to the old days ? and were they renewing all their fresh- 
 ness and their youth again ? 
 
 (204)
 
 A PICTURE WITHOUT A FRAME. 205 
 
 Did he feel the grateful dew, glistening and reviving, 
 upon the exhausted soil of his heart once more ? Were 
 the bracing winds again drawing, with their refreshing 
 influences, over his enervated brain ? Were new fires 
 feeling their subtle and secret way along his veins, 
 until they warmed once more his weary and withered 
 heart? 
 
 I asked myself all these questions at once, while I 
 stood, with my hands crossed behind me, looking at 
 him. I tried to carry myself forward in life, till my 
 imagination reached the verge of his advanced years. 
 I thought of myself with palsied limbs, and trembling 
 hands, and white head, and dim eyes that were deeply 
 sunken when they were closed. I tried to picture to 
 my fancy my own appearance, and, above all, my own 
 feelings, when, by Heaven's bounty, I might become as 
 old as he. 
 
 It was too much. My young heart filled with strange 
 and sudden emotions. 
 
 Heaven pity the man who comes to his old age with 
 nothing but a heart barren of sentiment and a mind 
 hungering for food ! Such have need of nothing then 
 so much as pity. Like lost beings groping their way 
 about in some unpeopled solitude of a cavern, they feel 
 their path towards all the remaining happiness to which 
 their feeble instincts lead them. They seem bereft of 
 every thing friends, fortune, and sympathy. They 
 mope in the household corners, counting the idle flies 
 in the sun, or watching the crumbling of the ashes on 
 the hearth, or lamenting the days and the joys that are 
 gone forever. Their souls grovel. They are, as Sir 
 Richard Steele calls them, but " reverend vegetables." 
 They have not thoughts that can elevate them above 
 dreary memories ; instincts are all that furnish their 
 18
 
 206 DOVECOTS. 
 
 minds. They cannot draw pleasure from others' inter- 
 course, and have none at all to spare of their own. 
 Literally is it dragging out the rest of their existence ; 
 and thankful ought they to be when the end comes, 
 and they commence their lives anew. Rather is it 
 delightful to see an old man approach his end with the 
 courage a full mind and ripe heart can alone inspire, 
 
 " Sustained and soothed by an unfaltering trust, 
 Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
 About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams." 
 
 Poor old man ! thought L What would you not give 
 to be young again ! to revel in the freshness and vigor 
 of new life, with the blood flying briskly in your veins, 
 and a thousand pleasant, pictures swimming in your 
 brain ! How can you help envying me iny own youth, 
 as your fading eyes follow me about the room, through 
 the door, and across the garden or the lawn? What 
 can be your dreams ? Are they of the old time ? Are 
 they colored with the dyes of your younger feelings ? 
 Are they filling your heart with secret sorrows that you 
 can never go back, but must ever keep going forward ? 
 
 He raised his head, and opened his eyes full upon 
 me. They were filled with tears ! 
 
 And this is what long after grew out of the picture : 
 
 An old man sits in his high-backed chair 
 
 Before an open door, 
 While the sun of a summer afternoon. 
 
 Falls hot across the floor, 
 And the drowsy click of an ancient clock 
 
 Has notched the hour of four. 
 
 A breeze blows in, and a breeze blows out, 
 
 From the scented summer air ; 
 And it flutters now on his wrinkled brow, 
 
 And now it lifts his hair ; 
 And the leaden lid of his eye drops down, 
 
 As he sleeps in his high-backed chair.
 
 A PICTURE WITHOUT A FRAME. 207 
 
 The old man sleeps, and the old man dreams ; 
 
 His head drops on his breast ; 
 And his hands relax their feeble hold, 
 
 And fall to his lap in rest. 
 The old man sleeps, and in sleep he dreams. 
 
 And in dreams again is blest. 
 
 The years unroll their fearful scroll : 
 
 He is a child again ; 
 A mother's tones are in his ear, 
 
 And drift across his brain ; 
 And he chases gaudy butterflies 
 
 Far down the rolling plain. 
 
 He plucks the wild rose in the woods, 
 
 And gathers eglantine, 
 And holds the golden buttercups 
 
 Beneath his sister's chin ; 
 And he angles in the meadow brook 
 
 With a bent and naked pin. 
 
 He loiters down the grassy lane, 
 
 And by the brimming pool ; 
 And a sigh escapes his parted lips, 
 
 As he hears the bell for school ; 
 And he wishes it never were nine o'clock, 
 
 And the morning never were full. 
 
 A mother's hand rests on his head ; 
 
 Her kiss is on his brow ; 
 But a summer breeze blows in at the door, 
 
 With the toss of a leafy bough ; 
 And the boy is a white-haired man again ; 
 
 But his eyes are tear-fMed now I
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 NOTHING BUT A LOVE STORY. 
 
 Miss NANCY went with Milly over to Mr. Brimmer's, 
 at his particular request, to pass three or four days. 
 Milly enjoyed every minute of the visit. There was a 
 friend of Mr. Brimmer's there a part of the time ; and 
 he and the minister had a great many stories to tell. 
 The following was one of Mr. Brimmer's own, that 
 pleased Miss Nancy vastly. 
 
 Mr. Brimmer said that the man was no relative of 
 his, though, as the story went, he bore the same name 
 with himself. 
 
 A confirmed bachelor was Mr. Shubael Brimmer; 
 and he had a housekeeper. 
 
 So he sat in the little room that he called his office 
 study, with the sun glinting on the white branches of 
 the sycamores before the house, stroking his abundant 
 double chin with one hand, and twirling his gold-bowed 
 spectacles between the thumb and index finger of the 
 other. 
 
 It was a strange thing, this world, thought Mr. Brim- 
 mer. So full of changes ; so beset with chances ; offer- 
 ing so many modes for a man and especially a single 
 man to get out of it. Life is hardly in the flush of its 
 morning before the sun reaches hold of the meridian ; 
 and hardly is it high noon before the rays of the great 
 luminary slope mournfully to the west. And he stroked 
 
 (206)
 
 NOTHING BUT A LOVE STOET. . 209 
 
 his chin with new vigor, as the sad thoughts came over 
 him. 
 
 " What am I to do, now ? " said Mr. Brimmer to him- 
 self. " Here I am ! Here I am afraid I always shall 
 be till " 
 
 He could not bear to once think of death's taking 
 him! 
 
 " And when I am gone," pursued he, " what then ? 
 what then ? No one for me to leave behind ; no one 
 to wet the grass on my grave with her tears ; no one to 
 nurse my memory, or to live after me in this large 
 house of mine, or to sigh once in a while to sympa- 
 thizing visitors, ' Poor, dear Mr. Brimmer ! ' " 
 
 He had been thinking that afternoon of making his 
 will. 
 
 Now, for a man to sit soberly down, and look the 
 matter sternly in the face, saying to himself, without 
 any dodging or equivocation, " The chances are that I 
 can live but a few years at the most, and I may go even 
 much sooner than I think for, so every thing shall be 
 set in order," it surely is no trifling affair. Much as we 
 may profess to detest the world, there isn't one who 
 does not cling to life till the last point of his time. A 
 man at fifty, or at sixty, or even at seventy, though he 
 may have been wonderfully sobered with what he has 
 gone through, still hates to cut the last remaining strand 
 that holds him over the gulf. I should, therefore, be 
 very ready to conclude the serious contemplation of 
 making one's will an act of moral heroism, were it nof 
 that Custom that old worker in brass and bronze 
 has managed in a great measure to take the edge off 
 of responsibility, and to turn the matter into only a 
 common, every-day affair. 
 
 Mr. Shubael Brimmer was sitting before his desk 
 18*
 
 210 DOVECOTE. 
 
 while he was thinking of his will. That desk was 
 quite an old-fashioned piece of furniture, put together 
 mostly after the style of our great-grandfather's day 
 with a peaked top, that would, perhaps, be called 
 Gothic redivivus now, and a turn-down cover, that was 
 spread with green baize ; having three drawers be- 
 neath, on whose face was a trifle of carved filigree 
 work ; and standing on huge round balls, clutched 
 fiercely by claws of dragons hid away somewhere. 
 
 There were papers lying before him, spread out over 
 the green baize covering ; and a copy of the statutes, 
 bound in rich russet calf; and a huge inkstand, in whose 
 several holes were pierced many stained and blackened 
 pens. Immediately before him, too, lay a paper from 
 which he had apparently just taken his pen ; for the ink 
 was moist upon its white surface, and the pen showed 
 indubitable signs of recent service. He had tipped 
 back in his chair, and, twirling his gold-bowed specta- 
 cles in one hand, and stroking his chin with the other, 
 seemed given up altogether to the moment's revery. 
 
 The paper he had just drawn up was his will itself. 
 It specified the several articles of value of which he 
 knew himself possessed, and then carefully made dis- 
 tribution of them alL His house was set down ; his 
 stocks were down ; his landed property was there, all 
 in black and white ; the whole was there. Not a thing 
 had been forgotten. These were all carefully counted 
 up, with their values respectively annexed, much as if 
 he had been a merchant at his counter, taking an in- 
 ventory of his stock in trade. 
 
 But yet the will was not signed ! 
 
 Here he hesitated. This was the pinch with him ; 
 and a very ugly pinch was it, too. Had he disposed of 
 this ample estate to his mind ? exactly to his mind ?
 
 NOTHING BtIT A LOVE STORY. 211 
 
 But then, again, it was not yet signed! It was 
 worthless yet. It was nothing more than a sheet of 
 scrawled paper. It would take that magic mime of his, 
 written legibly underneath, and three witnesses' names 
 thrown in besides, to give it value ; and those names 
 had none of them yet been written. And while he 
 was thinking of it, he thought of every thing else too. 
 
 " A wife ? Ay, a young wife ! " What could be 
 better ? 
 
 The afternoon sun had got round so as to throw it- 
 self across the carpet on the floor. A stray gust shook 
 the few remaining leaves of the sycamores together, so 
 that their mingled shadows danced strangely on the 
 figures of the carpet. There was much in the aspect 
 of things out of doors, in the very atmosphere itself, 
 that day, to set a man so far advanced as Mr. Brimmer 
 to thinking soberly of the russet that was fast tinting 
 his years, and of the " sere and yellow leaf" that was 
 soon to follow after. 
 
 " There's my housekeeper," said he to himself. " A 
 better woman doesn't probably live. She gets me faith- 
 fully all my meals, and is good for seeing to the fires, 
 and never forgets to keep the firedogs bright, or the 
 hearth clean swept. She is a good woman, Mrs. Tim- 
 maty is ; and I really should like to be one to give her 
 away in marriage to some man quite as good as her- 
 self; for such she certainly deserves, and such she 
 certainly will get. 
 
 "But she's too old ! Pshaw ! why do I think of it ? 
 As a housekeeper, I'll wager all I'm worth she can't be 
 outdone by living woman ; but for a wife, a wife for 
 me, to take on herself the very respectable name of 
 Brimmer, Mrs. Shubael Brimmer, nonsense ! It's 
 the merest farce in the world for me to be thinking 
 of it ! "
 
 212 DOVECOTE. 
 
 He picked up the paper again, and read it over anew, 
 sinking his chin far into the depths of his ample cravat, 
 and humming or drawling aloud as he read. 
 
 " I'll do it ! I'll do it ! She can't refuse ! " said he, in 
 a sudden impulse, laying the paper down again. " She 
 can't refuse so good an offer as that ! The world will 
 applaud me for doing it, too ! The world will look at me 
 then, and look at my wife, too, and say, ' Upon my word, 
 Mr. Brimmer, but, for once in your life, you've done a 
 very handsome thing ! ' And the world, for once in its 
 life, wouldn't be at all out of the way in its judgment, 
 either ! 
 
 " She's a. poor girl ; and her mother is poor, too ; and 
 what a heap this would be to her ! and coming so un- 
 expectedly ! And how the old house would be lit up 
 with sunshine ! not such a sickly sunshine as that on 
 the carpet yonder ; but one that'll put gladness into a 
 man's face as well as his heart ! " 
 
 At a rather early period in life, Mr. Brimmer had 
 managed to get a little way ahead of the world. He 
 had a bold genius in the way of traffic, and determined 
 on giving up the retail business in baskets and mo- 
 lasses to less enterprising men, and staking all he had 
 saved in a different kind of venture. A dash of his pen 
 was enough to transport the value of his effects from 
 the village to the metropolis, and a four-horse stage 
 coach did the same for him. 
 
 He ventured. He watched eagerly and closely. He 
 dreamed of nothing, night and day, but success ; and 
 success was his. Shubael Brimmer, from being a very 
 respectable village grocer, became, in a brief time, a rich 
 man. And still nursing his advantages, his wealth 
 rolled up ; and he remained in the city to look after it 
 the sharper, until at length his old tastes drew him back
 
 NOTHING BUT* A LOVE STORY. 213 
 
 to the quiet village again, where he at once set about 
 building a large house and furnishing it with a good 
 housekeeper. 
 
 Until this very day, he had not had the courage to sit 
 down and write his will. What first led him to it, he 
 had never told any one. And while he was working 
 away at that, and thinking how little he had enjoyed 
 with his money too, after all, it was just the most 
 natural tiling conceivable for him to let a sober thought 
 slide into his mind about matrimony. 
 
 Mr. Brimmer was well, he never made known his 
 age. His cheeks were ruddy, and richly streaked in 
 places ; so that people rather liked to look at them. He 
 dressed well, kept up an excellent establishment, and 
 looked out sharply for the best cuts that were to be had 
 in the market, for which he always had to pay corre- 
 sponding prices. And he was the only man in the town 
 who carried an ivory-headed cane or straddled a pair of 
 gold bows across his nose. 
 
 As this happy thought of a wife flashed on him, he 
 jumped from his chair and stood bravely on his feet. He 
 had for some time he now confessed to himself been 
 much bewitched with the pretty face of Kitty Clair, and 
 wondered why this thought of matrimony had never se- 
 riously crossed his mind before. He had many a time 
 caught himself staring at her in church, when, but for 
 her bright eyes, the sermon must have been much too 
 somniferous for him. He had once or twice even 
 thought he should like to " see her home " from an even- 
 ing conference, were it not that people had such a 
 very unamiable way of talking about what did not con- 
 cern them at all. 
 
 But now, with that will before him, waiting only to 
 be signed that it might have a meaning, he had, some-
 
 214 DOVECOTE. 
 
 how, come to himself as he never had before. It was 
 a sober piece of business, this dying and leaving your 
 property to you hardly knew whom. Nay, it was an 
 awful thing to die, without so much as the soft hand of 
 a woman who loves you to shut your eyelids soothingly 
 down ! 
 
 He would get married ; and he would marry no one 
 but Kitty Clair. So to the little brown cottage of the 
 widow Clair he went. 
 
 It was evening the same evening ; and he knocked 
 bravely and stoutly at the door, using his own knuckles. 
 But what of that ? He was sure he was rapping his 
 own knuckles ./or something ! 
 
 The widow came to the door herself. She was by 
 no manner of means an ugly-looking woman ; and, in 
 sooth, Mr. Brimmer might have travelled a great ways 
 and found no better woman for a wife than she. 
 
 When she saw who her visitor was she courtesied, and 
 blushed deeply, and came near letting the lamp fall, 
 and exclaimed, 
 
 " Why, Mr. Brimmer ! " 
 
 But there was business in the bachelor ; and so he 
 stopped not for surprise or sentiment. He only re- 
 marked, 
 
 " Good evening, Mrs. Clair." 
 
 " Will you walk in, Mr. Brimmer ? " she asked him. 
 
 " Thank you," returned he. 
 
 And he set his foot at once across the threshold, and 
 went in. The blushing widow showed him into the 
 best room ; not a whit better than the parlor of Mr. 
 Brimmer's mansion, to be sure, but yet a charmingly 
 snug little bit of a room. He sat down on the sofa, 
 covered with a very picturesque chintz, and tried to 
 feel comfortable and composed. Ordinarily, he was a
 
 NOTHING BUT A LOVE STORY. 215 
 
 man of great equability ; but something threw him off 
 his balance now. His mind was all unhinged ; and the 
 whole thing had to be done, too, before he had had 
 time to think of such a catastrophe. 
 
 He twirled his watch seals, and ran his fingers ner- 
 vously through his sparse hair, and toyed with the 
 broad, black ribbon by which his eyeglass was suspend- 
 ed from his neck, and plunged his fists deeply into the 
 soft chintz-covered cushion on which he sat, much like 
 a woman kneading dough. But he seemed to recover 
 himself at none of these occupations. 
 
 The widow Clair sat not a great ways from him ; and 
 if she had not been quite as much disconcerted as he 
 was himself, she would certainly have noticed his em- 
 barrassment. Mr. Brimmer might be sharp at a bar- 
 gain ; but it was plain that he had but little skill in ad- 
 dressing a pretty woman. 
 
 " The winter is coming upon us very fast, Mr. Brim- 
 mer," said the widow, opportunely rising and replenish- 
 ing the fire. 
 
 " Very very, indeed ! " acquiesced the bachelor. 
 
 " I have felt the cold quite sensibly of late," con- 
 tinued she, punching the coals vigorously. " I shall 
 expect to see snow very soon now. I almost dread the 
 coming of winter, too." 
 
 " It's a very uncomfortable season, Mrs. Clair," he re- 
 plied ; and he shrugged his shoulders, and shuddered, 
 as if he were cold. 
 
 " A very uncomfortable season," repeated he, the 
 shiver breaking his sentence in twain. 
 
 " I always think of the poor at such times," said she. 
 " I always say to myself, Mr. Brimmer, ' God help 
 them ! ' " 
 
 And she spatted her hands quite daintily together, to
 
 216 DOVECOTE. 
 
 shake off the ashes that were not upon them, and re 
 sumed her seat, facing the bachelor. 
 
 He was lost a moment in thought, or, at least, he ap- 
 peared to be ; for he gazed abstractedly into the dan- 
 cing flames, and for once his hands had rest from their 
 nervous motions. 
 
 " You are enjoying excellent health now, are you 
 not ? " persisted she, determined to be as agreeable to 
 her rare visitor as she knew how. 
 
 The bachelor was thinking of Kitty as he looked in 
 the fire, and wondering if the town could furnish him, or 
 any other man, with so pretty a wife as she. So he did 
 not seem to catch her remark at all. 
 
 She was a persevering woman, and she had it over 
 again: 
 
 " You are in good health, Mr. Brimmer, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Excellent, madam ; excellent health, I assure you," 
 said he, quickly, started from his revery. " And your 
 own health is good, I believe, Mrs. Clair ? " 
 
 " It is, sir, thank you," was her reply, accompanying 
 it with a very easy sort of a bow. 
 
 And then ensued a silence again. It grew at last 
 painful. 
 
 Mr. Brimmer's thoughts were all the time upon Kitty. 
 Her he had come that evening expressly to see, and her 
 alone. He might regard her mother very highly, but 
 that was all. He thought he loved Kitty, and that was 
 much more. And Kitty it was his determination to see. 
 The question was, how to get at her. 
 
 He began hitching in his seat again. Mrs. Clair must 
 certainly have thought either that he was a very uneasy 
 sort of a body, or that her sofa was extremely hard ; it 
 hardly matters which. But not a word, with all his 
 hitching, about Kitty. He had not so much as men-
 
 NOTHING BUT A LOVE STORY. - 217 
 
 tioned her name yet. The charming widow had come 
 in between him and his purpose, and set him suddenly 
 all adrift from his reckoning. 
 
 In the other room, opposite this, sat Kitty herself. 
 Her mother had left her alone ; but she was not alone 
 now. A forbidden lover had slyly managed to steal a 
 moment of bliss in her company, having waited watch- 
 fully at the window till he was quite sure of his safety. 
 
 Bob Gray as every body called him was a rather 
 wild and prankish youth, of good heart, perhaps, yet not 
 sufficiently sedate to meet the favor of Kitty's mother. 
 The widow had never absolutely forbidden him the 
 house ; but then, when he did come, she was particular 
 to keep herself about, keeping a sharp eye on him 
 likewise. 
 
 As it happened, and as it very often happens in 
 just such cases as this, Kitty was desperately in love 
 with Robert Gray, and never for a moment troubled her 
 head or her heart about any other gallant than he. He 
 had reached her heart just as she had reached his. 
 And to tinge the affair with just romance enough to 
 throw a new color and interest around the whole sub- 
 ject, Mrs. Clair stepped in with her opposition. This 
 did but serve to kindle their zeal anew. 
 
 So there they sat together, enjoying themselves, 
 while the widow was doing her best to try to make Mr. 
 Brimmer enjoy himself too, though happily ignorant of 
 the state of affairs in the other room. Kitty looked ex- 
 ceedingly roguish, and Robert looked exceedingly 
 pleased. They surely must have been laughing be- 
 tween themselves about Mr. Brimmer's coming to see 
 Kitty's mother ; for it would seem as if no other matter 
 could have given their enjoyment such a relish. 
 
 " Is Kitty at home ? " finally broke out the embar- 
 19
 
 218 DOVECOTE. 
 
 rassed bachelor in the other room. " I mean, Mrs. 
 Glair, is Miss Kitty at home ? " 
 
 Of course the widow was greatly surprised with such 
 a question from Mr. Brimmer, as well she might be, 
 and, possibly, quite as much chagrined as surprised. 
 Few young widows on the hither side of forty, for 
 instance ever give up their chances ; and it is not fair 
 to conclude that so blooming a woman as Mrs. Clair 
 had given up hers. 
 
 So she only looked very much astonished, and stared 
 strangely all about the room, and said, " Yes." 
 
 Then another pause. 
 
 " Kitty is a very fine girl," ventured Mr. Brimmer 
 again. 
 
 Mrs. Clair did not deem it necessary to say that she 
 thought she was. 
 
 " How old has she got to be, Mrs. Clair ? " said the 
 bachelor. " I declare, she has come up so fast since I 
 lived in the village before, I shouldn't pretend to know 
 any thing of her age." 
 
 " She is about eighteen, Mr. Brimmer," returned the 
 widow, with a smile. 
 
 That smile meant, " But why am not I as young as 
 she, Mr. Brimmer? Take another look, and tell me 
 how much can be the difference between us, Mr. Brim- 
 mer ! " 
 
 " I declare," said he, " I wouldn't think time slipped 
 away so fast ! " 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Brimmer," returned she, trying a new 
 tack, " we shall find that these young people are fast 
 crowding us along. We can't wait for them, nor can 
 they wait for us," she hardly knew what she did say 
 to him, " but, Mr. Brimmer, time never practises de- 
 ceits with any of us."
 
 NOTHING BUT A LOVE STORY. 219 
 
 And as she spoke, she gave a quick glance at his 
 frosty head, and then threw her bright eyes into the 
 fire. 
 
 " I've noticed Kitty very often," said the bachelor. 
 " I've noticed her in meeting. You rarely see a prettier 
 face there than hers, Mrs. Clair ! " 
 
 He thought in this way to flatter her by praising her 
 daughter ; but the widow had just beauty enough of 
 her own and a pretty good knowledge of it, besides 
 to be a trifle jealous of his compliments to Kitty. And 
 she half pouted at what her visitor said. 
 
 " You may well be proud of your daughter," con- 
 tinued the bachelor. " I'll venture to say, Mrs. Clair, 
 that you may well be proud of her. Egad ! but I wish 
 I had such a daughter myself ! She'd be a treasure in 
 my house ! " 
 
 " As she certainly is in mine," interrupted the widow. 
 
 " But you say she is at home, Mrs. " 
 
 " She is ; yes, sir," said the mother. 
 
 " And can I see her ? " pursued he. 
 
 " Certainly. I will call her in ! " And she rose from 
 her chair to do as she offered. 
 
 " But, Mrs. Clair ! Mrs. Clair ! " caUed the bachelor, 
 " I won't trouble you ! I have only a word in only a 
 word or two to say to her ; all in confidence, Mrs. Clair, 
 all in confidence ! Can't I just step into the room 
 where she is, now ? Yes, let me go right in there, Mrs. 
 Clair ! " 
 
 He had reached the door by the time she had opened 
 it, and got through. 
 
 " I'll be with you in a moment again," added he, turn- 
 ing round very patronizingly upon her. 
 
 So she consented to take the hint, and to remain pas- 
 sively where she was.
 
 220 DOVECOTE. 
 
 " Some one's coming ! " whispered Kitty and her 
 lover, in the same breath, as the old gentleman laid his 
 hand on the latch of their door. " In there ! in that 
 closet ! " cried Kitty, rising and crowding the young 
 man into as small and dark a hole as ever could have 
 been made for a closet. " Quick ! quick ! " and it was 
 all over. Robert was to be seen nowhere. 
 
 Mr. Brimmer entered the room, and found Kitty 
 standing in the middle of the floor. 
 
 " Good evening to you, pretty Miss Kitty 1 " saluted 
 he, advancing and taking her hand. 
 
 Her face was deeply flushed with excitement, from 
 having been obliged to pack away her lover in such 
 haste. Mr. Brimmer saw it, and charged it all to her 
 modesty. It was easier for him to do so, for it flattered 
 himself. 
 
 Now, as I have already taken occasion to observe, 
 Mr. Brimmer, lover though he probably called himself, 
 was a much better man of business. He had never be- 
 fore tried to make love to a woman, and it would place 
 him in a false position to say that he knew how. He 
 carried no rules about him but those of trade ; and the 
 first and last of them was, " Never stop for ceremony ; 
 but push ahead ! " 
 
 So down he dropped before the bewildered Miss 
 Kitty upon his knees, jarring the floor till the little 
 windows shook in the casements. 
 
 The jealous as well as inquisitive widow had her ear 
 at the door ; and the hidden lover in the closet had both 
 his ear and his shoulder in a position exactly similar. 
 
 " Miss Kitty Clair," said the bachelor, rolling up his 
 eyes finely at her, and half crossing his hands over his 
 capacious chest, " I love you, Kitty ! I adore you ! I 
 must make you my wife, Kitty ! "
 
 NOTHING BUT A LOVE STORY. 221 
 
 Kitty would have started back ; but farther than the 
 wall she could not go. She would have screamed ; but 
 that she dared not do. She had the greatest respect in 
 the world for that respectable old bachelor, Mr. Brim- 
 mer, and could not for the life of her think what she 
 had done that he should be down on his knees before 
 her. She felt like crying for very fright. 
 
 " I have so long wanted to unburden my heart to 
 you ! " said he, pressing his hand hard against the re- 
 gion where that organ is supposed to be. " I have 
 loved you long, Kitty ! Indeed, Kitty but don't be 
 cruel to me now ! Be my wife, Kitty ! be my wife ! 
 You shall share the whole of my fortune ; and your 
 good mother shall be made happy, too ! I am rich, you 
 know ! I have a great deal of money ! Only say you 
 will be my wife, and all my money shall be yours ! 
 Say the word, Kitty ! Not till you say you will be my 
 wife will I get up from this place ! " 
 
 Kitty could say nothing. She wished from her heart 
 the floor would open and swallow her up, or that some 
 one would lift her suddenly out of sight through the 
 ceiling. 
 
 " I came this evening, Kitty," resumed the persistent 
 swain on his knees, " expressly to " 
 
 The closet door, too heavily borne upon by the hid- 
 den lover, suddenly gave way ! and Mr. Robert Gray 
 came pitching sprawlingly forward, exactly before the 
 face and eyes of Mr. Brimmer ! 
 
 Kitty could not help it, and set up a loud scream ; 
 and what did the doughty Mr. Brimmer do but scream 
 likewise ! 
 
 The entry door opened at this very inopportune mo- 
 ment, and in bounced the widow, her face as red as if 
 she had been broiling steaks over a v.ery warm fire. 
 19*
 
 222 DOVECOTE. 
 
 There still knelt the bachelor, his hands firmly laid 
 across his breast in his fright, as in the act of laying 
 vigorous siege to Miss Kitty's heart ! and there sprawled 
 the prohibited young lover, caught at last in the entan- 
 gling meshes he had little thought woven for him ! 
 
 And the widow, too she saw it all ! If she could 
 have felt angry at the presence of Kitty's interdicted 
 lover, she must have been no less so at seeing Mr. 
 Brimmer in his present predicament. 
 
 " What's the matter ! " exclaimed both the widow 
 and Mr. Brimmer at the same time. 
 
 But Mrs. Clair saw what the matter was in a mo- 
 ment ; and she had the ready tact to turn it all to 
 advantage, too. So she set up a loud and musical 
 laugh at the bachelor, clapping her hands. 
 
 Kitty saw how things were turning; and so she 
 laughed too. 
 
 And Robert felt unusually delighted to think he was 
 not himself at once turned out of doors, and picked 
 himself up hurriedly from the floor, and laughed like- 
 wise. 
 
 And so there was a perfect shout of laughter and 
 all about Mr. Brimmer. 
 
 " Making love to Kitty ! " exclaimed the widow ; " and 
 her lover in the room to hear you ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
 
 Robert felt willing to do any thing, short of breaking 
 his neck, at this juncture, in return for so friendly an 
 announcement from Kitty's own mother. 
 
 Mr. Brimmer picked himself up slowly, and rubbed 
 his knees, and looked wildly about him, as if he had 
 lost something. 
 
 " Is this is this " and here he stopped short. 
 
 " It's Kitty's lover ! " exclaimed the widow, laughing 
 again.
 
 NOTHING BUT A LOVE STORY. 223 
 
 And then all three laughed once more in unison. 
 
 Mr. Brimmer laughed himself. And then he thought 
 he would tell them all just how it was, and how badly 
 he wanted a wife ; and he was willing to take the 
 widow herself if she would but keep this adventure 
 of his a secret ! 
 
 So the widow Clair shortly after became Mrs. Brim- 
 mer, and moved over into the bachelor's large house ; 
 and Kitty, became in time Mrs. Gray, and continued 
 living at the brown cottage. But Mr. Brimmer insists 
 that his eyesight was poor, and that all the time he 
 meant to marry the widow, even when he was down 
 on his knees before Kitty !
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 A DOUBLE SUBPKISE. 
 
 MILLY sometimes loved to go off alone on her ram- 
 bles, as if solitude were sweet to her young heart. 
 
 She had not seen her old friend Daisy in some time. 
 But as she happened now to have strolled away again 
 by herself, she found her sitting under the shade of a 
 great oak in the edge of the meadow, engaged in join- 
 ing together the stems of the wild flowers she had 
 gathered in her lap. 
 
 Daisy started up on hearing an approaching footstep, 
 and looked all around her. 
 
 " Ah ! you've found me again ! " exclaimed she, as 
 soon as she discovered who it was. " Where've you 
 been this good while ? " 
 
 Milly told her, " Nowhere." 
 
 " That's a pleasant place ! " returned the little outlaw. 
 " I'm sure, I'd jest as lief live up on the mountain ! 
 But why don't you come over here more 1 " 
 
 " Do you come here often ? " asked Milly. 
 
 " Pretty often ; sometimes two or three times a week." 
 
 " You do ! " 
 
 " If you'd only come before, you'd seen me a good 
 many times. I've missed you." 
 
 Milly sat down beside her in the welcome shade, and 
 watched her while she resumed her pleasant labor. 
 
 " What do you do that for ? " she asked. 
 
 " O, jest for fun. Do you ever do any thing for fun ?" 
 
 (924)
 
 A DOUBLE SURPRISE. 225 
 
 She couldn't exactly say. Poor child ! little had been 
 the room for fun in a life so thick with changes as hers ! 
 
 " Do you wear them round your neck ? " continued 
 she. 
 
 " Sometimes ; I put 'em on sometimes Sundays ; and 
 then old Jarvie seems to think I look so pretty ! " 
 
 Milly thought she certainly ought to. 
 
 " Where do you find all these pretty flowers ? I 
 never see them in the meadows." 
 
 " No ; they grow in the woods. I bring 'em down 
 with me as I come along ; and then, you see, I mix 
 'em in with the medder flowers. What's that?" she 
 suddenly exclaimed, lowering her voice to an ominous 
 whisper. 
 
 "What?" asked Milly. 
 
 " Didn't you hear somebody a-steppin' ? / did." 
 
 " No," answered the other. 
 
 Just then Daisy rose to her feet, and looked round 
 behind her. 
 
 " There ! who's that ? " exclaimed she, in a sup- 
 pressed voice. 
 
 Milly looked round too. As she caught sight of the 
 advancing figure, she gave utterance to a cry, half of 
 gladness, and half of astonishment. 
 
 A man came rapidly towards her, holding out both 
 arms. He was much attenuated, and seemed extremely 
 worn with travel. His face was faintly illumined with 
 a smile, which grew brighter and broader as he came 
 nearer her. 
 
 The intruder was Adam Drowne old Adam Drowne, 
 the wanderer, late of the Byeboro' poorhouse. 
 
 Milly could hardly speak, so much overcome was she. 
 He, however, seized one of her hands with both his
 
 226 DOVECOTE. 
 
 own, and began to give utterance to his questions and 
 exclamations in the most voluble style. 
 
 " How did you get here ? Where did you come from ? 
 O, how glad I am to find you once more ! " Another 
 squeeze of her hand. " What ever separated us ? I 
 was so careless, too ! Poor Milly ! what did she think 
 of it ? Did she think I was trying to run away from 
 her ? But how fresh you are ! so much better than 
 you was over to Byeboro' ! Do you live here ? Do 
 you know any body here ? How did you find the 
 way ? Poor Milly ! you don't know how much I missed 
 you ! " 
 
 Daisy listened and looked on with profound astonish- 
 ment. It passed her comprehension to understand how 
 it was Milly ever knew such a man as that. 
 
 But old Adam broke in upon her reveries immedi- 
 ately. 
 
 "Do you live with her, too ? Are you her sister ? You 
 look something alike, though." 
 
 Daisy told him that they did not live together, and 
 that, though they might not be sisters exactly, she 
 thought she loved Milly as much already as if she were 
 her sister. 
 
 Adam asked her then where she lived. 
 
 She pointed in the direction of the mountain, and 
 said, " Up there." 
 
 " And where do you live, Milly ? " persisted he, look- 
 ing very earnestly into her innocent face. 
 
 " 'Way, 'way over back here," she answered, looking 
 over her shoulder in the direction of Dovecote. 
 
 Then he sat down near the girls, and began, in his 
 way, to tell Milly by what mischance it was he lost her 
 at the landing, and how deeply he had lamented her
 
 A DOUBLE SURPRISE. 227 
 
 loss every day since. He told her how steadily he had 
 kept wandering, from that time to this, in the hope of 
 somewhere meeting with her again ; and here, in this 
 most unexpected of spots, he had finally found her ! 
 
 They sat and talked for some time, and began at 
 length to feel better acquainted on all sides. Daisy 
 finally proposed to take Milly up to the hut again, and 
 told Adam that he might come along too, if he liked. 
 So they went up together. 
 
 It had been a long time since Milly was there ; and 
 she very naturally fell into enthusiastic encomiums of 
 the place for the benefit solely of her old friend Adam. 
 He gave good ear to all the child had to say, apparently 
 much interested in her fresh descriptions. 
 
 Adam seemed charmed with the views he got from 
 the many resting-places by the way, standing and 
 gazing in silent delight. 
 
 " Thafs where I live ! " finally exclaimed Milly, point- 
 ing off over the landscape. " Thafs Dovecote ! " 
 
 Adam looked with all his eyes. 
 
 At last he exclaimed, in a low tone, 
 
 "A pleasant place, Milly! Do you want to stay 
 there ? " 
 
 " O, always ! " answered the child. " I love my 
 friends there very much." 
 
 " It's some such place as that I was after for you," 
 said he, "when we left Byeboro'. I'm glad you've 
 found it." 
 
 For several minutes he stood regarding the spot 
 His eyes roved about the roofs and the grounds, and 
 he appeared to be measuring the ample acres that 
 stretched away in the rear. 
 
 " A good home, child ! " he mused. 
 
 They started on again. After a long climb, and after
 
 228 DOVECOTE. 
 
 Milly had become very weary with her exertions, and 
 had declined again and again Adam's urgent offers to 
 carry her on a little way, they reached the desired spot 
 Adam looked closely at every object about him, though 
 he ventured to ask no questions. 
 
 Daisy conducted them in. Adam sat down upon the 
 bench, while the cat stuck up her back, and waited 
 only for Daisy to give the signal for her to tear his 
 eyes out 
 
 They had been seated but a few minutes, when a 
 shadow fell across the door ; and all eyes were intent 
 to catch a view of the new comer. 
 
 Jarvie entered, and looked about him. 
 
 The moment his eyes fell upon the face of old Adam, 
 his expression grew very strange, and his lips became 
 almost white. There was perfect silence for at least 
 a minute. Adam's countenance fell greatly, and his 
 hands trembled with the new excitement 
 
 " Adam Drowne ! " exclaimed Jarvie, dwelling delib- 
 erately on every syllable. 
 
 No answer, however, from the intruder. 
 
 " Why are you here ?" said Jarvie, after another pause 
 " Why do you follow me round in this way ? " 
 
 " I knew nothing that you lived here," answered 
 Adam. " I didn't think of seeing you." 
 
 His eyes now fixed themselves upon the face of 
 Daisy. There was some expression there, hidden or 
 half brought out, that riveted his gaze. Now for the 
 first time, too, he thought he detected some faint resem- 
 blance between her lineaments and those of Milly; 
 and the longer he looked, the more palpable the thought 
 grew. A new emotion sprang up within him, which it 
 took quite all his energy to control. 
 
 Jarvie, on his part, studied Adam's features with the
 
 A DOUBLE SURPRISE. 229 
 
 strangest interest. A dark frown settled on his fore- 
 head, and the muscles about his mouth moved convul- 
 sively. 
 
 They had met before these two strange beings. 
 They were well known each to the other. This was 
 but the old acquaintance renewed. 
 
 The girls regarded both of them in wonder. Milly 
 was astonished to know that Adam had thus found a 
 second acquaintance in finding her ; and Daisy looked 
 still more so to see a sight of which she would never 
 have dreamed. 
 
 Adam kept his seat on the bench, while Jarvie moved 
 not from the position he had taken in the middle of the 
 floor. 
 
 20
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 OLD TOPICS KEVIVED. 
 
 "How come you 'way up here?" broke out Jarvie 
 Thatch again. " I never'd thought thunder 'd found me 
 up here ! How did you git up ? " 
 
 Adam only pointed significantly to the children. 
 
 " They brought ye ? " 
 
 He nodded assent. 
 
 " But how did ye find them ? Where did ye ? " 
 
 " Yonder in the meadow," answered Adam, in a very 
 low voice. 
 
 " In the medder ? What was you doin' in the med- 
 der, Daisy ? It's too fur from home, by all odds. The 
 cat ain't enough to keep house alone, neither. You 
 mustn't go so fur, Daisy." 
 
 " La ! it was only a little bit of a run down the 
 mountain," returned she. " I can go it in two minutes." 
 
 " Where's Mary ? " inquired Adam of Jarvie, in a 
 tone betokening the deepest melancholy. 
 
 " Say nothing about her to me," answered Jarvie ; 
 " say nothing about her ! " 
 
 " Is she here ? Does she live with you now ? " per- 
 sisted he, regardless of the injunction. 
 
 Jarvie shook his head, and looked down to the floor. 
 His entire manner suddenly changed. 
 
 " I'd like to see Mary again, if you'd let me," said 
 Adam. " She was very dear to me, you know. Mary ! 
 Mary ! ah, yes, indeed, do I remember her ! She was 
 
 (230)
 
 OLD TOPICS KEVIVED. 231 
 
 the only idol my heart ever set up. She loved me once, 
 too, I verily believe." 
 
 " Witt you stop this ? " demanded Jarvie, in a very 
 much louder voice. 
 
 " I wish I could see Mary again. I really wish I 
 could. I guess she'd be glad enough to see me now. 
 Why can't I see her ? Why won't you tell me where 
 she is ? " 
 
 Jarvie stood and looked all sorts of threatenings at 
 him. But he heeded them not at all. He kept on 
 with his talk. 
 
 " When you turned me away before, I felt that she 
 loved me. I know she does now." 
 
 " I never turned you away ! She did it herself, if 
 'twas done at all ! " 
 
 " Poor Mary ! poor Mary ! " groaned out Adam. " She 
 was the one I loved so much ! She was the girl that 
 all the rest of 'em envied ! " He kept his eyes intently 
 fixed on Daisy, while he spoke of the old object of his 
 idolatry. " How I loved her no one'll ever know ! She 
 was a dear, a dear good creature ! " 
 
 " I wish you'd stop," said Jarvie. 
 
 Adam looked quickly up at him, and saw the tears 
 swimming in his eyes. It struck a strange sensation to 
 his heart. 
 
 " Where is Mary ? " he asked, more rapidly. " Where 
 is she ? Tell me, and let me go find her ! I haven't 
 seen her in so long ! " 
 
 " You'll never see her agin ! " said Jarvie, shaking his 
 head dolefully. " You'll never see her agin ! " 
 
 " What ! " exclaimed he, in a hollow voice. " Dead ? " 
 
 His countenance visibly betrayed his emotion. 
 
 " Dead ! " repeated Jarvie, for his answer. " But 
 worse than dead before she went ! "
 
 A6& DOVECOTE. 
 
 " O Heaven ! " cried the forlorn lover, beating his 
 temple with the palm of his hand. " Dead ! dead ! 
 Does it seem so to me to-day ? What have / been liv- 
 ing for all this time ? Why did I wait so long ? Why 
 haven't J gone, too ? Dead ! dead ! Poor poor 
 Mary ! " 
 
 He sat, for some moments after, wrapped in the 
 solemn drapery of his own thoughts. His head was 
 bent forward, and his eyes brooded on the floor. The 
 whole apartment was hushed in silence. Even Jarvie 
 Thatch himself acknowledged the secret influence of 
 the moment. 
 
 Daisy looked surprisedly around upon all, and Milly 
 little less so. This was a scene neither had been pre- 
 pared to greet. They exchanged glances occasionally, 
 as if to communicate their perfect inability to compre- 
 hend the meaning of it all. 
 
 At length Adam broke forth again. 
 
 " Then Mary's dead ! I hope she died happy." 
 
 " She died wretched," said Jarvie ; " very wretched ! " 
 
 " What made her ? " pursued Adam. 
 
 " Then you don't know of it ? " 
 
 " Not a word ; not a syllable." 
 
 " When she turned you off " 
 
 " O that she had never left me for another ! " inter- 
 rupted Adam, in an agony. " She missed it ; I know 
 she missed it ! " 
 
 " She saw another person." 
 
 " Just as I guessed ! That was what did it ! " 
 
 " He was a man that we thought loved her ; at any 
 rate, there's little mistake that she loved him " 
 
 " Poor poor Mary ! " 
 
 " He said he would marry her "
 
 OLD TOPICS REVIVED. 233 
 
 " And did he ? Yes, that's what I want to know ! 
 
 " He never did," answered Jarvie. 
 
 " So I thought," said Adam, sorrowfully. " So I 
 thought. I guess I know the rest." 
 
 " It was a terrible thing for me ; but I - " 
 
 " O, but you should have let her had me'! It 
 wouldn't have come to this, then ! " 
 
 " She couldn't have you ! " spoke Jarvie, with much 
 decisiveness. " It wasn't to be ! " 
 
 " She would, if she had known," said Adam, equally 
 prompt. " But she's gone ! " 
 
 " No," continued Jarvie, " she never married at all. 
 When this man deserted her, her heart seemed to 
 break. She gave all up, and with her last breath she 
 told me to care for the little one she left behind. 
 That's the one," added he, nodding slightly in the 
 direction of Daisy, and speaking in a lower tone. 
 
 Adam looked at her again with increased interest. 
 His eyes seemed to pierce her through. 
 
 " So I thought ! " exclaimed he, in a low voice, as to 
 himself. " So I said to myself, the very first minute I 
 laid eyes on her." 
 
 " She's a dear, good child," said Jarvie. 
 
 " If she's like her mother, she's a darling," added the 
 other. " She has got her look, too." 
 Jarvie shook his head again ; and again Adam sighed, 
 " Poor Mary ! she's gone, then ! " 
 
 There was another period of silence. 
 
 " You've come here for nothin', have ye ? " asked old 
 Jarvie again, looking suddenly up in his face. 
 
 " I didn't expect to see you here." 
 
 " Wai, do ye want any thing more ? " 
 20*
 
 234 DOVECOTE. 
 
 " I should ha' been so glad to see Mary poor Mary; 
 but I can't. She's dead ! poor, dear Mary ! " 
 
 " She never cared for you any," said Jarvie. " 'Twas 
 all on your side." 
 
 " Umph ! " ejaculated Adam. " Mary loved me ; I 
 know she did ! She got deceived in this one ; that was 
 it!" 
 
 " Have it so, then. I happen to know best." The 
 eyes of the two men met, and their looks kindled 
 much. " At any rate," continued Jarvie, " you ain't 
 in my way as you used to be. She's gone now, poor 
 girl!" 
 
 " Yes, she's gone ! Did she leave any word for me, 
 though ? " 
 
 The man's foolishness seemed all to come back to 
 him with the question. He became the demented, half- 
 idiot being he had for so many years been considered 
 by every one who knew him. 
 
 " Not a syllable," answered the other to his question. 
 
 He mused a moment 
 
 " Didn't she speak my name ? " 
 
 " Not so much as your name." 
 
 " Poor Mary ! she was played a false part with ! 
 I would I could find the one that did so cruel a 
 wrong ! " 
 
 " You can't, though. You'll never do that, Adam." 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " Because you can't ! " repeated Jarvie, with addition- 
 al emphasis. " That business is all left for me. It's all 
 my own ! Nobody shall take it away from me ! " 
 
 Adam relapsed into another fit of silence, holding 
 down his head upon his hands, and fixing his eyes on 
 the floor. Jarvie left him in this attitude, and went 
 about the little business he had in hand.
 
 OLD TOPICS REVIVED. 235 
 
 It was just the time, too, for Daisy to steal out; 
 which she accordingly did, conducting Milly along 
 with her. They began to move off down the moun- 
 tain again. 
 
 In a half hour, Milly was in her own dear, delightful 
 home.
 
 CHAPTER XXXHL 
 
 THE RUSTIC BBEDGE. 
 
 OVEE by a back road, perhaps a half mile or more 
 from the old homestead, a rude bridge leaped the stream 
 where it began to debouch into a glassy little basin, and 
 flung down its black shadows into the water. 
 
 It was no great of a bridge, as people would be apt 
 to say ; that is, you would find no architectural skill de- 
 veloped in its construction, further than what was com- 
 mon to plain, country bridge builders. There was no 
 turreted parapet to it ; only a simple rail, spiked down 
 to rude uprights of half-hewn logs. It had no approved 
 curvature or span that would be likely to catch the eyes 
 of passers ; and there certainly could be little for them 
 to see in its gaping chinks, through which the dust and 
 sand rattled down, except the shadowed and sullen 
 water below, swirling softly round the smooth and slimy 
 logs, and rippling noiselessly through a growth of coarse 
 sedge that fringed the bank just beyond. 
 
 Yet it was strikingly picturesque, as all such objects 
 are apt to be. On one side, you could see the little 
 stream come creeping out from the dense shrubbery 
 that crowded down to its banks, like a shy Naiad just 
 coming out from the seclusion of her woodland home. 
 On the other, the current wound, and circled, and twist- 
 ed like a huge serpent writhing in the grass down 
 through the open meadow, between high clumps of 
 coarse grass that rolled pleasantly in the lazy tide of 
 
 (236)
 
 THE RUSTIC BRIDGE. 237 
 
 the summer wind, and among low and stunted osiers, 
 where little birds built their nests, and green frogs 
 plumped, with a shrill cry of alarm, into the water. 
 
 I loved to stand upon the little bridge of a clear 
 morning in spring, lolling lazily against the railing, and 
 watching the bobbing of my fishing floats upon the 
 water. It filled my heart with heaven to hear the 
 melody of the birds in the willows above the bridge, 
 chattering together in their little colonies, skimming the 
 water for insects, or rocking on the tips of the long- 
 speared grasses. 
 
 On such mornings, it seemed as if life were a pleas- 
 ure for only its own sake as if the very thought of 
 existence were enough to intoxicate one with joy. 
 There was that balm and vigor in the atmosphere, filled 
 with odors from flower banks on a thousand hillsides 
 and in a thousand meadows ; there was such a genial 
 glow in the warmth of the sunshine, flooding river, and 
 valley, and plain ; there was such a constantly titillating 
 feeling in the veins, as the morning airs braced them, 
 and the morning sun stirred them afresh with its con- 
 tagious heat ; there was that rich bound to the heart, 
 filled full with its ripe impulses, and going out freely to 
 meet every new-born influence. 
 
 Fish of different kinds darted swiftly between the 
 narrow and blackened piers, or played leisurely about 
 the water-soaked logs, or sculled their steady way 
 across the stream to some well-known haunt beneath 
 the scooped-out embankment. I could see the young 
 pickerel, with their piratical-looking jaws, just learning 
 themselves to bear down boldly on small craft weaker 
 than they ; and little minnows, driving along in shoals 
 to intercept some waif that was floating down with the 
 stream, as if to hail it respecting its course ; and slimy
 
 238 DOVECOTE. 
 
 suckers, with great pouting mouths, and black backs 
 with white bellies, drifting from one position in the mud 
 and sand to another ; and golden-hued roach, active and 
 anxious always now here, now there, and again rising 
 to the surface for a taste of what looked palatable ; and 
 perch, and bream, and all other such fish as haunt quiet 
 and sedgy country waters. 
 
 Many and many a morning have I filled my little 
 creel, made rudely of osiers, with fresh captives from 
 the stream near this rustic bridge. There were all sorts 
 and sizes messed strangely together there white and 
 black, yellow and brown, and red, all united their 
 colors ; and I know too well that my heart could not 
 have swelled with half the pride, had I held up that 
 same basket filled with gold before the delighted eyes 
 of my mother. I never failed to get a word of com- 
 mendation for my skill. I thought nothing of the 
 patience, then. I charged every thing to skill only. 
 
 There were beds of lilies, too, fringing the stream ; 
 and a picture could in no wise have been made more 
 charming on canvas than this. They looked like a 
 dainty ruffle for the little river, white and yellow sweet- 
 ly intermingled. Their broad, leathery leaves lay 
 spread out upon the surface of the water, and beneath 
 their sufficient shadows pickerel were wont to lurk, and 
 lazy suckers to doze away the long days. Gaudy flies 
 went skimming about them, now alighting a moment to 
 rock so gently on the wave, and then cleaving the sun- 
 lit air again with their painted wings. I could see the 
 shapes of the shadows, as the leaves threw them down 
 on the bed of the river, blotching it after the most fan- 
 tastic devices. 
 
 Swift swallows went careering up and down the sur- 
 face of the stream, scouring the open meadow below,
 
 THE RUSTIC BRIDGE. 239 
 
 and wheeling back under the bridge to hide themselves 
 in the thick bushes above. The air was sometimes 
 filled with their shrill twitterings. Even such ethereal 
 things as butterflies, of the daintiest colors known, 
 would straggle away on careless wing to the dark arch, 
 and hover coquettishly about the dank and decaying 
 beams, filling my young heart with pictures of the 
 strangest contrasts imaginable. 
 
 Whenever a wagon crossed the bridge, the rattling of 
 the horses' hoofs loosened the timbers and sent down 
 streaks of sand and gravel into the black water beneath ; 
 and I could see the little fish darting away in every di- 
 rection from sudden fright, and long afterward coming 
 together again to take counsel of their danger. Over 
 this same rustic structure went loads of fragrant hay, in 
 its season, with glad boys tossing each other about on 
 the tops, and the oxen crouching and bending under the 
 weight of the yoke. Across this bridge, too, trundled 
 fanners' wagons, laden with produce of all kinds for the 
 distant market, and creaking with the weight of their 
 burdens. Rosy-cheeked girls rolled over it on their way 
 to the village church ; or slid across it to some distant 
 rendezvous in the brisk sleighing time, muffled in robes 
 and furs. It was, indeed, a bridge that none could rea- 
 sonably find fault with, for there was not one whom it 
 did not carry safely over. 
 
 By the hour one could dream the pleasantest dreams, 
 leaning on its rail and looking over the landscape. 
 Quiet thoughts seemed to flock there, perhaps sailing 
 and drifting thither on the swimming flood. They ed- 
 died round the sunken logs and timbers, just as the 
 water circled them in its soft embrace. Naiads dwelt 
 all up and down the meadows, and each had a charming 
 nook within the long, tufted grass and the waving wil-
 
 240 DOVECOTE. 
 
 lows. Visions of life, of the great world beyond my 
 reach, swam in the clear water, like rare pictures set in 
 crystal frames. Hopes danced gayly up and down the 
 brimming stream, sweeping, in their flashing apparel, 
 across my busy brain. 
 
 It was at the old bridge that I have lived many of my 
 pleasantest hours. But it has sunk down to its rest in 
 the water now, and a new one, with looks of far greater 
 pretension, has usurped its place. Time and tide to- 
 gether were too much for so rude a structure.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 MISS NANCY IN TOWN. 
 
 IT was a delicious summer morning when the old 
 brown horse drove up before the door, and Miss Nancy 
 climbed into the wagon after her trunk. She was 
 going to take the stage at the village inn. 
 
 Milly's eyes were swimming with tears. She half 
 wanted to go, and still she could not seriously think of 
 leaving this spot, where she found so much happiness. 
 As her old friend rode away, still looking tenderly 
 behind her, the child burst into tears in good earnest. 
 It took quite all our exertions, as well as our sympa- 
 thies, to pacify her. 
 
 When Miss Nancy arrived in town, she went to visit 
 her old and particular friend Mrs. Trevor. She was a 
 widow lady, with no children, whose husband had left 
 her in possession of a large property. Her residence 
 was exceedingly pleasant ; and all she seemed now to 
 desire was the visits of her friends. 
 
 Miss Nancy Gregory and she were old schoolmates, 
 and from early days had been much attached to one 
 another. A standing invitation was continually urging 
 the former to make the house of the latter her home 
 for as large a part of the year as she would ; yet an 
 annual visit was about all she attempted usually, her 
 relationship with Dovecote being in every sense so 
 close and delightful an one. This was the occasion of 
 one of her visits. 
 
 21 C* 1 )
 
 242 DOVECOTE. 
 
 She had been at Mrs. Trevor's some time already, 
 when the latter one day proposed to her -to go and see 
 a poor woman with whom she had left some sewing. 
 
 " She interests me so much," added Mrs. Trevor, 
 " that I feel you will be repaid for your walk. She has 
 a couple of daughters, too very pretty girls, but appar- 
 ently not habituated to such a life as they are obliged 
 to lead." 
 
 Miss Nancy signified at once her desire to accom- 
 pany her, and they set forth. 
 
 Their way took them into some very retired streets, 
 where few people, and those apparently of the poorer 
 classes, were to be seen passing. These streets were 
 quite narrow, and contained high and narrow houses, 
 into which families were packed by the layer. Beauti- 
 ful as the sky looked from the thoroughfare, it became 
 dismal when seen from between these high rows of 
 dwellings. 
 
 " It seems to be a very peculiar case," remarked Mrs. 
 Trevor, as they walked on. " I haven't met with any 
 like it recently." 
 
 " A widow ? " inquired Miss Nancy. 
 
 " Yes ; so she said." 
 
 " Know any thing of her previous circumstances ? " 
 
 " Nothing at all, except what she is disposed to hint ; 
 and that is but little indeed. But she has seen trouble, 
 and of the deepest character ; that is evident." 
 
 They came to a darkened entry way at length, through 
 which they passed, and proceeded up a single flight of 
 steps. 
 
 " This is her door," said Mrs. Trevor, and knocked. 
 
 It was opened after a moment's delay, during which 
 there could be heard an unusual bustle within ; and a 
 woman stood before them.
 
 MISS NANCY IN TOWN. 243 
 
 " Good morning ! " saluted Mrs. Trevor, lighting up 
 the very passage with her smile. " I have come to see 
 you about that last piece of work you took from me." 
 
 The woman received her without a syllable of wel- 
 come, opening the door wider to allow both to pass. 
 
 She was no other than Mrs. Trevelyn, the old-time 
 acquaintance of Milly herself. 
 
 Miss Nancy, however, knew nothing of it, nor was 
 she now supposed to be in any better way of learning 
 so interesting a fact. The unhappy woman had buried 
 herself from the notice of the world, and hidden even 
 her name under a fiction. She had cast off all that 
 belonged to her in her better condition. 
 
 The apartment was small, and but scantily furnished. 
 There was a strip of cheap carpet covering a part of 
 the floor, and a few plain chairs stood round against the 
 walls. Two beds were in a little room just beyond, 
 and on the floor of this there was no carpet at all. 
 Every object betokened poverty poverty that pinched 
 and tyrannized. 
 
 A small stand was drawn near the middle of the 
 floor, and a low rocking chair stood next it, from which 
 the woman had apparently risen to admit her visitors. 
 She regarded Miss Nancy with a close and scrutinizing 
 look for a moment, and then her eyes wandered away. 
 If the latter could but have known her name, with 
 what a surprise might she not have overwhelmed her ! 
 
 In the room likewise sat a couple of girls. They 
 were very young in their appearance, and grief and 
 trouble had already marked their countenances deeply. 
 One was trying to hem a handkerchief, probably 
 some work her mother had taken in, and the other 
 sat looking towards the window, her hands folded in 
 her lap. The expression of her face was sorrowful in 
 the extreme.
 
 244 DOVECOTE. 
 
 Mrs. Trevor sat down, and so did Miss Nancy. 
 
 " I didn't want you to hitrry so much about those 
 plain dresses," said the former to the unhappy stitcher : 
 " I find there's no great need of it. You can, therefore, 
 lake your own time about it." 
 
 " Then I am glad," returned the woman. " I've had 
 more to do lately than I can do. I don't know what's to 
 come. And yet, with all my work, I hardly keep along." 
 
 " Then you shall have more for what you do for me." 
 
 The woman looked up in her face, and tried to smile. 
 
 " You are very kind already," said she, in a broken 
 voice. 
 
 " But you mustn't want, you know." 
 
 " I do not mean to, as long as I can work. But I am 
 obliged to keep very close to it. Sometimes I half 
 despair, the future looks so dark to me ; but not so 
 gloomy as the past." 
 
 The last remark seemed momentarily to throw her 
 into a revery. 
 
 " Your history is full of interest," said Mrs. Trevor. 
 " I know it." 
 
 The woman looked up at her in surprise. 
 
 " Interest to nobody but myself now," replied she, 
 with a slow shake of her head ; " nobody but myself." 
 
 " You should be sure of that before you say it. I 
 think I can sympathize with you in all your suffering." 
 
 " I do not want proof of that, my dear madam," was 
 the answer. " If I did, I don't know where else I 
 could go." 
 
 " Then why not allow me to share your troubles with 
 you ? " 
 
 " How can I ? How can any one divide his grief? " 
 
 " But I might be of some assistance, little though it 
 is. I might give advice."
 
 MISS NANCY IN TOWN. 245 
 
 The woman said nothing. 
 
 " You have been in better circumstances ? " said Mrs. 
 Trevor, trying to draw her out. 
 
 " Ah, yes ! But that is past. I would not think of 
 that now." 
 
 " By what accident of fortune was it that you were 
 first brought to your present condition ? I know it was 
 something hard to bear. Your look betrays that much." 
 
 She only sighed, and shook her head, falling the more 
 intently to her work. The countenance of the girl who 
 was engaged in looking out the window perceptibly 
 fell, and the shadow of her grief seemed greater than it 
 was a moment before. 
 
 " At least," continued Mrs. Trevor, " I should like very 
 much to help you." 
 
 " You are kind already," answered the woman. " I 
 esteem you as one of the best of the few friends I 
 have." 
 
 " What I have done is but small by the side of what 
 I wish to do. I see that you are struggling with more 
 than you can ever hope to conquer." 
 
 " I sometimes think it is so myself," said she. 
 
 " But would you not, then, be willing to part with 
 some of your present burden? with the care of one 
 
 " Give up my children ? " interrupted she, quickly, 
 and looking alarmed at the very approach of such a 
 thought. 
 
 " If you knew they were going to be provided with 
 good homes," said Mrs. Trevor, " where you could your- 
 self go to see them ? " 
 
 " They are my only comfort now," replied the womaa 
 
 " And the greatest cause of your anxiety, too ? " 
 
 " Yes, I must confess it." 
 21*
 
 246 DOVECOTE. 
 
 " Then have them placed where they will have all 
 the advantages of a home." 
 
 " Could you tell me of such a situation ? " she in- 
 quired. 
 
 " Perhaps so. What would you do, if I should ? " 
 
 " I might think of it, possibly. I should regard your 
 kindness and judgment as much almost as I should my 
 own. But to separate them ! " 
 
 " The world will do that, by and by, for you, when 
 you may not have a chance of a choice," replied Mrs. 
 Trevor. 
 
 No definite arrangement was, however, concerted 
 then. The matter had been broken, and that, to the 
 charitable feelings of Mrs. Trevor, was something 
 towards her wish. 
 
 Miss Nancy went home that day with her friend, im- 
 pressed more sorrowfully than ever with the changes 
 that set about us here and there, like whirlpools in the 
 glassy current of a river.
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 THE CLOUD IN THE SKY. 
 
 IT was holiday with us all. The school house was 
 deserted. 
 
 "We woke in the morning in much higher spirits than 
 usual, and the first thing we did was to exchange con- 
 gratulations on the coming of a whole play day. 
 
 As we went down stairs, and trooped off over the gar- 
 den, our hearts were refreshed with the sight of the 
 dewy morning and the red-risen sun. It was a sum- 
 mer morning, bright and beautiful. The air was bland 
 and fragrant, and invigorated our lungs as we took it in. 
 We wandered among the flowers and bushes until 
 breakfast time, and then went in to fill out the pleasant 
 board. 
 
 I thought my grandmother had never greeted us all 
 with such a pleasant smile, taking us by the hand, and 
 asking us how far we had run. Her cap was white and 
 smooth, and the little kerchief was crossed in that same 
 neat style across her throat. 
 
 The breakfast hour, too, seemed as I recall it now 
 one of the most delightful of those that were always 
 full of delight. We talked more than was our wont, 
 our spirits towering as the sun went up in the sky. 
 The whole day was before us : who so animated as 
 children with such a pleasant prospect ? 
 
 " Well, children," said my mother, as we began to 
 
 (247)
 
 248 DOVECOTE. 
 
 show signs of uneasiness at continued confinement at 
 table, " what is going to be done to-day ? " 
 
 " We want to go after flowers over in the meadows ! " 
 at once replied Alice, speaking only for the girls. 
 
 " And we are going a-fishing," said two or three of the 
 boys at the same time. 
 
 My mother protested that both these methods of di- 
 version would take us all too far from home ; and my 
 grandmother joined in with her, saying that she feared 
 something would happen to us if we went so far away. 
 
 But children have a way of their own of persisting in 
 their plans, especially if they have the least ground of 
 hope for success ; and we persisted that morning in 
 ours. 
 
 I laid my head against my father's shoulder, and si- 
 lently pleaded for the permission our side wanted ; and 
 Carrie leaned against her mother, and told her that the 
 meadows, where the buttercups and daisies grew, were 
 but a little way off, and that she would take care of 
 Nelly that no hurt should come nigh her. 
 
 We were, between us, successful in our petitions. A 
 compromise was effected, so that we, whose pastime 
 was to be fishing, should see to those whose employ- 
 ment would be flower gathering. And thus the two 
 pleasures were made up, by my mother's happy sugges- 
 tions, into one. And boys and girls trooped off together 
 the latter with their light, baskets on their arms, and 
 the former with fishing rods across their shoulders. 
 
 As we trudged along, climbing the stiles and the 
 stone walls, and helping over the little ones after us, the 
 clear air of the morning rang with the overflow of our 
 joy. We shouted at the frizzle-fronted oxen that stared 
 sullenly at us as we passed, and set the calves and
 
 THE CLOUD IN THE SKY. 249 
 
 lambs to frisking on the grass, and threw stones quite 
 out of sight into the deep-blue sky. 
 
 The girls chatted gayly and volubly of what they 
 were going to do, of how many flowers they were going 
 to gather, and of what beautiful bunches of posies they 
 would make up to give to their mother and grand- 
 mother ; and stooped down here and there, as they 
 went along, to pick up bits of stone that glistened in the 
 sun, and throw them into their baskets. 
 
 We rigged our fisliing tackle as we went on, boasting 
 in advance of our exploits, and already counting the 
 finny victims to our skill. One of us said that what fish 
 lie caught should be cooked in one way, and another 
 stuck out as stoutly for another way for his ; and so 
 we tramped over the rolling lands, and across the plains, 
 and down through the valleys, till we reached the fish- 
 ing ground and the flower meads together. 
 
 The girls were for a time to take care of themselves, 
 we all the while promising to keep them in our sight. 
 They fell to flower gathering, therefore, at once, and 
 told us not to wander too far away, so that they could 
 not hear us answer when they called. We bound our- 
 selves altogether by their wishes, and hurried to the 
 bank of the little creek to bait our hooks, and wet our 
 lines, and watch the bobbing of our floats as the small 
 fry nibbled at the worms, and draw out the silly victims 
 on the grass. 
 
 The pleasure is a seductive one, even to a right- 
 hearted man. What, then, must it not be to a boy, his 
 heart fired with impulses and burning with a constant 
 excitement ? 
 
 As we fished, and as luck gathered round our hooks, 
 we thoughtlessly strolled down the bank, separating 
 from each other, and losing sight even of our sisters.
 
 250 DOVECOTE. 
 
 They, too, were quite as much taken up as ourselves, 
 and seemed to have felt no degree of loneliness or fear. 
 
 Each one of us watched his hook. The perch darted 
 up to it, took a prudent hold, and then let it drop and 
 ran away again. Yellow-bellied roach made for it rav- 
 enously, and chewed and spit it out very much accord- 
 ing to their varying taste and pleasure. And little min- 
 nows played foolishly about it, occasionally worrying off 
 a fragment of the worm, but never managing to get so 
 much as the barb within their jaws. 
 
 The morning air was never so delicious, and the 
 shining sun made the stream glisten like a surface of 
 burnished silver. And on either side of this grew brush 
 and brake, fringing the banks with a true beauty ; and 
 lilypads, and coarse, blue tulips, and long and reedy 
 rushes. 
 
 In the very music of the little waves, as they rippled 
 and dashed along, curling here under an embankment 
 of sand, and rattling there over an opposing bar of 
 stones, there was something strangely charming. We 
 ceased thinking of each other; this lulling harmony 
 drove all our thoughts inward. We had even forgot 
 our little sisters among the violets and daisies. 
 
 Presently Ben came running up towards me, all out 
 of breath. 
 
 I at once held up my string of fish before him, and 
 cried, in my joy, " See there ! see there ! " 
 
 But he saw nothing of that. There was a fearful 
 cloud on his countenance that cast its own dull shadow 
 over mine. I could not ask him what was the matter ; 
 I only looked him mutely in the face, and trembled at 
 the fear that seemed to possess him. 
 
 " Jimmy ! Jimmy ! " This was all he could say. 
 
 It was enough, however, to set fire to the train of my
 
 THE CLOUD IN THfi SKY. 251 
 
 fears, and I looked down the stream and over the 
 meadow to catch sight of him. 
 
 I saw him nowhere ! He was the youngest boy of 
 us, hardly turned of five, and we loved him like our 
 own hearts. 
 
 " Where is he ? " I exclaimed, as soon as words found 
 their way to my lips. 
 
 " Jimmy ! Jimmy ! " was all he could utter. And he 
 started across the meadow, in fright, for home. 
 
 I threw down my fishing rod, fish and all, upon the 
 grass, and set out in a breathless run down the bank of 
 the stream. To the south it grew broader and deeper? 
 till it debouched, in the lower meadows, into a creek of 
 large and fearful pretensions. I flew to this broad 
 basin, and looked at the sullen water. 
 
 There was a little straw hat floating on the surface ; 
 and that was all ! 
 
 I ran up and down the bank in deepest distress. I 
 could not cry out, my emotions so stifled my utterance. 
 I knew not what I did, so lost was I to all thoughts of 
 time and place. And with my own heart, too, palsied 
 with fear, I followed on after my brother towards home, 
 leaving the girls at their flower gathering, still, in the 
 meadow. 
 
 The sound of the waters was in my ears every rood 
 I ran. I heard them still dashing against the stones, 
 and swashing mournfully against the banks. They 
 seemed, as when Undine went down in the deep Dan- 
 ube, to be yet "whispering and sobbing" around the 
 spot where little Jimmy disappeared, and to say dis- 
 tinctly, still, " O, woe, woe ! " 
 
 It is all a blank. I can remember nothing. I knew 
 not, then, where I threw my fishing rod and fish, or 
 even how I reached home, or what I said.
 
 232 DOVECOTE. 
 
 Alarm seized every one. Every one was in distress 
 and tears. There was running to and fro, and con- 
 fusion without end. One hardly spoke to another, so 
 heavily pressed down the fear upon the hearts of all. 
 They ran to the doors, and from the doors, and through 
 the rooms. 
 
 It was hardly yet noon when the dead boy was 
 brought home and laid upon the bed. Well do I re- 
 member, now, how he looked, as I stood at the bedside. 
 His eyes were shut, and his little lips compressed. One 
 of his hands still remained tightly closed, as if he had 
 lutched at some vain hope of safety. Over his beauti- 
 ful forehead now white and cold straggled his 
 tangled brown curls, and down about his neck, and 
 upon his little linen collar. 
 
 Dead! dead! dead! 
 
 There is a little mound in the village graveyard, still 
 heaped as it was heaped and rounded at his burial. A 
 thorn bush is growing near it. 
 
 I go back often, now, to that quiet grave, and think 
 of the weeping mothers and children that flocked about 
 it on the sad afternoon of the funeral. His little hand is 
 still lying across his breast, and the brown, silken curls 
 are combed back from his full forehead, just as I saw 
 them many and many a year ago. Poor Jimmy ! you 
 went before us ; but we are fast following after !
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 A TUMBLE IN THE HAY. 
 
 WHAT pleasure there is in the summer hayfields, 
 none but they who love to romp over the sward, or 
 tumble among the tented haycocks, or toss the fragrant 
 grass with the shining tines, can presume to know. 
 
 In this world, there are people who regale themselves 
 quite as much on a distant contemplation of rural de- 
 lights as they could on the actual enjoyment of them. 
 Such might relish a faint fragrance from the new-mown 
 hay, or a brief glimpse of a line of rakers beside the 
 stone wall, or a sight of the conical haycocks dotting 
 the field ; and such may possibly find all in this little 
 wisp, so hastily caught up behind the haymakers. 
 
 Marching down through the field in a row, the mow- 
 ers swing their hungry scythes, bringing down long rows 
 of standing grass and daisies. Now and then all stop 
 to whet the scythes with their rifles ; or to wipe the 
 perspiration from their imbrowned faces ; or to drink 
 sweetened water, seasoned with ginger, from the capa- 
 cious tin pail ; and then fall in a line to their work 
 again. 
 
 The swaths lie about them thickly, as on they go, 
 bringing down the tall spears with a noise that reminds 
 fou of the crisp tearing of grass by a grazing cow of 
 Devon. There is a faint ring in their remorseless 
 blades while yet they swing them backward for the 
 next fatal sweep. Here and there they lay open to the 
 22 (253)
 
 254 DOVECOTE. 
 
 sunlight the hidden nooks of birds, their fledglings still 
 squatted in the nests, or trace the burrowings of mice 
 and moles, that had never thought of their retirement 
 being invaded. 
 
 Some of the stalwart men sing as their long scythes 
 swing, making a sort of rustic rhyme to their occupa- 
 tion. The sun climbs up in the sky apace, and the 
 heat rises now over the plain. The mowers occasion- 
 ally throw their eyes across the broad reach of ground 
 they are to go over, and some of them already feel 
 oncoming weariness ; yet they persistently bend to 
 their task, and the serried ranks of daisies and grass 
 spears keep bowing and falling to the ground. 
 
 Along behind them come those whose work it is to 
 toss and scatter the grass for drying. The pitchforks 
 twinkle in the long bunches of grass as it is thrown 
 carelessly about, and rakes describe endless circuits in 
 the air as the swaths are some of them stirred with 
 their handles. 
 
 Boys come tossing about the cropped grass in their 
 arms, giving themselves up to the momentary overflow 
 of their gladness. They bury the dogs under their bur- 
 dens, and laugh loudly to witness their confusion. 
 
 It is fresh and dewy when the crop comes down, and 
 then it lies through the heat of the day deserted by all. 
 The field looks like a desert, the sun beating down 
 mercilessly on the wilted verdure, the daisy heads dried 
 and dead, the dew and the freshness all vanished. It 
 is pleasant there only as you can find grateful shelter 
 under a spreading tree, and catch an occasional fresh 
 breath that comes through the green leaves. The hay 
 is making ; the grass is being cured. Nature is kindly 
 finishing for man what she hinted to him first to begin. 
 
 When the sun begins to go down from the meridian,
 
 A TUMBLE IN THE HAY. 255 
 
 and the shadows begin to lengthen, and the sunlight to 
 fall aslant on the roofs, the bams, and the walls, all 
 hands are piped back to the hayfield again, to rake the 
 half-made hay. At this we love to join. 
 
 Girls, with red cheeks and glistening eyes ; and boys, 
 whose skins are scarce yet beginning to wear a healthy 
 brown ; old men, with white heads and feeble limbs ; 
 and children, just tottling across the door yard, all start 
 off, in jcyful flocks, to rake the hay. 
 
 The men look up wisely at the sky, and shake their 
 heads as if they would mean much more than they say, 
 and think that it will be apt to rain yet if the wind 
 and the clouds should happen to come round right. 
 
 Before all bound the delighted dogs, barking at some- 
 thing they imagine to be wrong, and patiently waiting 
 at the bars till the haymakers come up. 
 
 And now all fall to with a hearty good will, the girls 
 and boys doing little else than hinder each other, and 
 raise good-humored laughter for their awkward work. 
 The children are under every one's feet, and carried 
 along by every one's rake ; yet still they pursue their 
 way among the busy haymakers, carrying loose snarls 
 of the hay in then* hands, and shouting till all is confu- 
 sion. 
 
 The hay rustles, as it is gleaned from the fine stub- 
 ble, like the shake of maidens' silken gowns ; and you 
 think of such a comparison at once, seeing the laughing 
 girls frolicking among the windrows. 
 
 It is gathered in long lines, crossing the entire field 
 these are the windrows ; and next follows the rolling 
 it up in heaps, and trimming up the heaps until they 
 look smooth and round ; and then rise the picturesque- 
 looking haycocks, scattered all over the field, yet dot- 
 ting it in only regular rows.
 
 256 DOVECOTE. 
 
 And such gay chattering when the making up of 
 these little ricks was well begun ! and such tumbling 
 in the hay by the younger ones ! and such fragrance 
 every where in the air ! 
 
 And the sun shines now so much more pleasantly, 
 making the rounded haycocks throw shadows at each 
 other ; and there are such agreeable walks, as if they 
 were in reality avenues, between the rows of stacks ; 
 and girls look so like the rustic divinities they are 
 sometimes pictured in old books, it all comes over 
 you delightfully. 
 
 The whole plain seems a tented field ; but it is not 
 a field of arms. It exhibits but one of the many quiet 
 and happy arts of peace. Men and women are stroll- 
 ing here and there, with long rakes across their shoul- 
 ders and in their hands ; and younkers are gambolling 
 over the shorn grass, counting the rustling heaps, and 
 playing at hide and seek among them ; and dogs are 
 barking and racing withal ; and there is nothing to be 
 found but health and happiness. 
 
 A frugal table is spread at evening, just as the sum- 
 mer-day shadows are creeping in at the doors and 
 through the windows. At such a time as this, it seems 
 the twilight of the heart, too. Dim and half-seized 
 emotions steal over the soul, casting down nothing like 
 shadows, yet tempering it to a sweet and genial melan- 
 choly. 
 
 O, how like faint music, scarce breathing itself on the 
 air, is the thrill of the heartstrings at such a time in the 
 "country, as they are swept by unseen and unknown 
 fingers ! How like soft and soothing murmurs come all 
 the earth influences to the sensitive soul, bathed in an 
 atmosphere of revery and dreams ! 
 
 The haymaking day is over; and before the red
 
 A TUMBLE IN THE HAY. 257 
 
 moon comes up over the hills at the east, every being 
 in the household will be lost in a deep and sweet 
 slumber. 
 
 Of such were the merry hay days at Dovecote. 
 22*
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIL 
 
 A WEDDING IN THE PAKLOK. 
 
 IT was Mary that was going to be married. She was 
 the oldest of us all 
 
 I shall not forget the pleasant confusion that turned 
 our childish hearts and thoughts topsyturvy while the 
 several preparations for so remarkable an event were 
 going on. I cannot shut out of my recollection the 
 continual bustle that reigned both within and without 
 doors, every noise seeming but a sounding note of 
 preparation. 
 
 The season was autumn exactly that dreamy, gen- 
 ial time when the yellow wasps were swarming under 
 the eaves, and bumping their foolish heads against the 
 windows ; and when the sunshine lay aslant in the old 
 garden, gilding the withered stalks and vines, as if to 
 make compensation for the loss of their verdure ; and 
 when the early fires were just beginning to be kindled 
 in the house, to take away the morning and evening 
 chills. 
 
 There were a few friends there, and they were all 
 stowed into the parlor by no means so spacious as a 
 modern town parlor, yet a very neat little parlor in its 
 way. The ladies, some of whom, I remember, patron- 
 ized me to the extent of smoothing down my hair on 
 my head as I walked round the room, sat with their 
 bonnets on, whispering to each other, and looking 
 sharply around. I supposed at the time they must be 
 
 (258)
 
 A WEDDING IN THE PARLOR. 259 
 
 both talking of and looking at nothing but myself ; but 
 my observation since that morning has done more than 
 I should be anxious to confess towards overthrowing 
 such childish and innocent ideas. It is quite enough 
 for me to add that the little parlor was a room in which 
 few of them had been for a long time, and that there 
 had recently been made notable improvements and 
 changes there. The ready tact of my readers will at 
 once fill out the hint to its proper proportions. 
 
 All the flowers that could be gathered from far and 
 near were impressed into the service of the day. They 
 were bound together in big bunches, and stood in vases 
 and little pots upon the shelves, and in nosegays, which 
 each of us carried about in our hands, making no small 
 amount of flourish as we continually smelt of them. 
 
 There was little else, however, that I could hear, but 
 the rustling of dresses, and the low and indistinct tone 
 in which the conversation was every where carried on. 
 Every thing seemed so solemn, and was done in such a 
 solemn way ! There was no inclination to laugh on 
 any side, or even to smile. I thought that the very 
 shining of the sun grew at length to be any thing but 
 genial. 
 
 My mother was bustling from room to room ; and she 
 had never appeared so excited to me before. It was 
 the first dove that had been taken from the nest! I 
 know more of what her sorrow and excitement meant 
 now. 
 
 Her eyes were red and swollen ; and I felt that she 
 had been weeping with Mary. Indeed, I had myself 
 twice or thrice made unsuccessful attempts to get into 
 the chamber where they were. Each time they bade 
 me gently go down until they should come. 
 
 Little Alice, now in charge of Nelly, was quite as
 
 260 DOVECOTE. 
 
 much out of her reckoning as any of us. She rolled 
 her eyes about upon the different persons that passed 
 to and fro through the dining room, as if utterly bewil- 
 dered. Some of us stood bravely by her side, and took 
 hold of her little fat hand, and told her that nothing in 
 the world should come near her to hurt her ; and much 
 more in the same strain. 
 
 My aunt was as busy as one well could be, making 
 abundant preparations for the marriage feast that was 
 to follow. She walked quite briskly about, and seemed 
 to take little or no notice of any of us. 
 
 My grandmother had charge of the baby, which she 
 trotted in her lap and talked to incessantly. Occasion- 
 ally, by way of diversion, whether for the little one 
 or ourselves I know not, she would toss it out into 
 our faces, and then pull it as quickly back again. The 
 pet lamb seemed to like the sport hugely. 
 
 At length the clergyman came. I thought that an 
 uncommonly sober feeling penetrated every one then. 
 He had a pleasant word for his friends who were seated 
 in the parlor, and finally found his way out to greet my 
 grandparents, which he did in the most cordial and 
 unaffected manner in the world. There was some sil- 
 ver cord that tied his tenderer feelings to the hearts of 
 those old people, and I thought I could detect it even 
 then. 
 
 He went out upon the lawn just before the house 
 with my father, and there they chatted for a long time. 
 They were alone, and none of us knew what their talk 
 was all about. The good man, already well along in 
 years, seemed so happy, standing there idly in the sun ! 
 I knew he loved the old place almost as well as we did 
 jurselves. 
 
 My mother came down at length, and Mary with her.
 
 A WEDDING IN THE PARLOK. 2G1 
 
 The clergyman, too, came in, and went into another 
 room and sat down with them. No other person was 
 admitted except the bridegroom, who had now been 
 some time awaiting the appearance of his bride. They 
 were together there for a long while. I knew that the , 
 minister was giving them some good advice ; for he did 
 not fail to give that to every body. 
 
 Presently my mother and he came out of the room 
 together. I saw that my mother had been weeping 
 again ; and I wanted to do nothing so much as ask her 
 what was the matter. But that was not permitted me. 
 There was other and more serious business going for- 
 ward. 
 
 We all started up and followed the clergyman into 
 the parlor, my grandmother bringing up the rear with 
 the baby. There we ranged ourselves about as the 
 limited space best allowed, looking anxiously at the 
 friends who had assembled there, and anxiously at our 
 parents and each other. It was a new scene to us. It 
 was an epoch in our lives to become witnesses to a real 
 wedding. 
 
 The talking fell at once into whispers, and the whis- 
 pers subsided into silence ; and thus for some time we 
 all sat there. It was becoming, indeed, painful. The 
 clergyman sat waiting as patiently as the rest of us, and 
 looked a little saddened. Perhaps he did not like the 
 thought of this circle's being broken at all. 
 
 Presently we heard a rustling in the direction of the 
 door, and all eyes were turned thither. 
 
 Mary was coming in, leaning on the arm of her 
 betrothed husband. 
 
 How can I describe her? How can I hurry along 
 my pen to keep up with the tumultuous movements of 
 my feelings and my memory ?
 
 2G2 DOVECOTE. 
 
 She was dressed in a brown travelling habit, with a 
 tasteful row of buttons from her dimpled chin down to 
 her feet. Little muslin cuffs were secured neatly about 
 her slender wrists ; and around her white and swelling 
 throat she wore one of the prettiest collars imaginable, 
 fastened just beneath her chin with a knotted pin of 
 plain, burning gold. Her dark hair was parted simply 
 across her forehead, looking glossier to me than ever 
 before. A white rosebud was the only ornament my 
 eyes discovered about her head, got I know not where 
 at that season. 
 
 Her entire figure was creative of the most agreeable 
 feelings, as she stood there so maidenly and so mod- 
 estly beside him who was about to become her hus- 
 band. I know not when since then my heart has been 
 wrought upon so pleasurably. She was neither too 
 stout nor too slender, but called up only the idea of 
 gracefulness. I well remember thinking that some 
 great and sudden change must have come over her, 
 such a new mien had she that morning put on. 
 
 The clergyman rose and advanced to where they 
 stood. First, he addressed them a few solemn words 
 of advice, which I have no fears of having been lost 
 upon them ; then, with a new emphasis and a changed 
 manner, he united their hands, and pronounced them 
 "man and wife." After this came a fervent prayer 
 from his hallowed lips, and after that the confusion of 
 congratulation. There seemed to be one general time 
 of kissing, and laughing, and talking, and embracing. 
 We children got somehow strangely tangled up in the 
 snarl, and found it at times no trifling difficulty to work 
 our way out clearly again to where we could see the 
 door. 
 
 There was a famous table set for the entire party, at
 
 A WEDDING IX THE PARLOR. 263 
 
 which every body tried to be cheerful, even to my 
 mother. They told pleasant stories, some of them 
 highly appropriate to the time, and circled the whole 
 long table round with smiles and rings of laughter. 
 
 But the moment of separation came at last. The 
 carriage was at the door, and the trunks were lashed on 
 behind. There was a universal bidding farewell, every 
 one standing with tears in his and her eyes, even to my 
 good grandmother. 
 
 Mary kissed us all affectionately, entered the carriage 
 with her husband, and rolled away down the avenue. 
 I stood before the door and watched them till the 
 vehicle disappeared in the winding of the distant road 
 below. 
 
 One dove had flown out of the nest !
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIIL 
 
 THANKSGIVING TIME. 
 
 IT is the time looked forward to from the last day of 
 summer. It always comes in the fall, and the very first 
 day of that season ushers in early thoughts of it. The 
 yellow autumn suns, shining so feebly against the gar- 
 den walls, remind us of it. The faded peach and plum 
 leaves keep hinting of its approach. The turning of the 
 forest leaves, as the trees put on their gorgeous autum- 
 nal liveries, bring it almost to our very doors. 
 
 Blessed, thrice-blessed anniversary ! What other day 
 in all the year brings with it so many joys? what 
 other day leaves so many pleasant remembrances ? 
 
 The peculiar influences that surround the time settle 
 on one's heart for many days before the expected one 
 dawns. The notes of preparation are heard on all sides. 
 People are driving over the country to buy up the yel- 
 low-legged fowls for the town consumption. Farmers 
 trudge about to and from market, in old-fashioned wag- 
 ons filled with prime poultry, over which are strewn 
 cloths as white as snow. Black, and brown, and yel- 
 low legs stick out from beneath the cloths on all sides, 
 and the boys look wistfully at them as they pass along 
 through the streets. 
 
 Turkeys go round in flocks, that are now each half 
 day decimated by the relentless axe. They strut 
 proudly in the sun, and gobble furiously at the ap- 
 
 (964)
 
 THANKSGIVING TIME. 265 
 
 proach of those who come to take yet another from 
 their number. 
 
 Geese are hissing lustily beside every pool, and 
 stand contemplatively on one leg just beyond the bars 
 in the pasture. They raise themselves to flap their long 
 wings as you pass them, and run out their red bills and 
 arching necks. 
 
 In the country the preparations are altogether of a 
 domestic character ; but in the town every thing is on 
 a bustling, commercial scale. Yet there is just enough 
 bustle about the barns, and the cribs, and the granaries 
 at home, and just enough confusion in the kitchens, to 
 give the time an air of real, downright business. It 
 makes children brisk and joyful. It imparts dexterity 
 and speed to servants, and quickens the blood in older 
 people. 
 
 Where these preparations are on a somewhat broad 
 and liberal scale, as they were wont to be at Dovecote, 
 there was business enough going on for any body. The 
 kitchens were alive with work. Rows of turkeys and 
 chickens lay on the long tables, and hung in clean places 
 against the walls. There were baskets full of the feath- 
 ers that were plucked off, and wings were thrust in plen- 
 tifully between the beams and the wall. Chicken feet 
 and turkey feet lay about the back doors, and the fowls 
 stared shyly at them as they crept round the yard for a 
 bite out of season. 
 
 There were pies in preparation by the score ; mince 
 pies, and apple, and cranberry, and squash, and pump- 
 kin ; and varieties of tarts, and sauces, and jellies ; and 
 puddings in deep, brown dishes, dotted thickly with 
 plums ; and huge chicken pies, filled with wings, and 
 side bones, and drumsticks, and wrought fancifully over 
 the top with twisted crusts. All these crowded the 
 23
 
 266 DOVECOTE. 
 
 tables full. There was flour dust on almost every 
 thing ; especially when the pie crusts were rolling out, 
 and the tarts were being made. And such great pans 
 of milk, thick with standing cream ! And such huge 
 wooden trays of mince meat, with a long-handled 
 wooden spoon sticking up from the middle of the mass ! 
 
 My aunt never pretended to bake less than sixty pies 
 of a Thanksgiving time ; and I have often seen an 
 exact hundred standing thickly all over the tables. 
 
 These were all Iwme preparations. We loved to 
 watch them going on, when we came home from 
 school ; and on the afternoon of the day before Thanks- 
 giving, it was next to an impossibility to get us, and 
 keep us, out of the kitchen. There was every tiling there 
 for us that was inspiriting, and every thing that was at- 
 tractive. 
 
 In the town markets it must have been different. 
 There the stalls were hung about with huge sides of 
 beef, rich and juicy, the rolls of tallow still clinging to 
 the curved ribs. Turkeys and chickens were depending 
 from hooks in monstrous bunches, or lay piled up in 
 great heaps, their black and yellow legs sticking out be- 
 yond. There were .bunches of rare and costly game, 
 too, the very mention of which would moisten the mouth 
 of an epicure. And haunches of venison ; and saddles 
 of choice muttons ; and whole hogs, their feet sticking 
 stiffly up, and their bloody mouths half open ; and neck- 
 laces of sausage links stringing from hook to hook ; and 
 piles of vegetables of all kinds to accompany the meats 
 when eaten. 
 
 Into those town markets strolled poor women, pinched 
 with the cold, drawing their scanty shawls closer about 
 their shoulders, and holding their last piece of silver in 
 their hands while they looked for the largest possible
 
 THANKSGIVING TIME. 267 
 
 investment about them. There strode wealthy men, 
 pointing with their canes to the choice bits their eyes 
 fell upon, inquiring the prices, and ordering them sent 
 to their steaming and well-stocked kitchens. There 
 moused about keepers of cheap boarding houses, study- 
 ing the prices and qualities of meats fit for soups and 
 fit for nothing else, and asking the price of rare pieces, 
 when they have got their sharp eyes only on pieces that 
 everyone else would be very apt to pass >> by. There 
 wandered children of hard and relentless poverty, treat- 
 ing themselves to nothing but a look at all these delica- 
 cies, as if to appease the craving calls of their appetites 
 in that way. 
 
 None of this in the country ; none of these terrible 
 contrasts at Dovecote ; there was only plenty and hap- 
 piness there. 
 
 When the sun rose we were all out of our beds. We 
 went down to breakfast rather later than usual, and im- 
 mediately afterwards began getting ready for meeting. 
 There was but one sermon that day, and we invariably 
 rilled the old family pew with ready listeners. 
 
 The good minister had a text from the Old Testa- 
 ment somewhere, and expatiated in exactly the same 
 strain from year to year upon the numerous reasons we 
 all had for thankfulness to Heaven for our bounties. 
 
 He gave us striking passages from the histories of the 
 patriarchs, and never failed to impress us with the sim- 
 plicity of their lives, and their many sacrifices to Heaven 
 on then* festal days. His voice sounded more hollow 
 among the seats of the meeting house, for Thanks- 
 giving day never brought all his flock about him as did 
 Sunday. 
 
 After the services he came round and shook hands 
 with my parents and grandparents, laying his hand on
 
 268 DOVECOTE. 
 
 the head of some one of us children, and talking the 
 while. He always got an urgent invitation to Dovecote 
 for the evening, and to his credit be it said that he very 
 rarely slighted it When he sat with us about the great 
 fire, after the day was over, he mingled in our childish 
 sports, and even unbent himself so far as to tell a story 
 occasionally with the rest. 
 
 What a great show the well-laid dinner table made ! 
 and what a much greater substance was there to it all ! 
 
 Every place was filled ; every plate was taken. An 
 uncle came home with his wife and a baby or two, and an 
 aunt came home with her husband and the same at- 
 tachments ; and sometimes friends from distant places 
 came in obedience to special invitations, making a house 
 full of us. I had an uncle that used to drop in on us 
 at this time, who had travelled somewhat, and told tales 
 of the countries he had seen, and their people. We 
 counted much on his accession to our circle. 
 
 As we sat round the table, we made a picture rarely 
 seen nowadays. Tongues were going every where 
 confusedly ; faces were lit up with smiles ; pleasant 
 things were said of one another ; and a genial humor 
 ruled the whole. 
 
 The turkey usually filled us to satisfaction. We 
 were injudicious then, and knew nothing of that art of 
 eating which we are very apt to learn afterwards ; so 
 that when the pies were cut up and handed about, a 
 half dozen different kinds on each plate, we could do 
 little else than sigh to think we could hold no more. 
 Even before we came to the puddings we were full. 
 
 They sat long and late at table, chatting of the 
 events of the year, the health of friends, and the well 
 being of the different branches of the family. There 
 was that sense of sufficiency a very satisfactory feel-
 
 THANKSGIVING TIME. 269 
 
 ing in the stomachs of all, that they talked as if con- 
 tented, not only with themselves, but with all the world 
 beside. 
 
 As the shadows began to gather about the roofs of 
 the old mansion, we began to gather about the hearth. 
 Old and young were there pleasantly mingled together 
 locks of raven and locks whiter than snow. Infants 
 played with each other's eyes from their mothers' laps, 
 crowing and jumping in their delight. My grandparents 
 drifted into their old corner, and sat side by side there 
 through the evening. 
 
 And as the firelight played over our faces, and while 
 we all sat ranged about the hearth, the old tales were 
 dragged out from the rubbish of memory. A chair was 
 left vacant for the minister; and he came in and sat 
 down in it as quietly as if he were a member of the 
 household I knew he loved so well. And he had his 
 story, too. 
 
 I could perpetuate this Thanksgiving time no better 
 
 than by telling over again the tales that I heard at the 
 
 gleaming hearth. If they could but bring back the old 
 
 circle of loved faces again ! but it is hoping too much. 
 
 23*
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 THE MAGDALEN. 
 
 THICK and fast the snows were blowing, driving 
 with their chilly tinkle against the window panes, and 
 whitening the yard and the lawn with their drapery 
 
 Down the great chimney the fierce wind roared, as 
 if it would warm itself at the fire. The smoke, ever 
 and anon, puffed out in eddying gusts into the room, 
 making us retreat before it in confusion. 
 
 It was such a night as makes one feel glad that he 
 has a home. It was a night houseless and hungry 
 wanderers might well pray to be delivered from, as 
 from a sure and terrible death. 
 
 The moans of the cutting winds, as there would be 
 comparative lulls in the tempest, could be distinctly 
 heard among the creaking boughs of the old elms, so 
 that it might be imagined they were haunted with dark 
 spirits, like ghouls. 
 
 The room in which we all sat was well lighted, as if 
 the storm would not be so apt to reach us. It had the 
 effect, however, to make us feel its terrors the more 
 deeply. And the kitchen hearth was blazing with 
 good, clean hickory, around which sprigs and sprays 
 of brushwood were firing up in all manner of pyro- 
 technic wreaths The servants were seated in a row 
 about the spacious hearthstone, laughing, and telling 
 over musty old stories, and gazing silently into the bril- 
 liant fire. 
 
 (370)
 
 THE MAGDALEN. 271 
 
 It was a picture of perfect contentment. 
 
 " It's a hard night for travellers," suggested my grand- 
 father, taking an imaginary hitch in his chair nearer the 
 fire. 
 
 He turned round and looked my grandmother fixedly 
 in the face, as if awaiting her reply. 
 
 " I pity them without homes to-night!" said my grand- 
 mother, letting a stitch drop in her knitting as she spoke, 
 and bending down to recover it again. 
 
 The storm drove surgingly at the doors and windows 
 of the mansion. The wind went howling round the 
 casements, seizing hold of the shutters and shaking 
 them as if it would wrench them from their fastenings. 
 
 The sun had gone down behind lurid clouds that 
 night ; and I thought, as we all trudged home from school 
 over the frozen hobbles, that those clouds looked omi- 
 nous of a storm. A long, narrow strip of dull red lay 
 along the horizon, a premonition as the weather-wise 
 servants had taught us of a tempest and increased cold 
 after. Sure enough! evening had hardly shut down 
 upon us with its dense darkness, not a star twinkling 
 through the unfathomable gloom, when we heard the 
 furious spitting of the snow upon the windows. 
 
 At first it came by littles and at brief intervals. Then, 
 as a fresh puff of the raw wind blew it with its breath, 
 it drove oif in a steady torrent against the panes. And 
 now came the roaring of the mad winds themselves 
 blowing across distant meadows, all of snow crust 
 down through bare and shivering belts of wood over 
 dismal fens and stiffened marshes past lone and drea- 
 ry cottages, where the light of lamps beat feebly against 
 the wall of darkness without and about the old elms 
 on our lawn around the clustered chimney stacks 
 over and over the roofs and then away upon the far- 
 off fields and wastes again.
 
 272 DOVECOTE. 
 
 All the time the snow kept piling thicker and higher. 
 There was no spot left uncovered. The bare places 
 were no longer to be seen. 
 
 We knew that when we came down to breakfast in 
 the morning every place out of doors would be banked 
 up with the deep drifts ; and our children's hearts felt 
 willing to wait through the long and silent night watches, 
 if we could but see the new winter sights in the morn- 
 ing. A snow landscape was pictured in our eyes al- 
 ready. 
 
 " Pity the poor such a night as this ! " again exclaimed 
 my grandfather, speaking in a low tone as to himself. 
 
 " There's none too much of it in the world for them, I 
 fear !" returned my grandmother, glancing at the young- 
 er ones to see that her remark took proper effect. 
 
 " No, no ; that there isn't ! " said my grandfather. 
 
 A fresh gust blew down the chimney, scattering the 
 white ashes all about the hearth. 
 
 "Whew!" exclaimed my grandfather, taking down 
 his feet quickly from the great brass fender. 
 
 " For" mercy's sake, mistress ! For mercy's sake ! " 
 screamed a voice at the kitchen door. 
 
 The door opened simultaneously with the voice, and 
 the maid stood before us all, her eyes distended, her 
 face livid with fear, and her attitude that of wild de- 
 spair. 
 
 "What is the matter?" cried at least a half dozen 
 voices at once. 
 
 " There is a woman at the door I can't tell I never 
 saw the sight before Fm so frightened !" was all the 
 explanation that could be got out of the superstitious 
 girl. 
 
 My mother started to go to the kitchen herself. 
 
 At exactly the same moment, two of the men servants
 
 THE MAGDALEN. 273 
 
 came slowly walking in at the door, supporting by either 
 arm the feeble steps of a woman. 
 
 " O, for the love of God, have pity ! Do but have 
 pity ! " spake as sweet a voice as ever filled my memory 
 with its silvery echoes ; and the form of the woman 
 sank down instantly between the men to the floor. 
 
 "Poor thing!" said my grandmother, pity gushing 
 from her heart, as she stepped forward towards the ob- 
 ject of her commiseration. 
 
 " Carry her into the bed room, and lay her on my bed ! " 
 called my grandfather, rising in high excitement from 
 his chair. 
 
 " See ! see !" exclaimed my mother, releasing a bundle 
 from the firm and affectionate grasp of the poor woman, 
 and discovering to us all the face of a sleeping babe. 
 
 " O, poor, poor thing ! " said my grandmother, ten- 
 derly. 
 
 By this time the doorway was crowded with the 
 anxious domestics, wondering whence such a strange 
 apparition could come, and what might be her destina- 
 tion. 
 
 I caught a glimpse of that fearfully pale face. It 
 will haunt my memory till my dying day. 
 
 The lips were partly opened, and perfectly livid. 
 There was a look of exhaustion in her countenance 
 that no words could one half so well have conveyed. 
 It was terrible, the sight of it. 
 
 " Carry her into the bed room," said my mother, open- 
 ing the door for them, while she herself held the infant 
 in her arms. 
 
 They laid her on the little low bed of my grandparents, 
 they themselves coming in to offer her all the sympathy 
 in their reach. Every thing was in sudden confusion. 
 The children were in a strange hubbub, saying nothing,
 
 274 DOVECOTE. 
 
 to be sure, yet betraying, by their anxious looks and quiv- 
 ering lips, the depth of the feelings that stirred them. 
 There was a great running for warm water, and hot 
 bricks, and cordials, and bandages of flannels ; and there 
 was likewise a deal of talking, among the children and 
 between the servants, in low tones and in whispers; 
 and all seemed chiefly anxious to be of some service 
 when they could be of none whatever. 
 
 By and by the stranger revived. A warm room had 
 been prepared for her above stairs, and a fire was 
 already cheerfully flaming on the hearth. Without ask- 
 ing her a question, my mother had her at once removed 
 to the snug little chamber, and herself followed anxious- 
 ly along, holding the infant the while tenderly in her 
 arms. 
 
 I shall never forget the look of that poor stranger 
 woman, as she was supported out of the little bed room 
 again to the chamber. She seemed unable still to 
 speak, from the sheer exhaustion caused by her expo- 
 sure. Her thin lips parted, as if she would utter what 
 weighed on her heart so heavily. The large, saddened 
 eyes of blue were widely open, but how depressed and 
 languid ! I could not fathom their strange expression, 
 so much was I startled with it. 
 
 Her straggling hair, released from its confinement, 
 had fallen down upon her forehead and over her face ; 
 and upon her cheeks the snow and sleet seemed to 
 have matted it down. They had opened her dress, too, at 
 the throat, revealing a skin of remarkable softness and 
 transparency. 
 
 I could not help wondering what should have brought 
 so delicate a creature to our door on such a night as 
 that. The very thought of her exposure to the storm 
 sent a shudder over my frame and a chill to my bones.
 
 THE MAGDALEN. 
 
 275 
 
 I saw no more of her again that night We imme- 
 diately took leave of our grandparents at the fireside, 
 and went off to bed to dream of the wanderings of the 
 houseless and the wretched. What knew we favored 
 as we were of the biting frosts of want, and disease, 
 and neglect? How could hearts like ours unruffled 
 by any other tempests than the little jealousies of our 
 play be expected to take in the breadth and the 
 depth of human suffering ? 
 
 It had all been a fable to us till now. We had read 
 somewhat of it in story books, to be sure ; and had lis- 
 tened to tales of very poor people, who were obliged to 
 beg their precarious subsistence from door to door ; but 
 here was a living example of it all. Here was a tender 
 wanderer, taken into shelter from the bitter buffetings 
 of the winter storm, out of the^itiless darkness, out of 
 the very winding sheets the snow had been busily 
 weaving for her last shroud ! 
 
 All this came home to us now. We felt it as nothing 
 else could be felt, short of suffering ourselves. We saw 
 the worn-down sufferer, the pinched and pallid fea- 
 tures, the dying blue eyes, the slender form, too 
 weak, now, to support itself alone ; and at such a sight 
 our hearts bled. It was our first contact with the 
 monster, Want, and formed a great event in our lives. 
 
 The next morning, when we came down, the earth 
 was a sheet of snow. Deep drifts and banks were piled 
 every where about the house ; and the trees, just sway- 
 ing with the wind that had not yet all died away, were 
 thickly incrusted. Some of the limbs were ice-mailed 
 and panoplied all over ; and the huge trunks, where the 
 winds had beat steadily against them through the storm, 
 presented long strips of ice and snow to the newly-
 
 276 DOVECOTE. 
 
 Our first thought was of the wanderer we had the 
 night before taken in. I wondered what would have 
 become of her if she had not found shelter as she did. 
 
 She was too much exhausted to think of leaving her 
 chamber at all ; and my mother saw that she wanted 
 nothing where she was. She was determined she 
 should not, at least, lack for comforts. 
 
 A cheerful fire was kept constantly burning for her 
 on the chamber hearth, and my grandmother sat for 
 hours together by her bedside. 
 
 The little infant had been shown us once or twice ; 
 but the mother faintly protested, as my grandmother 
 afterwards told us. She was very weak yet with her 
 sufferings, and said but little. She tried to speak 
 her thanks, however, for the kindness done her; but 
 her syllables died away in whispers on her pale lips, 
 and with her blue eyes alone she expressed what she 
 could not find words to utter with her tongue. 
 
 No questions were asked her of the manner in which 
 she had come to her present need. Nothing was said 
 to wound the tender heart that beat now so feebly in 
 her bosom. My mother knew that, when the proper 
 time should come, all would be made plain. In the 
 mean while, she had nothing to think of but how best to 
 secure the comfort of the unexpected guest 
 
 We sat often together in the kitchen chimney corner, 
 the younger part of the household, talking in low 
 voices of this strangest of all events ; wondering where 
 the poor girl's friends could be, or even if she had any ; 
 expressing such free and undivided sympathy for her in 
 her suffering as children ever have ready for sights of 
 woe ; and hoping, for her own sake at least, that her 
 friends might corne soon and take her back to them- 
 selves, where she should be happy again.
 
 THE MAGDALEN. 277 
 
 But there were the suspicious servants, ready to taint 
 the freshness of our young hearts with their sinister 
 looks, and the forbidding wags of their heads, and their 
 dark hints, half expressed in whispers. 
 
 " She was no better than she should be ! " 
 
 How my blood heated with the wicked suspicion ! 
 How I longed for the coming of the day when I could 
 resent such cruel taunts in other ways than with my 
 looks ! 
 
 Poor wanderer ! We daily listened, as we sat about 
 the fire, to the little tender stories my mother dropped 
 into our hearts about her ; of how very patient she was 
 in her suffering, never murmuring or repining ; of how 
 fervently she loved her little babe, talking to it in the 
 tenderest voice, and pressing it passionately to her 
 aching breast ; of how she let fall brief hints of her 
 friends, and, suddenly recollecting herself, seemed to 
 beg, by the prayerful looks of her eyes, that nothing of 
 it might be told again. 
 
 She became a mystery to us at the time, I know ; 
 but it is no mystery now. The world is full of just such 
 woes. It is darkened with ten thousand thousand just 
 such wrongs. It is made sad with many and many a 
 low wail from just such pallid lips and just such break- 
 ing hearts. 
 
 The weeks wore away, and the months began to 
 melt from the calendar. The winter was rough and 
 rugged, purpling our cheeks, and biting our ears and 
 fingers, as it has done many a time since. The storm 
 banks in the skies gave up their dreary loads, and the 
 earth grew alternately white, and flecked, and brown. 
 
 At length came the spring rains, searching and 
 driving their drizzling floods every where. They beat 
 steadily upon the meadows and the hillsides, till it 
 24
 
 278 DOVECOTE. 
 
 seemed as if the soaked ground could hold no more. 
 The frosts thawed out, and the smokes steamed up 
 from the plains. 
 
 And then came the smiling and rosy-lipped spring 
 itself, with its freshly-sprouted grass blades, and its 
 newly-clothed trees. Dainty green blades pricked 
 through the softening mould, all along under the old 
 brown walls, and down through the long lanes, and 
 where strips of sunshine nestled warmest in every cosy 
 nook and corner. The buds of the soft maples donned 
 their scarlet jackets, fringed about all so tastefully ; and 
 the willow buds by the gurgling brooks put on their 
 woolly caps of white ; and the brilliant ladysmocks 
 glistened in the lowlands, where the brooks threaded 
 their way through the growing green. 
 
 The poor woman had not yet left her chamber. The 
 little infant, however, waxed strong ; but the mother's 
 life seemed slowly waning. There could be but few 
 more days left for her here. 
 
 The village doctor had been called in, and his skill 
 had done for her what it could ; but the little all of that 
 was not enough. The blue of her large eyes was 
 slowly retreating, as if backward to the depths of the 
 heaven whence it came. The color had died from her 
 sunken cheeks and from her thin lips. Only that 
 sweet, resigned, angelic expression remained. 
 
 The minister came in to see her, and sat by her bed- 
 side, talking slowly and solemnly. But she gave up no 
 secret to him. Her bleeding heart fluttered in her 
 breast like a wounded bird ; but not for such sympathy, 
 then, as his. 
 
 He might offer consolation ; he might freely spread 
 out the blessed promises ; he might be instrumental in 
 breaking the glebe that had been softened, but never
 
 THE MAGDALEN. 279 
 
 yet broken ; but he had not power to make that heart 
 give up its troublesome secret. Or, if he had the pow- 
 er, he had not the skill to do it. 
 
 He prayed with her. I well remember his earnest 
 tones in the little chamber, as we one day came home 
 from school. They drew me strangely to the spot. 
 
 The poor creature sobbed as if her heart must break. 
 She said nothing, however. Only those deep, agonizing 
 sobs betrayed her emotion. Her thin and white hands 
 lay, like faded shadows, over the counterpane ; and ever 
 and anon she would half lift them before her, as if in 
 silent supplication. 
 
 Had she a mother? I asked myself. Had she not 
 friends ? Was she cast out thus to die alone, without 
 that last boon so earnestly sought, the tenderly-given 
 blessing of her who bore her ? 
 
 She told them that night the same night on which 
 the minister came to leave her alone. My mother 
 had received the whole of her story, now, from her lips, 
 promising to keep it faithfully till the change came, 
 whether for the worse or the better. 
 
 It was the old story over again of 
 
 " One more unfortunate ! " 
 
 Towards morning only was she left alone, as she had 
 desired. She wished to have her own thoughts undis- 
 turbed, and to get sleep, if she could. 
 
 And the soft beating of her own bruised heart against 
 one other fresh and tender heart was all, save the occa- 
 sional deep breathing, that was to be heard in the apart- 
 ment. 
 
 The morning was a fresh gift from God. Never 
 dawned spring day more gloriously. 
 
 They had opened many of the windows of the old
 
 280 DOVECOTE. 
 
 house, to let in the new sun and the early morning 
 sounds. The birds were twittering in the garden trees 
 and in the old elms, and the swallows were swarming 
 with their shrill cry beneath the barn eaves. Fresh 
 winds drew into the rooms, loaded with the sweet fra- 
 grance. 
 
 My mother went softly to the sick woman's chamber, 
 and cautiously opened the door, fearing to waken her. 
 
 She looked towards the bed, and a sudden chill froze 
 her blood. 
 
 There lay the wearied body ; but the heart had done 
 counting the ebbing pulses of her life ! 
 
 The babe's fat little hand rested against its mother's 
 cold cheek, as if to waken her to behold the morning. 
 
 But the poor mother had waked that morning in 
 another world !
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 A LITTLE STRANGER. 
 
 THERE are events in the lives of children, no less than 
 in those of men, that change the whole current of their 
 feelings. The stream takes a sudden turn, and sweeps 
 away through pleasant lands of which the heart could 
 have had no thought before. 
 
 It was much later than usual when we got home from 
 school one afternoon, and I recollect that when I opened 
 the door only my grandfather sat in the corner by the 
 fire. The winter was far spent, and the old spring rud- 
 diness was slowly mantling his shrivelled cheeks again. 
 
 Just as soon as I had answered to his customary salu- 
 tation for he always had a mellow word or two for each 
 one of us on our return from school my grandmother 
 came softly tripping through the opposite door, and took 
 the old accustomed seat beside him. 
 
 " I am going to tell you something, my child," said 
 she, extending her hand towards me. 
 
 I looked up into the faces of both my grandparents, 
 half expecting to read the wonderful intelligence in 
 their eyes. I noticed that my grandfather's were twin- 
 kling very pleasantly upon me, and that my grandmother 
 half averted hers ; still, she wore a very contagious smile 
 about her mouth. Something was coming ; that I knew. 
 What could it be ? 
 
 She took hold of my hand, and drew me gently to her 
 side. The old man looked continually at me, as if he 
 24 * (28i)
 
 202 DOVECOTE. 
 
 were delighted at beholding the effect of my grand- 
 mother's very skilful tactics. For myself, I remember 
 only that I was lost in wonder. 
 
 The gentle old lady leaned her head down, still keep- 
 ing hold of my arm, and whispered in my ear, 
 
 " You've got another little sister ! " said she ; and im- 
 mediately lifted her face to that of my grandfather. 
 They exchanged very knowing looks ; and I remember 
 that my grandfather was so highly pleased, I knew not 
 then with what, that a genial smile broke out all over 
 his benignant face. 
 
 I was plunged into a deeper perplexity than ever. 
 
 The two old folks had something to say for a minute 
 or two in a whisper ; and then my grandmother, whose 
 hold on my arm had now relaxed, took me by the hand 
 again, and asked me if I would be sure and keep very 
 still, and make not the least bit of noise. 
 
 Certainly I would. That was a thing very easily 
 done, when by the means one's curiosity was in the 
 way of being gratified. 
 
 She thereupon rose from her chair, and led me out of 
 the room with her. 
 
 I next found myself in a darkened chamber, a cheer- 
 ful fire blazing on the hearth, and my good aunt sitting 
 in a chair near the bedside. The curtains were down 
 at the windows, and voluminous curtains let fall their 
 ample folds on either side of the old-fashioned bedstead. 
 My grandmother led me to the hearth, and made me sit 
 down ; not yet, however, speaking a word. Then she 
 stepped over to my aunt, and exchanged a few words 
 with her in whispers that I could not hear. There was 
 an ominous sound in the whispers, scarce breaking 
 through the silence of that sombre-looking chamber. 
 
 My eyes were plunged thoughtfully in the glowing fire.
 
 A LITTLE STRANGER. 283 
 
 At length, as I looked up, I saw my aunt standing be- 
 side me, holding what then seemed a little bundle of 
 white muslin in both her hands ; and my grandmother 
 looking complacently over her shoulder, first at the care- 
 fully-held bundle, and then at me. 
 
 My senses, somehow, came to me sufficiently to sug- 
 gest the need of rising to my feet, if I would see the 
 wonder that my aunt held out so patiently for my in- 
 spection. 
 
 There it was, sure enough ! How oddly it all came 
 over me ! The world seemed suddenly enlarged, so 
 that my heart, on the moment, took in more than it had 
 ever done before. 
 
 I gazed, with emotions I have no more words for now 
 than I had then, at the little expressionless face that 
 lay before me. The eyes were shut. The features 
 were almost too diminutive to be recognizable. It 
 looked like nothing I had ever seen before, and like 
 nothing I thought I should ever see again. 
 
 My aunt and my grandmother exchanged quick 
 glances very expressive glances, too. My grand- 
 mother's face betrayed the deep delight of her heart. 
 She could not have kept it back if she would. 
 
 We all had a merry time of it over " the baby " so 
 soon as our astonishment had a little abated ; and he 
 had, for the moment, quite a flowing feather stuck in 
 his cap, who was allowed the indescribable privilege of 
 holding the nursling in his own arms. But even on the 
 occasion of such experiments, my aunt kind and 
 thoughtful soul! held out her hands beneath the 
 precious load, that there might be no room at all for an 
 accident. 
 
 There was another added to our unbroken number. 
 Nine, now, in all ! We felt as if we must move back a
 
 284 DOVECOTE. 
 
 little, to widen the circle, and let the little stranger in. 
 We looked more thoughtfully at one another, as if we 
 were impatient to know of what exact nature the bud 
 was that had just been ingrafted on the family tree. 
 There was a secret reaching out of sympathies on all 
 sides an intense yearning towards the new comer. 
 Our hearts desired nothing so much as to begin to grow 
 into this other and fresher heart. We all wanted to be- 
 gin the making our marks upon the white sheet, where- 
 on was not yet a single scrawl. 
 
 Those were famous days, as the baby began to grow 
 bigger, and as we disputed for precedence in holding it 
 so awkwardly in our laps. The old rooms of Dovecote 
 never were so full of echoes as when we shouted at the 
 wonderful progress our baby made ; while we sagely 
 questioned if ever baby got on so fast before. There 
 was nothing we were unwilling to do for the little one. 
 There was scarce any thing we could not do for her. 
 The pet lamb of the whole flock, she kept the foun- 
 tains of our hearts all the time full and flowing. 
 
 There is no better loadstone in the home circle than 
 this. All the petty jealousies are drowned out in the 
 flood of the common joy. All the trifling complaints die 
 for the want of food to nourish them. All the little 
 bickerings are forgotten, as every heart moves silently 
 and unbidden to this common centre. 
 
 My grandmother had the privilege of naming the 
 child, and the day of the christening was a day of all 
 others to be remembered. I see those two old people 
 now, standing over the irreverent little babbler, and 
 scarce concealing their smiles as she throws up her 
 chubby hand to the clergyman. 
 
 It is only a picture of youth, set about with a frame- 
 work of crisp and dried mosses !
 
 CHAPTER XL! 
 
 JAKVIE THATCH. 
 
 IT was a day in early spring. The streets of the 
 town were alive with travellers in quest of the bracing 
 airs that were abroad. The memories of the dismal 
 days that had gone were smothered in the warmth of 
 the pleasant sunshine. 
 
 About the wharves swarmed beings of all shades and 
 colors, that the spring sun seemed to have thawed out 
 from their hiding-places. Lazy fellows were sunning 
 themselves against old buildings, or under the sides of 
 casks and barrels, their hands in their pockets, and their 
 eyes wandering off over the glistening water. 
 
 A rough-looking man, to appearance little accustomed 
 to these scenes about the quays, was strolling along 
 through the streets, his face haggard, and his eye burn- 
 ing with excitement Ever and anon he stopped, to 
 study more closely the features of some face he espied, 
 and then, dropping his head, walked on again. 
 
 The traveller was old Jarvie Thatch, the dweller with 
 little Daisy on the mountain at Kirkwood. 
 
 " That face looked like his ! " exclaimed he, in a sul- 
 len voice. " I thought I had him then ! " And then he 
 would start off once more. 
 
 Some secret trouble was preying, like a vulture, on 
 his heart. He was roaming the streets, as if he cared 
 for no one living, while yet each human face seemed to 
 have such an interest for him. Now he just crept along, 
 
 (285)
 
 28G DOVECOTE. 
 
 with his sharp eyes every where about him ; and now 
 he took an impulsive start, and pushed and drove along 
 as if he saw nothing on his way. 
 
 There was that in the conduct and appearance of old 
 Jarvie, that day, to challenge attention. Not a few 
 passers turned half round to catch another glimpse of 
 him as he went by, and not one who saw him but 
 thought there was some secret worth knowing in his 
 history. 
 
 There was a secret, and a fearful one for one like him 
 to keep. It preyed on him all the time. It allowed 
 lu'm no rest, day or night. It changed his whole nature. 
 It had made him the hermit he so long had been, and 
 drove him out of his retirement thus regularly on his er- 
 ratic journeys. He was under its controlling influence 
 while he wandered about the docks, and wharves, and 
 piers, and when he plunged within the purlieus of low 
 life, and vice, and crime going to the very heart of all, 
 to see if he might possibly find a solution for his prob- 
 lem there. 
 
 He stopped in a narrow lane, before a low door, and 
 peered cautiously in. 
 
 " If I really thought any good'd come of it," said he ; 
 " if I only thought that I should find him here ! But 
 how can I expect to ? It ain't likely he's a man to go 
 into such places ; and yet he may be. I've heerd of his 
 follerin' the sea ; and may be he does now." 
 
 A voice from within hailed him just at that moment. 
 
 " What do you want ? Come in ! " 
 
 He looked in again, hesitated a moment upon the 
 threshold, and went in. 
 
 The place was a sailor's boarding house. A table 
 was already spread for customers in a half retreat but 
 a little way from the door, and it was from this point
 
 JARVIE THATCH. 287 
 
 that the voice proceeded. The apartment wore an ex- 
 ceedingly dingy look, and the furniture seemed in all 
 respects to correspond with it. 
 
 The person who addressed him was a round, fat, oily 
 little man, with a rubicund face, on which the smiles 
 seemed to bum and blaze, and a prompt patronizing air 
 about him that would have assured any landlord of 
 greater pretensions his fortune. As Jarvie stepped in, 
 he kept bobbing and bowing his head, the crown of 
 which was as smooth as an apple. 
 
 Jarvie walked straight up to him, his eye kindling. 
 The host drew back, half fearing the strange gleam in 
 the stranger's eyes. The former bent over towards him, 
 and said, 
 
 " Has he been in here ? " 
 
 " Who ? " asked the landlord. " I guess so. Who ? " 
 
 " O, then you don't know ! Then you don't know 
 who I mean ! " 
 
 The fat landlord was anxious to answer all the inquiries 
 in his power, as well as all that were beyond it ; so he 
 replied a second time, 
 
 " Yes, I guess he's been in here. They all come here. 
 But I can't tell you, you know, till you say who you 
 mean ! " 
 
 Jarvie looked at him fixedly, as if the man had some- 
 how succeeded in tripping him. As soon as he came 
 to his understanding again, he stooped down, and whis- 
 pered in his ear. 
 
 The landlord slowly shook his head, and threw up 
 one foot after the other, as if he were going to cross the 
 room at a stride. 
 
 " He's the one ! " said Jarvie. 
 The other kept negatively shaking his head. 
 
 " Haven't you seen him ? "
 
 288 DOVECOTE. 
 
 " Don't know him," answered the man. 
 
 " Don't know him ! I do ! every body does ! " 
 
 The landlord now ceased the motion of his head, and 
 fixed his eye on the gleaming eye of his visitor. He 
 seemed trying to get at the heart of his monomania. 
 
 " He'd oughter be here," continued Jarvie, swinging 
 his arms around. " He'd oughter be every where. I 
 expect he's all about the streets. You know him ! 
 Every body knows him ! " 
 
 " No," said the landlord ; and again shook his head. 
 
 There was a silence of a few minutes, during which 
 Jarvie fastened his eyes on the sanded floor, appearing 
 to be lost in thought. Finally he broke from it all, and 
 asked if he could have something to eat. 
 
 " Set right up here ! " said the landlord, bustling 
 about to make ready a place for him at the table. 
 
 " I'm hungry" added Jarvie. " I've been without for 
 so long, nobody'd believe it. I walk the streets all 
 the time." 
 
 " You look tired," returned the host, going on with his 
 work. 
 
 After this he let the wandering man run on with his 
 talk much as he pleased ; answering an occasional 
 yes or no to the meaningless interrogatories he put him, 
 or confirming him in the ideas he seemed trying to ex- 
 press by such phrases as, " Just so ! " "I know it ! " 
 
 Jarvie had the table all to himself. It was not a time 
 in the day when there was an expectation of much of a 
 throng about the board, so that his disposition to talk 
 with himself was little hindered by the stares, and re- 
 torts, and questions of strangers. 
 
 While he ate his cheap and coarse food, bolting it as if 
 he were never to taste the like again, his thoughts car- 
 ried him pleasantly back from this close, stifling town
 
 JARVIE THATCH. 289 
 
 air, and those noisy, confused streets, to the quiet nest 
 he had built for himself upon the mountain side ; to the 
 little one he had left there unprotected ; to the days he 
 had passed in and around that spot already, some of 
 them fearfully rent with the tumultuous feelings that 
 drove him like a maddened creature into the depths of the 
 forest, and some mellowed with the saddened memories 
 that brooded about his heart ; and as he saw them all rise 
 again to his view, the strangest conflict of emotions was 
 going on within him. He dropped his knife and fork, and 
 looked up wildly at the walls. 
 
 " Poor Mary ! Poor thing ! " exclaimed he, aloud. 
 " To feel that you are without revenge yet ! It 'most 
 kills me to know that my hands are tied so ! " 
 
 From behind the edge of a temporary screen, the 
 landlord looked at his customer in profound amazement. 
 He feared lest he might be really crazy ; and even be- 
 gan to bestir his wits to devise some safe means of 
 having him secured, in case the man should attempt vi- 
 olence. The scowl on his brow deepened and darkened, 
 as Jarvie went on : 
 
 " You told me, Mary, on your death bed, to take care 
 of the child : that I've done ; and that I'm always goin' 
 to do, as long as I live. And I swore at the same time, 
 that, if there was revenge to be had this side of eternity, 
 I'd have it! I will ! I'll get it, if I wander the world 
 over ! O, my poor girl's memory ! How it haunts my 
 heart all the time ! What a feeling comes over me, 
 when I think o' the wrong that was done her ! How 
 my brain swims, as if my whole head was full o' blood ' 
 No, Mary, you shall be remembered ! Your father' II 
 never forget you, if all the rest of the world does ! " 
 
 Then he fell to his meal again, eating his food with 
 the ravenousness of one nearly famished. 
 25
 
 290 DOVECOTE. 
 
 As soon as he had finished he rose from his seat and 
 walked straight to the fat little landlord, who, it must be 
 added, rather quailed before him. 
 
 " I can't pay you for this," said Jarvie. " I've got r o 
 money ! " 
 
 The host looked half indignant and half surprised. 
 
 " What d'ye set down for, then ? " he asked, drawing 
 back still more than before. 
 
 " I was starving ! " replied Jarvie. " But I can't pay 
 you now. I'll pay you some other time. I'll be sure 
 to remember you ! " 
 
 There was something so impressive and peculiar in 
 his manner, that the taken-in host suffered his unprofit- 
 able customer to retreat to the door and pass out with- 
 out the protest of a single word. When he was gone, 
 the little fat man stood for some time with folded arms, 
 lost in wonder at the incident that had made such a rip- 
 ple in his day's life.
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 IN THE STREETS. 
 
 AFTER Jarvie left the scene of his refreshment, he 
 turned himself upon the town, grappling his staff more 
 tightly than ever as he went along. His entire look 
 was haggard and worn enough, so much so that not a 
 few turned quite round to regard him still more particu- 
 larly as he passed. 
 
 At first he followed the blind course of alleys and 
 narrow lanes, uncertain where they were to lead him. 
 By squalid men, that floated along in shoals, some of 
 them more squalid even than himself; under windows 
 where wretched-looking faces crowded and husky voices 
 mixed their babble on the air; past doors where men 
 gathered and chatted, some of them rolling and reeling 
 with their morning potations ; through crowds, jostling 
 and rubbing as he went, that were driving on for then- 
 day's business, or that were lazily drifting onward wher- 
 ever chance might carry them, the wretched old man 
 wound his way. 
 
 The town sights were no sights at all to his diseased 
 mind. His eyes were not open to take in pictures 
 either of delight or misery. He saw nothing that could 
 impress him. He heard nothing, not so much as the 
 stunning rattle of the carts, and stages, and wagons. 
 His thoughts were nowhere about him, were on nothing 
 with which he had come in contact as yet. His vision 
 was wandering and imperfect. 
 
 (591)
 
 292 DOVECOTE. 
 
 A man walking in a dream would have been no inapt 
 likeness of old Jarvie that day. His lips were all the 
 time moving, and he muttered low and incoherent syl- 
 lables. Now and then he would bring his staff it was 
 the old oak stick he had himself cut on the mountain, 
 near Kirkwood down heavily on the pavement, as if 
 he might be illustrating his thoughts with some violent 
 and effective gesture. 
 
 Presently he entered accidentally upon one of the 
 larger thoroughfares. Here every thing was on a 
 grander and more impressive scale. The streets were 
 so much wider, the stores were so much more splendid, 
 the people were so much better dressed : so great a 
 change called him to himself, in spite of the power of 
 his morbidness. The new sights flashed so vividly 
 upon him that their inspiriting influence at once entered 
 all his thoughts. For a time, then, he became simply a 
 child, gazing, with the ardor of young curiosity, at the 
 sights that glittered on his right hand and his left, and 
 suffering himself to be elated with the stirring sounds 
 that greeted him on every hand. 
 
 Now he stopped before a large plate window, and 
 crowded with others to study the free gallery of pic- 
 tures that was thus provided for him in common with 
 the rest There were beautiful prints, and engravings, 
 and two or three oil paintings. When Jarvie saw them, 
 all the traces of that love for beauty that slumbered in 
 his heart were awakened again. His soul warmed, and 
 his dull eye kindled. Grasping his staff with another 
 clutch, he crossed his hands behind him, and feasted on 
 the bounty that had been spread for all. 
 
 There was one picture a portrait. How much he 
 thought it resembled Mary his Mary ! Could it 
 have been copied from her features ? Could it be pos-
 
 IN THE STREETS. 293 
 
 sible that she had ever looked at that painting herself 
 in years past, and watched the slow process of its skil- 
 ful completion ? 
 
 The very possibility of such a thing delusive as the 
 thought really was was enough to fire all his feelings 
 anew. His energies suddenly flamed up, and he felt 
 himself younger by many and many a year. There was 
 the dear face of Mary, just as it looked before trouble 
 had set its burning seal upon its features. There was 
 that speaking eye, full of affection for her old father, 
 and holding evidence of the store that was to be thrown 
 away on another. About the lines of her mouth the 
 same pleasant smile was playing the smile that had 
 held his heart in subjection since the innocent days of 
 her childhood. 
 
 Was this all a dream ? Could illusion be produced 
 that would be able to work such deep changes in his 
 feelings ? Was he to wake from this sad yet delightful 
 deceit, and find himself ten times more bereft than 
 before ? 
 
 The people came up to the window, looked a mo- 
 ment or two, and moved on. But Jarvie stood firmly to 
 his ground. He saw nothing about him ; his thoughts 
 were upon nothing but the single picture that had so 
 taken him captive. 
 
 A gentleman finally came out from the store, and told 
 him not to stand before his window any longer ; it was 
 not a place for such as he to collect ! 
 
 The dream was all broken then - shivered, shattered 
 into a thousand fragments. 
 
 Jarvie looked up with a half-melancholy expression 
 
 in the man's face, but said nothing. The sadness was 
 
 lying across his heart, so that words were not at his 
 
 command. He felt no resentment nothing like a 
 
 25*
 
 294 DOVECOTE. 
 
 flaming up of passion ; but, giving the man a reproach- 
 ful look, he turned silently away. 
 
 All through the day he wandered in the streets, with 
 out plan and without purpose. There was a single 
 thought that engrossed him ; and he followed blindly on 
 after its wayward impulses. It was to hunt down the 
 author of all his misery. It was to fall upon him, when- 
 ever and wherever he might be found, and silence the 
 beating of his black heart at once and forever. 
 
 The influence of the pictures had left him ; or, if yet 
 alive, it was only to kindle his nature with new thoughts 
 of revenge. If it worked within him at all, it was to 
 change the current of his feelings, freezing them where 
 they but now were so genial, and firing them where but 
 so lately they were at rest 
 
 He begged for his dinner, which he jbtained only 
 after many repulses and much difficulty. At the areas 
 where he preferred his supplications servant maids told 
 him " No," very sharply, and said he had better be gone. 
 Ladies shunned contact with him on the walks, so that 
 he saw his best course would be to take to the 
 edge of the curbstone. He threw his face up towards 
 the shining windows of the elegant dwellings, and tried 
 to study the great cause of the difference in worldly 
 conditions. As elegantly attired females swept by him, 
 deigning no notice of so miserable a being as himself, 
 they knew not that a keen and searching pair of eyes 
 was upon them, and that an active brain was endeavor- 
 ing to understand the true secret of their superiority 
 over an humbler child, like his own dead one. 
 
 He stopped and gazed up at the golden dials of the 
 town clocks, notching off the moments with his eyes. 
 His vision ran up the slender spires and steeples, and 
 then swam away in the melting sea of blue just beyond
 
 IN THE STREETS. 295 
 
 How his thoughts went out through his eyes, and sailed 
 away to the dim and distant regions where he felt lived 
 the idol of his heart ! 
 
 A man, wearing a badge of office, accosted him 
 towards the latter part of the day, and asked him what 
 he was doing, standing about so. 
 
 Jarvie sullenly answered, " Nothing," and eyed the 
 functionary keenly. 
 
 " Then you'd better keep moving," suggested the 
 latter. 
 
 " It's jest what I've been doin' all day," said he. 
 
 " Where do you think of going ? " 
 
 He shook his head, as if he meant to say he didn't 
 know. 
 
 " You mustn't stand about in this way," repeated the 
 man. " If you've got any where to go, move along ! " 
 
 Jarvie wanted to ask him how he should do, if he 
 hadn't any particular place to go to ; but he was thought- 
 ful enough to keep his own counsel, and walked on. 
 
 He crossed into another street, and followed its course 
 for perhaps a quarter of a mile. Then he turned at his 
 right hand, and walked back for twice that distance. 
 Then the streets seemed to diverge as from a common 
 centre ; and he took the narrowest, in which human life 
 seemed to be most crowded, and where there was, ap- 
 parently, the best prospect of studying the passing faces. 
 
 So he threaded his way among the crowds, at this 
 time in the day more dense and bustling than ever. 
 Working people were going home from their day's busi- 
 ness, many of them with the pails and baskets in which 
 they were wont to carry their dinners. Girls walked by 
 him, weary and pale from their steady confinement. 
 He studied all their expressions, all the time thinking 
 only of that one face that was mirrored in his heart:
 
 296 POVECOTE. 
 
 Boys were out, crying newspapers and shouting to 
 each other. Carts were going by without loads, as if 
 to another night's rest from labor. In the shop windows 
 the flare of gaslights might here and there be seen, 
 though, as yet, the illumination was not general. Clerks 
 were moving articles from the doors within, and shut- 
 ting out the cool night air from the shops. And men 
 stood at corners, some of them giving hurried directions 
 to porters, and others comparing notes on the day's pro- 
 ceedings. 
 
 Faster and faster now the night shadows gathered, 
 crowding down between the tops of the high buildings, 
 and blocking up the entrances to the streets with gloom. 
 The old man's eyes were more piercing than ever. He 
 seemed to grope his way along now, looking carefully 
 in the face of every man he met. He clutched his 
 heavy oak stick still more firmly, and struck it smartly 
 against the pavement. 
 
 A newsboy cried his wares exactly in his face, making 
 him start with alarm. 
 
 " You little villain ! " he muttered, half raising his 
 stick. 
 
 A heavy cart rambled along behind him, and the 
 horse's nose just brushed his shoulder. 
 
 He jumped half across the sidewalk to escape the 
 impending danger. 
 
 By and by the lights grew more plenty. They 
 winked at him from the tall lantern posts that lined the 
 streets, and flashed in his face from the shop windows. 
 His complexion looked much darker than usual in their 
 glare, and his expression vastly more haggard and re- 
 pulsive. People passed him as if he were an object of 
 their suspicion. 
 
 Suddenly he stopped short. His quick eye caught a
 
 IN THE STREETS. 297 
 
 glimpse of a face he thought he knew. He threw him- 
 self exactly in the way of a man who was passing, and 
 clutched him fiercely by the throat. 
 
 " Villain ! Death to you now ! I've found you at 
 last ! " were his threatening exclamations. 
 
 At the same time he raised his heavy staff, and began 
 to deal the blows about him, with no regard to any one's 
 safety. JHis brain was on fire. His eyes swam in 
 blood. He worked his features into the most terrible 
 shapes. The frowns on his face were as dark and 
 threatening as clouds full of storms. 
 
 " What is this ? What do you mean ? " shouted the 
 victim, appalled by so unexpected an attack. " Hands 
 off! Away with you ! " 
 
 " You know what I mean ! " cried Jarvie, in return. 
 " I have hunted long for you ! I've found you at last ! 
 There go to your doom ! " 
 
 He bestowed a heavy blow as he spoke, which the 
 man caught with his arm. Still he kept his hold at his 
 throat. 
 
 At this opportune moment a crowd began to gather. 
 Some one cried one thing, and some another. All 
 united in seizing hold, finally, of the madman, and se- 
 curing his arms from the possibility of further mischief. 
 
 An officer came up and marched him off to the sta- 
 tion house, under a popular escort. His victim, how- 
 ever, caught his fierce look, as they were carrying him 
 away. Evidently he saw who he was, for, on the in- 
 stant, he plunged into the crowd of passers, determined 
 to keep out of the public view.
 
 CHAPTER XLIIL 
 
 THE BOY AND THE MAN. 
 
 AMONG those that followed the unfortunate prisoner 
 along was a newsboy, who carried his dwindled bundle 
 tightly under his left arm, and ceased his crying until 
 he could find time to gratify his curiosity. 
 
 The mob swelled as it went on, much like a snowball 
 in its course down a hill. All sorts of .people joined in 
 the pursuit. Some hurried to the shop doors, and 
 looked out eagerly to know what all the tumult meant 
 Others moved off briskly from the walks, unwilling to 
 encounter so formidable an assemblage. In the front 
 of all walked the prisoner. He was bareheaded now, 
 and his oak staff had been taken from him. His eyes 
 were bent upon the ground, and, from the expression of 
 his face, one would believe that his thoughts troubled 
 him seriously. 
 
 One and another offered some word to him ; but he 
 took no heed of any thing. He merely bent to the fate 
 that had overtaken him, trying to disguise his deep cha- 
 grin in the best way he could. 
 
 He was conducted to a lockup, and there secured for 
 the night. Those about the office of the prison asked 
 him no questions, but suffered him to sit moodily, for a 
 short time, on the low bench on which he had been 
 placed, his face buried in his hands. 
 
 A boy came and ventured to sit down beside him. It 
 would seem that his curiosity was no larger than his 
 
 (908)
 
 THE BOY AND THE MAN. 299 
 
 sympathy. There was something in the worn look 
 of the man that appealed to his tenderer feelings at 
 once. 
 
 He spoke to Jarvie, hoping to get a reply. But the 
 man kept his face downwards, lost in the depths of his 
 wretchedness. 
 
 The boy was little Billy Stokes the old friend of 
 Milly, and the later friend of Snarly Moll ! 
 
 Could it be that his young heart, tutored as it must 
 be to such scenes, still retained a germ of sympathy for 
 every sufferer ? 
 
 " Could I be of any help to you ? " inquired he, in his 
 pleasant voice. 
 
 The tone in which it was given awoke Jarvie from 
 his dull revery. He raised his head, and looked round 
 at his side, where Billy sat. After he had reviewed 
 him carefully, he answered, 
 
 " What can such as you do ? " 
 
 " I'll do what good I can," said Billy. " I'm wittiri I " 
 
 " Give me your hand," said Jarvie, extending his own. 
 " We'll strike a friendship from this minute ! But you 
 can't be of any help." 
 
 " Why not ? Try me. Tell me how." 
 
 " You wouldn't know how to go to work," returned 
 Jarvie, shaking his head. " But you're a brave little fel- 
 ler, though. God bless ye for your kindness ! May- 
 hap you'll make a man yet ! " 
 
 Billy was going to say he hoped so, when one of the 
 officers about the place interrupted them. 
 
 " Come," said he to Jarvie. 
 
 " Where ? " 
 
 " I'll show you. Into another room. Here this 
 way ! " 
 
 Billy at once rose to his feet, and begged permission
 
 300 DOVECOTE. 
 
 of the officer, in a whisper, to go with him for a few 
 minutes. 
 
 " What for ? " inquired he, looking at him closely. 
 
 " O, I want to talk," said Billy. 
 
 " Talk?" 
 
 '*-Yes ; somethin' pertikler." 
 
 " You can't stay long, if you do," said the officer. 
 
 " Only a few minnits," said Billy. " He wants me. 
 Til be much obliged for it." 
 
 " /don't care," returned the man ; and led them both 
 into a close apartment, locking the door after him. 
 
 " Have they locked you up, too ? " asked Jarvie, turn- 
 ing round and finding only his little friend with him. 
 " What have you been doin' ? " 
 
 " Nothing. I asked to come in with you. They'll 
 let me out agin, I guess." 
 
 The unhappy man seated himself on the bench that 
 was placed against the wall, and put on all his former 
 gloom again. His countenance fell rapidly, a thing 
 Billy Stokes was nowise slow to perceive. 
 
 " What did they take you for ? " asked Billy. " What 
 did you do ? " 
 
 " Then you didn't see it ? " 
 
 " No ; I come along with the crowd." 
 
 " 'Twas nothing," said Jarvie ; " only I knocked a 
 man." 
 
 " Thafs something, I sh'd think. Hurt him much? 
 Where is he ? " 
 
 " I wish I'd killed him," answered Jarvie ; " but I 
 guess I didn't." 
 
 " What for ? What's he done ? " 
 
 " Robbed me ; robbed me of all I had ! " 
 
 " Phew ! " ejaculated the youthful newsman. " Then 
 I should thought they'd took him ! "
 
 THE BOY AND THE MAN. 30} 
 
 " So any body would ; but they didn't. My boy, do 
 you know or, if you don't, you will that justice 
 ain't to be got in this world ? that every thing goes by 
 chance? that my life hasn't been any thing but luek 
 and chance from the beginning ? " 
 
 Billy looked serious and thoughtful 
 
 " That man ought to ha' died long ago ! He ain't 
 worthy to live ! But he goes free, and Jam locked up ! 
 That's the way the world wags, my little son." 
 
 " Why didn't you never tell on him, then ? " ventured 
 Billy. 
 
 " I never see him till to-night ; and I've waited and 
 watched for him these years ! How could I tell on him ? 
 Besides, what he done people don't consider crime. 
 They don't punish a man for breaking a father's heart. 
 But if he niches from his pocket, the prison doors swing 
 open for him of themselves. That's it, my son.! " 
 
 " Did he break your heart ? " innocently pursued the 
 boy, little versed in such matters theoretically. 
 
 " He's come as near to it as any body ever will," an- 
 swered Jarvie. " But what of that ? There ain't no 
 punishment for him, only what I've a mind to deal out 
 myself, as I was a-doin'. But the minnit one takes such 
 matters into his own hands, see how they pull him, and 
 claw him, and lug him off to prison ! See what a black 
 mob follows him, as if every man'd like to tear his heart 
 out ! " 
 
 " It's hard," sympathized the boy. 
 
 " You'll know it for yourself, as soon as you get along 
 farther in life. I never hit the man so mueh as a smart 
 rap, he kept off my stick so well ; but that ain't saying 
 I didn't mean to. Id ^-killed him, certain, if I could. 
 He deserves it If nobody else'd do it, / was ready 
 to." 
 
 26
 
 302 DOVECOTE. 
 
 " But where had you seen him before ? " asked Billy, 
 pursuing the subject along to its source. 
 
 " You can't know that," answered Jarvie, mournfully. 
 " It's more than I can tell. I'd tell you, if I told any 
 body, for I seem to think you don't like to see me in 
 trouble." 
 
 " I don't," said Billy. 
 
 " But I must keep that secret for myself. I can 
 carry it about with me whole better than I can break it 
 up and divide it round. Yet it troubles me a good 
 deal." 
 
 " Then the man must be afraid of you ? " 
 
 " I don't believe he'll show himself agin," said Jarvie. 
 
 " If he don't," answered Billy, " then you won't have 
 no cause to fear ; for there'll be nothin' against you." 
 
 Jarvie pondered upon it 
 
 " That's true enough ! " finally exclaimed he, his 
 countenance lighting up. " That's true enough ! Id 
 never ha' thought on it ! " 
 
 " And so you'll go free," added Billy. 
 
 " Then I'll go free ! " repeated the old man. " Til 
 have no fears of myself now. He'll never dare to make 
 complaint of mei and so they'll discharge me. That's 
 it Why didn't I think o' that before ? But you're a 
 right pleasant little fellow, ain't you ? " 
 
 Billy looked modest ; and told him he didn't like to 
 see any body suffer man, woman, or child. 
 
 " You're right ! " exclaimed Jarvie. " You're right ! 
 I hope you'll find somebody at your hand when you're 
 in trouble yourself." 
 
 " I hope I never*!! git into trouble," rejoined he. 
 
 " Well, well," said Jarvie, " that's better yet ! But. 
 then, one can't tell what's goin' to happen, you know 
 The world's full of chance. / never thought o' bein'
 
 THE BOY AND THE MAN. 303 
 
 here, and brought here for such a crime as I might ha' 
 done. It was chance that brought me here." 
 
 " And chance," added Billy, " that saved that man's 
 life, and your own, too ! " 
 
 " Jest so, my son," acquiesced Jarvie. " But 111 see 
 more of you, some time. I hope you'll prosper, wher- 
 ever you be." 
 
 Just at that moment the officer opened the door, and 
 told the boy he must go out of the room. He could not 
 allow him to stay longer. 
 
 Billy started for the door, throwing a look full of sym- 
 pathy upon the unhappy old man as he went. Jarvie 
 returned it, and exclaimed, as he extended him his 
 rough hand, 
 
 " May Heaven prosper you ! Go on as you do now, 
 and you'll ccme out as well as any body ! Good 
 night ! " * 
 
 And with the slam of the ' heavy door Jarvie Thatch 
 was left alone to himself and his reflections. The 
 apartment was dark and quite gloomy. His thoughts, 
 too, were but little at variance with the aspect of the 
 place. He sat for an hour or more afterwards, brooding 
 over the first trouble that had wrought for him such 
 complete desolation.
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 A JOYFUL MEETING. 
 
 THERE was great joy expressed in the countenance 
 of Miss Nancy, one day, as she opened and read a let- 
 ter that had just been brought her from the post office ; 
 and while the rest were waiting to learn what was the 
 cause of it all, that they might share it with her, she 
 told them that her friend, Mrs. Trevor, had proposed 
 coming to Dovecote for a few days, as soon as she 
 should have finished a visit at a point on the way. 
 
 The children all immediately clapped their hands, 
 and seemed as much delighted as Miss Nancy herself. 
 
 " When will she come ? What day will she be 
 here ? " was asked by more than one. 
 
 " Next week," replied Miss Nancy, again referring to 
 her letter ; " on Thursday." 
 
 The intelligence was the signal for a general juvenile 
 race about the house and around the yard. One told 
 the other of it, as if the latter had not heard it too ; and 
 all joined in saying that they knew she would be good 
 company, for she was a friend of Miss Nancy. 
 
 The latter still held Milly by her side, talking with 
 her about it. 
 
 " Now," said she, " I shall want to show her what a 
 nice little friend I've got here ; and I know she'll envy 
 me the possession. It was in coming from a visit with 
 her that I found you, dear Milly. Was any thing ever 
 more fortunate ? " 
 
 (304)
 
 A JOYFUL MEETING. 305 
 
 We counted the days impatiently till that before the 
 appointed Thursday, and then we slowly notched off 
 the hours. It seemed as if this last day was the long- 
 est of all. From Thursday morning's breakfast till the 
 late hour for the appearance of the coach at the inn, 
 there was a universal watching and wondering. 
 
 At last the carryall came up the avenue, with my 
 father driving, and Miss Nancy and her friend on the 
 back seat. As soon as we espied the latter, there was 
 a spontaneous burst of joy. 
 
 But as eyes grew sharper, and observation became 
 more close, it was discovered that the vehicle contained 
 still another. It was a girl, and a stranger. We were 
 all lost in our attempts to guess who she could be. 
 
 They came up before the door and got out. As soon 
 as they entered the door, a very unexpected cause of 
 excitement offered itself. The girl Mrs. Trevor had 
 brought with her ran hastily up to Milly and kissed her 
 right heartily. No one knew what to make of it. And 
 the affair became still more complicated, when it was 
 observed that Milly returned her affectionate advances 
 with quite as much warmth as they were offered. 
 
 The stranger girl was nobody but Snarly Moll. She had 
 had the good luck to drift into the pleasant harbor Mrs. 
 Trevor's house offered her from the tempestuous ocean 
 she had sailed all her life, and had now come out to 
 Dovecote with her new mistress, to be deeply surprised 
 herself, and to surprise the rest as well. 
 
 " Why, Milly ! " was her first exclamation. 
 
 Both Mrs. Trevor and Miss Nancy regarded them 
 with astonishment. 
 
 " Who is she ? " asked the latter, in an undertone. 
 
 " A little girl I took ; but how should she know her ? " 
 returned Mrs. Trevor. 
 26*
 
 306 DOVECOTE. 
 
 " That passes my comprehension. We shall learn, 
 however, in good time, I do not doubt." 
 
 The girls, after their first interview, sat apart, looking 
 at each other, but saying nothing. 
 
 Mrs. Trevor asked Snarly Moll, as soon as the family 
 circle became somewhat composed, where she had seen 
 little Milly before. The girl hung her head, and seemed 
 excessively loath to answer. So the question, just at that 
 time, was not pressed. 
 
 Then Miss Nancy asked Milly if she knew Moll be- 
 fore that day. 
 
 " Yes," was her candid answer. 
 
 " Well, where did you ever see her before ? " 
 
 Milly half hesitated. It was quite natural that she 
 should have a repugnance to bringing up the reminis- 
 cences of the Byeboro' poorhouse. 
 
 " Where I lived once," finally replied she, however. 
 
 Miss Nancy threw a quick glance at her friend, and 
 said to her, in a low voice, 
 
 " I'll tell you all about it, by and by." 
 
 It was not a great while after that the two waifs of 
 fortune, Milly and Molly, found an opportunity to hold 
 the private and prolonged conference each so much de- 
 sired. They went out behind the old barn, and sat 
 down just beyond the heavy latticed gate that opened 
 upon the pasture. 
 
 It seemed a long time since they last saw each other, 
 and they betrayed their astonishment at first by staring 
 very steadily into one another's eyes. Then words came 
 slowly and by degrees. Moll, however, was much the 
 more ready with them. 
 
 " It's so strange," said she, " that I should find you 
 here ! I never thought o' such a thing ! I've thought 
 of you a good deal, fust and last, as I had time ; but
 
 A JOYFUL MEETING 307 
 
 little was the idee I had that you'd turn up in this quiet 
 place. Most as pleasant as Byeboro', ain't it ? " And she 
 nudged Milly with her elbow, and laughed in her face. 
 
 " I had rather live here than at Byeboro'," said Milly. 
 " I was glad to get away from there." 
 
 " But how did ye do it ? " asked Moll. " That's what 
 puzzled us all. We lost you ; and every body was a 
 wonderin' and huntin' round to know where you'd gone 
 to. And you went in the night, too ! We see you go to 
 bed; but when we got up, you was gone ! It troubled 
 old Flox a good deal. You remember him, don't ye ? " 
 
 Milly thought he had a small place in her memory. 
 
 " Wai, I s'pose he was afeard folks would think he'd 
 made 'way with you, or somethin' else as bad; and 
 that's what troubled him. You never see a man so 
 worked up as he was. And I was glad of it, too ! " 
 
 " But how did you get away ? " inquired Milly. 
 
 " Run away," promptly answered the other. " Ain't 
 that the way you got clear yourself? " 
 
 " Yes ; but I couldn't help it. I was sick of staying 
 there. I never was used to such people." 
 
 " Poor thing ! No more did the rest on us think so, 
 at the time ! For one, though, I felt glad when you'd 
 certainly gone. I knew you couldn't git no worse place ; 
 and perhaps there was a chance of a better somewhere. 
 And you've found it ! How did ye ? " 
 
 Milly then began and narrated to her Byeboro' ac- 
 quaintance the whole story of her escape from the poor- 
 house prison with Adam Drowne, and of her protracted 
 journey with him ; of their good and bad fortune by the 
 way ; of her accidental separation from her protector ; of 
 her trouble on the crowded steamboat, and the kind 
 sympathy of a strange lady ; and, finally, of her being 
 brought straight to the quiet door of Dovecote by her
 
 JUO DOVECOTE. 
 
 unknown friend, by whose side she had to that day con- 
 tentedly remained. 
 
 The story struck the mind of Moll as being a very 
 strange one indeed. There was a mystery in the good 
 fortune of her friend that one like her could not be ex- 
 pected to fathom. 
 
 " You was lucky, wan't you ? " exclaimed she, as soon 
 as her surprise would allow her. 
 
 " I am glad to live here," answered Milly ; and, in- 
 deed, the expression of her countenance at that moment 
 showed it. 
 
 " And old Adam, old crazy Adam ; what ever got him, 
 I wonder ? He never come back again, while / was 
 at ByeboroV 
 
 " He's been here," Milly told her. 
 
 This was another surprise. 
 
 " Why, how you talk ! I never heerd sich stories as 
 you're a tellin' of me ! Adam Drowne been here ! How 
 come he to find the way ? How come he to know you 
 was here?" 
 
 " He didn't, I guess ; but he came by accident. He 
 didn't come to the house here ; I saw him over in the 
 meadow." 
 
 " In the medder ! Adam Drowne wandering round 
 here, in these parts ! I wonder where he don't go, 
 now ! " 
 
 And so every body else, who knew him, wondered. 
 
 " Now tell me about yourself," begged Milly. " How 
 did you get here with that lady, Miss Nancy's friend." 
 
 " Whose friend, did you say ? " asked the other, her 
 ears open to catch every thing. 
 
 " Miss Nancy's. " 
 
 " Then she's the lady that fetched you here ? the one 
 that rode up with us from the tavern down here."
 
 A JOYFUL MEETING 309 
 
 " Yes," said Milly, " that's the one. She's Miss 
 Nancy." 
 
 " Wai, how did I get acquainted with Miss Trevor, 
 do you say ? I'll tell you. It wan't a great while after 
 you got out of the old Byeboro' poorhouse that I thought 
 I'd do somethin' much the same way. So I followed 
 on, too." 
 
 " Who came with you ? " interrupted Milly. 
 
 " Who come with me ? I come alone ; and afoot, 
 too. I made my tracks in the road jest as quick as I 
 could get off. I'd no notion, at the time, where I was 
 goin' to ; but yet I'd pretty much made up my mind for 
 the city, in the end. You know you'd told me a good 
 deal about the people there was there, and the streets, 
 and the shops, and the houses. I'd had it in my mind 
 to go there ever since I'd heerd you talk so about it. I 
 knew there'd be a better chance there than in that dis- 
 mal old dungeon of a poorhouse, even if there wan't no 
 chance at all. I'd lived in poorhouses all my life, and 
 I felt as if I wanted a change." 
 
 " And you've had one, too ? " 
 
 " That, indeed, I have ; and a good one, too, I assure 
 you. When I reached the city, and it cost me some 
 time to git along that fur, I found I had every thing 
 in the world aginst me. It seemed as if all my 
 troubles come to once. At Byeboro', now, one thing 
 come to a time ; but, there, I thought my strength 
 wan't enough for 'em altogether. 
 
 " I wandered round the streets, and went into some 
 few houses to git work ; but nobody knew me, and 
 nobody seemed to want to. I couldn't give folks no 
 recommend, you know, because I never'd worked no- 
 where. So some of 'em shook their heads at me only ; 
 and some said, ' No,' jest as short as piecrust ; and
 
 310 DOVECOTE. 
 
 some told me to look out and take good care of my fin 
 gers as I went out, or perhaps I might get a home on 
 the island. That's where the long, stone prison is, you 
 know. 
 
 " Finally, one day, 1 come up with a newsboy. He 
 wasn't so big as I was ; but nothing did I care for that 
 He had a right good face ; and I felt as if he'd got a 
 heart, too, young as he was. So I jest asked him what 
 he could do for me, in the way of giving me a penny or 
 two to get a bite of food. What do you think the little 
 feller did ? Why, he told me to come straight along 
 after him. And I did. He took me to where he lived, 
 and told his kind mother about me. She set me up to 
 her own table right off, bless her soul ! and give me 
 as good a supper as I ever had. And what was more 
 yit, she made me stay all night, too, and a good lot of 
 other nights, besides ; and, ever so long after, she put 
 me in the way of gittin' the place I have got, through 
 one of her friends. If ever any body had cause to be 
 glad, it's myself. 
 
 " And there's another thing, Milly, that's better than 
 all yit. That woman and little boy said they know'd 
 you through and through ! " 
 
 Milly started. 
 
 " Her name was Stokes ; and she said you used to 
 live right in the same house, next room, right-hand side. 
 I never was more struck in all my life ; and I've been 
 struck pretty hard with some things, too." 
 
 It was impossible for the child to get over her sur- 
 prise. Nor was her delight any the less to know that 
 her old friend Moll had been the recipient of Mrs. 
 Stokes's kindness, and had been saved from starvation 
 itself by the generous intervention of Billy. 
 
 She had a hundred questions to ask about them all ;
 
 A JOYFUL MEETING. 311 
 
 and, while Moll was answering them, and Milly was 
 listening with intense eagerness, Miss Nancy made her 
 appearance round the corner of the barn, and broke up, 
 for the time, the interview.
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 ON THE MOUNTAIN. 
 
 DURING Mrs. Trevor's stay at Dovecote, Milly and 
 Moll went rambling over the meadows one pleasant 
 forenoon, careless where the impulse might lead them. 
 
 The air was fresh and invigorating, and set Milly's 
 pulses to bounding with a new life. She looked more 
 a little angel than a mortal, as she went skipping and 
 tripping along, her long curls streaming away from her 
 head, the bloom showing on her cheeks, and her eyes 
 kindling with pleasure. 
 
 " This is all pleasant," said Moll, surveying the de- 
 lightful walks over which she took her. " This is as 
 pleasant as the city, I declare." 
 
 " Pleasanter ! " insisted Milly. 
 
 " Wai, I don't know but 'tis. I should think you'd be 
 happy here, I'm sure." 
 
 They came to a stone wall by and by, to the top of 
 which they climbed ; and, perched on this elevation, 
 they sat for some time, talking of their old acquaintance, 
 and admiring the charming scene of the morning. Milly 
 would, in one breath, ask something more about Mrs. 
 Stokes ; and, in the next, tell Moll to look yonder and 
 see the little brook swimming down through the rich, 
 green grass. 
 
 The notes they had to compare were enough to have 
 held the attention of ordinary business people a much 
 longer time ; but there is eminent despatch in young 
 
 C31S)
 
 ON THE MOUNTAIN. 313 
 
 spirits, and Milly got far enough along with her in- 
 quiries to propose a walk up the mountain. 
 
 " Up the mountain ? " said Moll. " Where's that ? " 
 
 " Up that high place yonder," replied she, pointing in 
 the direction of the acclivity. 
 
 " Call that a mountain ? Yes, I'll go. What's up 
 there ? snakes and things ? " 
 
 Her companion laughed, and told her, not snakes, but 
 fiOes. 
 
 " Folks ! " exclaimed she. " What, two-legged ? " 
 
 " All but the cat," said Milly. 
 
 " What do they want to live 'way up there for ? 
 Why, it's most up to the sky ! I guess they don't want 
 for air, up there," she added ; " nor thunder an' lightnin', 
 neither ! " 
 
 Down from the wall, therefore, they jumped, Moll, 
 as usual, much the more nimble of the two, and start- 
 ed off across the fields. The sun had long ago dried 
 the dew ; and daisies and buttercups begemmed all the 
 plain. Two or three times they leaped across the nar- 
 row bed of the brook, as it wound hither and thither, 
 and doubled and turned on its purposeless course, its 
 gay prattle and laughter filling their hearts with nothing 
 but melody. 
 
 When they fairly reached the foot of the mountain, 
 they sat down to rest themselves. Milly's cheeks were 
 rosy red, and the eyes of Snarly Moll were swimming 
 with pleasure. They sat and gathered the pale wild 
 flowers that grew at their feet, and made them into 
 bunches for the occupants of the hut. 
 
 " Who is't that lives there ? " said Moll. " You 
 haven't told me. Black, or white ? " 
 
 " The man is tanned some, I should think," answered 
 the other. 
 
 27
 
 314 DOVECOTE. 
 
 " And what color's the woman ? " 
 
 " There isn't any woman." 
 
 " Ain't none ! Does the man live alone ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " What then ? Why don't you tell ? I guess it's 
 some evil sperrit up there, ain't it ? " 
 
 " No ; it's a girl, just like you and me." 
 
 " A girl ! And who else ? " 
 
 " Nobody but a cat." 
 
 " A girl like us live up there alone ! " 
 
 Moll might well express her astonishment. 
 
 " Yes ; only she, and her grandfather, and the cat 
 You don't know what a queer place it is. And such 
 queer folks, too ! though I Like the girl a good deal." 
 
 " What's her name ? " 
 
 " Daisy." 
 
 " That's an odd name, now, ain't it? Who ever 
 heerd the like of it ? Daisy ! How odd it sounds ! 
 Why, she was named after that flower that grows over 
 in the medder there ! " 
 
 " I should think so," said Milly. " Any body would." 
 
 " But was she born up here ? " 
 
 " I don't know. I never asked her. But I guess not. 
 People say she came here years ago, though." 
 
 " And didn't her mother come with her ? " 
 
 " I don't know. She never told me much." 
 
 As soon as they were refreshed they rose to their feet 
 again, and began the ascent. Milly managed to go 
 along with much more than her accustomed ease, owing, 
 probably, to her familiarity with the windings of the 
 path, and, perhaps, in some degree, to the ambition she 
 had in being able to show her former friend an object 
 so worthy of her interest as the hut of old Jarvie. 
 
 They paused a moment when they reached the natu-
 
 ON THE MOUNTAIN. 3L5 
 
 ral shelf on which the hut stood, Moll giving herself up 
 to the contemplation of the scenery. 
 
 " It's an odd place for a hut," said she, in a low 
 voice, as soon as she turned round to the dwelling 
 again. 
 
 Milly beckoned her on, and a few steps brought them 
 to the door. So quiet had been their approach, the in- 
 mates of the hut heard nothing of it, and received no 
 other warning than that which the bristling back of the 
 black cat sufficed to give. 
 
 Daisy was sitting on the bench, engaged in weaving 
 together long strips of striped wild grass. She imme- 
 diately turned round and recognized Milly, uttering an 
 exclamation of surprise and delight. 
 
 The moment, however, she saw another hi her com- 
 pany, her countenance perceptibly fell. The eagerness 
 of her welcome was half gone. 
 
 But Milly was much too intent on another object of 
 interest to observe this sudden change in Daisy's ex- 
 pression ; for over in a back corner, seated on one end 
 of the low bench he had partly drawn to that locality, 
 sat Adam Drowne. Not till Daisy spoke did he look 
 up to see who had come. 
 
 Moll was close behind her conductress, and stood on 
 the threshold at nearly the same moment. As soon, 
 therefore, as Adam spied Milly, he spied her likewise. 
 
 His eye glared, and his muscles twitched convulsive- 
 ly. It was a little time before he could speak at all. 
 When he did speak, his first words were, 
 
 " Snarly Moll ! " 
 
 This seemed the harmless explosion of all his aston- 
 ishment. 
 
 The girl was nearly as much excited as himself 
 to meet him under such unexpected circumstances.
 
 316 DOVECOTE. 
 
 " How did you get here ? " asked Adam, coming a 
 little to himself. 
 
 " Afoot," answered she, with her usual roguery. 
 
 " Yes, yes," faintly assented he, wagging his head. 
 " Just the same girl you always was, I see ! No change 
 yet ! And Milly, did you bring her up here ? " 
 
 She told him that she did. 
 
 " Where did you come from, Moll ? " he asked her. 
 " I declare, I'd never thought o' seein' you here ! " 
 
 " Nor I you, either," said Moll. 
 
 " It's astonishin', really. D'ye come from Byeboro' ? " 
 
 " Not lately." 
 
 " You run away, too ! " exclaimed he. 
 
 " I couldn't stay after you and Milly come ; 'twas too 
 lonesome." 
 
 " But what did they say of her goin' ? Did they think 
 'twas one o' the oddest things they'd ever heerd of? 
 Did they say I had any thing to do about it ? What 
 did they say, Moll ? " 
 
 She told him, as nearly as she could, exactly what 
 they did say. 
 
 " As if I could have staid and seen that child suffer 
 there so ! I'd worked my fingers off to support her 
 first ! " said he. 
 
 " So would I," added Moll. 
 
 " Would ye ? " Adam looked very much pleased, 
 " would ye ? Well, now, you're after my own heart. 
 I'm glad enough to hear you say such a thing. But the 
 Byeboro' poorhouse is gone ; don't let's think of it any 
 more. Where do you live now, Moll ? " 
 
 Adam certainly had grown more inquisitive and more 
 talkative than Moll, or any one else, had known him to 
 be before. It seemed to have changed his nature, in a 
 measure, to get free from the influences of Byeboro'.
 
 ON THE MOUNTAIN. 317 
 
 " I live in the city," answered Moll. " Where do 
 you ? " 
 
 He shook his head, and smiled. 
 
 " It's hard to tell," said he. " I live wherever I hap- 
 pen to be. I live here now." 
 
 " But ain't you never goin' back to Byeboro' agin ? " 
 
 " Never ! It's a good ways off, you know, too." 
 
 " I hope so," said Moll. " / never want to see the 
 place agin ! " 
 
 " Then you run away ? " pursued Adam. 
 
 " I s'pose I did. I don'Uknow. Any how, I was glad 
 enough to git away." 
 
 " And you never have seen any of 'em since ? " 
 
 " None but Milly and you." 
 
 " Where did you find her ? Did you know she lived 
 here at Dovecote ? " 
 
 " I never knew nothin' about it till I come and found 
 her here. I guess I was started to see her sweet face 
 agin ! " 
 
 " Same with myself, too. But you look better than 
 you used to." 
 
 " I guess I feel some better, too." 
 
 " Nothing like freedom, is there, Moll ? Well, well, I 
 mean to git as much o' that myself as I can. I've al- 
 ways had it, in a measure ; but I'll have more now. 
 P'raps I'll come and see you in the city before long. 
 Should you like to have me ? " 
 
 " You can't find the way," answered Moll. " Was 
 you ever there ? " 
 
 " No, I never was there, Moll. I don't know a soul 
 there but yourself. Do you like it all the time ? Don't 
 you never feel homesick, nor nothing o' that kind ? " 
 
 " Homesick for what ? For old Byeboro' ? I don't 
 27*
 
 318 DOVECOTE. 
 
 know where my home is, unless it's where I'm livin' 
 now." 
 
 " Sure enough ; nor I either. I hope you've got a 
 good one." 
 
 The girls at that moment looked up. Jarvie Thatch 
 stood in the door. 
 
 He run his eyes quickly about the apartment, and, 
 seeing another little stranger there, said to Daisy, 
 
 " Who's that, now ? " 
 
 Daisy could not tell him ; so she silently shook her 
 head. 
 
 " You here agin ! " exclaimed he, bending his eyes 
 upon old Adam, who still sat with his arms tightly fold- 
 ed about him. 
 
 " Yes, I'm here again," quietly answered Adam, not 
 lifting his eyes from the floor. 
 
 " And always here ! " added Jarvie. 
 
 " There's an old mem'ry that draws me," said he. " I 
 can't help it at all. I wish I had other things to do than 
 jest to follow up this mem'ry. It carries me all round 
 the world. It keeps me going, and keeps me wretched. 
 But I can't help it at all." 
 
 Jarvie knew well enough what he meant. He fetched 
 a long sigh, dropping the conversation where it was. 
 
 As soon as the opportunity offered, Milly withdrew 
 with her friend Snarly Moll, Daisy following after at a 
 little distance. In the woods there was time for all to 
 become better acquainted ; and it was a long hour that 
 they sat in the heart of the forenoon shadows, talking 
 on whatever happened to come uppermost in their 
 thoughts.
 
 CHAPTER XL VI. 
 
 A WALK AKD A TALK. 
 
 ALL things, whether pleasant or unpleasant, have an 
 end ; and so had the visit of Mrs. Trevor. She had already 
 passed quite a week at Dovecote, in which time we all 
 became much attached to her for her unostentatious 
 kindness, and for the general happiness she helped 
 diffuse amongst us. 
 
 She seemed especially interested in Milly and in her 
 history. Undoubtedly the sudden renewal of her ac- 
 quaintance with Moll led to the interest, and then it 
 grew with subsequent investigation and inquiry. B efore 
 she took her leave, she had exacted a promise from 
 Miss Nancy to bring the child to town with her during 
 the coming autumn, and Moll had given abundant ex- 
 pression to her delight at the thought of such a reunion. 
 
 " Won't we have fun, Milly ? " said she, her face alive 
 with her feelings. " Won't we talk lots, all about the 
 old Byeboro' home? Won't we go see Miss Stokes, 
 too, hey? And won't she be glad to see you agin? O 
 Milly ! Milly ! to think we got acquainted as we did ! 
 How odd it all is to me ! " 
 
 Before she climbed into the wagon she threw her arms 
 about Milly, and the tears stood plentifully in her eyes. 
 
 " You'll be sure to come, won't ye ? " were the last 
 words she could make audible, as they were driven out 
 of sight. 
 
 After they had gone, Miss Nancy took Milly with her 
 
 (319)
 
 '320 DOVECOTE. 
 
 to her own room, and there talked with her pleasantly 
 about her friend Mrs. Trevor, and about Moll, and their 
 former acquaintance ; laboring to impress her chiefly with 
 the sense of gratitude she should have for her good for- 
 tune at last ; a matter, in truth, about which a child like 
 Milly needed but a trifling reminder. 
 
 A few days afterwards Milly again found Daisy across 
 the meadows, bareheaded, and gathering the wild flow- 
 ers much after her old way. 
 
 " You've come at a good time," said Daisy. " I want- 
 ed to see you." 
 
 " What for ? " asked the child. 
 
 " O, 'cause ; I wanted to take a walk, you know." 
 
 " But you do that every day." 
 
 " Yes ; but I wanted to have a talk, too." 
 
 Milly was going to sit down on a large stone that 
 offered her rest. 
 
 " Don't set down ! " said Daisy. " Let's go on ! " 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 " Any where. In the woods, out o' this sun. Let's 
 go take a kind of a ramble, you know. There's flowers 
 enough, and there's good places enough to pick 'em. I 
 see cords o' honeysuckles as I come down the moun- 
 tain; but they were up among the rocks, and in the 
 ledges, and I didn't hardly dare to climb." 
 
 Milly was nowise averse to the recreation proposed, 
 and accordingly went along with her. They wound 
 slowly round the base of the mountain, where the trees 
 were few and scattered, and the wild vines crept over 
 trunks, and rocks, and mounds. Keeping in sight of an 
 ancient woodman's road that tracked its way faintly into 
 the forest, they skirted the woodland first, and then 
 plunged directly into its shadowing gloom. 
 
 Two girls in a forest, young, and joyous, and full of
 
 A WALK AND A TALK. 321 
 
 wonder, is a sight any eye, with the least attraction for 
 picturesqueness, might well covet. They looked like 
 some graceful deities of the woodland. Their soft voices 
 broke among the ancient forest aisles like the low chant- 
 ing of nuns in a cathedral. Their forms seemed veiy 
 slight and airy, as they flitted from a spot of sunshine to 
 a spot of shadow, and then to the glimmering sunshine 
 again ; and one might, with little tendency to romantic 
 feelings, have taken them for what they were not. 
 
 Here and there they went through the forest mazes, 
 following nothing but their own wayward fancies. Now 
 they stopped to pick a brilliant flower, and now to 
 examine the glittering scales on a rock. At one mo- 
 ment they kneeled on the soft and dark mosses that 
 served them in the stead of a. carpet; and at another they 
 were gazing up into the dark and dense boughs of some 
 fine forest ash, garlanded as it was with luxuriant vines 
 and creepers. Nothing could be conceived more 
 dreamy in its tone than the sight of these young chil- 
 dren. 
 
 At length they grew tired. Their feet followed each 
 other but slowly, and with obvious effort. 
 
 " Let's set down now," proposed Daisy. 
 
 " Where is there a good place ? " asked the other. 
 
 " Not here," said Daisy ; " but I guess I can find one 
 up yonder. There's a clearing like up there. " 
 
 So they tugged on a little farther, holding on by the 
 stems of the trees, and by roots, and shrubs, and vines. 
 Sometimes they went two steps backward for a single 
 one forward; but that gave them no cause of despair. 
 They reached the spot they desired at length, quite 
 spent with fatigue, and all out of breath, and sat down 
 upon a decaying log that offered itself for their ease 
 
 " What a view ! " said Daisy, pointing her companion 
 off over the distant meadows and plains.
 
 322 DOVECOTE. 
 
 Milly's eyes followed her direction, and her whole 
 soul seemed immediately absorbed with the sight 
 " What a view, sure enough ! " .thought she. 
 
 There lay a charming landscape, spread out in all its 
 beauty before her. A feeling flashed over her, that it 
 seemed wasted when so few took the pains to enjoy it. 
 Yet it was always there at this particular season, just so 
 rich, and just so thickly crowded with beauty. 
 
 In the plain slept the village of Kirkwood, its quiet 
 inhabitants raising no line of dust along their street to 
 tell that human beings labored and trafficked there. 
 The roofs and the chimneys lay half hidden in the 
 foliage ; and the smokes that went up curled so faintly 
 as to be scarcely perceptible. Beyond stretched the 
 broad, blue sky, against whose lower rim the horizon 
 leaned, and upon which objects were pencilled with 
 wonderful exactitude. 
 
 The crops looked charmingly in the sunlight, the vege- 
 tables showing the deeper colors, and the grasses and 
 grains just beginning to glint with their lighter shades 
 in the drifting breezes. The trees wore their densest 
 foliage and stood like plumed sentries, dotting the 
 plains. There was nothing but beauty on all sides. 
 The child took it into her eyes, and absorbed it into her 
 soul. She sat there like one bewildered ; and only the 
 sight of her intoxication had the effect to bind Daisy 
 with an influence but little dissimilar. 
 
 In the midst of this thoughtful silence a step was 
 suddenly heard from the thicket beyond. The parting 
 of boughs betrayed the approach of some one ; and both 
 the girls turned round to look. Milly was the most 
 startled. 
 
 " It's granf ther, I guess," said Daisy, in a low voice. 
 
 " No," replied Milly, looking a moment longer; " it's Mr
 
 A WALK AND A TALK. 323 
 
 Brimmer ! It's the minister ! " And she jumped to her 
 feet, and clapped her hands for delight. 
 
 He came pat upon them. 
 
 " Milly ! " he exclaimed, for the first time catching a 
 view of her, " you started me. I didn't know that you 
 were here. And who is this other little girl here with 
 you ? " 
 
 " That's Daisy," answered the child, Daisy herself 
 casting her eyes downward. 
 
 " Daisy ? The girl that lives in the hut ? " 
 
 She told him it was. 
 
 Mr. Brimmer thereupon sat down beside them. He 
 took the flowers Milly had gathered, and looked at them 
 every one, calling them severally by their proper names. 
 He asked where she had gathered them all, and how 
 long it took her, and if she understood their language. 
 
 She had not heard before that flowers had language. 
 
 So he began to explain it to her, and to Daisy as 
 well, talking of their various expressions, derivable in 
 some cases from their shapes, and in others from their 
 colors, and in others still from then: names. 
 
 Then he talked, in his extremely pleasant and instruc- 
 tive way, of the landscape, pointing out colors and con- 
 trasts in the distance that their inexperienced eyes had 
 never seen before ; dwelling on the benevolence of the 
 great Author, who has made his creation for beauty as 
 well as for use ; and lifting up their youthful minds, 
 imperceptibly almost, as by some silver cord, to the 
 heaven that was above all. 
 
 They thought they could have sat and heard him 
 thus go on for hours, so mild were his words, so genial 
 seemed his sympathies. But he was warned already 
 of the necessity of his departure, observing that he had 
 only come for a climb on the mountain, and must be
 
 324 DOVECOTE. 
 
 home again. But he promised Daisy that he would one 
 day visit the hut ; and made her promise, too, that, if he 
 could break down the prejudices of her grandfather, he 
 would allow her to come to meeting every Sunday. 
 
 At that place Daisy took her leave, moving off into 
 the wood. Mr. Brimmer took Milly by the hand, and 
 led her gently down among the rocks and trees, telling 
 her all manner of pleasant things as they went along, 
 and asking quite as much about her friend Daisy ; and 
 it was getting really late for Milly, at least when 
 they crossed the old meadow below and finally reached 
 the long avenue that conducted to the homestead. 
 
 Milly felt that the day had been another among the 
 happy ones she was now notching so steadily on her 
 calendar.
 
 CHAPTER XLVIL 
 
 A VISIT FROM THE DOCTOR. 
 
 BUT no one's happiness is perpetual. No living per- 
 son holds a lease of health or a stable guaranty against 
 disease and trouble. 
 
 In little less than a week Milly was prostrate. At 
 first, and not long after her unusual exertion in climbing 
 among the woods, it was but a trifling complaint of the 
 strange feeling in her head, of excessive weariness in 
 her limbs, and of other unpleasant symptoms of that 
 nature. No one was led to suppose any thing serious 
 threatened ; as, at that time, there did not 
 
 But day by day the trouble became more fixed, and 
 assumed decided shape and form. A little after she 
 was obliged to sit in the great easy chair, braced and 
 bolstered by pillows. And her face was very destitute 
 of color, and her eyes looked expressionless and heavy, 
 and her little white hands hung without any strength 
 over the ends of the chair arms. 
 
 " Where do you feel worst ? " Miss Nancy would ask 
 her. 
 
 " O, every where all over ! I'm so weak ! I'm so 
 sick ! " she would answer, while her beautiful blue eyes 
 filled with tears. 
 
 Her tears, somehow, never failed to bring them into 
 the eyes of all the rest of us, Miss Nancy not excepted. 
 She looked so little like a mortal all the time, and so 
 much like an angel. 
 
 28 (^
 
 326 DOVECOTE. 
 
 " I think of mother so much ! " she would say almost 
 in a whisper. 
 
 No one had a reply for this. It was a subject none 
 could venture to approach. 
 
 " Would you like to see the doctor ? " she was asked, 
 one day, when her symptoms grew more threatening. 
 
 ' Will he do me good ? " she inquired. 
 
 " We hope so," said my mother and Miss Nancy to- 
 gether. " He will, if any body can." 
 
 Still she doubted, and shook her head rather despond- 
 ingly, as if it was to but little purpose. 
 
 Never seemed her face so radiant to us as after dis- 
 ease had fastened itself upon her. There was such a 
 strange, an unearthly, look in her eyes, we almost feared 
 to let our gaze rest upon them. They betrayed the 
 anxiety of her thoughts, as well as the deep tenderness 
 of her feelings. 
 
 The village doctor came. His narrow carriage looked 
 ominous to us all. There seemed something unnatural 
 in his being called for Milly. If he had come to see 
 any one of the rest, there can be no doubt of its being 
 received as all in the due course of things ; but with 
 our Milly it was different. And yet none could tell 
 how or why. 
 
 He drew his chair up beside her great chair, and took 
 one of her hands that depended from the chair arm into 
 his own. For a moment or two he tried to make it ap- 
 pear to her as if he was simply glad to see her and 
 would shake her by the hand. So he entered on pleas- 
 ant conversation. 
 
 " This is the same little girl I see at meeting, isn't 
 it ? " he asked her. 
 
 " Yes, sir," faintly answered Milly. 
 
 She tried to smile as she spoke ; but the smile
 
 A VISIT FROM THE DOCTOR. 327 
 
 died with the effort, and her face seemed sadder than 
 ever. 
 
 "But how happens it that she is sick to-day?" he 
 continued, still keeping up his calm and pleasing tone 
 of voice. " Has she been eating something she 
 shouldn't ? " 
 
 Miss Nancy answered for her, that she was not well 
 enough to eat any thing. 
 
 " Then she's taken sudden cold, I guess," said the 
 doctor. " I'm sorry, sorry ! " 
 
 He shook his head as he repeated the word " sorry ; " 
 and Milly's eyes filled with tears. 
 
 For a moment or two, now, he preserved silence. He 
 was counting her puke, though she was the last one to 
 suspect that such was his design when he first took her 
 hand. Its beating was exceedingly rapid. It troubled 
 him so much to number the strokes, that he finally took 
 out his great silver watch, the more easily to notch off a 
 minute with the help of that. 
 
 He was not a little startled himself at the alarming 
 nature of the symptoms. She showed her tongue in 
 obedience to his request. He looked steadily, and his 
 opinion was settled. It was easy to see, even then, 
 that he considered her a very sick child. 
 
 After a brief time, he rose from his seat and 
 walked slowly across the room in the direction of the 
 window. 
 
 He motioned Miss Nancy towards him, and for many 
 minutes continued holding a consultation with her.. 
 He took papers from his little leathern bag, and divided 
 and subdivided powders, folding them again in smaller 
 papers. Then there were a great many directions to 
 give respecting the^ particular modes of treatment that 
 should be followed, and cautions to be added, and
 
 328 DOVECOTE. 
 
 iopes to be expressed, after that, for her speedy 
 recovery. 
 
 He went away ; and Milly's countenance fell more 
 than ever. 
 
 " I don't like to take medicines," she said to Miss 
 Nancy, though in no tone of complaint. 
 
 " But when the doctor says they will do you so much 
 good ; and you'll get entirely well," returned Miss 
 Nancy. 
 
 There was nothing more to be said. If it was best, 
 she was not the one to offer opposition. So the medi- 
 cines were bravely swallowed, and all the doctor's di- 
 rections obeyed to the letter. 
 
 Her days seemed very long to her, and she told of 
 her increasing weariness and exhaustion. We watched 
 her anxiously, her pale face buried in the white pillows, 
 itself even whiter than they. Whenever we came into 
 the room she had something pleasant to say, and many 
 questions to ask about the fields, and the garden, and 
 the flowers. 
 
 She seemed to like to talk, above all, about her dead 
 mother ; and she kept the attention of Miss Nancy en- 
 chained by the hour with her childlike sayings. 
 
 " She seems to be before me now," she would say, 
 " I think of her so much ! " 
 
 " But you always have, haven't you, since she died ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but I feel so different about her now." 
 
 " Well, how different, my child ? Does she seem any 
 more dear to you than she used to ? " 
 
 " She seems nearer" answered Milly ; and lost her- 
 self in a brief instant of reflection. 
 
 " She loved you, Milly," said Miss Nancy ; " and we 
 have tried to take her place to you." 
 
 " I love you, Miss Nancy. I love you all. How can
 
 A VISIT FROM THE DOCTOR. 329 
 
 I help it ? You have been so kind to me, and done so 
 much for me." 
 
 " We are glad to know it has been done for one so 
 deserving. That is a great satisfaction, my child." 
 
 " I dream so much of my mother," continued Milly. 
 
 " What do you dream about her ? " asked Miss 
 Nancy, smoothing down the hair over her forehead, and 
 looking into her eyes with ill-disguised emotion. 
 
 " O," said Milly, " I see her face before me so plain ; 
 and she seems to have the same smile on it I remem- 
 ber so well ; and she holds out her hand to me, and 
 beckons me to her, too. I hear her speak to me just as 
 she used to ; and her voice is so very pleasant in my 
 ears. She tells me how much she thinks of me still, 
 and how closely she watches over me, and what a hope 
 she has that I shall see her again before long." 
 
 " But this is only dreaming, you know, Milly ! " 
 
 " It's so pleasant for me, Miss Nancy, to dream such 
 things." 
 
 " You shouldn't suffer them, however, to influence 
 you so much as to make you unhappy. What you 
 dream in your sleep has nothing to do with you when 
 awake." 
 
 " It isn't wrong to think so much of these things, is it, 
 Miss Nancy ? " 
 
 " O, no, my child ; but then it's not for your good to 
 think so much of them as to make you unhappy." 
 
 " Do you think they do make me so ? " asked the 
 chiKL 
 
 " You sometimes make me think they do. Isn't it 
 so?" 
 
 " They make me the happiest I can be. They bring 
 up the old times to me again, and I think of what we 
 once suffered, and how much I enjoy now. O, I only 
 28*
 
 330 DOVECOTE. 
 
 wish mother could have had all this pleasure with 
 me!" 
 
 " It was meant for your best good, Milly ; you must 
 think of that." 
 
 " Indeed I do, Miss Nancy. I think of it all the time ; 
 and I say to myself, ' How thankful I should be for the 
 good fortune and the kind friends that have been given 
 to me ! ' I try all the time to be thankful, Miss Nancy ; 
 but I cannot help thinking of my mother, too." 
 
 " No, you should bear her ever in mind. She nur- 
 tured you when you were a helpless infant, and it is to 
 her that you owe a debt of large gratitude. None of us 
 can ever hope to repay our mothers for their care." 
 
 " And it's so pleasant for me to think of her, too," con- 
 tinued the child, " though I look the saddest when I am 
 doing it. I seem to be talking with her again, just as I 
 used to when we were so poor, and lived in that single 
 room, in the city. And her face has just the same look 
 for me, and just the same smiles. I love to think of her 
 so much. How can I help it, Miss Nancy ? " 
 
 " You cannot, my dear," said she. 
 
 The eyes of both of them were suffused with tears.
 
 CHAPTER XL VIII 
 
 THE FAITH OF A CHILD. 
 
 SHE grew worse rather than better, and soon the 
 great easy chair was vacant altogether. 
 
 The little patient was stretched on the bed. 
 
 She had been placed in Miss Nancy's chamber, 
 where, rapidly as her strength diminished, she still 
 cherished her old fondness for the flowers, and the 
 leaves, and the grass. Every day we gathered the 
 most brilliant wild flowers that could be found in all the 
 meadows and on all the hillsides, and, mingling their 
 colors with those of the garden blossoms, roses, and 
 honeysuckles, and border blossoms, we made them 
 all up in luxuriant bunches, and carried them into her 
 chamber. 
 
 Her sick face lighted up with the sight of them at 
 once. She would put out her hand, and ask to take a 
 bunch into it herself. And then she carried them to her 
 face, snufling up their choice fragrance with manifest 
 delight. 
 
 But how very pale, beside those deep-red roses, 
 looked her face ! and how dim seemed her eyes, com- 
 pared with the bright tints that nestled among the 
 flowers ! 
 
 She had many questions to ask about the school and 
 the old playmates, feeling already as if she had long 
 been estranged from them. Her thoughts ran on all 
 those in the village whom she knew, of whom she had 
 
 (331)
 
 332 DOVECOTE. 
 
 something at various times to say. Her mind was very 
 clear, and her memory more than ever alive. She talked 
 as a child of her years was not expected to talk, aston- 
 ishing those much older and of more matured charac- 
 ters than herself. 
 
 Every morning she asked to have her chamber win- 
 dow opened, and to be braced in her bed with pillows, 
 that she might drink in the glory of the day. Her eyes 
 wandered over the limited landscape, now upon the dense 
 masses of foliage that hung upon the trees, and now 
 upon the gray and mossy rocks that lay scattered here 
 and there, and now upon the green lawn that stretched 
 itself, carpet-like, beyond the house. She held the flow- 
 ers in her hand, alternately admiring them and the view 
 through the window. 
 
 And again, at evening, she went through the same 
 pleasant exercise ; for 'exercise it was, not less to her 
 eyes than to her feelings. The rich tints of the sunset ; 
 the golden hues of the foliage ; the sombre shadows, \ 
 shrinking away within the trees, as if they were yet a 
 little too fast in then: approaches ; the gilded mosses that 
 clung to the rocks ; the distant walls and fences ; and the 
 lanes, leading away through the meadows and pastures, 
 all these crowded on her brain with constantly increas- 
 ing pleasure, while yet they tinged her evening thoughts 
 with sadness. 
 
 At this particular part of the day it was that she de- 
 lighted to let out her heart in conversation. She was 
 free to tell all her feelings, and often expressed them in 
 a style of frankness and tenderness that failed not to 
 moisten the eyes of v those who heard her. 
 
 One evening, while she was in just this mood, the 
 minister came into the room, following Miss Nancy. 
 She turned her eyes round slowly, and caught sight of 
 his face. Immediately her own lighted up with joy.
 
 THE FAITH OF A CHILD. 333 
 
 " Mr. Brimmer, Milly," said Miss Nancy. " He has 
 come on purpose to see you." 
 
 The good minister sat down by her bedside, and took 
 one of her white frail hands within both his own. His 
 emotion was visible enough, as he sat down beside such 
 an innocent, with the feeling so heavy upon him that 
 she could not be much longer for earth. 
 
 " How do you feel to-night, Milly ? " he asked her, his 
 voice betraying his deep feeling. 
 
 " O, I'm so happy ! " exclaimed the child. " I love 
 so much to see those evening clouds ! They are full of 
 pleasant dreams ! " 
 
 " They tell me you are very sick," said Mr. Brimmer. 
 " Do you suffer much, my child ? " 
 
 " Not when I'm so happy," answered she. " No, I 
 don't think I suffer any tiling." 
 
 " Patience is a great virtue," he went on. " It will 
 carry you safely through a great many trials. But pa- 
 tience cannot be truly patience, unless it proceeds from 
 a rightly-disposed heart. I trust you are reconciled to 
 whatever may be in store for you, my child. If it should 
 please God to take you to himself, you feel ready to go ; 
 do you not?" 
 
 " I wish I was better," said she, after a moment's 
 thoughtfulness. 
 
 " Do you ever think of dying? " 
 
 " I think of it all the time," she answered. " I some- 
 times feel even glad to think I may be so near through." 
 
 " Do you pray for a spirit to be contented with what- 
 ever may come, whether it- be life or death? Do you 
 pray to have your heart humbled still a thousand times 
 more, that the good seed may take deeper root?" 
 
 " I love to say my prayers," she answered. " And 
 Miss Nancy is so good to pray with me, and to talk
 
 334 DOVECOTE. 
 
 with me, too. I always feel that my heart is better 
 when she is talking with me." 
 
 " And you love your Savior with all the love of 
 which your heart is capable ? " 
 
 " Indeed, Mr. Brimmer," said she, in great simplicity, 
 " I try to love him more and more every day." 
 
 " Well, that is right That is what you ought to do. 
 But what do you seek so much to love him for? " 
 
 " Because he has done so much for me. Because he 
 even died for me. How can I help loving him ? How 
 can I help trying all the time to love him more?" 
 
 " You cannot, if you think on what he has done for 
 you as you ought. Indeed, the more your mind is fixed 
 on him, the more your heart will learn of gratitude. 
 And with gratitude to God comes deep piety, and trust, 
 and simplicity, and humility. These all grow out of 
 this one feeling. You are right, my child, in cultivating 
 it as you do. Should you like to have me read a little 
 to you from the Bible ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; I should like it very much." 
 
 Mr. Brimmer thereupon took the Bible Miss Nancy 
 handed down from the shelf, and opened at random. 
 His eye fell on the eighteenth chapter of St. Matthew ; 
 of which he read aloud the first half, containing the reply 
 of Jesus to the question of his disciples " Who is 
 greatest in the kingdom of heaven ? " 
 
 And afterwards he repeated other passages from memo- 
 ry, and among them that solemn injunction from Ecclesi- 
 astes : 
 
 " Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy 
 youth, while the evil days come not, nor the years draw 
 nigh, when thou shall say, I have no pleasure in them ; 
 
 " While the sun, or the light, or the moon, or the stars 
 be not darkened, nor the clouds return after the rain."
 
 nit FAITH OF A CHILD. 335 
 
 The words, as they came from the lips of the minis- 
 ter, sounded to Milly unusually full of meaning and im- 
 pressiveness. She drank in the syllables with delight ; 
 and when, at one time, he appeared to hesitate, as if he 
 might task her little strength too much, she earnestly 
 begged him to go on, telling him that all this was a very 
 great comfort to her. 
 
 So he kept reading, selecting passages every where 
 from the good book that is so full of comfort for us all. 
 
 When he had finished, the sun had set. Milly still 
 sat braced with the pillows, and her hands were folded 
 calmly over her breast. Her eyes were closed ; yet she 
 was not sleeping ; she was withdrawing her soul from 
 all outward influences, and in silence communing with 
 her own peaceful and happy heart. 
 
 " I shall see my dear mother, too," at length she said, 
 breaking the silence that well nigh seemed sacred. 
 " She will be there, too." 
 
 " In heaven," said Mr. Brimmer, " all friends in Jesus 
 will be reunited and made happy again. There will be 
 no more tears in that blessed place. The heart will 
 have nothing more to wish. Its measure of bliss will be 
 full." 
 
 " Shall we know our friends in heaven ? " she asked 
 him. 
 
 " We have every reason to believe we shall," he an- 
 swered. " It is a very consoling hope, that God allows 
 us to entertain. There will be no more night between 
 us there ; and all darkness will flee away." 
 
 " The last thing my dear mother told me, the night 
 before she died," said Milly, " was, ' Only leave all 
 your trials with God, and do your duty yourself. Keep 
 my memory fresh in your heart. You will never forget 
 your dear mother, will you, Milly ? ' And from that day
 
 336 DOVECOTE. 
 
 I never have. She has been in my thoughts every 
 hour since. I have left all my trials with Heaven, and 
 been rewarded for it. O, I am so happy ! I feel that 
 I shall soon see my dear mother again." 
 
 Mr. Brimmer soon after knelt down by her bedside 
 and offered an earnest prayer. Every petition she as 
 earnestly preferred after him. Every word seemed to 
 feed her soul. When he arose again, and turned to re- 
 gard her countenance, he found it as serene as the sun 
 that had but a short time before gone down behind the 
 horizon. 
 
 He talked with her a little while longer, loath to leave 
 a scene in which his own heart took such deep partici- 
 pation ; and altogether satisfactory, too, save for the sad- 
 dening influences that hovered about it 
 
 When he finally took his leave, he stooped down 
 and affectionately kissed Milly, promising to be with 
 her again very soon, and enjoining it on her to reconcile 
 all her thoughts to the event that might be so near at 
 hand. 
 
 He passed down through the dining room to the front 
 door ; and all could see that his eyes were blinded with 
 tears, that fell upon the floor at every step.
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 UNFORESEEN. 
 
 THE days dragged heavily for us all. How could it 
 have been otherwise, when one so dear to us was 
 stretched on a bed of suffering, and, perhaps, of death ? 
 
 No one found the inclination to do any thing. All 
 our energy seemed smitten with a sudden palsy. Sad 
 countenances met each other every where we went 
 about the house at the table, in the entries, on the 
 stairs. There was vivacity on no hand. Each day the 
 gloom grew deeper, as if the pall let itself down still 
 lower upon our heads. 
 
 The sick child all the while grew weaker and weak- 
 er; and with her wasted strength appeared to come 
 purer thoughts, and gentler feelings, and loftier pur- 
 poses. If ever a human being seemed purged of her 
 material nature, she was that one. 
 
 She never forgot one of us, however, in all her own 
 trouble. Each day she repeatedly asked for us all, and 
 would have us come to her bedside and talk with her, 
 and kissed us affectionately as we went sorrowfully 
 away. 
 
 The doctor's increased anxiety was sufficient warn- 
 ing of the imminent danger that threatened. He came 
 oftener, very much oftener, now, and staid longer with 
 her, and had a great deal to say to Miss Nancy and the 
 rest in whispers. Those whispers were exceedingly 
 ominous. And he had, in his own deep sympathy, told 
 29 f 337 )
 
 338 DOVECOTE. 
 
 some people in the village more than he would tell us 
 of the case, pronouncing it an extreme one, which noth- 
 ing short of a providential interposition could well turn 
 into a favorable aspect 
 
 Mr. Brimmer failed not a day. He generally came 
 twice a day, when he could, and cheered the mind of 
 little Milly with his calm words about death, and heav- 
 en, and happiness. She listened always to him with 
 rapt attention, oftentimes with her eyes devotionally 
 closed, and her hands folded as in prayer. It was 
 touching indeed to behold her resignation. 
 
 One day, when her pulses seemed to be at their low- 
 est ebb, and her breath seemed to have grown fainter 
 than ever before, a wagon drove up to the door, and a 
 man and a boy leaped to the ground. Their manner 
 was, apparently, not a little excited, and neither stopped 
 $o fasten their horse, leaving it just where they got out 
 of the wagon. 
 
 The man knocked smartly at the door, the boy stand- 
 ing close by his side. 
 
 Miss Nancy herself happened to be at hand, and so 
 immediately answered his summons. 
 
 " This is Dovecote ? " inquired he, in much haste. 
 
 " It is," replied Miss Nancy. 
 . " There is a little girl living here, then ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," said she, " several." 
 
 " But one a particular one; her name is is is 
 Milly ? " What made the man hesitate and stammer in 
 that way ? " Milly is her name, ma'am ; or was, once. 
 Is she here ? Is she living here ? " 
 
 " There is a child here of that name," returned Miss 
 Nancy. 
 
 " Then I want to see her ! I want to see her
 
 UNFORESEEN. 339 
 
 " But it is hardjy prudent, sir. She is lying very low 
 at present, and will hardly recover." 
 
 " What do you tell me ? " exclaimed he, his face be- 
 coming exceedingly pale. " Sick, is she ? Very low ? 
 Then let me see her without another minute's delay. 
 It may even be too late if I am put off now ! " And 
 he motioned to pass in. The boy kept all the time 
 close at his side. 
 
 "But I do not understand, sir. What is the occasion 
 of " 
 
 " I beg you, don't put me off at a moment like this 
 with questions ! Only show me the way to her. Let 
 me in at once. It may be too late. She may be dying 
 now. She may be dead before I can see her." 
 
 " Are you related in any way to her ? " inquired Miss 
 Nancy, struck with the excited manner of the visitor. 
 
 " All that you shall know by and by. You shall hear 
 a full explanation. I beg you, do but show me the way 
 at once to her bedside. I am in a frenzy to see her ! " 
 
 She had nothing, therefore, to do but to conduct him 
 as he desired. He was in such a state of excitement, 
 that to attempt to talk with him were little less than 
 folly. 
 
 Along through the passages and up the stairs they 
 went, Miss Nancy leading the way. She walked a-tip- 
 toe, fearing lest she might wake the echoes that had 
 slumbered there so long. Arriving at the door of the 
 chamber in which Milly lay, she cautiously opened it, 
 whispering to the stranger as she did so, " Make as little 
 noise as you can ! " 
 
 The moment they entered the room the stranger's 
 eyes fell on the pale and dying face of the sufferer. No 
 one seemed to observe that the boy had likewise come 
 up stairs with him ; and he followed close behind,
 
 340 DOVECOTE. 
 
 regarding every object intently. As soon as the stranger 
 saw that the child was likewise looking steadily at him, 
 he walked quickly up to the bedside and kneeled down, 
 taking her hand. 
 
 " Milly ! Milly ! Milly ! " exclaimed he, and burst into 
 tears. 
 
 As might be expected, the heart of the child was filled 
 with wonder and astonishment. Her eyes were fixed 
 on him, trying to understand what he might mean. 
 
 " My child ! " exclaimed he in a broken voice. 
 
 " What do you tell her ? " asked Miss Nancy, becom- 
 ing suddenly as excited as he. 
 
 " My dear child Milly," he continued, " I have done 
 you a great wrong indeed ! I am a wretched man, that 
 I have been the cause of all this misery for others. 
 Forgive me, child ! Do not die before you have for- 
 given me ! " 
 
 There was a pause. Milly was silent. She knew 
 not what to say.. She was utterly ignorant what it was 
 expected of her to say. Her breathing became very 
 rapid, and the color flushed her cheeks. 
 
 " Milly," said he, " you are my daughter. I am your 
 father, whom you have never known." 
 
 " My father ! " uttered she, in a soft and slow excla- 
 mation. 
 
 " Yes, my child, I am your only living parent. Your 
 poor mother is dead." 
 
 It cost her a marked effort to comprehend the whole 
 meaning of what he said, in its length and its breadth. 
 She pondered upon it for a few minutes. Her brow 
 was clouded as with an untold trouble. She rallied 
 her faculties, her memory especially. The thoughts 
 of her mother, that chased one another in such quick 
 succession across her brain, were now shaded with
 
 UNFORESEEN. 341 
 
 strange misgivings, such as she had never felt before, 
 and that she could not describe. 
 
 " You never knew a father, Milly," he continued, see- 
 ing that her feelings pained her acutely. " You never 
 knew what it was to have the protection of a father's 
 love." 
 
 " No," she answered faintly, " I had only my mother 
 to love ; but I loved her with all my heart. I shall see 
 her soon." 
 
 " I did you great wrong, Milly ; and this is my punish- 
 ment. While you were yet an infant I left you and 
 your mother, hoping her brother would help her. I had 
 myself become discouraged. It seemed to me as if 
 there was no other way but to sink down and die in the 
 conflict. I could not provide for your mother as I 
 would, and so I left her cruelly to her fate. It was 
 cruel indeed, Milly ; and many a long hour of suffering 
 have I since had in return for it." 
 
 " But what did you go away for ? " asked she, scruti- 
 nizing his countenance in a manner that made him 
 almost quail before her. 
 
 " Because I was a coward, child ; and for no other 
 reason." 
 
 " Mother got through it, though." 
 
 " And I should have gone through it with her ! I 
 should have protected her as long as she would stand at 
 my side. I should have done all that I could do, and 
 left the whole to Heaven. But I was too cowardly for 
 that ! I lost my patience. I grew morbid. I thought 
 that the world was arrayed against me ; and so I meant 
 to get out of the world,' as far as it was unpleasant to 
 me." 
 
 " But you have come back again ? " 
 
 " I took the first opportunity that offered to sail to 
 29*
 
 342 DOVECOTE. 
 
 South America. There I lived a wretched life for a 
 long time. I was even more downcast than I had been 
 at home. But matters took a sudden turn. Things 
 looked better for me. My prospects brightened. I saw 
 golden chances before me, and I was feverish to seize 
 them. I prayed only for success, that I might return to 
 my wife and child, and for the rest of their lives do 
 nothing but make them happy. And success came at 
 last as much of it as I had prayed for more than I 
 had ever dared to expect I clutched my fortune 
 eagerly. I was ravenous to get and enjoy it all. It 
 was now in my hand. I could feel it. It made my 
 heart glad to count it over and over. And then I came 
 back to my wife and child, hoping that Heaven had 
 suffered them to wait patiently my return." 
 
 He paused with his growing emotion, and, with a 
 strong effort, controlled himself. In a moment he went 
 on. 
 
 " When I had reached the place where I had left you 
 both, you were not there. I made diligent inquiries for 
 you ; but you were not to be found. No one knew 
 any thing of you, except that your mother had, with an 
 almost broken heart, taken you away where neither of 
 us were known. 
 
 " Next I made indirect inquiries respecting your 
 uncle Trevelyn, hoping she might have gone to him, 
 and finally found the home and happiness I could not 
 give her beneath his roof. But even her own brother 
 knew nothing of her. He had not so much as heard of 
 her. 
 
 " I sought the town. There I watched and wan- 
 dered. All the while I felt myself but a miserable pil- 
 grim. I was in search of the shrine of my affections 
 my wife and child. As for home, that was long ago
 
 UNFORESEEN. 343 
 
 desolate. My unannounced withdrawal threw down a 
 chill and a gloom across the hearth. 
 
 " For a time all my inquiries and searches were to no 
 purpose. No one seemed to have heard of either your- 
 self or your mother. You, who filled my heart, were 
 not so much as thought of by the tens of thousands 
 through whose busy midst I crowded my way. You 
 must be drowned in the noisy whirlpool of life, if you 
 had ever been thrown into it. And so I gave you up, 
 and thought I saw in my great disappointment the 
 proper reward of my cruelty. 
 
 " As I sat one day brooding over my wretchedness, un- 
 determined what to do next, or where to go, a little boy 
 stepped before me, bearing a bundle of papers under his 
 arm. His voice sounded very pleasant on my ear as he 
 accosted me, and I thought there must be something in- 
 teresting in one who spoke in such a tone. I looked up 
 from the floor, and my eyes fell on his face. 
 
 " ' Will you have a paper this morning, sir,' said he. 
 I regarded him a moment before I answered him. 
 Finally I purchased one. ' If I could only get any 
 news of them from it,' I said to myself, as I unfolded 
 the paper. He looked at me with more interest than 
 ever. ' Of who ? ' said he. I told him of whom. And 
 then his eyes kindled so strangely, and his face lit up 
 with such a pleasant and intelligent expression, that I 
 was strongly excited. While I looked at him he said 
 again, ' I know all about 'em ! ' 
 
 " I seized him by the arm. ' All the money you 
 want,' I told him, ' is yours, if you can give me any in- 
 telligence such as I desire ! ' Then he began and went 
 through his narration. I was thunderstruck. Such 
 astonishment had never seized me before. He told me
 
 344 DOVECOTE. 
 
 if I would follow him he would put me on the track I 
 ought to pursue at once. 
 
 " We went to his mother's. She was an honest but 
 a poor woman, and delighted to make known to me all 
 that she had ever known herself of you. She said that 
 you had lived under the same roof with her right in 
 the next room. You cannot measure my excitement 
 and anxiety. I wanted to hear all ; yet I was troubled 
 with a terrible fear. I urged her, however, to tell me 
 the whole, without reservation or delay. 
 
 " She made known to me your mother's sickness and 
 her death ! That was what I most feared. And now, I 
 thought, my punishment is upon me ! God help me to 
 bear it aU ! " 
 
 " Mrs. Stokes ! " faintly exclaimed Milly. " Good 
 Mrs. Stokes ! " 
 
 " Yes, it was she ; and this little boy was her son." 
 
 " Billy Stokes ! " Milly said again. " I loved him." 
 
 " He took me immediately to still another place, 
 where an acquaintance of his lived. It was a young 
 girl whom he called Moll. She lived with a Mrs. 
 Trevor." 
 
 Miss Nancy, deeply excited with the scene, at this 
 point could not help assenting. 
 
 " Mrs. Trevor was away, out of town ; so I begged 
 the girl to tell me all she knew. She described your 
 life at the poorhouse, after you had been sent there 
 from your aunt's, and the love you so soon inspired all 
 the inmates with. She told me of your sudden de- 
 parture, no one knew whither ; of her own flight after- 
 wards ; of her coming to the city ; of her sufferings, and 
 the kindness this same good Mrs. Stokes showed her, 
 too ; of her finding a home with Mrs. Trevor, and her
 
 UNFORESEEN. 345 
 
 visit with her to Dovecote ; of her great surprise at find- 
 ing you here again ; and of her return to town, and tell- 
 ing Billy Stokes and his mother the fortunate discovery 
 she had thus accidentally made. 
 
 " I was too impatient to hear more. From her I re- 
 ceived the only intelligence I got of your existence, or 
 of the place where you lived. I took the boy with me, 
 and set out for Kirkwood without delay. And here 1 
 come to find my child the last earthly hope of my 
 heart so near her end, and so happy in the prospect 
 before her ! Was ever a father's cruelty more severely 
 punished ? " 
 
 " Where did you leave Billy ? " asked the child. 
 
 He had sat down on a low stool at the foot of the 
 bed on first entering the room, where he was now si- 
 lently weeping. 
 
 " He is here," answered her father, going to him and 
 leading him up to the bedside. 
 
 " Billy ! dear, good Billy ! " said Milly, extending her 
 hand for him. " I am so glad to see you once more be- 
 fore I die ! I want to see your mother, too. She did 
 so much for me once, too ! Why do you cry, Billy ? " 
 
 The boy could not speak to answer her. 
 
 And there all stood around her bed, their hearts 
 stirred with emotions that no pen is able to describe. 
 Joy and grief were both mingled as in that old home- 
 stead they had never been mingled before.
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 THE BEEAKING OF THE GOf-DEN BOWL. 
 
 SHE had several long conferences with her parent 
 after this, at each one of which his heart received les- 
 sons that would last him to his grave. Man that he was, 
 he was wholly in the power of the gentle and resigned 
 spirit of a little child. 
 
 Billy Stokes, too, had much to learn from her lips of 
 his duty to himself, his mother, and his Maker. She 
 talked with him in the tenderest manner, and proffered 
 him advice and precept that sank into his heart like 
 seed into a good soil. His deepest sympathies were 
 moved, and gushed freely for her as the crystal flood 
 leaps from a fountain. 
 
 The minister came in, too, and sat with Milly and her 
 father, talking in his calm way about the unexpected 
 reunion, and the ground of hope for another and a closer 
 union above. His words affected the father exceedingly. 
 
 Now her strength failed faster than ever. The seal 
 seemed to be finally set. One and another came into 
 the room, gazed anxiously at her dying look, and went 
 out again to give way to their tears. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon, when the sun shone 
 aslant on the trees, and the clouds began to pile in the 
 west, and the odors drifted in refreshingly through the 
 open window, that she thought she was going. She 
 called us all around her, and had a word to say to every 
 one, taking leave of us as calmly as if she were only 
 
 (346)
 
 THE BREAKING OF THE GOLDEN BOWL. 347 
 
 setting out on a short journey. The room resounded 
 with sobs and moans. 
 
 She begged us not to weep ; she was happy. No one 
 could tell how happy. There was not an earthly image 
 that could adequately set forth the serenity of her mind. 
 Heaven itself would be the nearest it ; and it was there 
 she believed, and we all believed, she was going. 
 
 Calling her father closer to her, she threw her wasted 
 arms about his neck, and kissed him again and again. 
 
 " O, forgive me, my child ! my child ! " cried he, the 
 hot tears dropping from his eyes. 
 
 " I have nothing to forgive," said she. " I am so much 
 happier to see my father before I die ! Only promise 
 me, father, that we shall meet again ! " 
 
 His heart was melted. The flint had been broken. 
 
 " I will hope to," was all he could reply. " I can only 
 pray for strength." 
 
 " And if you pray right, father, you will have it. No 
 one ever asked in vain. The Bible tells me so, and it 
 tells you so. But I want to ask you one other thing," 
 added she. 
 
 " What is it, Milly ? " he asked. " Whatever you ask, 
 I will try and do." 
 
 " I have got another friend, who doesn't know how 
 sick I am ; if she did, she would be here." 
 
 " Shall I go bring her ? Shall I go ? Where is she, 
 Milly?" 
 
 " No," said she ; " it is too late now. She wouldn't get 
 here. But I want you to make me a promise about 
 her, father." 
 
 " Any thing my dear child may ask. Any thing." 
 
 " She lives in the little hut on the mountain," said 
 Milly, her voice failing her rapidly. " Her name is 
 Daisy. I love her so much ! I want you to make her
 
 348 DOVECOTE. 
 
 your child when I am gone, and try and love her for 
 my sake. She will take my place in your heart. Will 
 you, father ? " 
 
 " I will ! I will, Milly ! " he hastily answered, eager to 
 gratify even the least of her dying wishes. 
 
 " And good Mrs. Stokes," said Milly. 
 
 " I will make her comfortable for your sake ! " 
 
 " And kind little Billy, too." 
 
 " Yes, and him, too ! They shall none of them suffer ! " 
 
 " And there is aunt Trevelyn," added Milly. " She 
 was harsh to me ; but I forgave her. Will you tell her 
 that I am dying so happy, and that I bless her with my 
 last breath ? Will you go see her, too ? " 
 
 " She has been so unkind ! " suggested her father. 
 
 " But her heart knew no differently then. She must 
 feel another way now. She has had her trials, you 
 know. We must forgive her, father." 
 
 " I promise I promise to do every thing as you desire, 
 my child ! " replied the afflicted father. 
 
 " Then I shall die happy. O, what a relief it all is ! " 
 
 The minister asked her if he should pray with her, to 
 which she expressed immediate assent. And thereup- 
 on Mr. Brimmer offered up to Heaven a petition for her, 
 for her friends, and for all, the rest joining on their knees, 
 with hearts ascending on each solemn and fervent 
 word. 
 
 When they rose to their feet, she only said, in the 
 faintest voice that could be audible, 
 
 " Good by ! I am going home ! Good by ! " 
 
 And she was gone. 
 
 Her breath went out like the dying flame of a candle, 
 with no struggle, no noise, no moan. Like a tender 
 flower, she was in a single moment transplanted to a 
 fairer garden.
 
 THE BREAKING OF THE GOLDEN BOWL. 349 
 
 We stood about the bed, awed into silence with this 
 sweet and speaking picture of death. There was no 
 terror in it all ; no gloom about it ; no fear hanging over 
 it, to convulse the heart with a shudder. It was as 
 peaceful as the slumber of an infant. 
 
 When the little green mound was raised over her 
 body, and the mourners for the gentle child had gone 
 home again to their griefs, the father of Milly went up 
 the mountain, in company with Billy Stokes, to carry out 
 the last wishes of his dead child. 
 
 It was nigh sunset when they reached the spot, and 
 the view, to any but a heart bruised with sorrow, would 
 have been enchanting. But neither of them paused to 
 enjoy it. They moved straight forward to the hut, fol- 
 lowing the path in which they had been directed. 
 
 Both came to the door at once, and looked in. The 
 black cat bristled and hissed, and Jarvie and Daisy looked 
 up. The former was sitting down over a little fire he 
 had kindled preparatory to cooking some fish he had 
 just brought in for his supper. 
 
 As soon as he saw the man who stood in the door he 
 sprang to his feet, his eyes flashing fire. The eyes of 
 the stranger kindled hardly less likewise. 
 
 " Villain ! robber ! thief ! Have you followed me 
 even here 1 Do you dare invade the quiet of this my 
 solitary home ? " cried old Jarvie, moving about his arms, 
 in his strong excitement. " Why did I not strike you 
 dead in the streets? Why did my arm fail me just 
 then? Robber! villain! At least, you shall pay the price 
 of your crime now ! You shall go where you have sent the 
 heart nearest my own to the grave I " and he advanced 
 upon him. 
 
 " Hold ! " cried the other, in a voice that thrilled old 
 30
 
 350 DOVECOTE. 
 
 Jarvie, and made him stand in spite of himself. " Be 
 calm ! Only be calm ! You know not what harm you 
 may do ! " 
 
 " I know what I wish I once had done," said Jarvie, 
 " when I met you, after so long a search, in the 
 streets ! " 
 
 " William Branch," sadly began the stranger, " I have 
 done you in my lifetime as foul a wrong as man ever 
 can do another ! Let me hasten to acknowledge it" 
 
 " That you have ! " interrupted Jarvie, whose name 
 was but a fiction of his own, after all, his threatening 
 tone a little mollified already by the gentler manner of 
 the other. " You've done me a wrong no man can 
 right ! " 
 
 " Let me at least try. I have come to you only for 
 that. I have come to your lonely hut to tell you that I 
 am willing to make the fullest amends I can for my in- 
 juries to you." 
 
 " It's too late ! " cried Jarvie, still more softened. 
 " Why didn't you come before ? What made you stay 
 away till my child died? till you'd broken her heart, 
 and laid her in the grave ? Do you blame me for trying 
 to kill you in the streets ? Does any body blame me ? 
 Wouldn't they try to do the same thing themselves ? " 
 
 " I say nothing of that now," returned the visitor. 
 " Let it go. It is better to do so. I treasure no hard 
 feelings, William Branch, for any thing you may have 
 done." 
 
 " And well you, mightn't, I tell you ! Tm the 
 wronged one, and you are the aggressor ! Who should 
 lay up the hard feelings, pray ? " 
 
 " I hope neither of us." 
 
 " You expect a good deal, let me tell you ! It ain't 
 in human nature ! "
 
 THE BREAKING OF THE GOLDEN BOWL. 351 
 
 " Let me tell you 'what I have come to tell you. My 
 child has just died in the house at the foot of this moun- 
 tain my only child." 
 
 " No, no, no ! " exclaimed Jarvie. " Speak the truth 
 now, let the shame strike as it will ! " 
 
 " The last expressed wish of my child was, that I 
 should take your little Daisy in her stead, and do by 
 her exactly as I would have done by Milly." 
 
 " A thing you'd ought to ha' done long ago ! " inter- 
 rupted Jarvie. " It was a great wrong a cruel 
 wrong ! " 
 
 " I would not rob you of all that is left to gladden 
 your heart, but I would do my duty while I am in the 
 way of it." 
 
 " My little Daisy is all the lamb I have," said Jarvie. 
 
 " And unless I have her, / have none either." 
 
 " What better do you deserve than what's fallen on 
 you ? " 
 
 " Nothing nothing. I confess it freely to you. 
 Nothing at all. I have done wrong ; let me make it 
 right again while it is in my power. I will do all I can 
 to make up to you for your suffering." 
 
 " You can never hope to do any thing, then. No 
 tongue can begin to tell the wretchedness of my life. 
 I've tried to live it down in the solitudes ; but the soli- 
 tudes won't do it. And in the crowds of men in the 
 streets there is more solitude than any where else. I 
 can live only here ; and life here is bitter enough, 
 though I try to keep all my sorrows to myself. Nobody 
 can share 'em ! " 
 
 " At least," returned the other, " let me. Let me take 
 from your shoulders a part of the burden you carry." 
 
 " And you want Daisy ? " 
 
 " That was Milly's last wish."
 
 352 DOVECOTE. 
 
 " And when you take Daisy, instead of making my 
 load lighter, you make it heavier you rob me of all 
 I've got ! " 
 
 Jarvie began to forget his passion, and fell to musing, 
 casting his eyes down on the rough floor. 
 
 " You shall be made comfortable wherever it is your 
 pleasure to live. Only suffer me to adopt this child for 
 my own. I will care for her as you would yourself. 
 She shall have all the advantages that money can fur- 
 nish. She shall be instructed in the best schools, and 
 introduced into good circles. Her prospects shall be as 
 fair as those of the wealthiest" 
 
 Jarvie slowly shook his head. 
 
 " And I live alone here on this mountain ? " said he. 
 
 " No ; you shall have your home just where you will. 
 I have money now, which once I did not have. You 
 shall not suffer. I will provide." 
 
 " Ah ! this sounds more as it should ! " 
 
 " And whatever can in the least add to your happi- 
 ness you shall ask for without reserve. You shall not 
 be left alone. The child shall come regularly to see 
 you, if you like." 
 
 " But that wouldn't do after she'd got into other 
 ways. I might want to see her when she didn't know 
 it ; but it wouldn't do for tier to come where I live. I 
 could watch my chances, though. I should know how 
 she was gettin' on." 
 
 " And, then, will you consent to what I ask ? " 
 
 " You ask a good deal I want time to think ; and 
 much thought, too." 
 
 " I know I ask a great deal ; but my sense of duty 
 impels me to more than I was ready at one time to un- 
 dertake. Give me the girl, and I shall exert myself to 
 see that all three of us are happy. Keep her yourself
 
 THE BREAKING OF THE GOLDEN BOWL. 353 
 
 and one of us, at least, will be miserable always. 
 Which shaU be done ? " 
 
 " Let me think, let me think, I say. It takes time to 
 settle such a thing as it should be." 
 
 It was miraculous what a thorough revolution had 
 thus been wrought in his feelings by nothing but a free 
 confession on the part of him who had wronged him, 
 and a desire to cancel the injury at the earliest moment. 
 The law of forgiveness was exemplified in its fullest 
 extent. 
 
 Not until then did the eyes of Jarvie rest on the 
 piercing ones of Billy Stokes at the door. The boy had 
 stood there all this time, silently studying the character 
 of Jarvie, and wondering within himself at discovering 
 that Milly's father, after all, was the same man whom 
 Jarvie had so desperately assaulted. Well might he 
 wonder. 
 
 " There's my little friend agin ! " exclaimed Jarvie. 
 " There he is ! He brought me comfort when nobody 
 else did ! " And he sprang forward to grasp him by the 
 hand. Meanwhile the father of Milly walked in and 
 sat down on the bench, and began to regard Daisy with 
 a look of affection. 
 
 " I always thought we should meet agin ! " said Jar- 
 vie. " Why didn't you speak, and tell me 'twas you ? 
 What made you stay out doors ? You don't know how 
 glad I am to see you up here. How did you come ? " 
 
 " With him," answered Billy, pointing to the other. 
 
 " Did you, know little Milly, too ? She used to come 
 up on the mountain pretty often to see Daisy. Did you 
 know Daisy ? " 
 
 Billy told him that he did not ; but another Moll 
 had told him all about her. 
 
 Then Jarvie entered upon a long talk with him, ask- 
 30*
 
 354 DOVECOTE. 
 
 ing him questions at random about the town and all that 
 was going on there. They sat down near the door, and 
 had it to themselves. 
 
 And Daisy was answering the questions that were 
 put her, too, always speaking of Milly with deep feel- 
 ing, as if her love for her had been sisterly indeed from 
 the first. Little thought Milly, however, of the secret 
 affinity that held them together ! 
 
 The bereft father strove to find his way to the girl's 
 heart by means of gentleness and promises. It would 
 be, perhaps, a long work with him ; but he might ac- 
 complish it at the last, fulfilling to the letter the dying 
 wish of the dear Milly, whose memory now would live 
 fresh in his heart as long as it beat. 
 
 In so short a space, how great was the change in the 
 aspect of the rude old cabin !
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 THE peacefulness, however, was not long after 
 broken by the entrance of another. Adam Drowne 
 presented himself at the door. He looked in shyly, and 
 said to Jarvie, in a suppressed tone, 
 
 " Got more company, eh ? " 
 
 " Yes," returned Jarvie, " he's the one." And he 
 pointed over his shoulder in the direction of Milly's 
 father. 
 
 Adam's eyes were fixed on the stranger with an alto- 
 gether new interest. He studied his features long and 
 closely. 
 
 " What of 'him 1 " finally asked he. " Who is he ? " 
 
 " Ah, Adam," said Jarvie, shaking his head, " you 
 may well ask who he is ! Perhaps, as you say, you 
 wouldn't been miserable if it hadn't been for him ! " 
 
 " Aha ! aha ! " exclaimed he, in a voice little above a 
 whisper. " What does that mean ? Did he ever see 
 Mary ? Do you mean that ? " 
 
 " That's jest what I mean." 
 
 " He ! " said Adam again, pointing at him with his 
 finger. 
 
 " He was the one she loved so much." 
 
 " He ! he ! " continued Adam, still pointing, and his 
 eyes flashing under the control of his monomania. 
 " What's he here for ? Let me kill him ! Why don't 
 
 (355)
 
 356 DOVECOTE. 
 
 you kill him ? You've been hunting after him this long 
 while ; why don't you kill him ? " 
 
 All this exciting conversation as yet was unheard by 
 the subject of it, who sat talking with Daisy in the back 
 side of the apartment. His face was not turned exact- 
 ly to the door, and he could not see, therefore, that 
 another person had just come up. 
 
 " He's after Daisy," said Jarvie, in answer to Adam's 
 questions. 
 
 " Are you goin' to let him Jiave her ? Shall you do 
 such a thing as that? He come and rob your heart 
 agin ! " 
 
 " He's Milly's father," added Jarvie. 
 
 " That man ! A man like that the father of my poor, 
 dear, dead Milly ! I don't believe it ! " 
 
 " But that won't make any difference, whether you do 
 or not, I guess. He's offered to come here and make 
 up for what wrong he's done " 
 
 " And are you goin' to let him ? Are you goin' to har- 
 bor such a villain as that ? " 
 
 " He don't talk like a villain now. His other little 
 girl's death, I guess, has quite broke him." 
 
 Adam dropped his eyes to the ground, and sighed, 
 " Poor Milly ! " 
 
 " If a man's willin' to do right, after he's done so fur 
 the t'other way," said Jarvie, " who'd want to bender 
 him ? That would be as much out o' the way as he is ! " 
 
 Adam looked uncommonly dejected and sorrowful. 
 
 " He's full of bruises about his heart, I guess," said 
 Jarvie, " and I ain't the man to want to batter him 
 more'n he can well stan'. If he's sorry, and I guess he 
 really is, why, then, I'll forgive him. I pity him now." 
 
 " I can't think such a man's the father o' my Milly ! "
 
 CONCLUSION. 357 
 
 said Adam, crossing his hands behind him, and studying 
 the ground still. 
 
 " But there ain't no doubt oft, though, in my mind. 
 Here's little Billy," pointing to the boy who sat near 
 him " he's seen it all, and he believes it. Don't you, 
 Billy ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, I think he really is," answered the little 
 fellow. 
 
 Adam gave him another searching look. 
 
 " Then Daisy'll go too ! " mused he, running his eyes 
 off over the landscape, through whose juicy green the 
 little creek was running, and winding, and flashing. 
 " You'll lose her, too ! And there'll be little or nothing 
 for me to come up here for no child to make me think 
 of her dead mother when I look into her sweet face 
 nothing but you and that awful black cat. It'll be jest 
 like the grave up here no sound of any body's voice, 
 no laughter, no little feet to patter round on the hard old 
 floor. What will there be for me to come to see ? How 
 can I set down on the rocks out o' this door, and do 
 nothing but think ? How can I live under it all ? / 
 can't ! and there's no use in wantin' to, either ! " 
 
 The spirits of the poor, wandering lover had hitherto 
 been measurably kept up by the presence of the girl, 
 who reminded him so much of the object of his earlier 
 affection ; but they were bruised and broken now. His 
 aims seemed suddenly gone. His hopes sunk like a 
 flame in the darkness. 
 
 " Then this is my last look at her," said he, regarding 
 Daisy with a melancholy look from the door. " She 
 calls up her mother's image again ; though it will never 
 die out of my heart. Let me take a good look." 
 
 So he stood there gazing at her for many minutes 
 
 Jarvie and his young friend kept silence all the
 
 358 DOVECOTE. 
 
 while. The boy was lost in wonder at what he saw ; 
 and when he glanced at the persons around him, and 
 then let his eyes swim over the landscape, and again 
 thought of Milly and all that had happened to her since 
 her departure for her uncle Trevelyn's, he could hardly 
 think that these things could be real, but felt as if he 
 might be acting a part in some strange dream. 
 
 " That's all ! " muttered Adam Drowne, slowly and 
 sadly withdrawing himself. " I never thought tliis 
 would come about, though ! " 
 
 He turned to leave the place. No one asked him 
 why he went, or whither he was going. The same 
 piece of driftwood on the current of the world that he 
 ever had been he would continue to be. He would 
 follow the same courses, the same old paths, the same 
 half-matured plans. He would be a waif for his whole 
 life. 
 
 Next morning, as a man from the village was fishing 
 among the leathery leaves of the lilypads in the little 
 river, spinning his lines over and around their shadows 
 for the lurking pickerel, he started at discovering a 
 strange object thrust upwards through the tangled mass 
 of green. So plainly it showed, there could be little 
 room to hesitate as to what it was. His eyes were riv- 
 eted to it, in spite of the feeling of horror that made 
 him so faint 
 
 The object was a human hand, sticking up, stark and 
 stiff, as if for assistance, when assistance was no longer 
 to be had ! 
 
 He immediately gave the alarm, and scores of the vil- 
 lagers hurried from all quarters to the spot, with ropes, 
 poles, stakes, and hooks. They secured the object in 
 sight, and, with difficulty, brought it to the shore. As
 
 CONCLUSION. 359 
 
 they drew it out, they saw that the body was that of a 
 man. 
 
 But no one could tell \vlio he was. No one had ever 
 seen such a being, either in tho village or on its out- 
 skirts. And while the common doubt was ruling, old 
 Jarvie himself came strolling along, spinning his own 
 hook, in quest of his morning meal. He was attracted 
 to the crowd, and cast a look on the face of the drowned 
 man. 
 
 " I know him ! " he at once said. 
 
 " Well, who is he ? " all asked him at once. 
 
 " His name's Adam Drowne. He's been out of Ms 
 head some this long while. He used to come up to my 
 hut u good deal," returned Jarvie. 
 
 The despondent and despairing lover, seeing hope 
 after hope vanish before his eyes like some desert 
 mirage, at last committed himself to the step that his 
 feeble mind told him would bring him rest. In the 
 stillness of the summer night he had jumped from the 
 little bridge in among the frightened fish, and the 
 blackened logs, and the sedges, and the grass ; and 
 there, with face upturned to the sky of midnight, he 
 breathed out his soul to the stars, hoping, in his weak- 
 ness, for some other life, where the heart would be 
 whole, and where no bitter waters should be given the 
 suffering soul to drink ! 
 
 The bubbles had risen to the gurgling surface, as 
 Death drew him finally down, and broken in the mid- 
 night silence, one by one, leaving no trace of the deed 
 that was concealed below. 
 
 The poor wanderer was sick of his life, and foolishly 
 plunged into another, of which he knew even less than 
 of this.
 
 360 DOVECOTE. 
 
 The proper arrangements were speedily consummat- 
 ed between Jarvie and the father of Milly, and Daisy 
 went away to live with her new protector. It was hard 
 parting from Jarvie ; but he knew it would be for her 
 highest good in the end, and cheered her by repeated 
 promises to see her often. 
 
 And so Daisy came to supply the place of Milly, 
 finding in the stranger only the parent whose tutoring 
 care she should have had years before. 
 
 Billy Stokes and his mother were placed in a comfort- 
 able little snuggery just out of the metropolis, from 
 which Billy went in every day to the new occupation 
 his friend had found for him. She talked much of the 
 gentle Mrs. Markham to her son ; and explained to him 
 the final advantages that grew out of honor, let the pres- 
 ent prospects be what they might from following a con- 
 trary plan. 
 
 And Mrs. Trevor cared well for Snarly Moll ; giving 
 her a better home than she could elsewhere have ex- 
 pected to find, and seeing that she received such in- 
 structions only as would most surely and substantially 
 promote her happiness in the world. 
 
 Nor was poor Mrs. Trevelyn forgotten, with her pit- 
 iable children. The hard features of her case became 
 instantly known to those other actors in this little his- 
 tory who were able to assist her, and at their hands she 
 became the recipient of favors and kindnesses that lifted 
 the gloom from her heart, and gave her renewed strength 
 to meet the ills and trials of life. 
 
 As for Byeboro' but let that be forgotten, with its 
 dismal poorhouse, its swarming paupers, with cruel and 
 heartless Caleb Flox, and poor old Ponce, the disabled 
 hero, and Crazy Jane, who kept up her senseless prat-
 
 CONCLUSION. 361 
 
 tie as long as she lived and all the rest They call up 
 dreary thoughts, that no healthy heart would give a 
 place to. 
 
 All these are among the versicolored memories of 
 old Dovecote. There is that rosy tint still hanging over 
 the roofs ; there are those streaks of sunshine streaming 
 through the windows across the floor ; there are those 
 same white and blue smokes, sailing up from the chim- 
 neys to the sky ; and these memories intertwisted with 
 them all, like threads of light, azure and golden, that 
 are swiftly flying on the shuttles of thought through the 
 life -warp. 
 
 The glorious home sunrises and the gorgeous sunsets 
 are but living pictures all, off of which the heart may 
 feed and never be full. The white moonlight glimpses 
 of the evenings are but soft and tender murmurs in the 
 sensitive ear of memory, filling its chambers with lulling 
 melodies like the music of flutes. 
 
 Far apart as this and the old time are, I can see the 
 red sunset burning in the western windows, and gilding 
 the crests of the towering elms. The entire spot is in- 
 framed and set about as with burnished gold. And 
 there the heart loves to rest itself, far from the dust of 
 life's highways, where nothing but peace sleeps ever in 
 the leaves, and nothing but balm drops down from the 
 branches. 
 
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