1'ride restrained the better feelings of both ; and, with a 
 nervous hand, Kichnrd wrote his name. page 33.
 
 HEARTS AND FACES; 
 
 OR, 
 
 HOME-LIFE UNYEILED. 
 
 PAUL CREYTON, 
 
 AUTHOR OF " FATHER BBIGHTHOPES," ETC. 
 
 SIXTH THOUSAND. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 PIIILLIPS, SAMPSON AND COMPANY. 
 1854.
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by 
 
 J. T. TKOWBKIDGE, 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusett*
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 " FATHER BRIGHTIIOPES " was the author's first ex- 
 periment at book-making. It depended upon the 
 public whether it should also be his last. But, 
 somehow, the little venture was successful ; it found 
 many friends here and there ; and the favor with 
 which it was received acted like genial sunshine to 
 quicken and mature a second plant, of a not dis- 
 similar species. 
 
 The present volume is composed of short domestic 
 tales, written to illustrate American HOME LIFE, and 
 to afford the reader a few simple, and, it is hoped, 
 useful lessons, as well as amusement for now and 
 then a leisure hour. No attempt has been made at 
 fine writing, in any of them. Of strange romance 
 and startling fiction there is none ; and, if the book 
 
 2051353
 
 IV PREFACE. 
 
 meets with anything like the kind reception accorded 
 to " Father Brighthopes," it will be owing, not to 
 its literary merits, but to the every-day subjects on 
 which it touches, and to the gentle feelings of the 
 hearts to which it appeals. 
 
 With these brief remarks, the author takes leave 
 of his friends for the present, gratefully acknowledg- 
 ing their kindness, and hoping to be able again to 
 greet them in a few months, in a work more replete 
 with thought and spirit, and more worthy of a 
 place in their afiections, than anything he has yet 
 attempted.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAQg 
 
 THE TWIN COTTAGES, 7 
 
 MARBYIXG A FAMILY 58 
 
 MARY DARWELL'S GBEEF, 98 
 
 MUTTON IN BRAMBLETOWN, Ill 
 
 THE MISFORTUNES OF BASIL GBAT, 137 
 
 MBS. DALTON'S TRIALS, 180 
 
 LILT BELL, 191 
 
 THE CROSS HUSBAND, 213 
 
 THE BLUE EYES, 230 
 
 Tire JOURNEY FOR A WIFE, 252 
 
 EDGAR EDSON, 267 
 
 MRS. JASLITT'S SPANIEL, . . , , 284
 
 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 
 
 I. THE OLD HOUSE. 
 
 No two families ever dwelt together, under the 
 same roof, in more perfect unity and happiness than 
 the brothers Felton ; occupying, with their wives 
 and children, the old Felton house, in the flourish- 
 ing township of Pennfield. They were brothers in 
 feeling as well as in name j their wives were like 
 sisters, and their children were like the children of 
 the same parents in their kindness towards each 
 other. Neither ever visited the city, and brought 
 home presents to his own children, without distrib- 
 uting gifts equally curious and gratifying to his 
 little nephews and nieces. The two families enjoyed 
 everything in common ; eating at the same table, 
 riding in the same great carriage, sitting in the 
 same pew at church, and laboring together to ad- 
 vance their common interest.
 
 8 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 
 
 The Feltons lived thus for years. But at length, 
 when they saw new and beautiful houses rising about 
 their estate in the fairest portions of Pennfield, they 
 conceived a desire to build a more splendid house 
 than the humble cottage in which their parents had 
 lived and died. 
 
 " Why not ? " asked Lionel, the elder of the two 
 brothers, as they were walking across the fields 
 together, one mild Sabbath afternoon. " The old 
 house is really getting to look quite poverty-stricken, 
 in the midst of the improvements which are going 
 on around us." 
 
 " And as our families increase," rejoined Richard, 
 who was no less ambitious than his brother, " we find 
 the old house growing too small for us. We must 
 either build an addition in the spring, or put up a 
 new house ; and, really, I am inclined to think the 
 latter would be the cheapest, in the end." 
 
 " No doubt of it, brother," said Lionel. " But, 
 even if it would not, we can afford a little extrava- 
 gance, I am sure. Here we are, with two hundred 
 acres of the best land in the county, free from 
 incumbrance; and we have money enough at in- 
 terest to build as fine a house as you can see from 
 the top of Hodge's Hill." 
 
 " Well, then, supposing we put up a new cottage,' 
 added Richard, casting his fine eye, with an expres 
 sion of pride, around him on the broad and beauti
 
 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 9 
 
 ful fields of the Felton estate. "Where shall it 
 stand ? " 
 
 " On the north road, to be sure," replied Lionel. 
 "There is not another such fine locality in Pennfield; 
 and I am sure father himself purposed building there, 
 had he lived. The finest orchard on the farm, you 
 know, is on the north road ; the new house shall 
 go up directly in front of the orchard, with its front 
 door looking towards the east." 
 
 Kichard was accustomed to rely upon his elder 
 brother's judgment, and on this occasion he coin- 
 cided with him in every suggestion he made touch- 
 ing the new house. They walked leisurely over to 
 the north road, and, in their imagination, constructed 
 just such a cottage as they wished to build there in 
 reality, and admired its imposing beauty, until it 
 would have been a difficult thing for them to dismiss 
 the subject from their minds, and live contented in 
 the old house half-a-dozen years longer. 
 
 It was resolved, then, that the new house should 
 be built ; and you may be sure that the wives of 
 Lionel and Richard showed no disposition to dis 
 courage the enterprise. It was something they had 
 long desired, but to which they had small hopes of 
 being able to persuade their husbands ; for, if the 
 truth must be told, the old Felton house was 
 quite large enough and sufficiently convenient for 
 both families for ten years to come; and it was
 
 10 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 
 
 hardly thought that two such sober-minded men as 
 Lionel and Richard would incur the expense of a 
 new house merely for the sake of appearances. 
 
 The project was the subject of much talk and 
 study during the subsequent fall and winter ; and, 
 after the principal points in the construction of the 
 proposed cottage were resolved upon, an architect 
 was employed to draw up a plan. 
 
 Whilst the brothers were engaged in getting 
 choice framing-timber out of the woods, and in 
 drawing logs to the saw-mill, their wives at home 
 employed their time in constructing quilts, curtains 
 and rugs, and in preparing rags for carpets, to dec- 
 orate the new cottage. Long before spring, they 
 had agreed upon the style in which each room was 
 to be furnished, and given a thought to every arti- 
 cle, whether for use or show, from the ornaments on 
 the parlor mantel-piece to the stove in the kitchen. 
 All this time, their labors and discussions were con- 
 ducted with great cheerfulness and commendable 
 good feeling. 
 
 One important arrangement, however, still re- 
 mained to be made. The large, square bed-room, in 
 the south-east corner of the house, would be the most 
 desirable and pleasant apartment of all. 
 
 " I think," said Martha (Lionel's wife), referring, 
 for the fiftieth time that day, to the plan of the new 
 house, which lay upon the sitting-room table, " I
 
 THE TWIX COTTAGES. 11 
 
 think, Maria, you can't object to giving that room 
 up to me. Lionel has spoken of it. I think he 
 is set upon it ; and, really, I think wo ought to 
 have it." 
 
 " I don't know about that," replied Maria, bend- 
 ing over her work, and plying her needle very rap- 
 idly. " Richard and I were thinking we ought to 
 have that room. In fact, we did n't suppose there 
 would be a word said against it." 
 
 "Well, we won't quarrel about it, of course," 
 pursued Martha, pushing the drawing across the 
 table in a rather abrupt manner. " But I am sure, 
 when you come to reflect, you will allow that we 
 have the best right to the room." 
 
 " How the best right ? " asked Maria, in a quiet 
 tone. 
 
 " Why, my dear woman, you can't deny that 
 Lionel has done all the planning, and headed every 
 enterprise about the new house. He first suggested 
 the idea of building, as Richard himself allows. 
 Now, really, every person of sense must say that he 
 ought to have his choice of the rooms." 
 
 "Every person of sense?" echoed Maria, losing 
 patience with her sister-in-law. "You appear to 
 think I am not a person of sense " 
 
 " Maria " 
 
 " Because I don't happen to think just as you 
 do. Now, I must say that I think any person of
 
 12 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 
 
 sense must give the right of the square bed-room 
 to me.' 1 
 
 " Well," said Martha, with an angry gesture, "by 
 what right do you lay claim to the room ? " 
 
 " I can tell you, without getting angry," replied 
 Maria, in a significant tone. " You say Lionel has 
 taken the lead in everything connected with the new 
 house ; and so he has, because Richard has been will- 
 ing to give in to his opinions, as younger brothers 
 generally do. Lionel has had his way about every- 
 thing ; but Richard has done as much hard work as 
 your husband has ; and he could have done the head- 
 work as well, if Lionel had not insisted on having it 
 all done to please himself. Now, after giving up 
 all to Lionel, Richard certainly ought to have his 
 way about one trifling matter; and that is, the 
 square bed-room." 
 
 " How unreasonable you are ! " exclaimed Martha. 
 " You have n't any sense on this subject. You know 
 very well that Richard was glad to have my hus- 
 band take all the cares of building off his mind ; 
 because Lionel is more capable of head-work than 
 himself." 
 
 " That I deny ! " said Maria, with great firmness 
 of manner. " I don't know what you can be think- 
 ing of, to make such an absurd remark. Was n't 
 Richard always the best scholar, and don't Lionel
 
 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 13 
 
 even now apply to him, when there is any figuring 
 to be done ? " 
 
 " The best scholar has nothing to do with build- 
 ing a house," said Martha. " But there is no use 
 talking with you, until you come to your senses. 
 All I 've got to say is, tve shall have the square 
 bed-room, at any rate ! There ! " 
 
 This arrogance on the part of her sister-in-law 
 made Maria very angry, and she answered without 
 giving her passion time to cool. 
 
 " I declare, Mrs. Felton, this is too bad ! A 
 person would think you were insane. It is not the 
 room I care so much about ; for, if you had asked 
 me kindly to give it up to you, I would have given 
 it up without a word, as Richard and I have always 
 given up everything to you and your husband. But, 
 if you claim the room, it is another thing ; and 
 you '11 find that people who have suffered them- 
 selves to be trampled upon can set up for their 
 rights, when driven to it. Say what you may, J 
 will never go into the new house, unless we can 
 have the square bed-room ! " 
 
 "We can go into it alone, then, and like it so 
 much the better," said Martha, with a provoking 
 laugh. 
 
 " We '11 see if you can ! " retorted Maria, her eyes 
 flashing upon her sneering sister. " We '11 see ! " 
 
 Maria turned her back scornfully upon Martha, 
 2
 
 14 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 
 
 as if determined to have no more conversation with 
 one so void of reason ; and Martha deliberately 
 moved her seat to the opposite corner of the room, 
 apparently with the intention of getting as far from 
 the insane Maria as possible. 
 
 II. THE QUARREL. 
 
 It was on a cold afternoon in mid-winter that the 
 dispute the first serious quarrel between Martha 
 and Maria took place. Lionel and Richard had 
 been at work all day drawing logs out of the woods ; 
 and, at night, unharnessing their teams together, they 
 returned to the house, walking slowly side by side. 
 
 " I calculate we shall move into the new house 
 early next fall," said Lionel. " Our work gets on 
 famously. We shall have everything ready for the 
 carpenters in two months, and the masons can build 
 the cellar-wall as soon as the frost is out of the 
 ground." 
 
 " The women are getting on finely, too," rejoined 
 Richard. " Now, tell me, Lionel, did you ever see 
 two wives, under the same roof, agree so well ? " 
 
 " Never. But it is no wonder. Martha would 
 sooner give up everything to Maria than quarrel 
 With her." 
 
 " And Maria feels the same towards her."
 
 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 15 
 
 With these words on his lips, Richard opened the 
 door. The wives were sitting in the position in 
 which we left them. 
 
 " How happens this ? " said Lionel. " The table 
 is not set." 
 
 " Maria, how have you forgotten yourself so ? " 
 asked the mild Richard. " You usually get supper, 
 I believe." 
 
 " I always have till to-night," said Maria, flushing 
 very red. " For two months I have set the table 
 three times a day, without a word. Now I think it 
 is time somebody else should set it." 
 
 As Martha knew very well who was meant by 
 somebody else, she said, quickly, 
 
 " I don't know what this means, I am sure. Maria 
 has always wanted to- set the table, because she does 
 not like to sit all day ; and, as I can sew faster 
 than she can, I have left the duty to her." 
 
 " I don't understand this trifling ! " said Lionel, 
 sternly. 
 
 " Nor I." replied Richard, biting his lips. 
 
 " Come, brother, let us set the table ourselves." 
 
 Maria had now reflected long enough on the folly 
 of what she was doing to be heartily ashamed of her 
 conduct. She felt that she ought to have set the 
 table, but pride had sustained her ; and now, before 
 she could leave her chair, Martha, who knew, per- 
 haps, how much a little condescension at such a time
 
 16 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 
 
 would speak in her favor and to Maria's disadvan- 
 tage, quietly arose and put away her work. 
 
 " I am sure," said she, " I would rather set the 
 table than not. It is much plcasanter than sitting 
 all day ; and I would have had supper all ready by 
 this time, if I had not supposed somebody else pre- 
 ferred to do it." 
 
 " Maria, what does this mean ? " demanded Rich- 
 ard, impatiently. 
 
 Wounded pride, anger and shame, struggled in 
 Maria's breast, until she burst into tears. 
 
 " I have been trodden upon and insulted long 
 enough ! " she sobbed. 
 
 " Trodden upon and insulted ! " echoed the impet- 
 uous Lionel, with a frown. " By whom ? Not by 
 Martha, I know. Come, sister; have done with this 
 nonsense ! " 
 
 " Brother ! " replied Richard, in a suppressed 
 voice ; " it is not for you to judge and condemn my 
 wife. See, she weeps ; and she would not weep for 
 nothing." 
 
 " Fudge ! " said Lionel, with a gesture of irri- 
 tation. 
 
 Richard turned calmly away, and followed Maria 
 to her room. 
 
 As soon as Martha saw her husband disposed to 
 take her part, she thought best to hold her peace, 
 and go quietly about her work, with the peculiar
 
 THE TWIX COTTAGES. 17 
 
 air of a person very much abused, but, neverthe- 
 less, perfectly resigned. Lionel walked across the 
 room, sat down, and took his youngest child upon 
 his knee. 
 
 " Now tell me what this quarrel is ! " said he to 
 his wife, in his usual imperative manner when ex- 
 cited. " What is the matter with Maria ? " 
 
 " It is such a trifle that I am ashamed to men- 
 tion it," replied Martha. " I did n't think she was 
 so silly. There was something said about the large 
 square bed-room in the new house, and Maria spoke 
 up very crank, and said she laid claim to that. I 
 asked her by what right ; and she answered that it 
 was time for her to lay claim to something, since 
 she and Richard had suffered us to trample upon 
 them, and have our own way in everything, so 
 long." 
 
 " Did she say that ? " said Lionel, angrily. 
 
 " Yes, and a great deal more like it, M r hich I can't 
 repeat. Of course," added Martha, with a self- 
 approving smile, " I could n't hear her talk so with- 
 out making some reply ; and so I told her that, if 
 anybody had a right to the bed-room, it was our- 
 selves, for the house would never have been built 
 if it had not been for you." 
 
 Lionel's brows gathered. 
 
 " Richard shall know of this ! " he muttered. " I 
 could have borne anything rather than that she
 
 18 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 
 
 should have said ice trample upon them. My blood 
 boils at the injustice of the charge. I take the lead 
 in business, because I have more of a business turn 
 than Richard has ; and because he knows it, and is 
 more willing to trust to my judgment than his own. 
 We trample upon them ! So this is the reason why 
 Maria did not set the table." 
 
 " I don't know of any other reason, I am sure," 
 replied Martha. 
 
 Meanwhile, Maria was telling her story to her 
 sympathizing husband. 
 
 " I ought to have set the table, I know," said she. 
 " But Martha was so unjust and tyrannical that I 
 had to rebel. It is true we never quarrelled seri- 
 ously before, but it is only because I have always 
 tamely submitted to her domineering disposition. 
 She has had everything her own way, and so has 
 Lionel ; and she thinks that, because we have sub- 
 mitted before, we must now. I told her, if she had 
 asked me kindly for the bed-room, I would have 
 given it up to her ; but when she claimed it, on the 
 plea that the house was of Lionel's building, and not 
 yours, and that you were not capable of taking the 
 lead in business " 
 
 " Did she say that ? " muttered Richard, whose 
 pride was touched to the quick. 
 
 "0, that is not half what she said ! " exclaimed 
 Maria.
 
 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 19 
 
 " This is insulting ! " said Richard, with much 
 irritation. " Because Lionel is the eldest, and I 
 have allowed him to take the lead, as elder brothers 
 naturally do, she must doubt my capability ! But 
 Lionel himself must see the injustice of this, and he 
 shall know of it to-night." 
 
 During this time, Richard's two eldest children. 
 Jackson and Wolcott, together with their 
 cousin Edward, were milking the cows, feeding 
 and taking care of the stock, and performing other 
 duties about the yards and barn, to which they 
 always gave their attention after school. To see 
 that the boys slighted none of the " chores," Lionel, 
 as was his custom at night, left the house, directing 
 his footsteps towards the barn ; and Richard went 
 out soon after on the same errand. The brothers 
 met in the door of the wagon-house, and stopped to 
 speak with each other. 
 
 " The women," said Lionel, carelessly, " have had 
 a foolish quarrel." 
 
 " I am very sorry for it," replied Richard. 
 
 " I hope they will make it up again soon, brother. 
 But I must say I think that Maria is the most to 
 blame." 
 
 " To blame for resenting an insult to her hus- 
 band ? " said Richard, hastily. 
 
 " Who has insulted you ? " 
 
 " Martha. She said I was not capable of doing
 
 20 TIIE TWIN COTTAGES. 
 
 business. If I have permitted you to take the lead,, 
 Lionel, it is not because I consider myself in any 
 way 3~our inferior." 
 
 " It seems to me you are getting into a passion 
 about nothing," rejoined Lionel. " Martha may 
 have said you had less business tact than I have ; 
 and that you yourself cannot deny." 
 
 " That I do deny ! I acknowledge no inferiority. 
 As Maria said, you and Martha are growing pre- 
 sumptuous." 
 
 " She said we trample upon you ! Absurdity ! " 
 
 " Ha ! " ejaculated Richard, with irritation. 
 % " You have never presumed too much, have you? 
 Your wife laid claim to the bed-room, because your 
 judgment is superior to mine ! " 
 
 " Come, come, you talk like a school-boy ! " mut- 
 tered Lionel, with a sneer. " I think we had bet- 
 ter drop the subject till some time when you are 
 cool." 
 
 " Lionel, this is unkind ! this is unjust ! I 
 cannot suffer such intolerance. It is as Maria said. 
 You presume too much on our good-nature." 
 
 " Hum ! yes, trample upon you ! " 
 
 Richard turned angrily away. The two families 
 sat down to the table together that evening, but not 
 a word was spoken by the parents. The children 
 saw that there was some trouble in the house, and 
 conducted their conversation in whispers.
 
 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 21 
 
 After supper, Richard sent Jackson down cellar 
 for a pan of apples and a pitcher of cider ; but, 
 instead of directing him, as heretofore, to pass the 
 fruit first to his aunt, and fill his uncle's glass before 
 his own, he told him to place the pitcher and pan 
 upon the hearth before the blazing fire, where every- 
 body could help themselves. 
 
 Lionel cast a strange Jook upon his brother, and 
 exchanged glances with his wife. Immediately after, 
 Martha called Edward to her, and whispered some- 
 thing in his ear. 
 
 Although the candle Jackson had used was still 
 left burning, Edward lighted a fresh one, and, pass- 
 ing through the pantry, went down cellar. In a few 
 minutes he returned with another pan of apples and 
 another pitcher of cider, which he placed upon the 
 hearth close beside Jackson's, selecting the nicest 
 apple he could find for his mother, and filling his 
 father's glass to the brim. 
 
 " Pass it to Richard," said Lionel. 
 
 Richard, proud, sensitive and indignant when 
 aroused, imputed this silent rebuke as an insult, 
 and refused the proffered glass with a look of scorn. 
 Lionel smiled contemptuously, and quaffed the bev- 
 erage in silence. For the first time in many years, 
 the two families parted that evening without bidding 
 each other good-night.
 
 22 TUE TWIN COTTAGES. 
 
 III. THE FEUD. 
 
 Lionel arose betimes on the following morning, 
 lighted the kitchen fire, and went out to feed the 
 teams long before the dawn, while Martha, contrary 
 to her custom, busied herself in preparing breakfast. 
 This strong-minded couple, in talking over the 
 quarrel of the previous evening behind their bed- 
 curtains, had arrived at the fixed conclusion, that, 
 Richard and Maria having acted foolishly, they 
 should be the first to make advances towards a 
 reconciliation. 
 
 " It will be best to go about our business, and say 
 nothing to them, until they have done pouting," said 
 the stern Lionel. 
 
 " I think so, too," said Martha. 
 
 On the other hand, Ilichard had said to his wife, 
 
 " Lionel has not been like a brother in this ; nor 
 Martha like a sister. Their conduct has been too 
 over-bearing. They have insulted us, and I think 
 it is their duty to ask our pardon." 
 
 " To be sure it is ! " exclaimed Maria. 
 
 So there had been four hearts full of bitterness 
 and anger, beneath the peaceful roof of the old Fel- 
 ton house, that night. 
 
 When Maria arose, and found that Martha was 
 preparing breakfast, she was more angry than 
 ever.
 
 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 23 
 
 " She does it to provoke me ! " she exclaimed to 
 Richard. " This is insult heaped upon insult ! " 
 
 At the breakfast-table a sullen silence was main- 
 tained by Richard and his wife, while Lionel and 
 Martha kept up a light and careless conversation 
 between themselves, in order to show a proper con- 
 tempt for the resentment of their companions. This 
 affected indifference rankled in the sensitive heart 
 of Richard ; and, having made a light and hasty 
 breakfast, he went to the barn, and drove his team 
 into the woods without saying a word to his 
 brother. 
 
 Lionel followed, soon after ; and the brothers 
 helped each other roll the logs upon their sleds as 
 usual, but. it was without a kind word or a kindly 
 feeling. Each waited for the other to speak ; and 
 had Richard or Lionel uttered a single word of 
 kindness, it would undoubtedly have been responded 
 to with an outburst of brotherly love, and would 
 have . resulted in a perfect reconciliation ; but, as it 
 was, they worked together thus all day, making 
 themselves and each other as miserable as possible. 
 
 The following day being Saturday, Lionel rode 
 into the city to make some purchases, and to con- 
 elude a contract for the disposal of a quantity of 
 wood, which the brothers had long been anxious to 
 send off while the sleighing lasted. 
 
 Now Lionel, imperious and unyielding as he some-
 
 24 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 
 
 times was, had naturally a kind and generous heart ; 
 and when he thought how wretched the family quar- 
 rel had made them all during the past eight-and- 
 forty hours, and remembered how happy they had 
 been living together in peace and good fellowship, 
 he resolved to forgive Richard's unreasonable spite, 
 and make the first efforts towards the restoration of 
 mutual confidence and love. Accordingly, whilst 
 he was in the city, he purchased a box of figs, to be 
 divided equally between Richard's children and his 
 own ; a silver comb for Maria, precisely similar to 
 one he bought for Martha : and a handsome gold 
 pencil, which he intended as a gift for Richard. 
 
 With these laudable resolutions and generous 
 presents, Lionel returned home at night, anticipat- 
 ing the blessings which should follow a noble action. 
 But, most unfortunately, Martha and Maria had been 
 quarrelling all day ; and even the children had begun 
 to imbibe the poison of ill-will, and show their spite 
 towards each other. 
 
 When Lionel produced the figs, he called all the 
 children to him, and chose some of the nicest to give 
 to little Lizzie, Richard's youngest child. 
 
 " Come, my dear," said he. " I have got some- 
 thing for you." 
 
 He held up the figs, and Lizzie, clapping her little 
 hands with delight, started forward to receive them ; 
 but her eldest brother, Jackson, said,
 
 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 25 
 
 " You don't want any figs, Lizzie ; let Jane have 
 them, and I will buy you a new doll, and a whole 
 bunch of raisins, when I go to town." 
 
 Lionel scowled darkly upon his nephew ; but once 
 more offered the figs to Lizzie, who, influenced by 
 her brother, hesitated to receive them. 
 
 " I would n't coax her ! " exclaimed Mrs. Lionel. 
 " Give the figs to Martha and Jane ; they will be 
 glad of them. / have not told them not to accept 
 anything that is given them ! " 
 
 These emphatic words, uttered in a significant 
 tone, were accompanied by a sneering glance at 
 Maria. 
 
 " Mrs. Felton," said Lionel, sternly, " is it your 
 will that your children should not accept a present 
 from me ? " 
 
 Maria answered, on the angry impulse of the mo- 
 ment, " If you think your presents are going to pay 
 us for the abuse you have heaped upon us/you had 
 better keep them to yourself ! " 
 
 Lionel's eyes flashed fire, as he pushed the box of 
 figs away from him, exclaiming, 
 
 " Here, Edward, divide them with your sisters. 
 Take these combs, Martha. I designed only one of 
 them for you ; but, since I cannot make an offer of 
 a present without being insulted, you had better take 
 them both." 
 
 Had Richard been present, it is probable this 
 3
 
 26 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 
 
 scene would have terminated more happily for he 
 only waited for the smallest manifestation of kind- 
 ness on the part of his brother to forgive and forget 
 all. But the brothers did not meet until Martha 
 had conferred with her husband, and Maria had told 
 her side of the story to Richard ; so that Lionel's 
 efforts towards a reconciliation resulted in a more 
 bitter and determined animosity between the fami- 
 lies. His pride would not allow him then to offer 
 his brother the pencil he designed for him ; nor is it 
 probable Richard would have received it, had it been 
 offered. 
 
 Taking example from their parents, the children 
 now did nothing but quarrel continually. Even on 
 the following morning, which was the Sabbath, usu- 
 ally so peaceful and happy in the old Felton house, 
 there were dissensions and strife between Richard's 
 children and Lionel's. 
 
 Richard was somewhere about the yard, and Maria 
 occupied the sitting-room, while Lionel and his wife 
 remained by the kitchen fire. Lionel was shaving 
 and preparing for church, when his attention was 
 drawn by angry voices in the yard behind the house. 
 Looking out of the window, he saw Lizzie, Rich- 
 ard's youngest child, quarrelling with his daughter 
 Martha, whom he had sent to the shed for some 
 chips. 
 
 " Call her into the house," said he to his wife
 
 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 27 
 
 The latter was about to comply, when she heard 
 Maria, in the other room, cry out, 
 
 " There is that great creature, Martha, hurting 
 little Lizzie ! It is a shame ! Run out, Wolcott, 
 and bring your sister into the house ! " 
 
 " That is pretty talk ! " muttered Martha, turning 
 to Lionel. " Let us see what Wolcott will do." 
 
 They watched from the window, and saw the boy 
 run hastily up to the children, seize Martha rudely 
 by the shoulder, and push her aside. Unfortu- 
 nately, Martha's foot slipped, and she fell to the 
 ground. 
 
 " The little villain ! " muttered Mrs. Lionel. 
 
 " I will see if he is to treat my girls in that way," 
 said Lionel, going towards the door. 
 
 " There is no need ! " exclaimed his wife. " There 
 is Edward." 
 
 In effect, Lionel's eldest child was already upon 
 the spot. Seeing Martha crying, and supposing 
 Wolcott had hurt her badly, he struck his cousin 
 violently on the cheek. With a cry of rage, Wol- 
 cott flew at his assailant ; but Edward was much 
 the largest and strongest boy, and, a moment after, 
 he had thrown his cousin down upon the frozen 
 ground. 
 
 " Edward ! Edward ! " cried Lionel ; " come into 
 the house ! " 
 
 Before the boy could obey, however, llichard,
 
 28 THE TWI5 COTTAGES. 
 
 coming out of the wagon-house, and seeing his favor- 
 ite son beaten by his cousin, so much older than him- 
 self, ran to the spot, and, taking Edward angrily by 
 the shoulder, shook him with all his might. 
 
 " Let go of me ! " shouted Edward, fiercely. " I 
 am not to be whipped by you, sir ! " 
 
 " There 'a spirit for you ! " cried Mrs. Lionel, 
 delighted. " But I hope you are not going to see 
 your son abused by his uncle, for taking his sister's 
 part ! " 
 
 " No, not I ! " muttered Lionel, rushing out 
 of the house. " Take your hands off from him ! " 
 he added, in an angry tone, confronting Richard. 
 
 "Do you mean to bully me?" demanded Rich- 
 ard, purple with rage. " You will find that I 
 shall stand upon my rights now, if I have suffered 
 your tyranny from my boyhood." 
 
 " Brother ! brother ! " cried Lionel, choking with 
 wrath ; " beware what you say ! " 
 
 " Beware what you do ! " retorted Richard, still 
 retaining his hold of Edward. 
 
 " As I am a living man," muttered Lionel, in- 
 tensely excited, " I shall use violence, if you do not 
 release my son ! " 
 
 And he placed his strong hand upon the throat 
 of Richard. 
 
 " Unhand me ! unhand me, sir ! " cried Rich- 
 ard, beside himself with passion. " I shall strike ! '
 
 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 29 
 
 " Release my son ! " said Lionel. 
 
 Kichard did release his son ; but it was to clench 
 his fist, and level a fierce blow at his brother's tem- 
 ple. Lionel staggered ; but, recovering himself im- 
 mediately, he folded his arms, and, fixing his terrible 
 eye upon Richard, said, in a hoarse voice, 
 
 " That blow shall never be forgiven ! " 
 
 And he stalked into the house, leaving Richard 
 overwhelmed with rage and shame. 
 
 IV. THE BUILDING OF THE COTTAGES. 
 
 The awful occurrence of the morning cast a deep 
 shadow of gloom over the old Felton house for the 
 remainder of the Sabbath. Even the youngest chil- 
 dren seemed to be aware that sin had been among 
 them in an unusual form. Neither family went to 
 church that day ; nor did they eat together, or asso- 
 ciate together in any manner. Edward made a fire 
 in the parlor, by the direction of his parents ; and 
 thither Lionel's family retired, leaving Richard's in 
 the possession of the sitting-room. 
 
 " You need n't have anything more to say to your 
 uncle's people," said Martha to her children. 
 
 " Did Uncle Richard strike father ? " asked little 
 Jane. 
 
 " Hush ! " muttered Lionel.
 
 30 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 
 
 The sound of his brother's name made his bro\V 
 contract with wrath. 
 
 Meanwhile, Richard was miserable. " I should 
 not have struck my brother," he would say, in hia 
 remorse. Then, in his anger and pride, he would 
 add, " But he laid his hand upon my throat ! I 
 gave him warning. His hand upon my throat ! " 
 
 In the evening, Richard saw Lionel leave the 
 house. He did not return until late ; and Richard, 
 with many misgivings, asked himself where his 
 brother could have gone. He knew in the morn- 
 ing. 
 
 Squire Stone came early to the house, and in- 
 quired for Richard. As the latter had not gone to 
 work, he was easily found ; and the squire opened 
 his business to him at once. 
 
 " I am very sorry to learn that there is some 
 difficulty between you and your brother, Mr. Pel- 
 ton." 
 
 Richard scowled, kicked the ground with his foot, 
 and said nothing. 
 
 " I saw Lionel last night," pursued the squire. 
 " He says he thinks a division of your property is 
 necessary." 
 
 Richard started and turned pale ; but he only 
 murmured, 
 
 "Well." 
 
 " Are you of the same way of thinking ? "
 
 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 31 
 
 " I will agree to anything reasonable." 
 
 " But this, Mr. Felton, I think unreasonable. I 
 told your brother so, and tried to dissuade him from 
 it. But he is determined." 
 
 " Is he ? " cried Richard, trembling with excite- 
 ment. " Very well. Let the property be divided. 
 I am willing." 
 
 " But you know this division will necessarily be a 
 very difficult thing." 
 
 " Not so difficult but that it can be accomplished," 
 said Richard, firmly. 
 
 Squire Stone then saw Lionel, and, after a con- 
 ference with him, returned again to Richard. Un- 
 fortunately, he had not the happy faculty of rec- 
 onciling enemies, and his negotiations only made 
 matters worse. Before night, the division of the 
 property was a settled affair, and the preliminary 
 steps had been taken to effect the important object. 
 Arbiters were chosen to adjust the business, so that 
 the brothers might not come in contact ; for all this 
 time they had never spoken to each other, since the 
 fatal affray. 
 
 The directions Richard gave to his friends were, 
 
 " Divide the stock, the farming implements, the 
 land, everything, as you see fit. Act according 
 to your judgment and friendship. Only one thing 
 I insist upon, the site where we were going to
 
 32 TUB TWIN COTTAGES. 
 
 build in the spring must be included in the land 
 which falls to my share." 
 
 Now, it so happened that Lionel had set his heart 
 upon that building-lot. 
 
 " I must and will have that," said he, " if it be 
 at the sacrifice of ten times as much land anywhere 
 else." 
 
 With the building-lot in the way, the arbiters 
 found the greatest difficulty in settling the division 
 of property. At length, Squire Stone suggested 
 that the lot itself should be divided. 
 
 " A good idea," said one of the arbiters ; " we can 
 run the line up to the north road, and cut the lot in 
 the centre, giving the boys half and half." 
 
 This suggestion was reported to the brothers. 
 
 " Very well," said Lionel ; " divide it." 
 
 "Cut it in halves, then," were the words of 
 Richard ; " I care not, since he is not to have the 
 whole." 
 
 The lot was accordingly divided, and, the arbiters 
 having come to a decision, a surveyor was appointed 
 to ruij a line according to their directions. The 
 necessafy articles of agreement were then drawn up, 
 to which the brothers were to put their names. 
 
 Until the last moment, Richard had hoped that 
 some word of regret at the division of the property 
 would escape his brother ; nor was it without many 
 misgivings that Lionel' saw the hour arrive when
 
 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 33 
 
 the last tie between him and Richard was to be 
 broken. The hand of the latter trembled, as he 
 took the pen to sign his name. He raised his eyes to 
 his brother's face, to find there one kind look, to hear 
 one word of regret, of which he might take advan- 
 tage, even at the last moment. But Lionel looked 
 sternly on, to see if Richard would sign, without an 
 appeal to him for a brother's reconciliation. Pride 
 restrained the better feelings of both ; and, with a 
 nervous hand, Richard wrote his name. How angry 
 with himself was he afterwards, to think that his 
 hand trembled, while Lionel's was firm ; and how 
 the latter sneered, as he glanced his eye at the 
 unsteady lines his brother had traced, in his agita- 
 tion ! 
 
 The deed was done, and henceforth the brothers 
 possessed nothing in common. The old house had 
 fallen to Richard's share ; but Lionel was to occupy 
 a certain portion of it, particularly designated in 
 the articles of agreement, until he could build. 
 The house, the cattle, the flocks of sheep, the 
 poultry, the farming implements, the household 
 furniture, even the timber which had been got out 
 for the new house, everything was divided. Even 
 with the old house in his possession, Richard waa 
 resolved to put up as fine a cottage as his brother ; 
 in fact, having learned that Lionel proposed using 
 the old plan, and building as close to the desirable
 
 34 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 
 
 site on the north road as possible, Richard deter- 
 mined to put up a cottage exactly like it, upon his 
 own side of the line, in order not to be outdone by 
 his brother. 
 
 While the Feltons were energetically making 
 preparations to build, they lived in the old house 
 in the most wretched manner imaginable. Maria 
 never suffered her children to set foot in Martha's 
 portion of the house ; and the latter was quite as 
 anxious to prevent all intercourse between the fami- 
 lies ; while Lionel and Richard avoided each other 
 scrupulously, nor ever communicated except through 
 the medium of a third person. 
 
 The two families no longer sat together in church. 
 The second Sabbath after the affray, both were 
 present at the morning service; but the old pew 
 was vacant. Secretly the brothers had hired sepa- 
 rate pews in another part of the house. Richard 
 cast his eye towards the old pew, to see how Lionel's 
 family would look there alone; and Lionel, about 
 the same time, glanced in the same direction, im- 
 pelled by the same curiosity. Both were surprised 
 to see the old pew vacant ; but they were still more 
 surprised when their eyes met, and they found that 
 the new pews adjoined each other in the body of 
 the house ! However, as Lionel entered his pew 
 from the right-hand aisle, and Richard his from the 
 left, and as it would require but little care on the
 
 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 35 
 
 part of the parents to keep the children from 
 getting together, neither of the families saw fit to 
 change their seats again. 
 
 As soon as the frost was gone out of the ground 
 in the spring, Lionel set his men at work on the 
 north-east corner of his farm, close to Richard's 
 line ; and Richard, at the same time, employed labor- 
 ers to dig a cellar on the south-east corner of his 
 land, close to the delectable site which had formed 
 the object of dispute. Masons laid the two cellar- 
 walls at the same time, and worked so near each 
 other that it was easy for them to jest about the 
 strife between the brothers, talking across the line. 
 
 " It gives two good jobs to us and the carpen- 
 ters," laughed one. 
 
 " So it does," replied the other. " People never 
 make fools of themselves, without working for some- 
 body's good. What will you bet but I will get my 
 cellar done first ? " 
 
 " A new hat for Sundays," was the answer. 
 
 The hat was wagered, but neither won it ; for the 
 cellars were both finished on the same day, at the 
 same hour. 
 
 Meanwhile, the timbers were hewn, and the two 
 master-carpenters emulated each other in getting 
 ready the frames. These were both finished at 
 about the same time ; and they might have been 
 raised on the same day, but Lionel sent out his
 
 86 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 
 
 invitations to the neighbors before Richard, so that 
 when the latter went around to invite them to 
 the raising-bee, he found, to his chagrin, that they 
 were all engaged to his brother. Lionel's haste, 
 however, availed him nothing. In his anxiety to 
 get the start of Richard in putting up his cottage, 
 he sent out invitations prematurely, and when his 
 neighbors were on the spot the carpenter declared 
 that, do all he could, he had not been able to get 
 ready for the raising. So Richard's house-frame was 
 put up on the following day, and Lionel's the day 
 after. 
 
 It then became a matter of strife between the 
 two families to move and get settled in their new 
 houses Before each other. The frames were clap- 
 bearded and the roofs shingled in the most hasty 
 manner ; the doors were hung and the windows set 
 with the greatest possible despatch ; then a few 
 rooms were done off, to accommodate the families 
 until tie rest could be finished. Both brothers 
 now beoame strangly nervous ; and Lionel, fearful 
 of beim preceded by Richard, made hasty prepara- 
 tions to move. Discovering these, Richard did the 
 same ; &,nd the brothers went into the twin cottages 
 on the -tame day, almost before the paint and plas- 
 tering Mere dry.
 
 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 37 
 
 V. PLEASANT NEIGHBORS. 
 
 Ill luck now appeared to attend all the under- 
 takings of the two brothers, who had formerly been 
 noted for their good fortune. Richard, unaccus- 
 tomed to take the lead in business, missed Lionel's 
 cool head and practised judgment ; and the latter 
 began to see the inconvenience of having none to 
 second his efforts. 
 
 It was not in the farming business alone that they 
 were not so prosperous as formerly. From the day 
 they moved into the twin cottages, everything went 
 wrong. The children took cold from, the dampness 
 of the freshly-plastered rooms, and there was sick- 
 ness in both families. Owing to the division of the 
 household furniture, both found themselves crippled 
 for want of useful articles which it was difficult to 
 procure. A horse, which nobody but Lionel could 
 manage, but which had fallen to Richard's portion, 
 kicked Jackson in the' side, and laid him up all 
 summer with broken ribs. Then Edward fell into 
 the well Lionel was digging, and broke his arm ; 
 and Lionel himself got his fingers smashed beneath 
 a beam, at the raising of his barn. Richard, over- 
 come by anxiety of mind, had a fever, which left 
 him a mere wreck, and from which he was long 
 recovering. Both Martha and Maria, worn out by 
 hard work in the new houses, were obliged to 
 4
 
 38 TUB TWIN COTTAGES. 
 
 employ girls to help them ; and girls are always a 
 great trial to people who have been accustomed to 
 do their own work. 
 
 The expenses of building were so much greater 
 than Richard had anticipated, and he had to employ 
 so much extra help on the farm during the summer, 
 that, long before fall, he bitterly regretted not hav- 
 ing remained in the old house five or six years 
 longer. But, having commenced, he would not be 
 outdone by his brother ; so he borrowed money to 
 build exactly such a barn as Lionel was building, 
 and to make everything else correspond. 
 
 Richard had been in his new cottage a year 
 before the last of the carpenter's work was done ; 
 and even then, in consequence of the haste in which 
 the frame had been put together and covered, it was 
 necessary to call in a joiner, to make some little 
 repairs. All this time, Lionel's house was in nearly 
 the same condition ; but at length both cottages 
 were, as you may say, completed ; and there they 
 stood, side by side, on the north road, looking so 
 exactly alike, in outward form and arrangements, 
 that they attracted general attention, and obtained 
 the appellation of " The Twin Cottages." 
 
 Now, all the satisfaction the rival families had 
 gained by building separately was in the possession 
 of two large, square bed-rooms, instead of one; 
 although, singular to relate, Richard did not occupy
 
 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 6V 
 
 his, within two years after his removal into the new 
 house; and it is currently reported that Lionel's 
 was never done off for a sleeping apartment, but 
 left as a sort of play-room for the children, and a 
 convenient place to shell corn in, or crack butter- 
 nuts on rainy days. Thus, the square bed-room, 
 which was the origin of all the unfortunate difficul- 
 ties between the two families, became an object of 
 very small importance in their eyes long before 
 they had experienced half the inconvenience of the 
 separation. 
 
 The cousins were brought up to hate each other, 
 and to do each other all possible mischief. They 
 formed their school-fellows into two distinct clans, 
 that waged perpetual war, and gave their teachers, 
 as well as themselves, a great deal of trouble and 
 unhappiness ; until all respectable and well-mean- 
 ing boys got to shun the Feltons, as if their influ- 
 ence had been contaminating. 
 
 Not many months had elapsed before both fam- 
 ilies saw the convenience of living so near together, 
 the proximity of their houses affording every in- 
 ducement and facility to quarrel. The cousins 
 threw stones at each other over the board-fence 
 which had been built on the dividing line of the two 
 estates ; they got each other's balls, when knocked 
 over by accident, and refused to give them up ; and 
 once, when au unconscious chicken of Lionel's stole
 
 40 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 
 
 through the fence, to pick up a grain of corn out of 
 Richard's yard, Wolcott set the dog upon it, and 
 afterwards threw its dead carcass insultingly into 
 his uncle's garden. By way of retaliation, Edward, 
 who at that time had no dog, loaded his father's 
 gun, and peppered the first of Richard's geese that 
 put its unlucky head through the fence. After 
 this, as if impelled by some fatality, turkeys, geese, 
 ducks and hens, showed an extraordinary tendency 
 to rush blindly upon the destruction which awaited 
 them at the mouth of the dog and the muzzle of the 
 gun ; so that numbers of the inoffensive poultry fell 
 miserable victims to the animosity existing between 
 the two families. 
 
 Things progressed in this happy manner, until a 
 fat calf belonging to Lionel had the misfortune to 
 take a fancy to some nice grass which grew on the 
 wrong side of the fence. For many days the fated 
 animal might have been seen casting anxious glances 
 at the appetizing herb, which, perhaps, looked ten 
 times more delectable in prospective than the most 
 epicurean calf would have proved it to be in reality; 
 so that, when the fence was broken by a gale of 
 wind, the devoted animal leaped gayly through the 
 breach, and commenced cropping the grass with 
 great voracity, without alloying the pure pleasure 
 of the stolen repast with a single thought of Rich- 
 ard's merciless big dog. In five minutes, however
 
 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 41 
 
 he was aroused from his delicious revery by a ter- 
 rible growl, and in an instant the fangs of Nero 
 were fastened upon his throat. Jackson and Wol- 
 cott set Nero on, while Martha, from the door of 
 her own house, watched the sport with a heart boil- 
 ing over with rage. Edward ran to the rescue ; 
 but, two boys and a dog being too much for him and 
 a calf, or for two calves, as Jackson facetiously 
 remarked, he was forced to retreat. The calf was 
 horribly mangled, so that it died the day after, to 
 the grief of Richard, and the infinite wrath of 
 Lionel. 
 
 Edward, more incensed than even his parents, 
 felt bound to retaliate. Accordingly, when Rich- 
 ard's best horse jumped into his father's corn-field a 
 few weeks after, the determined youth deliberately 
 loaded his gun, and, walking up close to old Bay, shot 
 him in the right knee. The animal was ruined, 
 and Ilichard enraged. A law-suit followed, which 
 proved to be of endless duration, owing to the ob- 
 stinacy of the contending parties, and which involved 
 both brothers in debt, giving the lawyers of Penn- 
 field more lucrative employment than three genera- 
 tions of Feltons had ever given them before. 
 
 In connection with the cold-blooded maiming of 
 old Bay, an incident occurred, which, as an instance 
 of the manner in which the brothers now annoyed 
 each other, will well bear relating. It becoming
 
 42 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 
 
 necessary for Richard to purchase another horse, he 
 attended an auction for the purpose, and bid high 
 upon a fine chestnut mare, which he thought just 
 suited for his business. His bid was eighty dollars ; 
 somebody else bid eighty -five. "Ninety," said 
 Richard. " Two and a half," came from another 
 part of the room. " Five," pursued Richard. 
 " Eight," was bid by the same unknown individual. 
 
 " It 's your brother bidding against you," whis- 
 pered a friend in Richard's ear. 
 
 True enough, Lionel was bidding for the horse. 
 Resenting this interference, for he knew his 
 brother had no use for another horse at that time, 
 Richard was determined to outbid him ; but, when 
 the horse had gone up to one hundred and twenty- 
 five, the thought struck him that he did not want 
 him at that price, and that Lionel wanted him still 
 less. So he let Lionel have him ; and Lionel sold 
 him, a week afterwards, for eighty-seven dollars. 
 
 In the following spring there was a freshet ; and 
 the brook, which, in its south-westerly course, 
 watered first Richard's farm, and afterwards Lio- 
 nel's, became swollen to an unusual degree. One 
 afternoon, Jackson and Wolcott, having been down 
 the stream to repair some fences, discovered a spot 
 where, with a little assistance, the water would 
 overflow its banks, and, turning into a deep 
 ravine, find its way to the river, without flowing
 
 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 43 
 
 through Lionel's land. No sooner was this discov- 
 ery made, than the disadvantages of a brook were 
 considered ; and, concluding that a diversion of the 
 course of the stream would be of lasting injury to 
 the uncle, the boys began to work with their shovels 
 in right good earnest. In a short time a narrow, 
 turbid channel crept sluggishly across the softened 
 earth of the bank; then it came with greater force, 
 carrying the mud and gravel with it ; and, finally, 
 it went rushing down into the ravine, a perfect tor- 
 rent, to the great delight of the boys, who ran away, 
 in order that their share in the work might not be 
 discovered. 
 
 On the following morning Lionel went over his 
 farm, to see if the west meadow still lay under 
 water, in consequence of the overflowing of the 
 stream, and was astonished at the sudden and mys- 
 terious manner in which the waters had subsided. 
 The meadow was dry, and the stream had shrunk 
 into a mere thread of water. He followed it up, 
 until he discovered the cause. In his wrath, he sent 
 Squire Stone to Richard, charging him with divert- 
 ing the course of the stream, and threatening a law- 
 suit if the bank was not repaired. Richard knew 
 nothing of the change in the course of the brook, 
 and he sent back a scornful defiance to Lionel. A 
 law-suit followed, even more difficult and expensive 
 than the other ; it being alleged by the defendant
 
 44 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 
 
 that the stream had now found its original course, 
 from which it had been diverted by his father, forty 
 years before, in order to water the south part of 
 the farm ; and by the plaintiff, that the defendant 
 had turned the water into the ravine, to do him an 
 injury. Thus, aside from their other misfortunes, 
 the brothers had two endless law-suits to plunge 
 them into debt. 
 
 VI. THE CONFLAGRATION. 
 
 The quarrels of Lionel and Richard proved in- 
 jurious to not only themselves, their families, and 
 their immediate friends, but, in a certain measure, 
 to both church and state. They belonged to the 
 same political party ; but, when Lionel received the 
 nomination for high sheriff, Richard's friends re- 
 fused to vote for him, and for the first time in ten 
 years the opposite party carried the day. After- 
 wards, Richard was nominated for state represent- 
 ative ; and, by way of retaliation, Lionel's clique 
 went against him unanimously, throwing their influ- 
 ence in favor of another candidate. Owing to this 
 split in the party, their political opponents tri- 
 umphed again, and sent to the Legislature a fellow 
 who proved a traitor to the best interests of his dis- 
 trict. The quarrel of the brothers created a division
 
 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 45 
 
 in the church, too ; the devil taking that opportu- 
 nity to sow dissensions and hatred in the hearts of 
 two-thirds of the members. 
 
 Meanwhile Martha and Maria cherished as bitter 
 animosity against each other as their husbands did. 
 They never visited the same neighbors, nor met 
 each other at the same sewing-circles, if they could 
 help it. If Maria received an invitation to visit a 
 friend, she was sure to ascertain if Martha was to 
 be there before accepting it ; and Martha was no 
 less scrupulous in avoiding her sister-in-law. On 
 one occasion, when Maria arrived at a tea-party, 
 and found Martha there, she turned abruptly about, 
 and went home in high dudgeon; in return for 
 which demonstration, Martha, a few weeks after- 
 wards, suddenly took her departure from a quilting- 
 bee, when Maria, unconscious of her presence, made 
 her appearance. These quarrels and petty spites 
 created a great deal of scandal and ill-will in the 
 neighborhood, until the good ladies of Pennfield, 
 tired of strife and dissensions, resolved, with one 
 accord, to drop the acquaintance of the Feltona 
 altogether. So Martha and Maria received no more 
 invitations to any place ; and you may judge how 
 miserable they were, living by themselves. 
 
 On the last occasion of a tea-party at Maria's 
 house, an incident happened which particularly had 
 something to do with the subsequent coldness of the
 
 46 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 
 
 Pennfield ladies towards the two sisters-in-law. Of 
 course, Martha was horribly jealous to see so many 
 famous tea-drinkers visiting her rival ; and she 
 fretted and scolded about it all the afternoon. Ed- 
 ward took the hint, to invent some method of an- 
 noying Maria, and pleasing his mother. 
 
 In the field in the rear of Lionel's house was a 
 large brush-heap, the result of trimming the orchard 
 the previous season. 
 
 " The brush is dry, and the wind in the south- 
 west," said Edward. 
 
 " And the smoke ? " 
 
 " Will hide Dick's house in a beautiful manner." 
 
 " Burn the heap, then ! " cried Martha, with a 
 malicious laugh. 
 
 Accordingly the heap was fired, and Richard's 
 house smoked. It was a warm day, but Maria was 
 obliged to close all the doors and windows, to keep 
 out the suffocating cloud which rolled- down upon 
 them before the south-west wind. In spite of all 
 her efforts, however, it got into the house, and into 
 the eyes and into the tempers of both her and her 
 gues'ts. Even the tea failed to soothe them ; and 
 the party separated in the worst humor in the 
 world. Martha watched the discomfited ladies, as 
 they went away all enveloped in smoke, and laughed 
 until the tears ran down her cheeks. Edward 
 laughed too, until the wind changed, and blew the
 
 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 47 
 
 fire into the fence, which he was obliged to sit up 
 all night to watch, with a couple of buckets of water 
 for his companions. After this, Richard's boys 
 burned a brush-heap when the wind was in the 
 north-west, and smoked a juvenile party which 
 their cousin Martha gave, to the great distress of 
 the poor children, who went home with tears in 
 their eyes. 
 
 But the rival families were destined to have 
 enough of fire and smoke, as we shall proceed t<? 
 show. 
 
 After watching many months for an opportunity 
 to shoot Richard's dog, which manifested a great 
 deal of canine sagacity in avoiding Lionel's prem- 
 ises, and in scrupulously keeping on the right side 
 of the board-fence, Edward determined to have a 
 dog too, as large as his uncle's. He accordingly 
 purchased a pup, of a breed famous for size and 
 fierceness, and kept him chained to his kennel until 
 he had attained to formidable proportions. In the 
 pride and ambition of his youth, Caesar took early 
 advantage of his freedom from the chain, to invade 
 the territory beyond the board-fence, and declare 
 hostilities against the unknown dog, whose hated 
 bark he had heard so often. Nero, feeling, as a 
 matter of course, a bitter enmity towards everything 
 that made its appearance from the other side of the 
 fence, marched up to Csesar in true Roman fashion,
 
 48 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 
 
 and, with a growl, challenged him to a personal 
 combat. The ambitious Caesar desired nothing 
 better ; but Nero's maturity and knowledge of the 
 world were altogether too much for his youth and 
 inexperience. Caesar was discomfited, and returned 
 to his rightful dominions in a frightfully mutilated 
 condition. 
 
 Caesar, for a long time, did not cross the board 
 fence again, but contented himself with growling on 
 his own territory at his formidable enemy, who re- 
 garded him with lofty disdain. One evening, how- 
 ever, four years after the removal of the brothers 
 into their new cottages, Caesar had the audacity to 
 chase one of Kichard's cats over the line. Richard, 
 who happened to be in the yard at the time, whis- 
 tled for Nero, whose rage was unbounded on seeing 
 his rival within his domains. A skirmish ensued, 
 and Caesar retreated over the board-fence ; but 
 Nero, too much excited to use his ordinary discre- 
 tion, followed him, and fought him upon his own 
 territory, reckless of consequences. 
 
 Lionel heard the affray ; and, it being late in the 
 evening, and quite dark, he came out, with a lantern, 
 to see what was the matter. Perceiving that Nero 
 had Caesar by the throat, and was shaking the life 
 out of him with considerable despatch, he placed 
 his lantern upon the ground, and ran for a pitch- 
 fork.
 
 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 49 
 
 Observing that his brother was about to make 
 use of that formidable weapon, to terminate the 
 quarrel in favor of Caesar, Richard ran hastily to 
 the fence, and was on the point of shouting a fierce 
 remonstrance, when a startling accident attracted 
 his attention. Nero had thrown Caesar against the 
 lantern, and upset it; the candle had fallen out, 
 and now the flames were creeping languidly into the 
 straw scattered before Lionel's barn. The pressure 
 of a foot would have extinguished the fire, and 
 Richard's first impulse was to warn Lionel of the 
 danger; but, when he saw his brother set upon 
 Nero with the fork, he thought, in his anger, " The 
 wind is north, my barn will not be in danger," and 
 held his peace, shrinking away into the darkness, 
 to witness the result. 
 
 Pierced with the sharp tines, Nero fled howling 
 over the fence, pursued by Lionel, until beyond his 
 reach. Then Lionel turned back, and, to his con- 
 sternation, saw the yard all in a blaze. " Fire ! 
 fire ! " he shouted, trampling upon the flames. 
 " Fire ! fire ! fire ! " 
 
 His shouts filled the night with echoes. A mo- 
 ment before, Ilichard had been laughing in malicious 
 triumph ; but the wild, startling cries smote heavily 
 upon his conscience. Much as he felt that Lionel 
 had wronged him, the sight of the flames, which he 
 5
 
 50 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 
 
 might have extinguished, oppressed him with a sense 
 of remorse. 
 
 " I am no better than an incendiary ! " he mut- 
 tered, in his excitement. " But it may not yet be 
 too late ! " 
 
 Lionel trampled upon the flames with furious 
 energy ; but the straw was dry, and he saw the fire 
 gaining upon him, and, darting its forked tongue 
 towards the barn, threatening destruction. In de- 
 spair he cast his eyes toward the house, and shouted 
 again for help. Nobody appeared. The fire was 
 within three yards of a large pile of straw, heaped 
 before the barn-door. Suddenly Lionel was con- 
 scious that there was somebody working by his side. 
 He did not pause to see who it was, until the pile 
 of straw burst forth one sheet of flame. He turned, 
 and in the glare of light saw his brother Richard ! 
 
 The latter was laboring with despei'ate energy to 
 smother the flames beneath his coat; and, as his 
 brother gazed upon him, he felt all his resentment 
 give way to gratitude for that one act of gener- 
 osity. 
 
 " Brother," said he, in a trembling voice, " I 
 thank you! But it is too late; the barn must 
 go." 
 
 Richard raised his eyes to his brother's face, and 
 slowly withdrawing from the heat of the flames, 
 murmured,
 
 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 51 
 
 " I am sorry ! I am sorry ! " 
 
 " God bless you, brother ! I did not expect this 
 kindness ! " exclaimed the agitated Lionel. 
 
 "This is no time to talk," said Richard; "the 
 wind is getting into the west. I am afraid your 
 house will go too, brother ! " 
 
 As he spoke, the dry straw and hay within the 
 barn having taken fire, the flames burst forth through 
 the cracks and crevices, and through the thin roof, 
 throwing a wild glare of light around. 
 
 VII. THE LAST OP THE TWIN COTTAGES. 
 
 The brothers rushed to the stables adjoining the 
 barn, and made haste to save the horses, the car- 
 riage, and all articles of value which could be got 
 away. Meanwhile Edward, who had gone to bed, 
 was aroused by the alarm, and rushed, half dressed, 
 to the scene of destruction. Jackson and Wolcott 
 came next, and, taking example from their father, 
 exerted themselves to save their uncle's property ; 
 then several of the neighbors, aroused by the shouts 
 of fire, and alarmed by the glare of light, came 
 hurrying to the spot. 
 
 The barn burnt like kindling-wood ; the stables 
 were on fire in an astonishingly brief space of time, 
 and the flames went surging on towards the house.
 
 52 THE TWIX COTTAGES. 
 
 " Leave everything," shouted Richard, " and 
 remove this wood ! It is the only way to save the 
 house ! " 
 
 The wood was corded in long rows between the 
 stables and the cottage; and, following Richard's 
 example, all hands went to work, tearing it away ; 
 but, as the fire increased, the heat became insuffer- 
 able. The smoke and flames rolled across the wood- 
 piles, blinding and suffocating, and conspiring, with 
 the heat, to drive the fire-fighters backward. The 
 most they could do was to remove a few cords of 
 the wood nearest the house ; then, while some began 
 to carry the furniture out of the cottage, others 
 brought water from the well and cistern, and, with 
 the aid of ladders, drenched the clapboards and 
 roof. 
 
 All efforts were vain, however. 
 
 " The house must go ! " said Lionel. 
 
 The wind had increased, and the advancing flames 
 had driven the inexperienced fire-fighters from their 
 position on *he roof. 
 
 " I will \nount the ladder ! " cried Richard. 
 
 He went up, and received the buckets from Lio- 
 nel's hands, working with energy and courage, until 
 both cistern and well failed. 
 
 "It is useless to work longer," said Lionel. 
 " There is no more water."
 
 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 53 
 
 " Then the house must surely burn ! " said 
 Richard. 
 
 " And my family ! " murmured Lionel, as he 
 saw his wife and children carrying goods out of the 
 house, or standing in the fierce light, looking up 
 with terror and dismay at the increasing flames. 
 " They will be houseless ! " 
 
 " Not so ! " replied Richard. " The old house is 
 at your disposal. I was going to tear it down last 
 fall, but I am glad I did not. It is yours, brother ! " 
 
 Lionel was too much affected to utter his thanks. 
 
 At that moment a wild shout rang upon their 
 ears. Richard's barn was on fire ! 
 
 " I am ruined by my own folly and guilt ! " he 
 muttered, as he descended to the ground. 
 
 The brothers rushed together to the new scene of 
 excitement. It was too late. The fire, left to 
 itself, had crept from barn to barn through the 
 straw, and now Richard's stables were in a blaze. 
 The wind had increased, and was blowing strongly 
 from the west. Lionel neglected his own property 
 to save that of his brother ; and, while the cottage 
 of the former was left to inevitable destruction, 
 everybody ran to the rescue of Richard's. But his 
 cistern was dry, his well shallow, and between his 
 house and barn there was a hay-stack in a most 
 dangerous position. This was sure to burn ; for the 
 sparks from the barn were already falling upon it,
 
 54 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 
 
 and nothing, it was thought, could then save the 
 cottage. 
 
 Maria had experienced a sort of fearful joy when 
 told that Lionel's buildings were on fire ; but, when 
 she saw Richard at work to save them, she also 
 began to feel an anxiety to see the flames extin- 
 guished. This kindness towards her neighbors was 
 followed by many unpleasant reflections touching 
 the past, and the sight of Martha in distress made 
 her conscious that she had wronged her sister-in-law 
 more than she had ever acknowledged to herself 
 before. So, when she saw Martha retire to the fatal 
 fence, and weep bitterly over her misfortunes, she 
 went to her, and asked her to come into her own 
 house. Martha felt this kindness, and thanked her ; 
 but she could not go in, she must see her own 
 cottage burn. 
 
 Then, when the alarm was spread on Richard's 
 side of the fence, all Maria's pity and anxiety for 
 others was changed to fear for the safety of her 
 own home. Martha saw the danger; and, although 
 a moment before she might have felt a vindictive 
 joy at beholding Maria as unfortunate as herself, it 
 was not so now ; for even Richard's exertions in 
 her behalf had not touched her heart like Maria's 
 single word of kindness. Women are more impul- 
 sive than men ; and nothing knits together hearts 
 at enmity like mutual distress. Martha and Maria
 
 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 55 
 
 fell into each other's arms, and embraced, mingling 
 their tears together. 
 
 Richard's fears for his cottage were but too well 
 founded. The flames blew upon it from the stack, 
 the shingles caught, and all exertions to save it 
 were vain. Soon its light was added to the -general 
 conflagration, and billows of fire surged upward 
 from the roaring roof, illumining the country for 
 miles around. 
 
 Richard had been even more successful than his 
 brother in saving his portable property, which was 
 all conveyed to a safe distance from the fire. 
 
 When everything was done, the brothers stood 
 together in the glare of light which shone from 
 Richard's house, and their families gathered around 
 them. 
 
 " You see," said Richard, " I shall have to go 
 with you into the old house." 
 
 " Pardon me," replied Lionel ; " I am afraid you 
 will want it alone, with your own family." 
 
 " There is room for all of us," said Richard. 
 " There was once, there is now ! " 
 
 " Will you give me your hand, brother ? " asked 
 Lionel. 
 
 Richard made no reply ; but extended his hand, 
 while the dazzling light from the house betrayed the 
 emotion visible on his features. 
 
 " We have not thriven since our separation,"
 
 56 THE TWIN COTTAGES. 
 
 pursued Lionel. " Ours has been an ungodly quar 
 rel, brother. Shall it end here ? " 
 
 " There can loe no better time," replied Richard. 
 " After the awful chastisement with which Heaven 
 has punished our folly, we should be reconciled. I 
 acknowledge myself to blame, brother. I ask your 
 forgiveness ! " 
 
 " With all my heart I forgive you, Richard ! " 
 exclaimed Lionel, through his quivering lips. " And 
 you will forgive me, although I have been more to 
 blame than you. As I was the oldest, I should 
 have come to you first to offer you my hand, when 
 we quarrelled." 
 
 " Say no more," murmured Richard. " I for- 
 give everything. Here is my hand again, brother ! 
 And our wives " 
 
 Martha and Maria were weeping again in each 
 other's arms. 
 
 " This is well ! " said Lionel. " Let this end all 
 differences, law-suits and strife, which have proved 
 so ruinous. We will tear up the papers, brother, 
 which divide our lands." 
 
 " And the old house," added Richard, smiling 
 through his tears, " will be large enough and good 
 enough for our families, for ten years to come." 
 
 " We will never leave it till it falls down ! " 
 cried Lionel. " We were happy in it before the 
 new house was thought of, and we can be happy in
 
 THE TWIN COTTAGES 57 
 
 it still. And 0, brother, sister, wife, chil- 
 dren ! let these four terrible years of unhappiness 
 and strife be a warning to us in future ! " 
 
 They stopped not for the congratulation of 
 friends, but by the light of the burning cottages 
 took their way together across the fields, towards 
 the old house, which was henceforth to be the happy 
 home of the reunited families.
 
 MARRYING A FAMILY. 
 
 " I HOPE it is all for the best," said Mrs. Rentwell, 
 wiping her eyes. " You will excuse these tears, Mr. 
 Allen. It is a solemn thing to part with a dear one 
 out of my household, Mr. Allen ! " 
 
 The sigh which followed these words touched Mr. 
 Allen's sympathies. Mrs. Rentwell had four grown- 
 up, unmarried daughters, all at home ; and he had 
 been so bold as to ask her to part with one of them. 
 It seemed to him that she was making a great sac- 
 rifice ; for, being a strong-minded woman, she had 
 never betrayed such weakness before ; and he took 
 her hand kindly. 
 
 " Mrs. Rentwell," said he, " I appreciate your 
 feelings." 
 
 " 0, you can't, you can't ! " she exclaimed, re- 
 lapsing into a state of great affliction, and using her 
 handkerchief energetically, " nobody but a mother
 
 MARRYING A FAMILY. 59 
 
 " At all events," rejoined Mr. Allen, " I shall 
 never cease my efforts to repay you for your confi- 
 dence in me, and for the great happiness you confer 
 upon me, in giving your consent to our marriage. 
 I fed 
 
 "One thing," broke in the widow, explosively, 
 " I beg and entreat of you." 
 
 " Only name it, dear mother ! " 
 
 " It is this : don't separate Sarah Jane from her 
 family. Don't take her away from us. Consid- 
 er " sobbing "a a mother's feelings, Mr. 
 Allen." 
 
 Mr. Allen was silent ; he appeared to be con- 
 sidering. 
 
 " Can't we all live together ? Can't we take a 
 comfortable house, one that will accommodate us 
 all ? " asked Mrs. Rentwell, with a hopeful expres- 
 sion. " How beautifully we could live under the 
 same roof; and what a happy home we could make 
 for you and Sarah Jane ! " 
 
 " Why yes certainly I should think some 
 such arrangement would be advisable," said Jon- 
 athan, with a look of painful apprehension ; 
 but " 
 
 " 0, thank you, thank you, Mr. Allen ! You 
 are so good ! " cried the widow, overflowing with 
 gratitude. " What a delightful home we shall 
 have ! Bless you ! bless you ! "
 
 60 MARRYING A FAMILY. 
 
 Mrs. Rentwell shook his hand, weeping profusely 
 for joy. 
 
 Jonathan Allen went away as if he had the head- 
 ache. There was evidently some uncomfortable mat- 
 ter in his mind. He was very happy in a general 
 way, but in one or two particulars he was troubled. 
 Meeting an intimate friend did not at all serve to 
 clear away the clouds from the summer sky of his 
 hopes. _ 
 
 Of all his acquaintance, Mr. Charles Price was 
 the last man he would have wished to meet just at 
 that time. 
 
 " Don't say a word," he hastily whispered, with 
 a ghastly, guilty look. " I 'm afraid it 's too late 
 now to follow your advice." 
 
 " You don't mean to say " 
 
 "Yea, Charley ! the old lady expects it, and I 
 can't disappoint her. Sarah Jane expects it, too ; 
 and so do her sisters. They all expect it, you see ; 
 and I can't be cruel to them just at this time." 
 
 " Then I give you up, Jonathan," said Mr. Price, 
 with a lugubrious look. " If you marry the whole 
 family, never smile more ! " 
 
 " Fie ! you make the matter worse than it is. I 
 shall take a decided stand, and be the head of the 
 establishment. The girls will get married off in a 
 little while, and in the mean time we shall make 
 quite a happy family."
 
 MARRYING A FAMILY. Gl 
 
 Mr. Price shook his head dubiously. 
 
 " You will be obliged to take a decided stand, at 
 once, if you would have things move harmoniously 
 your own way," said he, significantly. " Sarah Jane 
 is a sweet and amiable girl, but she is easily influ- 
 enced, as you know. Her mother is a headstrong, 
 selfish, inconsiderate woman. Her sisters are frivo- 
 lous, cold-hearted creatures; and the question is, 
 are they the right persons to influence her ? " 
 
 " As to that," replied Jonathan, smiling with a 
 bright idea, " if I find affairs taking a wrong turn, 
 it will be the easiest thing in the world for me to 
 get a divorce from the whole family, except Sarah 
 Jane. If the old lady usurps too much authority, 
 if the sisters rebel, if there is any tyranny exercised 
 over me or mine, crack ! I shall cut off all com- 
 munication between us, without a remorseful scruple 
 I shall unmarry myself from Mrs. Rentwell, Miss 
 Rentwell, Miss Eliza and Miss Georgiana, in a jiffy. 
 Do you understand ? " 
 
 " I only hope you will find the matter as easy in 
 reality as it appears to your imagination," laughed 
 Charles. " Good-morning." 
 
 The wedding took place in the course of a few 
 weeks, and, shortly after, Jonathan took Sarah Jane 
 and her family " home." 
 
 " So," said Mr. Price, meeting him the day after 
 6
 
 62 MARRYING A FAMILY. 
 
 the removal, "you have finally married the whole 
 tribe of the Ilentwells, mother and daughters." 
 
 " Yes," replied Mr. Allen, \vho was very jolly at 
 the time, and did not care a fig for his friend's fore- 
 bodings, " I am a regular Sultan. Show me a hap- 
 pier man, will you ? " 
 
 " Be careful that you don't show me an unhappier 
 one, before the honeymoon is over." 
 
 " Now, what an ill-natured fellow you are, Charles ! 
 But I see you have no idea of the perfect harmony 
 that prevails in my new home. The old lady has 
 kindly volunteered to take the general management 
 of the household " 
 
 " So soon ? " said Mr. Price, with a sly look. 
 
 " Why not ? You see, my wife how respecta- 
 ble and manly it sounds, though, Charley, to say my 
 wife ! Sarah Jane is not accustomed to managing, 
 and it is a great relief for her to think that her 
 mother is to be with us, and direct aflairs into an 
 easy and natural channel." 
 
 " And the girls ? " 
 
 " 0, they are rejoiced at the new arrangement. 
 We shall have some gay times, I and my family, 
 Charles. By the way, when shall we expect a 
 visit from you, at our harem ? " 
 
 " Generous man ! " exclaimed Mr. Price. " I 
 would hold you up to the wcrld as a nzcdel of mag-
 
 MARRYING A FAMILY. 63 
 
 nanimous Sultans ! Have you no jealous apprehen' 
 sions in taking me into the bosom of your family ? " 
 
 "Eh? how so?" 
 
 "What if I should make love to one of your 
 vrives ? Supposing my elegant address should touch 
 the heart of the proud Miss Rcntwell ? What would 
 you say, should the fair Georgiana be captivated by 
 my whiskers ? or, if I should be so happy as to win 
 the affections of the widow herself ? How would you 
 suppress your just indignation, and swallow your 
 wrath, if some fine morning you should learn that I 
 had eloped with Eliza ? " 
 
 " Considering the regard I have for you, Charles, 
 I don't know but I would forgive you, in either 
 case." 
 
 " You think you could perhaps spare one " 
 
 " Now, have done with your bitter sarcasm ! " 
 exclaimed Mr. Allen, with a feeble laugh of good- 
 humor. " Say no more, but come to the interior of 
 my harem, and judge of our happiness for yourself 
 Come to-morrow night." 
 
 Mr. Price promised ; and Jonathan went home 
 singing. 
 
 " This is cosey ! " he murmured, rubbing his hands 
 as he entered the family parlor, where a beautiful fire 
 in the grate shed a warm glow upon the high walls, 
 the new furniture, and the happy faces of Mrs. Rent-
 
 64 MABRYINO A FAMILY. 
 
 well and her four daughters. " But where where 
 is the seraphine ? " 
 
 " 0, dear Jonathan," cried Sarah Jane, running 
 to him and looking him fondly in the face, " you 
 won't mind, will you ? mother thought it would 
 be better to keep it in our chamber " 
 
 " Up stairs ? " said Mr. Allen, with a surprised 
 look. 
 
 " Did you intend to have the seraphine kept down 
 here ? " asked Mrs. Rentwell. 
 
 There was an immense deal of meaning in the 
 tones of her voice and in the expression of her face 
 as she spoke. Was it possible that Jonathan could 
 think of so absurd a plan as keeping the old sera- 
 phine in the parlor ? Was that one of his ideas of 
 propriety ? 
 
 Mr. Allen smiled pleasantly. He knew Mrs. Rent- 
 well was a very strong-minded woman, and that she 
 could be dreadfully severe on the weak points of 
 others. His desire to have his old musical compan- 
 ion in the parlor might be a weak point in his char- 
 acter. If so, he did not think it advisable to urge 
 the matter. Accordingly, he said, in the most con- 
 ciliatory tone he could command, 
 
 " Indeed, I had not thought that there could be 
 any great objection to " 
 
 " The seraphine is an old box ! " spoke up Miss 
 Rentwell, with a slight curl of her lip.
 
 MARRYING A FAMILJT. 65 
 
 " Don't you think it might look out of place 
 in the parlor ? " affectionately inquired Sarah Jane. 
 " Do you think so ? " 
 " I don't know, dear Jonathan, I am sure. Mother 
 
 " We do think it -would be out of place in the 
 parlor," joined in Mrs. Kentwell, firmly. "You 
 don't know how bad it looks, if you have not com- 
 pared its worn mahogany with the new furniture." 
 
 " Besides," said Eliza, with a glance at her mother, 
 as if for support, " I should n't think a parlor was 
 furnished, now-a-days, without a piano." 
 
 " The girls do need a piano ; but, about that, of 
 course you will do just as you 've a mind to," added 
 the mother. " Sarah Jane ought not to go behind- 
 hand with her practice." 
 
 " 0, no, that is true," answered Jonathan, with 
 a cloudy expression. 
 
 " We 've always had a piano," remarked Georgi- 
 ana, the youngest of the family, " and it would be 
 a shame to be without one now." 
 
 " Not a shame ; that is a harsh expression, my 
 dear," said the widow. " Of course, Mr. Allen will 
 do as he pleases," she continued, significantly. 
 
 " I don't care ; everybody has pianos," said Geor- 
 giana. 
 
 " And we will have one," cried Jonathan, gener- 
 ously, prompted by Sarah Jane's distressed look.
 
 66 MARKYING A FAMILY. 
 
 " Certainly we \vill have a piano. I should have 
 made arrangements for one before this ; but you had 
 one in the other house, you know, and I supposed 
 you would bring it with you ; that is," said he, cor- 
 recting himself, for fear of giving offence, " I thought 
 it belonged to you, I mean I I did n't know 
 it was a hired one." 
 
 Mrs. Rentwell sighed, and looked sternly resigned ; 
 Miss Rentwell sneered ; Eliza gave Mr. Allen an in- 
 dignant glance ; and Georgiana turned her eyes upon 
 her mother, as if expecting some reply. Sarah Jane 
 was more distressed than ever ; and her husband 
 grew very warm about the face, conscious of having 
 inadvertently mentioned a delicate subject. 
 
 " I '11 have a piano sent home to-morrow," said 
 he, cheerily, by way of giving a happy turn to his 
 remarks, and preventing any misconstruction. " I 
 should have done so before. Now I think of it, the 
 chamber is the best place for the seraphine, is n't it, 
 Sarah?" 
 
 He drew a chair to the fire. His young wife's 
 face brightened as she laid her hand in his, and 
 thanked him, with a grateful and loving heart, for 
 his kindness ; and sunshine stole upon the faces of 
 the family. 
 
 " I 've good news for you, girls," said Jonathan, 
 at the tea-table, as he passed the biscuit. " Guess 
 who is coining to see us."
 
 MARRYIXG A FAMILY. 67 
 
 They all guessed, except Miss Rentwell, who 
 probably thought guessing beneath her dignity. 
 Nobody guessed right. 
 
 "Why don't you tell, and have done with it?" 
 asked Laura, not very good-naturedly. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Miss Rentwell," replied 
 Jonathan, laughing. 
 
 " There 's no occasion ; only this guess-work is 
 kind of childish." 
 
 Laura glanced at her mother, who was pouring 
 the tea. Mrs. Rentwdll smiled, without looking 
 up as if she had said, "Mr. Allen has got a 
 good hint, this time." 
 
 Sarah Jane, who was dishing the preserves, 
 raised her eyes to her sister's with a pleasant smile, 
 and told her, " she thought her dignity very becom- 
 ing." 
 
 " ' T would be well if you had a little more of 
 the quality," said Laura, with a smile not quite so 
 pleasant. 
 
 " Never mind your dignity," cried Georgiana. 
 " Let 's hear who it is. A gentleman, I am sure 
 didn't you confess as much, Mr. Allen? Is he 
 handsome ? " 
 
 " And single ? " added Eliza. 
 
 " I Ve guessed ! " exclaimed Sarah. " It 's 
 Charles Price." 
 
 " So it is," said Jonathan.
 
 68 MARRYING A FAMILY. 
 
 " 0, good ! " cried Georgiana. " He 's very 
 handsome." 
 
 " He 's very disagreeable," remarked Miss Rent- 
 well. 
 
 " Everybody is disagreeable that don't happen to 
 fancy you, and pay you all the attention in the 
 world. For my part, I think he 's beautiful. When 
 is he coming ? " 
 
 " To-morrow night ; and I think we will have a 
 delightful evening. Charles is a fine musician." 
 
 " We shall have use for the new piano," said 
 Sarah. " He is a splendid player." 
 
 " He thunders he don't play," observed Laura. 
 
 " There ! I knew Miss Sourface would have 
 some fault to find," exclaimed Georgiana. " She 
 always does, when she don't like a person. But 
 you can't say he is not an exquisite singer ? " 
 
 " Rather exquisite, I must confess," replied 
 Laura, sarcastically. " His voice reminds me of a 
 rusty door-hinge." 
 
 Jonathan was too happy to care much for any- 
 thing that was said out of ill-temper by even the 
 dignified Laura. He laughed, and asked the widow's 
 opinion of Mr. Charles Price. 
 
 " I don't know any harm of him," she said, 
 gravely. " But I should hardly have expected y 
 to engage him for to-morrow night." 
 
 " Why not ? "
 
 MAKRYINO A FAMILY. 69 
 
 " You know that our Sisterhood meets on Wednes- 
 day evening." 
 
 Mr. Allen's risible muscles were drawn irresisti- 
 bly, by the widow's remark. 
 
 " I do not see how Mr. Charles Price and the 
 Sisterhood can interfere with each other in the 
 least," said he. 
 
 " 0, certainly not, if you prefer to receive com-, 
 pany when I am absent," very quietly replied Mrs. 
 Kentwell, with a grim smile. 
 
 Jonathan hastened to disclaim the very shadow 
 of so unworthy a motive. 
 
 " You know I would much prefer to have you 
 at home," said he. " I shall always wish you to 
 be here when we have company." 
 
 " If not, I suppose I can make myself comforta- 
 ble somewhere else," rejoined the widow, not at all 
 mollified ; " only let me know when I am not 
 wanted." 
 
 " 0, mother ! don't talk so ! " pleaded Sarah 
 Jane. 
 
 " It is not because I feel hurt, my daughter." 
 Mrs. Rentwell sipped her tea. " I don't care, on 
 my own account." 
 
 Nobody asked on whose account it was she felt 
 anxious, and after a pause she resumed 
 
 " I hope you have no desire to keep my daughters 
 away from our meeting, Mr. Allen ? They ought
 
 70 MARRYING A FAMILY. 
 
 to go ; and it was at least inconsiderate to invito 
 Mr. Price here on Wednesday evening." 
 
 " A thought of the Sisterhood never entered my 
 head," said Jonathan, his spirits a little dashed. 
 " But, never mind ; I will see Charles to-morrow, 
 and make different arrangements." 
 
 Eliza, Sarah and Georgiana, were opposed to the 
 proposition. They would rather stay at home and 
 have company than go to the meeting ; but Laura 
 sided with her mother, and Jonathan had nothing 
 more to say. 
 
 On the following morning he saw his friend, and 
 gave him a partial account of the circumstances of 
 the case. Charles laughed, reminded Mr. Allen of 
 his determination to take a decided stand as the 
 head of" the family, and cautioned him against suf- 
 fering too much encroachment upon his liberties. 
 
 " Anything for peace," murmured Jonathan. 
 
 " Ho, ho ! has it got to that ? " ejaculated Mr. 
 Price. " Your freedom is going to ruin faster than 
 I had any notion of ! " 
 
 The bachelor made his promised call some two 
 weeks later, and found all Jonathan's family at 
 home. He brought a friend with him; and the 
 girls, in high spirits, prepared for a gay evening. 
 The new piano was made use of to some purpose ; 
 everything went off well ; and even Laura conde- 
 scended to enjoy herself with the rest. One little
 
 MARRYING A FAMILY. 71 
 
 occurrence, however, towards the clcse of the even- 
 ing, marred the happiness of the circle. 
 
 Mrs. Kentwell had some papers she wished to 
 read to the young men. They concerned the pros- 
 perity of the Sisterhood of Universal Harmony, 
 to which she belonged. At their last Wednes- 
 day evening meeting it .was ascertained that the 
 members could not much longer continue their 
 united efforts to harmonize the world without an 
 accession of strength. In plain terms, money was 
 wanted. 
 
 Mrs. Rentwell interrupted herself, in the reading 
 of the documents, to make these explanations. 
 
 " Of course," said she, " I shall not ask either 
 of the gentlemen to give anything to the cause ; 
 but if, after I have finished reading these papers, 
 which they will find exceedingly interesting, they 
 should feel inclined to put their names down for 
 any small sums, I would simply say that they 
 may thereby be the means of doing an incalculable 
 amount of good." 
 
 " Don't read these old papers now, mother ! " 
 cried Georgiana, impatiently. 
 
 SaTah Jane saw her husband's features writhing 
 with mortification and perplexity, and was very 
 much distressed. The two elder girls seated them- 
 selves quietly, and looked very serious and interest- 
 ing ; while Mr. Price drew down one corner of his
 
 72 MARRYING A FAMILY. 
 
 mouth, with a ludicrous expression, and partly 
 closed an eye, for the express edification of his 
 friend, Mr. Allen. Mr. Leslie, who had been play- 
 ing and had stopped to hear Mrs. Rentwell, looked 
 very blank for two or three minutes, then, coughing 
 painfully in his handkerchief, turned again upon the 
 piano-stool, and began to study a sheet of music 
 with intense application. 
 
 Jonathan, perspiring, nervous and very red, tried 
 to say something. His voice sank within him as 
 often as he raised it to a preparatory " hem ! " and, 
 like the Ancient Mariner, Mrs. Rentwell had her 
 will. Regarding Georgiana with a look of mild 
 rebuke, she proceeded with her papers. 
 
 But at length Mr. Allen could endure no longer 
 the queer expression of his friend's face. He made 
 a mighty effort, and broke in upon his mother's stiff 
 and formal style of reading, as she paused to turn a 
 leaf. 
 
 " I think perhaps it would be as well to postpone 
 the conclusion of the documents till another time, 
 would n't it ? " he asked, with some pertubation. 
 
 " On a subject of so much importance, I am sur- 
 prised to hear you speak with such indifference," 
 coldly and cuttingly observed the widow. 
 
 " But I am afraid the gentlemen are not much- 
 interested," said Sarah Jane, coming to her hus- 
 band's rescue.
 
 MARRYING A FAMILY. 73 
 
 Mrs. Rentwell looked up, with a very strong ex- 
 pression of inquiry. 
 
 " 0, I 'm very much amused ! " exclaimed Mr. 
 Leslie, turning on the stool. " Are not you, 
 Charles ? " 
 
 " Why, rather so," replied Mr. Price, pinching 
 Jonathan's arm. 
 
 Mr. Allen was roasting; perhaps Charles re- 
 garded him as a goose, and wished to ascertain if 
 he was nearly done. 
 
 " At all events," said Jonathan, grown firm 
 through desperation, " I am neither interested nor 
 amused ; but " checking himself, conscious of 
 having spoken too hastily "I am a sort of 
 heathen, I know." 
 
 Mrs. Rentwell gave him a grim look, in which 
 she meant to express a great deal of severe and 
 concentrated pity, and proceeded to read the papers. 
 During the process, Mr. Price made Jonathan's 
 arm black and blue. 
 
 " I will not go any further into the details- of 
 our labors," said the old lady, at length, to the 
 great relief of her auditors. " You see what we 
 have had to go through. We have been consider- 
 ably persecuted, and no end of ridicule has been 
 heaped upon us. But we intend to persevere, if 
 the means can be obtained." 
 7
 
 74 MARRYING A FAMILY. 
 
 " I don't exactly see what the object of all this 
 is," quietly observed Mr. Price. 
 
 " Our aim is indicated by our name. We are 
 endeavoring to form the nucleus of a harmonious 
 circle, which shall widen and expand until it com- 
 prehends all classes of society. We shall fuse all 
 religions into one the true religion." 
 
 " I see," said Mr. Price, gravely. " You aim to 
 make the whole world feel and believe just as you 
 feel and believe. A stupendous plan ! And, as for 
 harmony, there is no principle I love better and 
 would do more to promote. Are not those your 
 sentiments, Jonathan, eh ? " with a terrific pinch. 
 " I go in for universal harmony, and one religion. 
 I subscribe twenty-five cents cash." 
 
 Mr. Leslie gave the same; and although Mrs. 
 Kentwell had strong suspicions that the young men 
 were making sport of the cause, she smiled serenely 
 and pocketed the money. 
 
 Thereupon, Mr. Leslie struck up the lively and 
 simple air of "I'd le a butterfly;" Mr. Price 
 and Eliza began to sing, and Georgiana began to 
 dance. 
 
 Meanwhile Laura's countenance wore an injured 
 look, and she conversed aside with her mother ; but 
 Sarah Jane and her husband, although rendered 
 very unhappy by what had occurred, joined the 
 company, with feeble efforts to be gay.
 
 MARIIYIXG A FAMILY. 75 
 
 After the young men were gone, the widow took 
 occasion to say she thought them rather insolent, 
 but that she could not blame them, since they had 
 been encouraged to be so by Mr. Allen. Jonathan 
 compressed his lips, and, smothering considerable 
 heat in the region of his heart, made no reply ; but 
 the remark led to a general discussion of the char- 
 acters of Mr. Leslie and Mr. Price. Both suffered 
 extensively by the free speech of Mrs. Rentwell and 
 her sarcastic daughters. Mr. Price especially was 
 the subject of a dreadfully severe criticism, by Miss 
 Laura, given as an offset to Georgiana's praises, 
 who declared that he was delightful, and that he 
 had completely captivated her heart. 
 
 Jonathan and Sarah Jane withdrew to their 
 chamber, where the latter had a good crying spell 
 over the unpleasant occurrences of the evening. It 
 took all her husband's good-nature to soothe her ; 
 so that he forgot his own mortifications, for the times 
 in his sympathy for her sufferings. 
 
 The next morning, however, he thought the 
 matter over, and resolved that henceforth he would 
 be master in his own house. He began on the new 
 system at the breakfast-table. There was no coffee. 
 Mrs. Rentwell's family having always been accus- 
 tomed to tea, and nobody except himself caring for 
 any other drink, no other drink was prepared,
 
 7(5 MARRYING A FAMILY. 
 
 although he had several -times hinted strongly on 
 the subject. 
 
 " I must have my coffee," he said, firmly. " Tea 
 with breakfast seems to me as much out of place 
 as " 
 
 " As white gloves at a funeral," added Georgiana. 
 
 " Exactly," rejoined Mr. Allen, cheated of his 
 dignity by the sally. " You know I don't drink 
 tea, mother." 
 
 " I hardly thought you would wish to be alone 
 with your coffee," replied the widow. " If you 
 care so much for it, of course you must have it." 
 
 Jonathan did not like the tone with which she 
 spoke, but, seeing the color come in Sarah's face, he 
 held his peace. From that time he had coffee, that 
 too, of a notable quality. It was like Chinese music, 
 which is celebrated for being the worst in the world. 
 Mrs. Kentwell must have been very ingenious to be 
 able to concoct anything so bad. The result was 
 that in the course of a week he decided to try driuk- 
 ing tea. 
 
 Mr. Allen would not have given up so easily, had 
 it not been for the peculiar circumstances of the 
 case. Sarah Jane had succeeded in convincing him 
 that not one of the family knew how to make coffee ; 
 although he distinctly remembered drinking some 
 very delectable cups of that beverage at Mrs. Ilent- 
 well's house, when he used to go there courting.
 
 MARRYING A FAMILY. 77 
 
 Strange as it seemed that the old lady should at 
 that time have been so lucky in her attempts to 
 make his favorite drink to suit him, and that such 
 manifest disaster should follow all her subsequent 
 efforts in that line, he did not like to distress his 
 young wife with a full expression of his views on 
 the subject. 
 
 He thought of employing regular help in the 
 kitchen, in order to effect his purpose ; but his in- 
 come was small, and his family rather large, and to 
 engage a cook expressly to make his coffee did not 
 seem to be advisable. Accordingly Mrs. Ilentwell 
 triumphed, and tea was thenceforward the order of 
 the morning. 
 
 Jonathan detested everything that had the ap- 
 pearance of meanness ; else he would have attempted 
 to reform certain other abuses, which involved an 
 alarming consumption of funds. He had never an- 
 ticipated that he would have the whole family to 
 support. He could not afford such an expensive 
 luxury ; and Mrs. Ilentwell, who knew his circum- 
 stances, had, in encouraging him to take the house, 
 distinctly stated that she and the girls could manage 
 to make his household expenditures less than they 
 would be if he and Sarah lived alone. The widow 
 had a little property, and the girls had been taught 
 to do something to support themselves. But, some- 
 how, everything came out of Jonathan's pocket;
 
 78 MAKRYISO A FAMILY. 
 
 nobody contributed to the general funds, except 
 himself. As much money as the girls earned they 
 laid out in dress, and private comforts ; and Mrs. 
 Rentwell thought she did her share in the capacity 
 of housekeeper. 
 
 Even this Mr. Allen \vould have endured with- 
 out murmuring, as long as his business warranted 
 him in permitting the abuse, had he been able to 
 purchase peace by submission. But Mrs. Hent- 
 well's endeavors to promote public harmony resulted 
 in private discords. She seemed to have entered 
 into a league with her unmarried daughters against 
 the welfare of Mr. Allen. Sarah Jane, who stood 
 on neutral ground, in a most unhappy and perplex- 
 ing position, they spared no pains or stratagems .to 
 bring within the influence of their designs. All 
 day, when her husband was about his business, they 
 filled her ear with slanders against his character; 
 so that, when he came home at night, instead of en- 
 tering a cheerful home, and taking a fond and happy 
 wife to his arm?, he found her eyes red and swollen 
 with weeping, and her heart all irritated and in- 
 flamed from the rough treatment it had received. 
 
 Once a fortnight Jonathan used to attend the 
 evening meetings of some secret society, of which 
 he was a member. On one occasion, coming home 
 late, he found Sarah Jane decidedly " out of sorts," 
 as she afterwards confessed. When he spoke to
 
 MARRYING A FAMILY. 79 
 
 her she only pouted, and looked disagreeably 
 sulky. 
 
 " Come, now," said he, sitting down by her side, 
 and speaking to her in a kind tone ; " I shall not 
 let you go till you tell me your trouble. What is 
 the matter ? " 
 
 " Nothing," murmured Sarah, bursting into 
 tears. 
 
 " It is absurd to say so, when you cannot contain 
 your grief. Have I done anything to hurt your 
 feelings ? " 
 
 Sarah sobbed, but made no answer. 
 
 " Do, dear Sarah, tell me if Jam to blame; for 
 you know how readily I would remedy any fault " 
 
 " No you are not to to blame ! " sobbed the 
 young wife ; " only I I thought you did n't care 
 for me any more ! " 
 
 Jonathan kissed her tenderly, and begged to 
 know the reasons why she indulged so unjust an 
 opinion. 
 
 " I thought you would not stay away from me 
 so late, if you were not tired of me," she articulated, 
 after making several ineffectual efforts to speak. 
 
 Jonathan could hardly refrain from scolding her 
 for being so silly. 
 
 " You know I told you, before I went out, that 
 I would rather not go; but you told me I had 
 better. Don't you remember it ? "
 
 80 MARRYING A FAMILY. 
 
 " Yes ; but you stayed so late ! " 
 
 " I told you I should, if I went." 
 
 " But," murmured Sarah, " I did not want to 
 ask you not to go ; it would have seemed selfish." 
 
 " It is needless to apologize or explain. Ques- 
 tion your heart, Sarah, and you will learn how 
 unreasonable your suspicions are. But you are not 
 responsible for them. They have been put into your 
 weak little head," he added playfully, " by the 
 family. Tell me truly, is it not so ? " 
 
 He did not cease to urge her until she confessed 
 all. Her mother had been warning her of the 
 danger of losing his affections, if he fell into the 
 habit of spending his evenings away from her. The 
 poor child had actually feared that he was already 
 beginning to seek such society as would tend to 
 dissipate his love. 
 
 They had no difficulty then in making up their 
 little quarrel ; Jonathan reassured her, and she was 
 very sorry for having been so silly. By a promise 
 he had made her, in drawing out the confession, he 
 was bound not to speak of the affair to her mother ; 
 and his indignation, like a worm, was left to eat 
 into his heart. 
 
 This was unfortunate; for Mrs. Rentwell con- 
 tinued, with impunity, influencing Sarah to enter- 
 tain unjust suspicions of him, and imagine causes of 
 complaint. She put a thousand unhappy thoughts
 
 MARRYING A FAMILY. 81 
 
 into her head about his neglect, his selfishness, his 
 brutality. Desires the young wife had otherwise 
 never dreamed of were awakened by her mother. 
 
 Jonathan did not quite understand it; but he 
 was too tender of his foolish little wife to inquire 
 very narrowly into the origin of all her wants. 
 Everything she asked for she was pretty sure to 
 have, without much fuss, until a certain memora- 
 ble occasion. 
 
 She was one evening feeling very unhappy about 
 a splendid dress which had been recently pre- 
 sented to a young lady, who was married about 
 the time Jonathan became the head of the family, 
 by her tender husband. Mr. Allen had given her 
 no such token of appreciation ; and she was deeply 
 grieved about it. Without stopping to inquire how 
 much Mrs. Rentwell had to do with breathing the 
 sentiments of envy and discontent into her mind, 
 he hastened to present her with a pattern far more 
 beautiful and costly than the one which had occa- 
 sioned the unhappiness. 
 
 It fitted elegantly when madw up, and Sarah was 
 very grateful. Jonathan was no less pleased with 
 it himself, until he saw Eliza make her appearance 
 in it one Sabbath morning. 
 
 Mr. Allen understood then why Sarah de- 
 clined to go to church. Eliza wished to wear her 
 new dress. Had this been the first occasion of the
 
 82 MARRYING A FAMILY. 
 
 kind, he would have held his peace ; but for the 
 past few weeks the sisters had appeared to wear 
 only Sarah's dresses continually. 
 
 "Is this right?" he asked of his young wife, 
 earnestly. 
 
 " I did n't know it was anything very wrong," 
 replied Sarah, in a petulant tone. 
 
 " Don't speak in that way," said Jonathan ; 
 " I 've no idea of scolding you. But it seems to 
 me that your sisters should be satisfied with living 
 upon us generally, and wearing your ordinary 
 dresses as if they were their own, without taking 
 away from you my last gift." 
 
 " I never thought you would be so particular 
 with my sisters," murmured Sarah, beginning to 
 cry. 
 
 " Particular ! " echoed Mr. Allen, impatiently. 
 " Don't they run over me like mice ? Have n't I 
 paid out three times as much money for them as 
 I have for you or me, since they have lived with 
 us?" 
 
 " I would n't have believed you would begrudge 
 it " 
 
 " Begrudge it ! begrudge it ! " Jonathan was 
 beginning to quiver, and speak fast with excitement. 
 " Have n't I suffered martyrdom with fortitude ? 
 Have n't I thrust my hand into the flames, and told
 
 MARRYING A FAMILY. 83 
 
 it to burn, smiling serenely? For mercy's sake, 
 tell me if I am mean ! " 
 
 " I did n't say you were ; and I don't know why 
 why why you should be angry with me." 
 
 " I am not angry ; but you won't hear to reason, 
 and I lose my patience. Because I am not willing 
 the girls should trample us or me especially 
 quite into the dust, you call me particular, and say 
 I begrudge what I do for them. It is unjust ! " 
 
 " Eliza only wanted to to wear my new dress. 
 Mr. Trimmer is going to walk to church with 
 her and her dresses are not good enough." 
 
 " Not good enough to wear to church ? or not 
 good enough to bait a lover and catch a husband ? 
 I don't understand you ! " 
 
 Jonathan spoke sarcastically, and Surah burst 
 into a passion of tears. 
 
 " You talk as though you thought I had deceived 
 you, in order to get you," she sobbed, in a deeply- 
 injured tone. 
 
 Mr. Allen compressed his lips, and strode across 
 the room. 
 
 " Why will you misconstrue what I say ? " he 
 demanded, hoarsely. " But let us drop the sub- 
 ject. You have made me forget that this is the 
 Sabbath. Come, dear Sarah, let us have peace for 
 one day in the week. These trials and troubles 
 seem so trivial, compared with the worth of the
 
 84 MARRYING A FAMILY. 
 
 soul, that I am ashamed of myself. What folly to 
 give way to petty causes of irritation, on such a 
 glorious day as this ! " 
 
 It was a beautiful winter morning ; but the 
 bright sunshine, and the clear, cold air, had no 
 charms for Sarah. She continued to pout, in spite 
 of all her husband could do; accordingly he left 
 her, and went to church alone. On his return, his 
 soul elevated and purified, and all the clouds cleared 
 from his heart, he found her pouting still. Her 
 mother had been with her, and carefully prepared 
 her to be miserable during the remainder of the 
 day. 
 
 From that time, Jonathan was never so ready to 
 gratify all his young wife's wants. Living upon 
 him, the sisters had become quite indolent, and it 
 seemed always that whatever he purchased for 
 Sarah was rather for them than for herself. He 
 needed some different kind of encouragement to in- 
 duce him to exhaust his income, and endanger his 
 business. 
 
 The reign of anarchy now commenced in earnest. 
 The family had no longer any difficulty in making 
 Sarah believe that she was a neglected, injured, and 
 cruelly-treated wife. There were no more quiet 
 hours of happiness for her and Jonathan, even in 
 the solitude of their chamber. 
 
 Mr. Allen had long since begun to spend a por-
 
 MARRYING A FAMILY. 85 
 
 tion of his leisure time away from home. When 
 spring opened, he scarcely ever passed an entire 
 evening with the family. 
 
 " You '11 kill me I I shall die if you neglect me 
 so ! " cried Sarah, passionately, one night when he 
 came home late. 
 
 "I neglect you? I kill you?" repeated Jon- 
 athan, with a bitter smile. 
 
 " You never stay at home any more ! " sobbed 
 Sarah. 
 
 " The truth is, this don't seem like home to 
 me, my dear. I don't live in my own house ; I 
 dwell in your mother's kingdom. Instead of home 
 influence, we have a kind of despotic government, 
 which don't suit me." 
 
 " I never thought my husband would hate my 
 mother ! " burst forth Sarah Jane. 
 
 "Well, lay the whole fault upon me, if you 
 please ! " replied Jonathan, in a desperate tone. "7 
 can bear it ! J am to blame, that we have n't a 
 happy home ! Why, I was driven out of the par- 
 lor long ago ! Every time Mr. Trimmer comes to 
 see Eliza, I am expected to abandon the room to 
 promote courting conveniences. Whenever the 
 other girls have beaux, they demand the same op- 
 portunities. Because I was stupid enough not tc 
 suspect that Mr. Saltzer came to see Laura the othei 
 8
 
 CO MARRYING A FAMILY. 
 
 night, and sat in the parlor until nine o'clock, she 
 feels bitter towards me to this day." 
 
 " That is no reason why you should neglect 
 me ! " 
 
 " But you will not give me peace, even here, in 
 our own chamber. You are always complaining 
 and finding fault with me. Men will seek enter- 
 tainment away from home, if their home is not made 
 happy." 
 
 For those cruel words Sarah thought she could 
 never forgive her husband. She cried about them 
 all night, and told all to her mother the next 
 morning. 
 
 " Let me talk to him ! " exclaimed the indignant 
 Mrs. Rentwell. 
 
 Jonathan did not give her an opportunity very 
 soon. He avoided the family as long as his con- 
 science would permit him, then resolved to make 
 one more effort to render his home endurable. 
 
 Since the affair of their subscriptions to aid the 
 Sisterhood of Harmony, Mr. Leslie and Charles 
 Price had refrained from visiting at Mr. Allen's 
 house ; but some time in April they agreed to come 
 again, to gratify their wretched friend. Jonathan 
 knew the girls would be pleased to see them, and 
 had no scruples about engaging them for an even- 
 ing. 
 
 Georgiana expressed great delight, when he
 
 MARRYING A FAMILY. 87 
 
 brought home the news. Laura and Eliza had 
 beaux, and received the intelligence with less en- 
 thusiasm. 
 
 " They will come any evening this week," said 
 Mr. Allen. " Shall we say Tuesday ? " 
 
 Laura looked dignified, and tossed her head. 
 
 "Mr. Saltzer comes Tuesday evenings," cried 
 Georgiana. " Miss Sourface thinks she must have 
 the parlor." 
 
 " Very well," answered Jonathan, determined to 
 be cheerful. " Say Thursday evening." 
 
 " Mr. Trimmer comes to see Eliza Thursday 
 evenings," whispered Sarah in his ear. 
 
 " Why, then, let it be Wednesday, since none 
 of you attend the meetings of the Sisterhood any 
 more." 
 
 " Mr. Allen, I hope you will refrain from speak- 
 ing disrespectfully of the Sisterhood," observed 
 Mrs; Rentwell. " We have not yet given over our 
 efforts to establish a Harmonic Circle ; our friends 
 have failed us, to be sure ; but we have an object 
 which encourages us to persevere. Henceforth, a 
 few of the most active and influential members are 
 to meet here, until we are again able to hire a 
 hall." 
 
 " If I may be so bold," said Jonathan, astounded, 
 " may I humbly inquire when the meetings of the 
 Sisterhood are to be held in my own house ? "
 
 88 MARRYING A FAMILY. 
 
 " On Wednesday evenings," replied the widow, 
 " until further notice." 
 
 " Thank you ! " rejoined Mr. Allen, his eyes 
 burning very brightly, and his lips closing tightly 
 upon his teeth. 
 
 " Why can't the gentlemen come Friday night ? " 
 asked Sarah. 
 
 11 Because I happen to be engaged on Friday 
 night." 
 
 " If you cared much to have your friends come, 
 I should think you would give up any ordinary 
 engagement," remarked Laura. 
 
 This was too much for Jonathan's patience. He 
 burst forth into a hasty expression of his disgust at 
 the servile submission which was expected of him. 
 Sarah Jane went into hysterics, and Mrs. Rentwell 
 came to the rescue. 
 
 " You are an ungrateful, unreasonable man ! " 
 she exclaimed, indignantly. " Was it for this I 
 gave you my dear child ? Is this the way you re- 
 pay us for all we have done for you ? Is this our 
 reward for trying to make your home comfortable ? 
 Are these the thanks " 
 
 Mr. Allen stopped to hear no more, he seized 
 his hat. The house seemed to roar like a Babel 
 behind him, as he turned down the street. 
 
 Jonathan did not return home until evening. He
 
 MARRYING A FAMILY. 89 
 
 then went directly to his room, but Sarah was not 
 there, and he sought her in the parlor. 
 
 The widow and her daughters were all present ; 
 nobody looked up, on his entrance ; and Sarah, who 
 was at work on a dress for Miss Laura, while Miss 
 Laura played the piano, bent over her sewing, look- 
 ing very red, and very sad. 
 
 " Sarah," said Mr. Allen, mildly, " I want to 
 speak to you." 
 
 Sarah did not look up. There was a pause, 
 during which you could have heard a pin drop. 
 
 " Nobody will hinder your speaking," remarked 
 the widow. 
 
 " Sarah, will you come ? '* 
 
 Jonathan did not appear to have heard Mrs. 
 Kentwell's remark, and he spoke kindly, but firmly. 
 
 Another pause. Sarah trembling. Laura hum- 
 ming a gay air at the piano. Georgiana giggling. 
 
 Jonathan went forward, and took his young wife's 
 hand. She arose, bursting into tears, and followed 
 him. 
 
 " I am ashamed of you ! " muttered the widow. 
 
 Poor Sarah sobbed aloud. 
 
 " Don't cry ! " said Jonathan, soothingly, when 
 they were alone. " Come cheer up ! I want you 
 to take a walk with me." 
 
 " I don't want to ! " replied Sarah, in a choked 
 voice.
 
 90 MABRYING A FAMILY. 
 
 " Then go to please me." 
 
 And her husband put on her shawl and bonnet 
 for her, without more words. 
 
 They went out. " I am not fit to see any one," 
 murmured Sarah, drawing back when they had 
 reached the door. 
 
 Her face was red, and her eyes swollen. 
 
 " You '11 do," said Mr. Allen, tenderly drawing 
 her veil over her face. 
 
 " But where are you going ? " 
 
 " For a little walk, which I think will do you 
 good." 
 
 It was a pleas'ant night; and, after breathing 
 the air of the streets a little while, Sarah became 
 reconciled. Jonathan had not ceased to talk in the 
 kindest and tenderest manner ; at length, by some 
 drollery of his, he startled a laugh out of the gloom 
 of her heart. 
 
 " There ! " said he ; " now I think you are pre- 
 pared to make a call." 
 
 He stopped, and rang at the door of a handsome 
 house. 
 
 " Who lives here ? " timidly inquired his wife. 
 
 Jonathan laughed, and looked very mysterious. 
 A domestic came to the door, and he inquired for 
 Mrs. Jones. 
 
 " 0, the gentleman who called to look at the
 
 MARRYING A FAMILY. 91 
 
 rooms to-day ! " exclaimed Mrs. Jones, recognizing 
 Mr. Allen. " Walk right up." 
 
 Sarah turned very pale, and followed Jonathan 
 with a sinking heart. Mrs. Jones introduced them 
 into a handsome suite of unfurnished rooms : when, 
 receiving the intimation that they would like to 
 confer about them privately, she retired, and left 
 them alone together. 
 
 " Do you understand what it all means ? " asked 
 Jonathan, drawing a smile upon Sarah's sad mouth 
 with his thumb and finger. " Why don't you 
 laugh ? I thought it a good joke ! " 
 
 " It is a very cruel one, I am sure ! " exclaimed 
 Sarah. 
 
 " Call it simply a serious one, my dear ; and let 
 us talk it over candidly. I find it impossible to 
 live with the family any longer. I am coming here 
 to live ; that is, if you will come with me. Nay, 
 don't speak, you are going to say something 
 hasty. I want you to think of this all night. See 
 how you like the rooms ; consider calmly what a 
 miserable life we have been leading; and reflect 
 how happy we might be together, if we were to live 
 alone, in love and peace ; then do just as you 
 choose, only do not be influenced in the affair by 
 your mother and sisters. It will make me very 
 happy, if you will come with me. If you stay with 
 them, I shall go to a hotel."
 
 92 MARKYING A FAMILY. 
 
 Sarah trembled, and cried all the way home. 
 She did not sleep any that night, but in the morn- 
 ing she was much calmer than Jonathan could have 
 expected. In the kindest manner he asked what 
 she had concluded to do. Of course she cried again, 
 and wanted a great deal of coaxing, and a great 
 deal of sympathy, before she would decide ; but at 
 length she murmured, 
 
 " I will go with you " 
 
 Jonathan almost smothered her with kisses. 
 
 " But," she articulated, disengaging her mouth, 
 " don't let our folks know anything about it until I 
 am gone. They would tear me to pieces before 
 they would let me go ! " 
 
 " I '11 arrange that ! " cried the delighted hus- 
 band. 
 
 They talked over their plans ; and, in accordance 
 with them, Sarah hastily packed up her private 
 property before going down to breakfast. At the 
 table she had not, in reality, much appetite ; and, 
 arising before the rest of the family, she returned to 
 her room, put on her things, and left the house. 
 Jonathan still remained at table. 
 
 " I shall not be home at dinner," said he, care- 
 lessly. 
 
 " Very well," replied Mrs. Rentwcll. 
 
 " Nor at supper." 
 
 " Very well."
 
 MARRYING A FAMILY. 93 
 
 " In fact, you need not look for me to-night at 
 all." 
 
 " Just as you please." 
 
 " Nor to-morrow," said Jonathan, with a slight 
 tremor in his voice. 
 
 The widow was startled, but made no answer. 
 
 " And if," he continued, " anybody should come 
 for the piano in the course of the day, let it go." 
 
 " The piano ! " almost shrieked Miss Laura. 
 
 General consternation prevailed ; in the midst of 
 which Mr. Allen preserved his calmness admirably. 
 
 " And the furniture in my chamber, and the 
 parlor-furniture, which I believe belongs to me," 
 he continued, " I shall send for during the day. 
 All the rest I leave to you, with my best wishes." 
 
 " What do' you mean, Mr. Allen ? " inquired 
 Mrs. Rentwell, in a suppressed voice, and with a 
 very white face. 
 
 " I mean that I have concluded to move my 
 lodgings." 
 
 The widow tried to spread a piece of bread and 
 butter with an appearance of indifference ; but her 
 fingers trembled, and the muscles of her hand were 
 evidently very weak. 
 
 "What will the world say, to see you desert your 
 wife in this way ? " she asked, with an effort to 
 speak calmly.
 
 94 MARRYING A FAMILY. 
 
 
 
 " 0, Sarah is going with me," coolly replied Mr. 
 Allen. 
 
 "Going with you? Impossible!" exclaimed the 
 \vidow, rising abruptly from the table, and rushing 
 to Sarah's room. 
 
 Jonathan did not await her return, but hastened 
 from the house, leaving the girls thunderstruck and 
 speechless 
 
 It is needless to describe Mrs. Rentwell's excite- 
 ment, on discovering that Sarah was already gone. 
 The house was a scene of confusion and dismay 
 during the remainder of the morning. At ten 
 o'clock a wagon came for the furniture. It was not 
 until then that Mrs. Rentwell was able to learn 
 what direction her daughter had probably taken. 
 She inquired of the men where the furniture was 
 going, and hurried, with anger in her heart, to Mrs. 
 Jones' house. 
 
 But Sarah had not yet arrived, and she was not 
 expected until evening. The widow's purpose was 
 foiled ; Jonathan had sent his wife on a visit some- 
 where, with perfect success ; and Mrs. Rentwell 
 returned home in a state of great agitation. 
 
 In the evening, Mr. Allen arrived at their board 
 ing-house with his wife. The carpets were down, 
 the piano and the seraphine were there, with the 
 furniture, and comfort smiled upon them as they 
 entered their rooms.
 
 MARRYING A FAMILY. 95 
 
 " Do you think you can be happy here ? " asked 
 Jonathan, fondly. 
 
 "0 yes, but I have been so naughty ! How 
 can you forgive me ? " 
 
 Sarah wept sweet tears in her husband's arms. 
 That was the happiest evening they had passed to- 
 gether in many, many weeks. 
 
 " We will have Price here, and Leslie, Wednes- 
 day evening, and invite the girls," said Jonathan. 
 " How would you like that ? " 
 
 " You are so kind and forgiving ! " murmured 
 Sarah. " I should be pleased; but they don't de- 
 serve it, more than I do." 
 
 "Never mind; they will be better in future. 
 And your mother, she can come and see you, 
 on one condition. If ever she throws out a sus- 
 picion, or a hint, injurious to me, don't listen to her. 
 She will be careful not to do anything of the kind 
 in my presence, I think. Only remember the past, 
 dear Sarah." 
 
 The next day was Sunday ; and Jonathan and 
 Sarah enjoyed it as the Sabbath should be enjoyed. 
 On Wednesday they sent invitations to the Misses 
 Pienhvell, to call in the evening. "Mr. Price and 
 Mr. Leslie were to be present." 
 
 Only Georgiana came. Sarah and her husband 
 treated her very affectionately, and made her 
 heartily ashamed of her conduct towards them
 
 96 MARRYING A FAMILY. 
 
 while under the same roof. Like Sarah, Georg- 
 iana -was naturally a good girl, and would have 
 appeared so, aside from her mother's influence. 
 She had long tales to tell of the old lady's mor- 
 tification at the divorce, as Jonathan called his 
 separation from the family he had married, which 
 were cut short by the arrival of Mr. Leslie and 
 Mr. Price. 
 
 There was great rejoicing over the change which 
 Jonathan had wrought in his domestic affairs. 
 Charles said he had abdicated his turban, fled from, 
 the harem, and become a Christian ; and Mr. Les- 
 lie inquired concerning the prosperity of the Sister- 
 hood of Harmony, with direct reference to the 
 money he had given to the cause. 
 
 The evening was a happy one for all. Charles 
 went home with Georgiana; who was so well 
 pleased, and told so glowing a story of the recep- 
 tion she had met with, that her sisters took an 
 early occasion to visit Mr. and Mrs. Allen. Mrs. 
 Rentwell was not long in following their example, 
 and Sarah was now perfectly happy ; for, if ever 
 another attempt was made to estrange her from her 
 husband, she was able to resist it, and to maintain 
 his honor and her rights. 
 
 To this day, Jonathan Allen is quite happy in, 
 his domestic relations. He does not much repent 
 his early experience, for he appreciates love and
 
 MARRYING A FAMILY. 97 
 
 peace the better from the contrast ; but he is ear- 
 nest in his advice to all friends who contemplate 
 matrimony that they should beware of MARRYING
 
 MARY DARWELL'S GRIEF. 
 
 MR. DARWELI, was a kind-hearted husband and 
 affectionate father ; but there were times when he 
 appeared passionate, cruel, relentless, when love for 
 his family was forgotten, and the distress of his 
 wife and children had no power to soften his heart. 
 
 These times never occurred except when he had 
 been for many days absent from home, and returned 
 from a scene of dissipation abroad, morose, irritable, 
 and ill-humored. 
 
 Mr. Darwell lived on a neat little farm, situated 
 about twenty-five miles from New York. He was 
 much esteemed by his neighbors, and had the repu- 
 tation of being an upright, generous man ; although, 
 three or four times a year, he was accustomed to 
 meet his old companions in New York, and pass in 
 revelling several weeks, spending his money lavishly, 
 and indulging in ruinous excesses. . At the end of 
 that time, exhausted with his dissipation, remorse*
 
 MARY DARWELL'S GRIEF. 99 
 
 ful and sullen, he would go home to his family; 
 never recovering his wonted cheerfulness until the 
 pleasant society of his wife and children, together 
 with habits of industry, had worn away the effects 
 of long indulgence. 
 
 On one occasion, in midsummer, he had been 
 absent from home two weeks, and his family were 
 anxiously expecting his return ; when, in the fore- 
 noon of a pleasant day, little Mary, his youngest 
 child, espied him riding rapidly up the road. 
 
 As he dismounted from his horse, Mary ran out 
 to meet him, and welcome him with a kiss ; but the 
 morose father pushed her rudely from him, and, 
 with contracted brows, strode past her towards the 
 house. 
 
 " Where 's Spot ? " he asked. 
 
 " I don't know, father," replied little Mary, run- 
 ning towards the kennel. " He is near the house, 
 somewhere." 
 
 Mr. Darwell called the dog, in a loud and impa- 
 tient voice ; but Spot was old, and, having grown 
 deaf in his service, did not hear. 
 
 " That accursed dog ! " muttered Mr. Darwell, 
 angrily ; " he is never to be found when he is 
 wanted. Where is William ? " 
 
 " In the field at work, I suppose," replied the 
 girl, timidly. " What is the matter ? "
 
 100 MARY DARWEU/S GRIEF. 
 
 " The cow is in the clover ! " exclaimed Mr. 
 Darwell. 
 
 " I will go and drive her out, papa ! " cried 
 Mary. "But here is Spot." 
 
 A large, shaggy, good-natured dog, with dim eyes 
 and blunted teeth, came trotting up to his master, 
 wagging his tail for joy. Spot was an ancient ser- 
 vant in the family ; and little Mary loved the dog 
 with all that fondness which children are. sometimes 
 capable of bestowing on favorite animals. 
 
 " Come along, Spot ! " muttered Mr. Darwell, 
 hurrying away. 
 
 Spot ran on before, and little Mary followed 
 timidly, at a distance. The clover-field was not 
 far from the house, and soon Mary saw the cow 
 feeding on the delicious herb. 
 
 Then the sensitive girl remembered how Spot 
 tore the cattle's noses and ears when set upon them, 
 and thought she would rather drive the cow out of 
 the field than see the faithful dog perform his duty 
 so savagely. 
 
 "Papa! papa!" she cried, "don't set Spot on, 
 please ! Let me drive the cow out." 
 
 Mr. Darwell turned angrily on his child, and 
 ordered her to return to the house. Mary went 
 back sorrowfully ; and, a moment after, she heard 
 Spot's savage, angry bark. Looking around, she 
 saw him jumoing at the cow's throat while the
 
 MARY DARWELL'S GRIEF. 101 
 
 persecuted animal plunged madly, in terror, to 
 avoid the dog's jaws. 
 
 It took but a minute for Spot to bring the cow 
 to a broken fence, where she had entered the field ; 
 but here, instead of jumping out, bewildered with 
 fear and pain, she ran off in another direction. The 
 dog, unable to hold her on account of the decayed 
 state of his teeth, chased her around the field, 
 making her so wild that it was in vain for Mr. 
 Darwell to try to drive her out. 
 
 " Curse such a dog as that ! " muttered the angry 
 man. " Here, Spot, here ! " 
 
 But the dog was deaf, and did not hear. All 
 Mr. Darwell's shouts were unavailing. Spot still 
 worried the cow around the field, jumping at her 
 throat, and tearing her ears, under the impression, 
 doubtless, that he was doing his master good ser- 
 vice. 
 
 Exaspenfted -at the dog's deafness, Mr. Darwell 
 ran to the house, entered abruptly, and, without 
 speaking to his wife, whom he had not seen for so 
 long, took down his rifle, that hung over the great 
 fireplace in the kitchen. 
 
 Little Mary clasped her hands, and began to cry ; 
 for her father's angry manner filled her timid heart 
 with fear. Mrs. Darwell, who knew her husband's 
 sullen mood, looked on in tearful silence. 
 
 Conscious that something dreadful was about to
 
 102 MARY DARWELL'S GRIEF. 
 
 happen, Mary followed her father in the direction 
 of the field. At a distance, trembling with childish 
 apprehension, she saw him raise the gun, examine 
 the percussion-cap, and take deliberate aim at Spot, 
 who was still worrying the cow. 
 
 " 0, don't shoot, father ! don't shoot ! " shrieked 
 the poor girl. " Don't kill Spot ! " 
 
 And, half distracted in view of the death which 
 threatened her old favorite, the faithful servant 
 of the house, she ran forward. Mr. Darwell, 
 governed entirely by his angry impulse, heeded her 
 not. She saw the flash of fire burst from the 
 muzzle of the rifle ; a sharp report followed ; and, 
 with a low, dismal, piteous cry, old Spot staggered 
 away, and sank upon the ground. 
 
 " Here ! take this to the house ! " shouted Mr. 
 Darwell, lowering his rifle, and throwing it down. 
 " Quick ! " 
 
 Mary could not but obey. "With jf heart bleed- 
 ing with anguish, she ran to take up the rifle. As 
 she did so, her eye fell upon the wounded dog, as 
 he lay panting and bleeding on the turf. 
 
 " Quick ! " said her father, again. 
 
 Mary ran away, and, rushing into the house, 
 dropped the gun. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " asked her mother, with 
 anxiety and alarm.
 
 MARY DARWELL'S GRIEF. 103 
 
 "0, poor Spot ! " sobbed Mary. " Papa has 
 Bhot poor Spot ! " 
 
 " Dear child ! " said Mrs. Darwell, tenderly. 
 " Don't cry ! " 
 
 But little Mary was disconsolate ; and her mother 
 was herself so much affected that she could not 
 refrain from tears. 
 
 After sending his child to the house, Mr. Dar- 
 well drove out the cow without difficulty, as he 
 could easily have done at first, had not his foolish 
 anger prompted him to require the services of poor 
 old Spot. 
 
 Mr. Darwell was conscious of having acted in a 
 brutal manner. This remorseful feeling, added to 
 the pangs he felt before, in consequence of his dark 
 recollections touching the time and money he had 
 spent in ruinous, unsatisfactory dissipations, made 
 him almost fiendish. His horse, which stopped to 
 clip a spear of grass as he was leading him to the 
 barn, he whipped unmercifully ; and an inoffensive 
 calf, that happened to be in his way, received an 
 angry blow. 
 
 Poor old faithful Spot, shot whilst doing what he 
 deemed dutiful service, was, all this time, left bleed- 
 ing on the turf; and, as soon as Mr. Darwell had 
 disappeared, little Mary, trembling and in tears, ran 
 out to see if the dog was dead. 
 
 Reader, did you ever, when a child, behold a
 
 104 MARY BAR WELL'S GRIEF. 
 
 dumb animal that you loved dearly dying a death 
 of anguish ? If so, you can imagine Mary's distress. 
 Her soft, affectionate heart bled with unavailing sor- 
 row, as she saw poor Spot moaning and gasping on 
 the ground. 
 
 His rnouth, his feet, and the weeds and grass all 
 around him, were covered with his blood. With 
 heart-rending moans he writhed upon the turf, stain- 
 ing it, whichsoever way he turned. The bullet had 
 passed through his mouth obliquely, tearing his 
 tongue and breaking the bones of both his jaws. 
 
 Perceiving that Spot was not dead, and gathering 
 hope from what she saw, Mary ran to her mother 
 with the news. 
 
 " 0, I hope he won't die ! '' she exclaimed, fer- 
 vently. " But, there, he suffers so much ! Perhaps 
 it would be better if he was dead." 
 
 She went back to her old companion, the play- 
 mate of her infancy and childhood. Spot had crept 
 near the fence, leaving a crimson trail upon the grass. 
 He was still moaning piteously ; and his mouth was 
 covered with a bloody foam. Fearing to approach 
 him too nearly, Mary watched him at a distance, 
 her sweet face wet with tears of sorrow, and her 
 little hands clasped in agony. 
 
 " He is not dead yet," said she, returning to her 
 mother. "Do come and look at him, mamma 1 
 Perhaps you can do something for him."
 
 MARY DARWELL'S GRIEF. 105 
 
 To satisfy the child, Mrs. Darwell followed Mary 
 to the spot where the wounded animal lay. 
 
 " 0, look at him, mamma ! " cried the broken- 
 hearted child. " Is it not too bad that he should 
 be shot ? 0, it makes me sick to see his mouth 
 bleed so ! " 
 
 " Poor Spot ! " sighed Mrs. Darwell. 
 
 " Mamma, will he die ? " asked Mary. 
 
 " I am afraid he will," replied her mother. " His 
 jaw is broken." 
 
 Lifting her streaming eyos to her mother's face, 
 Mary artlessly inquired if the doctor could not 
 mend it. Being answered in the negative, her sobs 
 burst forth anew. 
 
 "I would not cry about it," said Mrs. Darwell, 
 wiping a tear from her own eyes. " Spot could not 
 have lived much longer. He is older than you are, 
 Mary ; and he has been almost blind and deaf for a 
 long time." 
 
 And she led the grieved child back to the house. 
 
 All day little Mary occupied herself in watching 
 poor Spot, and reporting his condition to her mother. 
 Sometimes he would appear better, and she would 
 run joyfully to the house with the news. More 
 frequently, however, Spot would lie down gasping 
 on the ground, and seem to be dying; and she 
 would hasten to carry the mournful intelligence to 
 her sympathizing parent.
 
 106 MARY DAKWELL'S GRIEF. 
 
 At first, the poor child, gazing distractedly at the 
 animal's sufferings, feared to approach him ; but, as 
 her sight grew familiar with the blood and foam 
 which covered his mouth, and her ear with his low 
 whine of distress, she ventured near ; and when at 
 last he turned towards her his suffering eyes, as if 
 in prayer for relief, she patted him on the head. 
 She started back with a cry, for her hand was 
 stained with blood. 
 
 As Mary went to wash her hands, she thought 
 Spot would be glad if she would also wash the blood 
 away from his mouth. Accordingly she carried a 
 basin of water to the place where the animal lay, 
 and poured it over his wounds. 
 
 Mr. Darwell, meanwhile, was at work repairing 
 such things about the farm as had suffered from 
 neglect during his absence. To his son, whom he 
 found industriously employed, he spoke unkindly, 
 uttering unmerited reproofs ; and with his faithful 
 serving-man, Tom Marks, he found fault without 
 reason. 
 
 When the men came home to dinner, Mary, with 
 many tears, related to William the catastrophe of 
 poor Spot. William was much grieved, and, through 
 his closed teeth, muttered something about his fath- 
 er's cruelty, which Mary could not understand. 
 
 William took counsel with Tom Marks, and it 
 was decided that they ought to kill the dog, to put
 
 MARY DARWELL'S GRIEF. 107 
 
 him out of his misery. But Mary, who could not 
 bear the thought of Spot's death, entreated them ta 
 spare him. 
 
 " Don't kill him ! " she pleaded. " He '11 get 
 well, I hope, after all." 
 
 Mr. Darwell being still morose and ill-humored, 
 nobody dared to speak to him of the condition of 
 the dog ; and thus the poor animal was left to suffer 
 until night. 
 
 Just before sundown, Mr. Darwell, coming home 
 from the field, passed the place where Mary still sat 
 watching Spot. 
 
 " She is fussing with that dead dog ! " he mut- 
 tered, angrily. 
 
 Approaching to order her to the house, Mr. Dar- 
 well heard a very faint moan. He paused, and saw 
 old Spot lying on the ground gasping for breath, 
 and Mary gazing at him with a sorrowful face. A 
 pang shot through his heart ; for he remembered 
 the fidelity and age of that old dog, and the attach- 
 ment which had always existed between him and 
 Mary. 
 
 The grieving child heard her father's foot-steps, 
 and, with a timid, entreating face, she looked up and 
 said, 
 
 " Spot is not dead yet, father ! " 
 
 He could not . speak. Turning quickly to hide
 
 108 MARY DARWELL'S GRIEF. 
 
 his emotion, he hurried to the house, leaving Mary 
 with her old companion. 
 
 " What a fiend I have been ! " he muttered, con- 
 tracting his brows with hatred of himself. 
 
 He thought of the joy it had given him, in years 
 gone by, to see the noble dog, strong, faithful and 
 affectionate, watch by the cradle of the infant Mary ; 
 and to see him at a later day hold her little frock in 
 his teeth, to steady her timid foot-steps, endure 
 her childish tyranny, licking the baby-hand that 
 sometimes smote him angrily, and perform all her 
 commands like an obedient, loving slave. He re- 
 membered how often he had laughed to see that 
 dear child climb upon the animal's back, and, cling- 
 ing to his collar, compel him to carry her about ; 
 and the tender care the dumb brute always had 
 of her was fresh in his mind. No wonder, then, 
 that the father's heart was filled with the bitterest 
 remorse and anguish. 
 
 He entered the house, and in a kind manner 
 greeted his wife, half apologizing for his harshness. 
 
 " I have been very unhappy," said he. " I have 
 not felt well. Forgive me." 
 
 A moment after, he spoke of Mary and the dog ; 
 and Mrs. Darwell told him the whole story of the 
 girl's sorrow and distress, her watching and anxiety, 
 her hope and fear. 
 
 Shortly after, while they were conversing, Mary
 
 MARY DARWELL'S GRIEF. 109 
 
 came in with a sad brow, and, without a word, sat 
 quietly down in her little chair in the corner. 
 
 " Come here, my dear," said Mr. Darwell, kindly. 
 
 Mury rose, with a countenance full of grief, and 
 approached her father. 
 
 " My child," said he, with emotion, " what is the 
 matter ? " 
 
 Her little bosom began to heave with sobs, and 
 big tears, starting from her red, swollen eyes, rolled 
 down her cheeks. But she could not speak. 
 
 " My dear," pursued her father, in a trembling 
 voice, "tell me what ails you." 
 
 " Spot is dead ! " 
 
 The words seemed to burst from her heart, and 
 instantly she was convulsed with weeping. 
 
 " Don't cry ! " said Mr. Darwell, in a choked 
 voice. " I will buy you another dog." 
 
 " I don't want another dog ! " sobbed Mary. 
 
 " Why not, dear ? " 
 
 " I could not love it as I loved Spot ; and when 
 I fed it, or played with it, it would make me think 
 of Spot, and " 
 
 She could say no more ; and her father pressed 
 her to his heart, which was full of love, remorse and 
 pity. 
 
 On the following day, Mary saw old Spot buried 
 under the tree not far from where he had died. For 
 many months she remembered him with sorrow, and 
 10
 
 110 MARY DAKWELL'S GRIEF. 
 
 watched the sunshine, the rain and the winter's snow, 
 which fell upon the turf where the faithful old ser- 
 vant of her childhood lay buried. 
 
 But other associations caused Mary to forget her 
 girlish sorrow ; and among the tenderest of these 
 was the unfailing kindness of her father, who was 
 never harsh or cruel towards her, or any one, or any- 
 thing again. So Mary grew up a happy, bright- 
 eyed, affectionate girl, dearly beloved by her parents 
 and friends, and loving every one. But she never 
 knew, until years after the death of her dog, that 
 this event was the occasion of the happy change in 
 her father, who was never absent fiom his familj 
 any more.
 
 MUTTON IN BRAMBLETOWN. 
 
 IN those regions where wolves are numerous, it 
 usually follows that mutton is proportionately scarce. 
 In Brambletown, before the legislature of the state 
 passed the present law relating to bounties on the 
 slaughter of these disagreeable animals, it frequently 
 happened that nothing in the shape of sheep or lamb 
 could be obtained for love or money. All attempts 
 to produce sufficient mutton to supply the demand 
 for it were complete failures ; and it was always 
 with the greatest difficulty that even a single lamb, 
 designed for Christmas or Thanksgiving, could be 
 raised and fattened in farmers' kitchens. The care 
 taken to keep silly sheep within sight of human 
 habitations during the day, and in pens at night, 
 was of little consequence. The wolves were sure 
 to come in for their share, which was usually so 
 exorbitant that there was nothing left for the 
 farmers.
 
 112 MUTTON IN BRAMBLETOWN. 
 
 Mr. Bellamy, an enterprising agriculturist, and 
 one of the most influential men in Brambletown, 
 made repeated attempts to raise sheep, well satisfied 
 that moderate profits in wool and mutton would 
 richly recompense him for devoting a portion of his 
 land to pasturage. But he had been no more suc- 
 cessful than his neighbors ; and at last his entire 
 flock became reduced to a solitary sheep. All the 
 rest had been so unfortunate as to excite the desire 
 of rapacious wolves ; and, instead of arriving at the 
 dignity of chops and roast, they found wretched 
 graves in the maws of their ferocious enemies. 
 
 The cosset remained. Luckily for him, he had 
 been brought up " by hand," and never trusted out 
 of the narrow door-yard, within the limits of which 
 no wolf, however hungry, had ventured to in- 
 trude by daylight ; and every night he had been 
 shut up in Deacon Bellamy's wood-house, where 
 nothing could disturb him. Knowing no fear, and 
 having, I suppose, only vague dreams of the wolf, 
 the peaceful lamb grew fat ; and, even before it had 
 reached maturity, its plump proportions and beauti- 
 ful fleece delighted the eye of the farmer. 
 
 Now, like many children, this stupid cosset was 
 often sadly inclined to indulge in prohibited pleas- 
 ures which every sensible person knows to be hurt- 
 ful. Having long since learned to jump, and having 
 at a later day enjoyed a taste of grass beyond the
 
 MUTTON IN BRAMBLETOWN. 113 
 
 limits of hia narrow pasture, it required continual 
 care on the part of the Bellamys to keep him at 
 home. 
 
 " He 's more trouble than he 'a worth ! " exclaimed 
 the deacon, his patience being at length exhausted. 
 " I would like to keep you till Thanksgiving," pat- 
 ting the lamb on his head, " but I see you will con- 
 tinue to jump, until some day you will jump into 
 the jaws of a wolf, and that will be the last of you. 
 You are your worst enemy, poor fellow ! for you 
 compel me to butcher you." 
 
 The young cosset had also contracted a bad habit 
 of butting, which had grown with his growth, and 
 strengthened with his strength, until the younger 
 Bellamys could not come into the yard without 
 being knocked down by the ungrateful wretch ; and 
 even the deacon and his oldest son frequently, on 
 getting over the fence, received unwelcome assist- 
 ance from behind. 
 
 Thus the cosset persisted in his wrong actions, 
 until he compelled his patron to cut off the thread 
 of his existence (with a butcher-knife) just under 
 his chin ; a sad fate, which should serve as a warn- 
 ing to all bad boys who disobey their parents with- 
 out considering that the latter know a great deal 
 better what is good for them than they do them- 
 selves. 
 
 The deacon chose a cool afternoon in August to 
 10*
 
 114 MUTTON IN BRAMBLETOWN. 
 
 perform the last act in the tragedy of the pet lamb. 
 I pass over in silence the butchering, as I wish to 
 avoid lacerating the feelings of the reader with 
 the sad details of the scene, which only dire neces- 
 sity and a love of mutton could have induced the 
 deacon to enact. After the cosset had ceased 
 struggling and gasping, he was laid out on a board 
 raised about three feet from the ground, and then a 
 group of Bellamys was gathered about him. 
 
 The younger children, with water in their mouths, 
 if not in their ej'es, held the legs of the cosset, while 
 the deacon and his eldest son skinned them scientifi- 
 cally. These last duties to an old friend, I am com- 
 pelled to admit, were cheerfully performed by all 
 parties ; not that they loved the cosset less, but 
 that they loved mutton more. When the deacon 
 had finished skinning the hind legs, the carcass was 
 suspended in the usual fashion upon a gambrel, and 
 the rest of the skinning accomplished. Other neces- 
 sary matters having been attended to, the deacon 
 proceeded to divide the flesh. There was nothing 
 like narrow selfishness about Deacon Bellamy. He 
 had said to his wife, 
 
 " I think we can get along with a hind-quarter 
 of the lamb ; and, as a taste of mutton will be very 
 acceptable to our neighbors, suppose we divide the 
 rest among them as equally as we can ? " 
 
 " That is just like you, dear," replied the good-
 
 AOTTON IN BRAMBLETOWN. 115 
 
 hearted woman. " Do as you like ; but allow me to 
 suggest that a whole quarter should be sent to the 
 minister." 
 
 "To Mr. Nolley, to be sure, a good idea!" 
 said the deacon. 
 
 Accordingly, the excellent man sent the two fore- 
 quarters, in pieces as nearly equal as possible, to 
 half a dozen of his nearest neighbors, reserving for 
 the clergyman a portion quite as large as his own. 
 It was dark, however, before the boys had accom- 
 plished their first half-dozen errands ; and, the way 
 to the clergyman's house lying through the woods, 
 it was thought best not to send him his mutton until 
 morning. The deacon feared lest the wolves might 
 smell the meat, and, enraged that so small a portion 
 should have fallen to their share, make up for the 
 deficiency by eating the boys. The quarter in ques- 
 tion was accordingly wrapped up in the skin, and 
 deposited in the wood-house, on a board erected 
 directly over the bed so lately occupied by the living 
 cosset. 
 
 On the following morning the whole family break- 
 fasted on mutton ; and the boys, Charley and George, 
 having finally had satisfaction of the lamb which had 
 butted them so often with impunity, prepared to 
 carry the minister's portion. 
 
 A large covered basket was brought for the pur- 
 pose, and Mrs. Bellamy went to the wood -house
 
 116 MUTTON IN BRAMBLETOWX. 
 
 herself to see the mutton nicely packed, in order 
 that it might look as inviting as possible in the eyes 
 of the clergyman's family. Then, what was the 
 consternation of the kind-hearted lady, on discover- 
 ing that the quarter of mutton had disappeared ! 
 
 " George ! " she said, " call your father at once. 
 Tell him the lamb is gone ! " 
 
 And while George ran out in great haste, she cast 
 her eyes round the wood-house, vainly hoping to see 
 the meat in some other place, to which her husband 
 might have removed it. The outer door had not 
 been locked the previous night, it is true, and thieves 
 might have entered ; yet she could not conceive of 
 such utter depravity as must exist in the heart of 
 a man who could be guilty of stealing anything so 
 sacred as a leg of mutton. 
 
 " What is the matter ? Can't find the mutton ? " 
 cried the deacon, entering abruptly. " Why, good- 
 ness ! true enough ! It has been stolen ! " 
 
 And for once the deacon's benevolent countenance 
 was darkened with a frown of displeasure. 
 
 " Well, there is no use in lamenting misfortunes," 
 he said, after a pause, during which he had ascer*- 
 tained for a certainty that the mutton was gone. 
 " May the sinner repent before the ill-gotten mutton 
 digests ! All we can do is to send an apology to Mr. 
 Nolley." 
 
 " I was just thinking," rejoined Mrs. Bellamy,
 
 MUTTON IN BRAMBLETOWN. 117 
 
 " that the best apology we can send him is one of 
 our nice new cheeses, which I know Mrs. Nolley 
 will be glad enough to have in her family. There 
 is one that will just go into the basket in place of 
 the mutton, and I don't know but it will be quite 
 as acceptable." 
 
 " I believe you are right," replied her husband. 
 " Do you put up the cheese, while I write a word to 
 Mr. Nolley." 
 
 Mrs. Bellamy required no further encouragement 
 to go at once to the dairy, and select the finest cheese 
 on her shelves, as a present to the minister. By the 
 time she had laid it neatly in a cloth under the cover 
 of the basket, the deacon had penned the following 
 note: 
 
 " KEV. MB. NOLLEY. Dear Sir : Please accept the 
 accompanying trifle, as a token of friendship and esteem. 
 I had designed to send you a present which might have 
 been more acceptable, but circumstances which I may 
 explain at some future time have prevented me from 
 doing as I would like. Yours, truly, 
 
 "JosiAH BELLAMY." 
 
 The two youthful Bellamys, Charley and George 
 were now sent through the woods with the cheese in 
 the basket, and the note in Charley's coat-pocket 
 They were gone much longer than was necessary to 
 do their errand, for some tempting blackberries.
 
 118 MUTTON IN BKAMBLETOWN 
 
 growing on the borders of the woodland, would not 
 let them pass without tasting them. However, they 
 at length returned with their trousers wet with dew, 
 and their lips and teeth stained with berries. 
 
 "Well," said the deacon, who happened to be at 
 the house, " you have really got back. I was begin- 
 ning to think the wolves had caught you." 
 
 " Mr. Nolley kept us waiting " 
 
 " Kept you waiting ! "Well, what did Mr. Nolley 
 keep you waiting for ? " 
 
 " For this letter, which he was writing," said 
 Charley, promptly. 
 
 The deacon took the note, and read as follows : 
 
 " DEAR BROTHER BELLAMY : I don't know what could 
 have been more acceptable than the nice, generous piece 
 of mutton you have been so kind as to send me. In return, 
 please accept my sincere thanks, and the trifling present 
 you will find in the basket. Yours, 
 
 "ALONZO NOLLEY." 
 
 The deacon rubbed his eyes, and scratched his 
 head. 
 
 " What is it ? " asked Mrs. Bellamy. 
 
 " Why, Mr. Nolley thanks us for ' the nice, gen- 
 erous piece of mutton we sent him ! ' What does 
 he mean ? There is some Difference between mutton 
 and cheese." 
 
 " 0, it 's a slip of the pen," replied the charitable
 
 MUTTON IN BRAMBLETOWN. 119 
 
 Mrs. Bellamy. " He was thinking of the mutton, 
 for everybody knows you killed yesterday, and 
 he wrote nice mutton, instead of nice cheese." 
 
 " It must be so," rejoined the deacon. " But I 
 must say I was foolish enough to fear that 0, 
 that was silly ! " 
 
 " What ? " 
 
 " I thought Nolley might have taken offence 
 because we did not send him any mutton, and 
 have alluded to it ironically, in order to hurt our 
 feelings." 
 
 "0, fie ! Mr. Nolley is not such a man as that. 
 But here, what have we got in the basket ? " 
 
 There was something done up in a cloth. 
 
 " The basket is heavy enough," said the deacon. 
 
 " 0, goodness ! no wonder ! " gasped Mrs. Bel- 
 lamy, sinking upon a chair. 
 
 She had just raised the cloth, and dropped it again, 
 as if she had seen a serpent. The basket contained 
 a large flat stone ! 
 
 The deacon became pale with consternation. He 
 glanced first at the stone, then at his astonished wife, 
 and finally turned sternly to the boys. 
 
 " Charles ! " 
 
 "Sir." 
 
 " What does this mean ? " demanded the deacon, 
 severely.
 
 120 MUTTOX IN BRAMBLETOWN. 
 
 "I I don't know. We gave the basket to 
 to Mr. Nolley himself, with your note '' 
 
 "And* added an impertinent message of your 
 own ! " 
 
 " No ; we never said anything, but, ' Here 's 
 something father sent you,' did we, George ?" 
 
 " No, we did n't ; and Mr. Nolley carried the 
 basket into another room, after asking us to sit 
 down and wait. Then, after a while, he came to 
 us again with the basket and this letter " 
 
 " Tell me, is this the solemn truth ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Charles, with a look of candor. 
 
 The deacon sent the boys out of doors, and con- 
 sulted with his wife. 
 
 " I was never so confounded in my life," he mut- 
 tered, glancing again at the minister's note. " I 
 did think Mr. Nolley was a good man, and a Chris- 
 tian." 
 
 " I am thunderstruck ! " replied his wife. " What 
 did you write in your note ? " 
 
 " That I wished him to accept the trifle sent him, 
 in place of a present which might have been more 
 acceptable, that I had designed for him ; and he 
 writes back, I don't know what could have been 
 more acceptable than the nice, generous piece of 
 mutton.' 0, what a disposition the man must have, 
 to take offence because I sent pieces of mutton to 
 the neighbors, and none to him ! And my apology
 
 MUTTON IN BRAMBLETOWN. 121 
 
 must have been sufficient, I am sure. Then to send 
 back a stone ! I never can forgive him ! " 
 
 "Now, deacon, this is hardly Christian-like in 
 you," remonstrated the good woman. " It is very 
 aggravating, to be sure ; but remember that the 
 best of men have their weaknesses. Instead of cher- 
 ishing enmity against your brother in the church, 
 go to him " 
 
 " Go to him ! " 
 
 " Certainly, and " 
 
 " After what has happened ? After he has in- 
 Bulted us ? " 
 
 " Go and ask an explanation. It is your duty. 
 Be a Christian ! " 
 
 The deacon pressed his wife's hand. ' A gleam 
 of sunshine cleared away the cloud from his brow. 
 
 " You always counsel well, like a Christian ! " 
 he exclaimed, warmly. " I wish I was as good, as 
 meek, as forgiving, as you are ! But I feel better 
 now. I will go directly to Mr. Nolley, and I won't 
 be angry, either." 
 
 " Bless your kind heart, go ! And, I '11 tell you 
 what, deacon, it is always best to return good for 
 evil. You must not go with an empty basket." 
 
 " 0, after sending him a cheese, and receiving a 
 stone in return " 
 
 " Good for evil, deacon ! There is a little of the 
 mutton left ; we can do without it well enough." 
 11
 
 122 MUTTON IN BRAMRLETOWN. 
 
 " I understand you ! " exclaimed the deacon. 
 " I will carry Mr. Nolley what there is left, and 
 tell him all ; then, if his heart does not melt, I shall 
 give him up as a hardened wretch." 
 
 Glorying in the kindness he had intended to do 
 the minister, Mr. Bellamy took the basket on his 
 arm, and went himself through the woods, to Mr. 
 Nolley's house. 
 
 The deacon's face was all sunshine, as he knocked 
 at the door. The minister's little girl appeared. 
 
 " Is your father at home, my dear ? " he asked. 
 
 "He just went to ride with mamma and the 
 baby," she replied. " Won't you come in and wait ? 
 He will be back soon." 
 
 Being quite anxious to see the clergyman, the 
 deacon entered ; and, the girl having run down to 
 the road to see if her parents were coming, he 
 thought he would carry the basket into the pantry 
 himself. 
 
 If the deacon had already been considerably as- 
 tonished that morning, his amazement was now 
 increased a thousand-fold. For a moment he could 
 not believe the evidence of his senses ; but what he 
 saw was no illusion. Upon one of the shelves, 
 before his very eyes, lay the quarter of mutton 
 which had been stolen from his wood-house ! 
 
 The deacon staggered, breathed heavily, and in 
 great trepidation examined the meat more closely.
 
 MUTTON IN BRAMBLETOWN. 123 
 
 He recognized it by a peculiar cut which he remem- 
 bered making on the joint. 
 
 "May the Lord forgive the sin, as I forgive 
 it ! " he sighed. " But, since the hypocrite has 
 taken by stealth that which should have been given 
 him freely, I cannot leave him to enjoy the plunder. 
 Besides, he must know that his crime is discov- 
 ered." 
 
 And the deacon immediately placed the quarter 
 in his basket, with the second present he had de- 
 signed the minister. As he passed out of the door, 
 he said to the little girl, 
 
 " I will not wait for your father. Tell him that 
 I have taken the mutton which I found in his 
 pantry." 
 
 The child stared at the deacon, and was dumb. 
 The moment his back was turned, however, she 
 burst into tears. 
 
 The deacon's heart was touched. . 
 
 " At all events, the child is blameless," thought 
 he; "she desires a taste of mutton, and she shall 
 have it." 
 
 Returning immediately to the pantry, he took 
 from his basket the small piece of meat, and placed 
 it on the same shelf where he had found the stolen 
 quarter. Then patting the child's head, and telling 
 her to be a good girl, and not cry, he returned home 
 with a heavy heart.
 
 124 MUTTON IN BKAMBLETOWff. 
 
 "Well, well, well! " he sighed, sinking upon a 
 chair ; "I am tired of the world now ! I have 
 lived long enough, nay, a day too iong/' 
 
 And, to his wife's look of anxiety and alarm, he 
 replied by lifting the cover of the basket, and re- 
 vealing the mutton. It is impossible to describe 
 her distress. She even shed tears, poor woman, 
 over the minister's sin. 
 
 " I never knew before that humanity was so 
 weak," said the deacon, sighing. " Whom shall we 
 trust now ? If a man who appears so good and 
 kind can fall into such disgraceful sin, who is 
 safe ? " 
 
 " I am afraid to speak of it, it is so awful," mur- 
 mured the excellent Mrs. B. ; " never did anything 
 shock me like this ! But, for charity's sake, keep 
 this terrible secret from the world. Think of the 
 scandal which must fall upon the church, if the 
 thing is known beyond our own bosoms. Leave the 
 minister alone with his conscience, and let us pray 
 that he may repent ! " 
 
 The deacon thought this advice the best in the 
 world, and resolved to follow it. The secret was 
 accordingly kept, and the children were charged to 
 say nothing about the theft of the mutton. 
 
 " I have found it," said the deacon. 
 
 " Where ? " they asked.
 
 MUTTON IN BKAMBLETOWN. 125 
 
 " No matter, in a place where nobody would 
 have thought of looking for it," was the reply. 
 
 The meat was accordingly eaten by the deacon's 
 family ; but, in justice to Mr. and Mrs. Bellamy, I 
 must state that not a morsel of it was tasted by 
 them. They even lost their appetites merely from 
 seeing it on the table. 
 
 The deacon, however, made up his mind to one 
 thing, from which all the representations of hia 
 wife could not move him. 
 
 " I will most assuredly leave Mr. Nolley alone 
 with his conscience," he said ; " but, unless his con- 
 science moves him to repent of his sin, and to con- 
 fess it with a contrite heart, my own conscience will 
 never allow me to sit under his hypocritical preach- 
 ing again." 
 
 Both he and his wife expected that the clergy- 
 man would hasten to them to beg their forgiveness, 
 and confess his fault ; but, as -he did not, they 
 began to look upon him as a hardened sinner ; and, 
 when the Sabbath came, Mr. Bellamy, in a solemn 
 tone, told his children that, as he wished to converse 
 with them on religious subjects, they would not go 
 to church. 
 
 Very much astonished, the family gathered 
 around him, and listened to his teachings, which 
 came from a heart filled with humility, piety and 
 grief. 
 
 11*
 
 126 MUTTON IN BRAMBLETOWN. 
 
 Such was the surprise of everybody, on seeing 
 the deacon's pew empty on the Sabbath, that there 
 was a general inquiry to know if his family was 
 sick ; and, in the evening, several of the brethren 
 called at his house. To their anxious questions 
 Deacon Bellamy replied, that it was not sickness, 
 but other causes, which he could not explain, that 
 had kept his family from the house of worship. 
 
 On the following Sabbath the deacon's pew was 
 empty again ; and now his strange conduct began to 
 create severe remarks. Once more the church- 
 members went to converse with him on the subject ; 
 but, as Mr. Nolley did not come, the deacon still 
 kept his secret, unhappy as it made him. 
 
 On the third Sabbath, which was communion- 
 day, the absence of the deacon's family created 
 such a feeling in the church, that the poor man saw 
 the folly of pursuing his present course of conduct 
 any longer. 
 
 When told that Mr. Nolley had declined coming 
 to talk with him, for some reason which he would 
 not explain, Mr. Bellamy's patience was exhausted. 
 
 " Tell the people that I will be at the church- 
 meeting on Friday," he said, in an agitated voice, to 
 Elder Florson. "Then I will explain all, pro- 
 vided Mr. Nolley is there ! " 
 
 This strange reply excited the interest of all the 
 church-members to such a degree, that, when Friday
 
 MUTTON IN BKAMBLETOWN. 127 
 
 came, there was a larger assembly in the vestry 
 than had ever been known before. 
 
 The clergyman, looking pale and solemn, sat in 
 his accustomed place, and Deacon Bellamy was like- 
 wise present. 
 
 There was some delay in the proceedings, in con- 
 sequence of the presence of a man named Wolsey, 
 who had for years rejoiced in the name of Wicked 
 Wolsey, which he had gained by gross impiety, in 
 blaspheming the Lord's name, and in hunting and 
 fishing on Sabbath days. For som'e time, however, 
 Wicked Wolsey had been observed to lead a differ- 
 ent life, attending church-service three times each 
 Sabbath, and prayer-meetings whenever they oc- 
 curred during the week ; and, after some discussion, 
 the church suffered him to remain in the vestry, in 
 consequence of an earnest desire he expressed to 
 make a confession to, and ask counsel of, the min- 
 ister and his flock. 
 
 After some business of small importance had been 
 transacted, Deacon Bellamy was called upon for the 
 explanation he had to make. 
 
 Slowly and silently he arose ; and, after casting 
 one sorrowful, appealing look at Mr. Nolley, pro- 
 ceeded briefly to relate what had transpired. A 
 breathless silence prevailed ; and his entire state- 
 ment was heard with interest and amazement. The
 
 128 MUTTON IX BRAMBLETOWN. 
 
 audience was filled with consternation ; and every 
 eye turned to the countenance of the minister. 
 The moment the deacon sat down, the latter 
 
 He was a young man, with a mild blue eye, and 
 a benevolent expression, which had won the hearts 
 of the entire congregation. Moreover, his amiable 
 manners, and his apparent zeal in the cause of his 
 Master, had inspired everybody with such confidence 
 in his virtue, that it was expected the mere breath 
 of his lips would -blow away the fabric of error which 
 had grown up in Mr. Bellamy's mind. 
 
 " I hasten," he said, with a sad smile, and 
 every heart ceased to beat, "I hasten to confess 
 a sin, for which I must beg the forgiveness of my 
 brethren and sisters." 
 
 It is impossible to describe the sensation produced 
 by this commencement. More than one counte- 
 nance became suddenly blanched, and more than one 
 breast labored with a groan of distress. 
 
 " It is the sin of pride," the clergyman added 
 quickly, to the general relief of his hearers. " I 
 have shrunk from a duty which has appeared to me 
 humiliating ; but I am now humbled, and hesitate 
 no longer. 
 
 " I am grieved that Brother Bellamy, for, after 
 cis truly feeling and Christian-like address, I can- 
 not refuse to call him so, I am grieved, I say,
 
 MUTTON IN BRAMBLETOWN. 129 
 
 that he is apparently laboring under an incompre- 
 hensible error. I give him the credit of having 
 stated with candor that which he believer to be the 
 truth, but in which I am sure every one present 
 must feel that he has been strangely deceived. 
 
 " All I know of the matter, I will briefly relate. 
 
 " On the morning to which our brother has al- 
 luded, I was agreeably surprised, on receiving from 
 him a quarter of mutton." 
 
 " Mutton ! " murmured the deacon, starting from 
 his seat. 
 
 " I cannot, to save my life," pursued the clergy- 
 man, " explain even to myself the strange perversity 
 of Brother Bellamy, in calling that a cheese which 
 was most assuredly mutton. I took it from the 
 basket myself, and wrote the note in reply, which 
 he has read to you. I wrote in a true spirit of 
 thankfulness; and the trifle I sent back with it, 
 the better to express my gratitude, was a large 
 family Bible, which I enclosed in a strong wrapper, 
 and placed in the basket. What has become of 
 this Bible, I cannot tell ; for no person, I suppose, 
 can for a moment believe that the book can have 
 been transformed into stone, as the cheese had 
 previously been changed to mutton. 
 
 " Having sent the boys back with the basket, I 
 went to ride with Mrs. Nolley, and was inexpress- 
 ibly mortified, on my return, to learn that Brother
 
 130 MUTTOX IN BRAMBLETOWX. 
 
 Bellamy had been at the house, and taken away the 
 first piece of mutton he sent, leaving a much smaller 
 piece in its place. The pride of which I have been 
 guilty consisted iu a repugnance I felt to having 
 further communication with a person who could be 
 guilty of what appeared to me to be a mean action." 
 
 The clergyman would have continued ; but Dea- 
 con Bellamy, quivering with excitement, started 
 from his seat. 
 
 " I don't know," he exclaimed, wiping the per- 
 spiration from his brow, "I don't know which is 
 insane, Mr. Nolley or myself. One of us is, 
 most assuredly. I never sent him any mutton ; 
 and his declaration that I did " 
 
 " I beg leave to relate i what I know about this 
 matter," said a voice in another part of the room. 
 
 It was Wicked Wolsey, and in an instant 
 every eye was fixed upon him. 
 
 " What have you to say ? " said Elder Florson. 
 
 " Simply that I stole the mutton," replied Wicked 
 Wolsey, " and that I am the cause of all this mis- 
 understanding." 
 
 There was a murmur of satisfaction in the con- 
 gregation ; a gleam of sunshine flashed across Dea- 
 con Bellamy's features, and the minister smiled 
 calmly. 
 
 " I stole the mutton," repeated Wicked Wolsey, 
 in a humble tone. " Having heard that Deacon
 
 MUTTON IN BRAMBLETOWN. 131 
 
 Bellamy had sent portions of the fat cosset to sev- 
 eral of the neighbors, I \vas angry becauae I had 
 been neglected. This was very foolish, for I had 
 never deserved anything of him except reproaches 
 and contempt. But I did not think so then ; and, 
 determined to have a share of the mutton, I went 
 at night, and stole the hind-quarter. 
 
 " But I was not permitted to carry it away in 
 peace. I had scarcely got to the woods, when, 
 hearing a noise, I looked, and saw directly before 
 me in the dark thicket the glaring eyes of a wolf! 
 I was startled; but, having a hunting-knife with 
 me, I did not greatly fear a single attack ; so I 
 kept along on the border of the woods, until the 
 animal set up a hideous howl, which was echoed by 
 half-a-dozen wolves, that appeared to be but a little 
 way off. Well aware that I could do nothing with 
 a whole pack, I hastened to climb a beech-tree, car- 
 rying the mutton with me into the branches. 
 
 " I had scarcely reached a safe place, when the 
 wolves began to gather around the tree, and I felt 
 very uneasy to see their dark forms moving in the 
 bushes beneath me, and to hear their howls. Think- 
 ing they would go away soon, I determined not to 
 give them a taste of the mutton, which would only 
 have made them the more ferocious ; yet 1 had 
 formed a plan to throw them the meat, and let them
 
 132 MUTTON IN BRAMBLETOWN. 
 
 devour it, in case I heard any persons coming to 
 my rescue. 
 
 " But, to my dismay, the solves kept around me 
 until daylight. Just as I was going to throw them 
 the mutton, in despair, they glared at me fiercely, 
 and, uttering a few dismal howls of disappointment 
 and rage, darted into the woods and disappeared. 
 
 " After waiting for them to get into the heart of 
 the forest, I came down from the tree ; but, not 
 daring to carry home the mutton by daylight, I hid 
 it in the bushes. I then went home ; and, having 
 explained to my wife the cause of my absence, and 
 eaten a light breakfast, I returned to the woods with 
 my rifle ; not so much to hunt, as to have an ex- 
 cuse for keeping within sight of the bushes where 
 the mutton was concealed. 
 
 " This, I should have said before, was rolled up 
 in the pelt, as when I found it in the wood-house ; 
 but, on examining it, I saw that nothing could save 
 it from the flies, if left in that position during the 
 heat of the day. I was considering what I ought 
 to do, when, hearing the sound of voices, I thought 
 I was discovered. I lay perfectly still, however, 
 and in a moment Deacon Bellamy's two youngest 
 boys stopped in the bushes within a few yards of 
 me, placed a basket on the ground, and went to 
 picking berries. In a little while I could hear 
 their voices at a distance ; and, thinking I might
 
 MUTTON IN BRAMBLETOWN. 133 
 
 see "what was in the basket before they returned, I 
 crept cautiously towards it, and lifted the cover. 
 Seeing a nice cheese done up in a cloth, I remem- 
 bered that I was fond of cheese, and thought to 
 steal it. I did not know, however, how I was to 
 prevent an immediate discovery of the theft by the 
 boys, until the idea struck me, that, should I put 
 the mutton, which I had already resolved to aban- 
 don to the wolves, in place of the cheese, the boys 
 might be deceived by the weight, and never discover 
 their mistake until they came to dispose of their 
 load ; by which time I hoped to have the cheese 
 safely hidden in the woods. 
 
 " This plan I carried into execution, remaining 
 concealed until the boys had taken away the basket, 
 without suspecting what I had done. 
 
 " I afterwards hid the cheese and the sheep's pelt 
 in another part of the woods, and, taking a circuit- 
 ous route, reached a position from which I could 
 watch the boys as they came out of Mr. Nolley's 
 house. 
 
 " To my surprise, they set down the basket again, 
 in order to wander into the bushes for berries ; and, 
 having a curiosity to see if they had brought the 
 mutton back with them, I approached unobserved, 
 and, once more raising the cover of the basket, dis- 
 covered something done up in a package. Con- 
 ceiving this to be of some value, I was wicked 
 12
 
 134 MUTTON IN BRAMBLETOWN. 
 
 enough to covet it ; and seeing a stone close by that 
 I judged to be about the same weight as the pack- 
 age, I deposited it in the place of the latter, which 
 I concealed in the hollow of a stump. I then 
 hunted a little while in the woods, and returned 
 home. But early in the evening, before the wolves 
 came about, I secured the cheese, the pelt and the 
 package, which I carried home. 
 
 "I now proceeded to gratify my curiosity in 
 opening the package, which, to my astonishment and 
 mortification, I found to contain a Bible. I turned 
 over the leaves with disgust, for I hated even the 
 name of the book ; but my contempt was suddenly 
 changed to alarm and remorse, as my eye fell upon 
 the passages in Exodus : ' Thou shalt not steal ;' 
 and, ' Thou shalt not covet thy neighlx>r's house, 
 thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife, nor his 
 man-servant, nor his maid-servant, nor his ox, nor 
 his ass, nor anything that is thy neighbor's.' 
 
 " It seemed to me something more than a mere 
 accident, which drew my eye to the commandments 
 I had just been guilty of breaking. I felt that an 
 over-ruling power had taken this strange method of 
 leading me to repentance. I began to read, and all 
 night I searched the pages of that sacred volume, 
 finding myself condemned on every point, and writh- 
 ing in the agonies of remorse." 
 
 Here Wicked Wolsey, having closed his singular
 
 MUTTON IN BRAMBLETOWN. 135 
 
 narrative, proceeded to .relate his religious experi- 
 ence, which we will not repeat. Suffice it to say, 
 that reading the Bible led him to church, and the 
 excellent sermons of Mr. Nollcy had been the means 
 of converting him, and of inducing him to confess 
 and ask the prayers and forgiveness of the congre- 
 gation. 
 
 " For my part," said Deacon Bellamy, who was 
 shaking Mr. Nolley's hand, with tears in his eyes, 
 " I forgive you, John Wolsey, and pray for you. 
 And I must take this occasion of publicly asking our 
 pastor's pardon for my unjust suspicions." 
 
 " I can forgive you the more freely, since I look 
 upon them as the most natural in the world," replied 
 Mr. Nolley. " And here let me thank you for your 
 exceeding kindness, and your Christian-like forbear- 
 ance, until you had reason to suppose that I had for- 
 feited all claims upon your regard. And as for our 
 afflicted, repentant friend Wolsey, may Heaven for- 
 give him as freely as I do ! With your permission, 
 Brother Bellamy, he shall keep that Bible, the bare 
 sight of which, I doubt not, will henceforth be a suf- 
 ficient safeguard against his falling again into sin." 
 
 The church-meeting that day proved to be the 
 most interesting one that had ever been held. The 
 result gave universal satisfaction, as it not only 
 accounted for the missing mutton, and the deacon's 
 absence from the Sabbath worship, but likewise
 
 136 MUTTON IN BRAMBLETOWN. 
 
 proved his great goodness of heart, and made man- 
 ifest the worth and forbearance of the excellent min- 
 ister, besides bringing John Wolsey to abandon his 
 wicked ways. 
 
 Shortly after this event, Deacon Bellamy was sent 
 to represent the people of Brambletown in the state 
 legislature ; and it was owing chiefly to his exertions 
 that the famous Wolf Bounty Bill was passed, which 
 resulted in a great slaughter of the enemy of the 
 sheep, and had a marked influence on the mutton- 
 market in Brambletown.
 
 MISFORTUNES OF BASIL GRAY. 
 
 IT was the anniversary of Basil Gray's wedding- 
 day. A beautiful summer morning smiled upon 
 the lowly cottage which had now contained all his 
 happiness and joy for two fleeting years. Taking 
 the hand of his beloved Mary, while the sweet 
 baby lay sleeping in the cradle, he led her forth 
 into the garden, brushing the dew from the jas- 
 mines that climbed by the door-way, as he passed. 
 
 Basil loved this little garden the more, as it 
 was mostly by Mary's own hand that the veg- 
 etables there had been planted, and the flowers 
 trained to grow. He could see her spirit of neat- 
 ness and taste even in the little paths, so beautifully 
 laid out, and kept free from weeds. Her love had 
 made that garden and that cottage dearer to him 
 than princely palaces and rich domains ; and he was 
 fond of standing there proudly by her side, to sur- 
 12*
 
 138 THE MISFORTUNES OP BASIL GKAY. 
 
 vey the compact little paradise which they called 
 home. 
 
 And never had Basil's soul been so exalted with 
 hope and happiness as on that summer morning. 
 The sun never shone with fairer splendor; the 
 sweetest breath of spring seemed there again, heavy 
 with fragrance, elastic with the essence of life ; and 
 the songs of birds filled the air with purest notes of 
 joy. Basil's heart seemed to expand within his 
 breast. 
 
 " How has a kind Providence smiled upon us, 
 Mary ! " he murmured, in tones all tremulous with 
 fervent thankfulness. "Ah! you are the good 
 angel of my life ! Since a rare fortune gave you 
 to me, everything has gone well with me. Why, 
 three years ago this day, I was a sort of wanderer ; 
 that is, I had no home I could call my own. Now 
 0, Mary!" 
 
 " Your industry, honesty and kindness, have been 
 rewarded," said Mary, answering Basil's tender look 
 with her large, affectionate eyes. "True, I have 
 done my best to deserve your love ; my devotion to 
 you has made labor pleasant, and life sweet ; but 
 Providence would have been kind to you, had we 
 never seen each other, you are so good ! " 
 
 " But I could never have known this highest 
 happiness, Mary ! You have chased the world all 
 out of my heart. I have no thirst for wealth ; I
 
 TILE MISFORTUNES OF BASIL GRAY. 139 
 
 envy, I hate no one; in a wilderness I should be 
 happy with you and our darling. Ah ! it is pleasant 
 to look back two years ! On the very day of our 
 marriage, I bought this cottage, this little farm. 
 I had three hundred dollars, which, by some good 
 fortune, I had been able to save from my earnings 
 since I came of age. That I paid down with a good 
 heart, trusting to Providence for health and strength 
 to enable me to meet the other payments as they 
 should come due. A year ago, some fairy had so 
 well managed our finances, that we got together the 
 requisite sum, without knowing hardly how we did 
 it. To-day, we have another hundred, which I 
 mean shall be endorsed on the mortgage before noon. 
 In another year, I have no doubt but the same good 
 Providence will favor us > and then we shall be out 
 of debt, and this paradise will be ours indeed. 
 People told me it was dear at six hundred dollars, 
 when I bought it ! I would not take six thousand 
 for it to-day ! " 
 
 The cries of the child, awaking in its cradle, 
 called Mary into the house, and Basil followed her 
 soon. The young farmer intended to do no more 
 work that day than necessity required, but to enjoy 
 the anniversary with Mary and their friends. Ac- 
 cordingly, while she was called to her domestic 
 duties of the morning, he resolved to go and trans- 
 act his business with Judge Bradwood, of whom he
 
 140 THE MISFORTUNES OF BASIL GEAT. 
 
 had purchased his cottage, and to -whom he was that 
 day to make his second annual payment. 
 
 Basil Gray was soon attired in his becoming Sab- 
 bath-day dress, which consisted mostly of brown 
 linen, not remarkably fine, but durable, and scrupu- 
 lously clean. He wore a straw hat of Mary's own 
 braiding, and white cotton hose of her own knitting. 
 A white, smoothly-ironed collar, guiltless of starch, 
 rolled gracefully away from his manly throat, over 
 a loose black neckerchief, which Mary had tied into 
 a pretty bow. More than this, he was cleanly 
 shaved, and his rich black hair and whiskers, curling 
 about his face, set off his noble features to advan- 
 tage. In short, Basil Gray that morning appeared 
 as handsome a young farmer as could be found in 
 the whole country. 
 
 As soon as he was ready for a start, Mary went 
 to the bureau, and introducing her hand dexterously 
 into a sly corner of the topmost drawer, took out a 
 small bundle of bank-notes. There was no necessity 
 for counting these ; for, on the preceding evening, 
 when the last dollar was contributed to complete the 
 sum, and when Basil had amused himself by cast- 
 ing, in various ways, the interest on the mortgage, 
 the treasure had been handled and examined by the 
 happy couple with more than miserly satisfaction, 
 until the exact amount of dollars and cents was as
 
 THE MISFORTUNES OF BASIL GRAY. 141 
 
 firmly fixed in their minds as their own ages and 
 little Mary's. 
 
 The bundle of bank-notes, being composed princi- 
 pally of ones, with only a sparse sprinkling of 
 larger bills, was found to be rather bulky for the 
 pocket, and was accordingly bestowed in Basil's hat. 
 The small change necessary to make up the exact 
 amount of interest-money due he carried in his 
 pocket. Mary had an eye to these ingenious ar- 
 rangements, and, having seen them completed, gave 
 her husband a kiss and a blessing, and dismissed 
 him on his errand. 
 
 Basil went whistling or singing, with a heart 
 light as a school-boy's on a holiday. Everything 
 appeared to him beautiful, and fresh, and sweet, that 
 morning. Happiness opened his heart; he loved 
 the birds that sung among the trees, the squirrels 
 that skipped lightly away on the brown fences at 
 his approach, and paused to chatter at him from a 
 distance, and even the butterflies he saw hovering 
 on yellow wings around the flowers that bloomed on 
 the road-side. 
 
 Basil's way lay through a small grove of elm, 
 ash, and birch trees, bounded on the further side by 
 a deep but narrow stream. He had already reached 
 the highway bridge, when, hearing shouts of laugh- 
 ter down the river, he turned his eyes in that direc- 
 tion, and saw two boys at play on the rocks, one of
 
 142 THE MISFORTUNES OF BASIL GRAY. 
 
 whom he recognized as the son of Judge Bradwood, 
 and the other as a lad belonging to the neighbor- 
 hood. 
 
 Basil felt himself singularly attracted by every- 
 thing like happiness or mirth that morning. In- 
 stead, therefore, of keeping the road, after crossing 
 the stream, he climbed a wall, with the intention of 
 traversing the broad field which stretched away 
 before him ; for he could thus shorten his route to 
 the judge's house, and pass near enough to the boys 
 to bid them a good-morning. 
 
 Basil Gray afterwards said some good spirit must 
 have put this happy idea into his head. It gave 
 him the opportunity of doing one of those brave 
 and generous actions in which such noble natures 
 take delight. 
 
 The young farmer paused a moment to contem- 
 plate an audacious crow, which, apparently forget- 
 ting the fear of man that characterizes his race, 
 dropped from the shadowy top of an ancient elm, 
 standing alone in the field, and flapped his black 
 wings within half a dozen feet of his face. 
 
 Basil thought the wise bird must have read his 
 features, and seen how little the least lovely of the 
 fowls of the air had to fear from his gentle dis- 
 position. However this might have been, the crow 
 did not seem inclined to prolong the interview, but,
 
 THE MISFORTUNES OF BASIL GRAY. 143 
 
 giving two short, shrill cries, returned to the 
 branches of the elm. 
 
 But now other cries drew Basil's attention. Mas- 
 ter Bradwood had disappeared from the rocks, and 
 his companion, screaming with terror, could be seen 
 running, as if for his life, across the field. 
 
 Struck with the certainty that some accident 
 must have happened to Master Bradwood, Basil 
 hastened to the spot. By this time the other lad, 
 who had not apparently seen him, was almost out 
 of sight, in the direction of the judge's house. The 
 young farmer bounded upon the rocks, and beheld 
 the occasion of his terror and flight. A hat of 
 palm-leaf was floating down -the stream, which 
 whirled in eddies, and gleamed in the sunlight, as it 
 dashed against the rocks. He knew Master Brad- 
 wood had fallen into the water, and sunk. 
 
 Our hero had but one thought aside from the 
 rescue of his neighbor's son. Taking off his hat, 
 and placing the bank-notes in it upon the ground, 
 he plunged into the stream, where a bubbling and 
 commotion in the water indicated that Henry was 
 still struggling. 
 
 Fortunately, Basil was an expert swimmer. He 
 seized the boy, and drew him to the surface. In 
 consequence of the steepness of the rocks from which 
 he had plunged, he swam with his charge to the
 
 144 THE MISFORTUNES OF BASIL GRAY. 
 
 opposite bank, where it would bo less difficult to get 
 him out of the water. 
 
 After considerable blubbering and vomiting, Hen- 
 ry, who was a high-spirited boy, declared himself 
 but little the worse for his drenching. His hat was 
 then fished up, and, as he had enough of the water 
 for one day, he thought it best to recross the stream 
 in the usual way, on the bridge ; in which decision 
 he was joined by his preserver, on whom he was 
 very glad to lean in walking. 
 
 Henry acknowledged that he must have drowned 
 had it not been for Mr. Gray, and thanked the 
 latter accordingly with great earnestness. Basil 
 replied that his own happiness amply repaid him for 
 getting wet, and promised to accompany the lad 
 home as soon as he should have regained his hat. 
 
 The young farmer found this article of apparel 
 where he had left it ; but, as he stooped to take it 
 up, his youthful companion observed that he changed 
 countenance in a most extraordinary manner. 
 
 Basil was, in effect, overwhelmed with astonish- 
 ment and dismay. His hat had not, apparently, 
 been stirred from the spot where he had placed 
 it; but the money the bundle of bank-notes 
 was gone ! 
 
 " What is the matter ? " asked Henry, with feel- 
 ings of apprehension. 
 
 Basil gazed a moment steadfastly into his hat,
 
 THE MISFORTUNES OF BASIL GRAY. 145 
 
 which he held with both hands, then looked quickly 
 around him, as if to discover the thief, and at last 
 said, with a short breath, 
 * " Somebody has robbed me ! " 
 
 " Robbed you ! " 
 
 " Yes ; for there was a bundle of bills over a 
 hundred dollars in this hat, when I left it here. 
 I was going to pay your father." 
 
 " But," said Henry, looking all around, as Basil 
 had done, " who could have got it ? Are you sure 
 it was iu your hat ? " 
 
 " As sure of that as that you were in the water," 
 muttered Basil. "But it is strange; I don't see 
 how any one could have even approached the rock 
 without being seen, and the money could not have 
 blown into the water." 
 
 Notwithstanding, both Basil and Henry looked in 
 the water, as well as all around them on the ground, 
 until the latter, feeling sick and faint, was obliged 
 to sit down. 
 
 Basil observed this, and said, 
 
 "Well, the money is gone! There is no use 
 spending our time looking for it, while you are suf- 
 fering from your drenching. I will help you to the 
 house, and, having explained my misfortune to your 
 father, come back and see what can be done." 
 
 Henry was too unwell to say much about the 
 matter, but he could not help observing Basil's dis^ 
 13
 
 146 THE MISFORTUNES OF BASIL QUAY. 
 
 tress, and begged him not to leave the spot as long 
 as there was any hope of finding the money. 
 
 " There is no hope of finding it, until I know 
 how it was lost," said Basil, sorely perplexed. 
 '' But yonder is your father, coming, I suppose, to 
 find you." 
 
 " Ned Manley is with him, who ran away so, 
 when I fell into the water," said Henry. " I pre- 
 sume he has been and told everybody I am 
 drowned." 
 
 Judge Bradwood arrived, in great haste and 
 excitement, and seemed immensely relieved to find 
 that his son had been rescued. He thanked Basil 
 earnestly, and pressed the wet Henry in his arms, 
 as if to wring him out. 
 
 " But," said the boy, " Mr. Gray, in saving my 
 life, has met with a great misfortune." 
 
 Basil, called upon to explain this, did so to the 
 best of his power. By this time, he had recovered 
 his equanimity, and was able to make a calm state- 
 ment of the fact ; to which he added, good-humor- 
 edly, 
 
 " How the money has been spirited away, I can't 
 conceive ; but I believe it has been taken from me 
 because I was too happy, and had no thought that 
 sorrow or disappointment could ever again approach 
 me or mine." 
 
 The judge was a hard, stern man of the world.
 
 THE MISFORTUNES OF BASIL GRAY. 147 
 
 He fixed his cold, gray eye upon Basil, as if he 
 would have read his heart. Unfortunately, he 
 could neither peruse nor comprehend such hearts 
 as Basil's. Even at that time, he was capable of 
 suspecting the honesty of the brave and generous 
 man who had saved the life of his son. 
 
 " It does not seem to me that I understand this 
 story," he said, with the same look. "You say this 
 lad ran from the spot without seeing you; he 
 could not then have taken the money ; nor is it 
 possible any one else could have approached these 
 rocks, and got off again, without being seen by 
 you." 
 
 " I think so myself," murmured the farmer. 
 
 " Now, the wind could not have blown the bundle 
 out of your hat " 
 
 " No, it could n't be the wind " 
 
 " Then I think you must have made some mis- 
 take," said the judge, in a significant tone. 
 
 Basil was too honest to understand those words or 
 that tone. He had no idea that his statement was 
 doubted. He felt only the misfortune of losing a 
 little money. This grieved and perplexed him ; to 
 have known that his honor was at stake, would have 
 almost broken his heart. 
 
 He requested the judge to give a few days' grace 
 on the payment then due, which he was unable to 
 meet on account of his misfortune.
 
 148 TIIE MISFORTUNES OF BASIL GUAY. 
 
 " I am never hard upon an honest man," said the 
 judge; and, having once more thanked the preserver 
 of his son's life, more coldly, however, than at 
 first, he took the boy in his arms, and carried him 
 home. 
 
 Basil sat down upon the rock in a meditative 
 mood. He would have been very unhappy, had he 
 not been comforted by the consciousness that he had 
 met with his loss in the performance of a good action. 
 Much as he rejoiced, however, over the rescue of 
 Henry from drowning, he could not help feeling 
 sorely perplexed and troubled. Twice he uncon- 
 sciously took off his hat and looked into it, as if it 
 was impossible for him to realize that. the money 
 was not still there. 
 
 At length Basil arose, and, with a sigh, and a 
 parting glance at the rock, set out to carry the 
 strange news home to Mary. 
 
 The latter, observing his approach, ran out to 
 meet him, and was greatly astonished to find him 
 wet in person, and thoughtful in mind. 
 
 The young wife urged him to change his clothes 
 before telling his story, she being one of those rare 
 women whose domestic affections are more powerful 
 than their curiosity. 
 
 But Basil had no fear of taking cold ; and, sitting 
 down by Mary's side, in the door-way, through which
 
 THE MISFORTUNES OF BASIL GRAY. 149 
 
 the sun shone brightly, he related what had hap- 
 pened. 
 
 It is needless to attempt to depict the young 
 wife's wonder and surprise. As soon as she could 
 recover from this astonishment sufficiently to speak 
 calmly, she consoled her husband by praising his 
 generosity and courage in rescuing Henry, and 
 assuring him that good, and not evil, must reward 
 so worthy an action. 
 
 " I am sure," said she, " this mystery must some 
 time be explained, and the money recovered. In 
 the mean time, Mr. Bradwood cannot but be len- 
 ient towards us, and wait for his pay without even 
 exacting interest on this sum you have lost." 
 
 " He could not do otherwise, I know," replied 
 Basil. " He is called a hard man, but I do believe 
 him just." 
 
 The young man's countenance, however, was still 
 downcast. The truth is, recollecting and pondering 
 over the judge's words, the possibility had appeared 
 to his mind that he might not put perfect faith in 
 his assertions. Basil could not breathe these 
 thoughts to his wife, whom he knew they would 
 cause to shudder with horror ; but, saying that he 
 thought it best to go once more to look for the 
 money, he removed his wet clothes, and soon after 
 left the house. 
 
 Having placed her rooms in the neatest order, and 
 13*
 
 150 THE MISFORTUNES OF BASIL GRAY. 
 
 made ample preparations for dinner, Mary was per- 
 forming the delightful task of dressing her child, 
 when Basil again returned. 
 
 She uttered a cry of alarm. Those \vho had seen 
 him only at the time when, singing in the fulness of 
 his joy, he went forth two hours before, would not 
 have recognized him now. His features were deathly 
 pale, his manly brow contracted, and the light of his 
 eyes darkened with passion. 
 
 " My dear Basil ! " exclaimed Mary, springing 
 to him with the child in her arms ; " what has hap- 
 pened ? Do not, I pray, let this little loss trouble 
 you ! Speak to me, Basil ! " 
 
 The young farmer pressed his wife and child to 
 his heart, while his strong chest heaved, and his 
 noble eyes filled with tears. Mary felt a drop on 
 her hand. 
 
 " 0, my dearest, kindest husband ! " she mur- 
 mured, in a voice broken by her emotions, flinging 
 her arms about his neck ; " is there any sorrow 
 which I should not share with you ? Tell me, 
 then, what troubles you, and let me help you to 
 bear it ! " 
 
 " Anything, but this ! " muttered Basil, through 
 his closed teeth. " Do not urge me ! You must 
 not know how my heart has been wrung." 
 
 His voice shook with passion ; his features were 
 contracted almost fiercely. Mary was terrified, and
 
 THE MISFORTUNES OE BASIL GRAY. 151 
 
 he saw that she could not be more painfullj- moved, 
 were he to confess all. 
 
 " Be calm, then, and you shall hear," he said. 
 "You shall know how grossly your husband has 
 been insulted by one at whose hands he certainly 
 deserved better." 
 
 " Insulted ! " articulated Mary. 
 
 " Yes ; and it is a wonder that these hands did 
 not tear out the tongue that uttered the suspicion 
 of dishonor ! I was tempted to do it ; I trembled 
 from head to foot ; I even held the miscreant by the 
 throat ; but I flung him from me in contempt ! The 
 brave judge ! " 
 
 Basil laughed with bitter scorn. 
 
 " Not Judge Bradwood ! " said Mary, in alarm. 
 
 " Judge Bradwood, indeed ! I could have torn 
 him piecemeal ! " exclaimed Basil, his manner 
 changing suddenly. " For, will you believe it, he 
 insinuated that I had lied about the money ! " 
 
 Mary wrung her hands. 
 
 " Yes, and he hinted he durst not speak it 
 openly like a man he hinted that, having saved 
 his boy's life, I supposed he would allow me to 
 impose upon him, for fear of appearing ungrateful ! 
 
 0, Mary ! " said Basil, completely overcome with 
 his emotions, and bursting into tears ; " how could 
 
 1, how can I bear this wrong ? " 
 
 Beyond all conception of value is the jewel df a
 
 152 THE MISFORTUNES OF BASIL GRAVT. 
 
 good and noble wife ! If Basil had never known 
 Mary's worth before, he must have acknowledged it 
 then. Forgetting herself entirely, she endeavored, 
 by her pure and strong affection and touching sym- 
 pathy, to lead him to shake off his trouble, overcome 
 his grief, and place his trust in Providence for a 
 happy termination to his distress. It was a beauti- 
 ful and'affecting sight, to see her rule him by her 
 gentle influence, until the clouds on his brow dis- 
 persed, and the sunshine of a smile overspread his 
 features. 
 
 " God bless you, dearest ! " he said. " You have 
 shown me how foolishly I acted. Why should 
 I let injustice trouble my heart, whilst you are left 
 to me, and our little Mary, and I am sure of your 
 love ? " 
 
 In a little while he appeared quite cheerful. 
 Although he had no appetite for dinner, he did not 
 appear despondent, but conversed freely with Mary 
 upon the course to be pursued. In the afternoon 
 some invited friends came to visit them, and I am 
 not sure that his trouble would have been suspected, 
 had he not seen fit to relate his story. He still spoke 
 with bitterness, however, of Judge Bradwood ; and 
 Mary was sorry to see it. 
 
 Basil was gratified to observe, that, so far from 
 appearing to doubt a word of his narrative, his 
 friends expressed their wonder at the mystery, and
 
 THE MISFORTUNES OF BASIL GRAY. 153 
 
 their sympathy in his misfortune. On the follow- 
 ing day, however, opinions of a less favorable nature 
 became rumored about, and reached his ear. Little 
 as he cared for the world, in comparison with his 
 wife, he could not but experience a pang when the 
 conviction that the judge's influence must weigh 
 heavily against him flashed more vividly upon his 
 mind. 
 
 Time realized his worst apprehensions. He soon 
 read in the faces of his neighbors suspicions touch- 
 ing his honesty and honor. One man, James Shut- 
 tle, had the audacity to joke him about the " trick " 
 he "attempted to play off on the judge." This 
 was the unkindest cut of all, for Basil had accounted 
 Shuttle a friend. 
 
 Meanwhile, the judge, firmly believing his debtor 
 guilty of an attempted imposition, and exasperated 
 by his violence, made no scruple of publicly pro- 
 claiming his opinions. These reached Basil's ear. 
 He saw that nobody gave him credit for a generous 
 action in saving Henry's life, but that everybody 
 appeared to coincide with Judge Bradwood. His 
 philosophy was not equal to such injustice. He 
 afterwards confessed that, had it not been for his 
 wife's counsel and consolation, he must have been 
 driven to the verge of insanity. 
 
 About a week after the unhappy anniversary, 
 Basil received a notice that the instalment then due
 
 154 THE MISFORTUNES OF BASIL GRAY. 
 
 on the mortgage must be paid. Mr. Bradwood had 
 borne with him as long as he thought proper to do 
 so ; and it was intimated that his debtor's evasions 
 could not serve him longer. 
 
 Basil crushed the paper in his strong hands, and 
 muttered through his teeth, 
 
 " This is too much ! As there is justice in heaven, 
 Judge Bradwood shall suffer for this ! " 
 
 " I beseech you, do not use such language ! " 
 pleaded Mary, affectionately. " What have you ? " 
 
 " A fresh insult, wrong upon wrong ! " ex- 
 claimed Basil, fiercely. 
 
 Mary glanced her eye over the note. 
 
 "But, 'vengeance is mine,' saith the Lord," she 
 answered, turning her eyes tenderly upon Basil. 
 " This is indeed a grievous wrong, yet it is not for 
 man to avenge what God permits. 0, I know you 
 could not harbor such a thought against your neigh- 
 bor ! 
 
 Basil became more calm. Mary continued ; and 
 in a little while he answered her cheerfully, 
 
 " Bless you for putting better thoughts into my 
 heart, dear wife ! I am now resolved I will return 
 good for evil, even to those who have given evil for 
 good. It is hard to think that I should be pressed 
 for that which I lost in saving the life of this man's 
 son ; but the debt shall be paid." 
 
 Mary trembled as she saw her husband arise with
 
 THE MISFORTUNES OF BASIL GRAY. 155 
 
 salmness and resolution depicted on his features. She 
 feared some desperate act. But Basil, reading her 
 thoughts, reassured her. 
 
 " I shall commit no rashness," he said. " I see 
 but one way to meet this demand without parting 
 with our home, and that way I shall adopt." 
 
 " You will borrow ? " 
 
 Basil smiled bitterly. 
 
 " I shall not expose myself to insult. Mary. At 
 this unhappy time, when my neighbors God for- 
 give them ! have lost their faith in rny honesty, I 
 could not have the heart to ask a loan of my best 
 friend. No ! but there is Felix." 
 
 Felix was a beautiful colt, which had been pre- 
 sented to Basil by a former employer, on his wed- 
 ding day. 
 
 " You will not part with, him ! " exclaimed 
 Mary. 
 
 "What can I do?" replied Basil. "True, ho 
 was a present ; he is the only horse I own ; but, 
 at the same time, he is the only property I can dis- 
 pose of. More than once Judge Bradwood has 
 offered me one hundred dollars for him, which I 
 have always refused. But now he must go." 
 
 " Dear Basil, you are right ! " exclaimed Mary. 
 " It is hard to part with Felix, but I trust he will 
 again come back to you, when this terrible mystery
 
 156 THE MISFORTUNES OF BASIL GRAY. 
 
 shall have been explained, your money found, and 
 your character cleared from suspicion." 
 
 Basil smiled sadly, and shook his head. And a 
 few minutes later he might have been seen leading 
 his colt Felix down the road which he travelled so 
 joyously on the morning of his wedding-day anni- 
 versary. 
 
 Basil led Felix up the avenue before Judge Brad- 
 wood's elegant residence, and tied him to a post. At 
 that moment Henry, now quite recovered from his 
 experiment at drowning, came out to meet him, and 
 greeted him kindly. 
 
 " I hope," said the boy, with tears in his eyes, 
 occasioned by Basil's coldness, " I hope you don't 
 feel hard towards me, because I have been the means 
 of making you suffer ? " 
 
 All Basil's ill humor gave place to warm emotions. 
 He took the boy's proffered hand, and tears filled his 
 eyes. 
 
 "God bless you, dear fellow! why should I 
 feel hard towards you ? " he asked. " I don't con- 
 sider you the cause of my misfortune, although but 
 for you it might not have happened to me -but, 
 were I to be stripped of everything in the world in 
 consequence of my plunge into the river, I should 
 never regret having done so to save your life ! 
 What are you crying for ? " he continued, gayly. 
 " Look, I have brought this noble colt for you; that
 
 THE MISFORTUNES OP BASIL GRAY. 157 
 
 is, provided the judge will take him in place of the 
 money I lost. He is well broke, and you will delight 
 to ride him." 
 
 Henry raised his tearful eyes with a reproachful 
 look, but he could not speak ; and, endeavoring to 
 stifle his emotions, he turned away. 
 
 " If the judge will come to the door, I 'd rather 
 not go in," said Basil. "If you will speak to him, 
 I will stand by Felix." 
 
 He stroked the animal's neck, and embraced him 
 affectionately, whilst Henry entered the house. 
 
 " What 's the matter ? " asked the judge, looking 
 at him sternly. 
 
 " Dear father," said the boy, throwing his arms 
 around his neck, " I want to ask you one favor ; and, 
 if you will grant it, you may take all my playthings, 
 and I will not ask you for another toy, nor anything 
 of the kind, in a year." 
 
 " What 's the meaning of this ? " asked the judge, 
 with contracted brows. 
 
 " Basil Gray the man who saved my life is 
 at the door," replied Henry. " He has come to pay 
 you ; but he has lost all his money, and so he has 
 brought his horse, his fine, beautiful colt that he 
 loves so well, and he says you can have him now, 
 though he would never sell him before." 
 
 "Well, sir?" 
 
 Mr. Bradwood spoke sternly ; for, much as he 
 14
 
 158 THE MISFORTUNES OF BASIL GRAY. 
 
 loved his son, he was angry when he thought differ- 
 ently from himself. 
 
 Henry continued : 
 
 " All I want, all I ask is, that you should take 
 the colt, and give Mr. Gray a receipt in full " 
 
 " 0, I shall not hesitate to do that ! " interrupted 
 the judge. 
 
 " Then say to him, ' Mr. Gray, I believe you are 
 an honest man ; the colt is yours, take him.' Only 
 do that, dear father " 
 
 " You are out of your head ! you don't know 
 what you ask ! " muttered the judge, pushing the 
 boy from him. 
 
 Henry bowed his head, and left the room sadly 
 and in silence. 
 
 The judge ordered Basil to be shown into the 
 house. 
 
 The young farmer entered, and met the judge 
 with a look so steady, and so expressive of noble 
 courage, that the latter could not but feel that he 
 was in the presence of an HONEST MAN. 
 
 " I have come to you on business," said Basil. 
 " My colt, Felix, is tied in the yard. I have con- 
 cluded to accept your offer for him." 
 
 The judge turned to his desk, and began to 
 write. In a minute, he gave Basil a piece of 
 paper. 
 
 " This makes one hundred," said the latter, as he
 
 THE MISFOBTUNES OF BASIL GRAY. 159 
 
 extended his hand. " I trust you will wait on me 
 for the interest, which in a few days " 
 
 " You will see I have given you a receipt for 
 interest and all," interrupted the judge. " I think 
 the colt is well worth it." 
 
 Basil looked at the judge in astonishment. 
 
 "This is unexpected," said he; "but I thank 
 you. It will make my loss somewhat easier to me, 
 although that is nothing in comparison with the 
 unjust suspicions which blacken my character. You, 
 Judge Bradwood," continued Basil, warming, "have 
 done me wrong ! You may not have designed it ; 
 but you might believe the word of an honest man, 
 when he declares, before Heaven, that, notwithstand- 
 ing his unfortunate loss, he has neither hoped nor 
 desired to avoid paying you every farthing that is 
 your due, only he has asked that you would not 
 press him, but give him time to recover from his 
 misfortune. Judge Bradwood, this is all I have 
 to say." 
 
 While Basil was speaking, the judge did not 
 raise his eyes from the carpet, upon which he was 
 drumming nervously with his foot ; and when his 
 visitor had finished, and was turning to go, he 
 neither made reply, nor so much as moved in his 
 seat. Basil's lip curled. He turned his back and 
 left the house. Felix gazed after him, as he walked
 
 160 THE MISFORTUNES OF BASIL GRAY. 
 
 down the avenue, and uttered a low whinny, as if 
 to call him back, or bid him good-by. 
 
 Basil could not help heaving a sigh at parting with 
 his favorite; but his heart was lightened by the 
 consciousness of having done right in making the 
 sacrifice, and he went home whistling and singing 
 by the way. 
 
 " We will be happy now, Mary ! " he said, hope- 
 fully. " I will not let 1 this affair trouble me more." 
 
 So he went to work with a good heart, trusting to 
 time to clear up the mystery which had involved 
 him in such misfortunes. 
 
 His manly conduct, in giving up his horse Felix 
 to his creditor, had produced on the latter an unex- 
 pected effect. He could not help thinking now that 
 Basil Gray was an upright man ; and, oppressed by 
 by a sense of wrong, his heart was softened towards 
 him, and in speaking of him he was less severe. 
 This circumstance favored a revolution of public 
 opinion in Basil's case, and in a little while his old 
 friends appeared to come back to him, and nobody 
 spoke of the mysterious loss of his money, but to 
 express their wonder and their sympathy. 
 
 This change was highly gratifying to Basil and 
 Mary, who now scarcely gave their misfortunes a 
 thought of regret, since it was only money of which 
 they had been robbed. They labored industriously, 
 hoping that before another year they would have
 
 THE MISFORTUNES OF BASIL GRAY. 101 
 
 their little farm clear of debt, and believing that 
 their trials were at an end. 
 
 But in this they were sadly mistaken. A greater 
 calamity than had yet befallen them lurked like a 
 viper among the flowers of their path. A more 
 fearful mystery involved them in its shadows. 
 
 A mild day in October was drawing to its close, 
 when Basil, who had business with a neighbor across 
 the river, walked leisurely down the road, which I 
 have already described. 
 
 The sun had gone down, and the glow of fire was 
 fading on the masses of clouds which towered in the 
 western sky, when the young farmer crossed the 
 bridge. Here, in a meditative mood, he paused for 
 an instant, to look back upon the sombre woods 
 through the deepening shadows of which he had just 
 passed, and down at the waters which swept with 
 hoarse murmurs beneath the rude structure. 
 
 Having cast his eye towards the memorable rock, 
 
 which now appeared dim and dark in the distance, 
 
 and heaved a sigh of impatience at the thought 
 of the unexplained mystery of which he had been 
 the 4 victim, he was passing on, when his attention 
 was attracted by a crackling sound beneath his feet. 
 
 Basil might have been a couple of rods from the 
 
 bridge, when he stooped to ascertain the cause of 
 
 the noise. He had evidently crushed some brittle 
 
 substance; and, picking up a few fragments, he dis- 
 
 14*
 
 162 THE MISFORTUNES OF BASIL GRAY. 
 
 covered them to be glass. Judging, from their ap- 
 pearance, that they might have once formed the crys- 
 tal of a watch, he looked more closely along the 
 ground in the twilight, and perceived a small, dark 
 object lying on the side of the road. He took it 
 up. To his surprise, he found it to be a pocket- 
 book. 
 
 It was now too dark to examine its contents, and 
 Basil accordingly placed it in his pocket. Having 
 looked still further, and discovered nothing, the 
 young farmer was proceeding on his way, when he 
 was met by the neighbor whom he was going to 
 visit, accompanied by young Henry Bradwood, and 
 one of his father's laborers. 
 
 Basil did not recognize them at first, and was 
 therefore silent, until Mr. Shuttle accosted him. 
 
 "Ho! Gray, is that you? Have you seen the 
 judge ? " 
 
 " Judge Bradwood ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I have not," answered Basil, briefly, not liking 
 to speak of that man. 
 
 " 0, Mr. Gray," exclaimed Henry, running up to 
 him, " father rode Felix away this afternoon, and 
 now Felix has been seen galloping by Mr. Shuttle's 
 house with an empty saddle, and we are afraid some 
 accident has happened."
 
 THE MISFORTUNES OP BASIL GRAY. 163 
 
 " The horse came from this direction," said Mr. 
 Shuttle. " You must have seen him." 
 
 " I saw a man ride by my house some half an 
 hour ago," answered Basil; "but, as I was a good 
 jA'ay off, in the field, I don't know whether it was 
 the judge or not." 
 
 " It must have been," put in Williams, the hired 
 man. " And he has been thrown from that colt. 
 I told him he 'd better be careful how he rode him, 
 for he has a way of shying at about nightfall, and 
 the judge is no great horseman." 
 
 At that moment Basil remembered the broken 
 crystal and the pocket-book. The latter he pro- 
 duced, exclaiming, 
 
 " I am afraid what you say is true. I picked 
 this up in the road, not a dozen rods back." 
 
 " It 's father's ! " exclaimed Henry, with emotion. 
 
 " Do not be distressed," said Basil. " This might 
 have fallen from your father's pocket; but, as he 
 was not with it, I take it he is not so much hurt but 
 that he has been able to walk off probably across 
 the field." 
 
 " Then he is home by this time," rejoined Henry, 
 much relieved. " But let us examine the ground 
 where you picked up the pocket-book." 
 
 By this time they had reached the spot, and, 
 looking along the road more carefully than Basil 
 had done before, they discovered traces of some
 
 164 TUB MISFORTUNES OF BASIL GRAY, 
 
 object dragged over the ground. The dust, too, was 
 found to be moistened into mud in spots. Suddenly 
 Henry uttered a cry of horror. 
 
 " It is blood ! " he exclaimed, " blood ! " 
 
 " Nonsense ! " answered Williams. " But ii^ 
 does seem like it ! And here is where a a body 
 has been dragged away from the road ! " 
 
 Basil had forgotten all the wrongs he had suf- 
 fered, in his anxiety to learn the fate of the judge. 
 Along the side of the road ran a shallow ditch, now 
 dry, but which, in wet times, poured its waters into 
 the river. He was the first to trace the trail down 
 this ditch, toward the stream. Shuttle, however, 
 sprang before him, and, directly beneath the jutting 
 timbers of the bridge, at the very edge of the water, 
 he discovered the body of the judge. 
 
 " Here he is ! " shouted Shuttle, in an agitated 
 voice, too much frightened to lay his hands upon 
 the body. 
 
 Henry ran to the spot. 
 
 ' "0, father!" he shrieked, throwing himself 
 upon the senseless form of the judge. " Look up ! 
 speak to me ! dear, dear father ! " 
 
 As there was no word nor motion in reply, the 
 poor boy lay sobbing upon his father's shoulder. 
 
 Basil raised him gently, and, speaking calmly to 
 his companions, directed them to ascertain if life 
 was extinct. This they were both too much agitated
 
 THE MISFORTUNES OF BASIL GRAY. 165 
 
 to do. Accordingly, giving Henry into Shuttle's 
 charge, he himself laid his hand first on the brow 
 and then on the heart of the judge. Afterwards, 
 raising his head in his arms, he sprinkled his face 
 with water from the stream. In a moment, the 
 judge appeared to revive, and actually got upon his 
 feet. With a wild laugh, Henry sprang forward to 
 throw himself in his arms; but the judge stag- 
 gered, and would have fallen headlong, had not 
 Basil supported him. 
 
 " Are you much hurt ? " asked Basil. 
 
 "I? hurt?" echoed the judge, reeling again. 
 " No, indeed ! I am not afraid of the fellow, with 
 all his bull-dogs. He would kill me, if he could ; 
 but I don't care for him." 
 
 " Who would ? " asked Basil. 
 
 "That fellow Gray," replied the delirious judge. 
 " He has sworn vengeance, and I don't blame him ; 
 but I 've baffled him so far, and I '11 risk him in 
 future ! " 
 
 " 0, father ! " cried the terrified boy, " this is 
 Mr. Gray ? Don't you know him ? " 
 
 " Know him ? Yes, I should think so ! He is 
 Hawkins, the Quaker. He is opposed to strife." 
 
 Henry uttered a cry of horror, and covered his 
 face with his hands. The Hawkins whom the judge 
 took Basil to be, had been dead ten years. 
 
 "What do you call him Gray for, you little
 
 1GG THE MISFORTUNES OF BASIL GRAY. 
 
 imp ! " exclaimed the delirious man. " Gray would 
 throw me into the water as quick as he would eat 
 his dinner, and nobody would blame him either." 
 
 " I will not let him hurt you," said Basil, humor- 
 ing the conceit. "You will go home with me, 
 won't you ? " 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Hawkins, and much obliged to you. 
 I 've been standing on these steps, waiting for the 
 stage, all of two hours. But how are we going to 
 travel ? " 
 
 " By rail-road," said Basil. 
 
 " That will do. I won't patronize stage-coaches 
 any longer. Won't it be a good thing when balloon 
 steamers are invented ? " 
 
 " Undoubtedly." 
 
 " But let me tell you one thing in confidence, 
 Mr. Hawkins ! There 's danger from these balloon 
 steamers ! By the way, would n't it please that 
 fellow Gray to have me fall out of one, and strike 
 somewhere in the Maelstrom, or the Indian Ocean? 
 Ha ! ha ! " 
 
 " I think you have fallen from something already ; 
 you appear to be hurt," said Basil, who had now, 
 with Shuttle's assistance, got the judge into the 
 road. 
 
 " The truth is, I jammed my fingers between a 
 couple of pesky icebergs ! " muttered Mr. Bradwood, 
 " that 's all. Look," holding up his hand, which
 
 THE MISFORTUNES OF BASIL GRAY. 167 
 
 was covered with blood, " don't you think I am 
 entitled to a pension ? " 
 
 Williams, meanwhile, had gone with all speed for 
 a vehicle to convey the judge home. Henry re- 
 mained with Basil and James, whom anxiety would 
 not permit him to leave alone with his father. 
 Evening was now advancing, but the moon was up, 
 and by its light the blood could be seen coursing 
 down the judge's face from a wound in his head. 
 Hoping to check the blood, Basil tied a handker- 
 chief about his temples, while Henry mechanically 
 carried in his hand his father's hat, which he had 
 found hidden in a corner of the fence. 
 
 In a little while Williams returned, and Brad- 
 wood, talking wildly all the time, was taken home 
 by the hired man and James Shuttle, whilst Basil 
 went for the nearest physician. 
 
 Having done his duty, and transacted with Mr. 
 Shuttle the neighborly business which had taken 
 him. from home, Basil returned to relate to Mary 
 what had happened. The latter was deeply inter- 
 ested, and, expressing her satisfaction that no worse 
 calamity had befallen the Bradwoods, inquired the 
 cause of the injured man's being found in so singu- 
 lar a position by the bridge, and so far from the 
 place of his fall. 
 
 " In his deranged state, consequent on his injury, 
 lie must have crept there," replied Basil ; " for I
 
 168 THE MISFORTUNES OF BASIL GRAY. 
 
 can't, for a moment, entertain so absurd a suspicion 
 as Shuttle suggested, that there was an attempt at 
 robbery, and perhaps murder." 
 
 " Horrid ! " 
 
 " Horrid, indeed ; and I am glad few people are 
 so stupid as James Shuttle." 
 
 Entertaining this honest opinion, Basil was des- 
 tined soon to be more than ever horrified and aston- 
 ished. 
 
 On the following day, when Mary was alone with 
 her child, two men rode up to the garden fence in 
 an open buggy, and, while one remained in the 
 vehicle, the other entered the house. 
 
 Mary recognized a neighbor, named Holburn, 
 whom she invited to be seated, and of whom she 
 inquired concerning Judge Bradwood. 
 
 " The judge is in a bad state," replied Holburn. 
 " His skull is fractured, and he has quite lost his 
 senses. Dr. Morton gives only faint hopes of his 
 recovery. Excuse my haste, Mrs. Gray ; I wish, 
 to see your husband." 
 
 The embarrassed tone in which the last words 
 were spoken aroused Mary's apprehensions. She 
 readily told where Basil was to be found, but added, 
 quickly, 
 
 " I hope there is not going to be any trouble in 
 this matter ? " 
 
 " I hope not," said Mr. Holburn.
 
 TIIE MISFORTUNES OF BASIL GRAY. 169 
 
 Bowing stiffly, he walked back to the road ; and 
 having spoken with his companion, they tied the 
 horse to the fence, and set out together, in the 
 direction Mary had indicated, to find Basil. 
 
 Mary turned pale, and clasped her hands in silent 
 prayer ; for she remembered that Mr. Holburn held 
 the office of constable. 
 
 Oppressed with vague forebodings of evil, she 
 waited anxiously for the return of the men from 
 the field. She strained her eyes gazing along the 
 brown hillside ; and when at length she saw three, 
 instead of two, advancing amid the stalks of corn, 
 her heart sank within her, in spite of her better 
 reason. 
 
 Mary's first glance at her husband, discovered to 
 her that trouble had come upon him. He was not 
 skilled in concealing his emotions. His haggard 
 countenance was a picture of his dismay. Ap- 
 proaching his wife, however, he attempted to appear 
 unconcerned, and said, as calmly as he could, 
 
 " I have got to go with these men a little while, 
 and, perhaps, shall not be back to dinner. Take 
 care of little Mary," he added, in a tremulous voice, 
 while he bent over the child, and, kissing it, let fell 
 a tear upon its fair cheek. " Good-by ! " 
 
 " 0, I see I see it all ! " ejaculated Mary, 
 clinging wildly to Basil. " 0, when will our mis- 
 fortunes be at an end ! " 
 15
 
 170 THE JIISFOB.TUXES OF BASIL GRAY. 
 
 " Soon, I hope," murmured Basil. " This mat- 
 ter will be easily explained." 
 
 " 0, I know it ! It must be so ! " exclaimed 
 Mary. " But it is horrible ! " she added passion- 
 ately. " I can have no patience under such Avrongs 
 as this ! Yet, God's will be done ! " 
 
 " Amen ! " faltered Basil. 
 
 He took his wife's hands, and, looking tenderly 
 and sorrowfully into her eyes, bade her be of good 
 heart until the storm of trouble was over. She 
 threw herself, sobbing, upon his neck, and clung 
 there until he gently put her arms asunder, and tore 
 himself away. 
 
 Basil departed with the officers, leaving the 
 broken-hearted Mary distracted with fear, anxiety, 
 and grief. 
 
 Alas ! the young wife's worst fears were destined 
 to be realized. It would seem that Satan had 
 obtained permission to try that happy family with 
 affliction, and that he was pursuing his power to 
 extremes. 
 
 Basil was taken before a justice, and examined 
 under suspicions of robbery, and attempted murder ! 
 Had not his character for honesty and uprightness 
 been well known, there might have been some 
 grounds for the charge. " Circumstances " vrere 
 certainly against him. Judge Bradwood, still de- 
 ranged, and trembling on the verge of the grave,
 
 THE MISFORTUNES OF BASIL GRAY. 171 
 
 was in no state to give an explanation of the man- 
 ner of his hurt. The only injury he \vas supposed 
 to have suffered was a blow on the head, which had 
 fractured his skull. This might have been occa- 
 sioned by a fall from his horse ; but the hypothesis 
 threw no light on the circumstance that he was 
 found at a distance from the spot where the catas- 
 trophe had evidently taken place. 
 
 Basil's explanation of the manner in which the 
 pocket-book came into his possession was not con- 
 sidered perfectly satisfactory. There was another 
 fact adduced to show that some foreign agency was 
 involved in Judge Bradwood's misfortune. The 
 crystal of his watch was found in fragments, but 
 the watch itself had disappeared, guard, seal, and 
 all. People, wise in their own conceit, alleged that, 
 although Basil had thought proper, after examining 
 the contents of the pocket-book, to give it up, be- 
 cause there happened to be little money in it, he had 
 probably taken the trouble to conceal so valuable a 
 watch until such time as he could dispose of it 
 with safety. It was also attested that Basil cher- 
 ished feelings of enmity towards the judge: and the 
 inference was drawn that rage at seeing the latter 
 mounted on the colt Felix prompted the perpetra- 
 tion of the crime. 
 
 It is useless, however, to attempt an exposition 
 of the circumstantial evidence brought forward, as
 
 172 THE MISFORTUNES OP BASIL GRAY. 
 
 an offset to Basil's straight-forward, candid narration 
 of facts. It is sufficient to state the unfortunate 
 result : he was committed to the county jail. 
 
 Poor Mary was crushed with this calamity as 
 with a thunderbolt. When the intelligence was 
 communicated to her, she fell in a swoon ; and for 
 three weeks she was bodily and mentally prostrated 
 with fever and delirium. Her life was at one time 
 despaired of; but, owing to the kind care of friends 
 who came to administer to her distress, and attend 
 to the wants of her child, she recovered at length, 
 and summoned all her strength to surmount the 
 terrible affliction which had come upon her family. 
 Had she been alone in these, she might have sunk 
 into the grave ; but she thought of her imprisoned 
 husband, and of her helpless child, and strength 
 came to her, as if from above. 
 
 When the Autumn had put off her garments of 
 gorgeous hues, and the sweet melancholy of Octo- 
 ber had disappeared at the approach of November's 
 dark and desolate days, when the cold breath of 
 night congealed into dreary frosts, and the naked 
 woods were filled with moaning winds and drifts of 
 withered leaves, Mary, pale and thin, as if the 
 chilling gloom of the waning year had dealt with 
 her unkindly, went, for the first time, to visit her 
 husband in prison. 
 
 The county jail was two miles distant ; but a
 
 THE MISFORTUNES OF BASIL GRAY. 173 
 
 neighbor having offered her the use of his horse and 
 wagon, and volunteered as driver, the unhappy 
 woman resolved to take her child with her, to cheer 
 the father's heart. 
 
 It would require a readier pen than mine to 
 depict Mary's sensations on approaching the jail. 
 She had thought of what Basil must suffer, in tho 
 loneliness of his prison, deprived of her society, and 
 groaning under the opprobrium of the charge against 
 him, until her crushed and bleeding heart would 
 have deemed her life a sweet sacrifice to lay down, 
 to right his wrongs, and to relieve him of his bur- 
 den of misery. 
 
 The prison door was opened. Basil, haggard and 
 emaciated, tottered forward with a stifled cry. 
 Mary, fainting with the excess of her emotions, fell 
 into his arms, and for the space of more than a 
 minute lay breathless, motionless, almost lifeles, on 
 his breast. 
 
 For a long time she was speechless ; but words 
 of passionate endearment, and tears of gushing ten- 
 derness falling upon her cold cheek, revived her. 
 She murmured a blessing, and sobbed convulsively 
 on his bosom. 
 
 " And here is my little darling, too," said Basil, 
 drawing the child towards him. " 0, Mary ! my 
 dear, dear wife ! I am happy to-day, in spite of all 
 1 have suffered ! I heard of your sickness, I
 
 174 THE MISFORTUNES OF BASIL GRAY. 
 
 have been tortured with anxiety, but God has 
 spared you, we meet again, and I am thank- 
 ful ! " 
 
 If to a mere spectator it is an affecting sight to 
 see tears gush from a manly heart like Basil's, what 
 must have been the effect on a wife of deep affec- 
 tions, and self-sacrificing love, like Mary ? A 
 shower of tears burst from her own eyes ; she 
 embraced her husband with the most passionate 
 tenderness ; and in broken accents she assured him 
 of her love, and of her gratitude for the privilege 
 of being with him again. After this she felt re- 
 freshed, and became more calm, so that she was 
 able to converse rationally, and like the noble 
 woman that she was, about all their trials and 
 afflictions. 
 
 Basil could not help smiling kindly at the words 
 which were so characteristic of her piety and good- 
 ness, when she said, wiping her eyes, and fixing 
 them lovingly and hopefully on her husband, 
 
 " After all, it is better to suffer wrong than to 
 commit it. With clear consciences, we can bow 
 meekly and uncomplainingly to sorrow. With God 
 on our side, we may defy injustice, and all will be 
 made right in the end. Something tells me, dear 
 Basil, that the time is not far distant when we shall 
 be able to look back with satisfaction to these dark 
 days of trial ; meanwhile, we will not be sepa-
 
 THE MISFORTUNES OF BASIL GRAY. 175 
 
 rated. I shall be with you, and we will not be 
 unhappy." 
 
 " Ah, my little philosopher ! " said the prisoner, 
 embracing her fondly, " we shall not be unhappy 
 together here ! But I will allow you to spend 
 only a portion of your time within these gloomy 
 walls. To see you often will be a sufficient bless- 
 ing to inspire me with patience, hope and Christian 
 trust, until the angel of Truth shall roll the stone 
 away from this tomb, and let in his heavenly light." 
 
 Basil was interrupted by the jailer, who came to 
 inform him that another visitor earnestly claimed 
 admittance, to bring him joyful news. 
 
 " Who is he ? " asked the prisoner. 
 
 " Young Henry Bradwood," replied the jailer, 
 "He says you will be glad to see him, even though 
 he must interrupt your present interview." 
 
 " He is a fine lad, I will see him," said Basil. 
 
 A minute later, Henry bounded to the prisoner's 
 side, and clasping his hands, exclaimed, 
 
 " It 's all right, now ! The mystery is cleared ! 
 In five minutes you will be free ! The orders are 
 on the way, now, to set you at liberty ; but I had 
 to come on before to tell you ! " 
 
 " The mystery cleared ! " cried Basil, his features 
 lighting up, " about the lost money and all ? " 
 
 " The lost money is found, it 's all right ! it 's 
 all right ! " repeated Henry, beside himself with joy.
 
 176 THE MISFORTUNES Of BASIL GRAY. 
 
 " Then heaven be praised ! " articulated Mary 
 fervently. " This is the happiest news I have ever 
 heard ! 0, Basil ! the stone is rolling away ! " 
 
 She yearned to embrace her husband ; but regard* 
 ing the presence of Henry, she forbore, giving vent 
 to her feelings by clasping her child, with tears of 
 thankfulness. 
 
 Meanwhile, Basil urged Henry to explain ; and 
 the glad boy, recovering breath, related his story in 
 effect as follows : 
 
 " Last night, father awoke out of a sound sleep, 
 and surprised his watchers, Mr. Ellsley and Mr. 
 Foote, by speaking in a different tone from that to 
 which they had been lately accustomed. He asked 
 for a glass of water, and then desired to know if 
 Felix had been caught. He was told that Felix 
 was safe in his stall ; when, pressing his hand to 
 his brow, as if trying to recollect something, he 
 said, ' Either I dreamed it, or else I had a fall last 
 night. My head is confused ; but I believe it is 
 something besides a dream. I was riding over the 
 bridge, by the grove, just at sundown, when a crow 
 darted down and flapped his wings in Felix's eyes 
 so suddenly, that he shied in fright and threvr me 
 from the saddle. What happened afterwards I 
 can't remember ; only I have a faint recollection of 
 burning up with thirst, and dragging myself towards 
 the river for water.' The watchers thought father
 
 THE MISFORTUNES OF BASIL GRAY. 177 
 
 was raving, and would not let him talk. But in 
 the morning, when they told me what he had said, 
 I felt a hope that his reason had returned. I was 
 convinced that such was the case, when I went to 
 converse with him, and found that he remembered 
 nothing of what took place during his delirium. 
 He did not inquire for Friend Hawkins, as he had 
 called you, but he wished to know if he had been 
 brought home insensible the evening before. He 
 repeated the story about the crow ; when, I don't 
 know how, I all at once remembered the bird I 
 partly tamed a year ago, and which went off, we 
 never knew where. Then it came into my mind 
 all about a saucy crow I often saw near the river 
 last summer " 
 
 " I remember him ! " exclaimed Basil. "He flew 
 almost into my face, the morning when I lost my 
 money ! " 
 
 " It 's the same ! " cried Henry. " The thought 
 flashed across my mind that he was at the bottom 
 of all the mischief which has been done. So much 
 excited that I hardly knew what I did, I ran down 
 to the river. Fortunately, I saw what I believed 
 to be the same crow flying, with something in his 
 claws, to the top of the old elm, which stands in the 
 field. I decided at once on what ought to be done. 
 I called Williams from his work, and we went to- 
 gether to cut down the tree. But he objected to this
 
 178 THE MISFORTUNES OF BASIL GRAY. 
 
 without father's permission ; and, impatient as I was, 
 I had to wait until the long ladder could be brought 
 from the house. Williams went to the top of this, 
 and then climbed to the branches. A few minutes 
 after, a perfect shower of sticks, nails and dirt, fell 
 to the ground. Williams was tearing open the nest. 
 At length, when I was looking up anxiously, he 
 shouted, ' Look out for this ! ' and down came what 
 looked to be a bundle of rags. I picked it up ; it 
 was Williams' handkerchief, in which was tied up 
 a heap of bank-bills, all torn and rumpled, and mixed 
 with feathers and leaves. And this is n't all," con- 
 tinued Henry, joyously. "When Williams came 
 down, he took out of his pocket father's watch, with 
 the guard and seal still attached ! " 
 
 While Henry, in relating his story, was still 
 dancing around with excitement, and while the 
 happy couple were listening to the joyful news, the 
 door of the prison-room again creaked on its hinges, 
 and the jailer reappeared, holding a paper in his 
 hand, " by virtue of which," he said, he had the 
 gratification of " proclaiming Basil's freedom." 
 
 Mary could now refrain no longer, but fell into 
 her husband's arms, clasping his neck, regardless of 
 the eyes of Henry, the jailer, and Mr. Kelpit, the 
 sheriff", who was waiting to carry the happy family 
 home in his carriage. 
 
 And here our story properly ends, for here end
 
 THE MISFORTUNES OF BASIL GRAY. 179 
 
 the misfortunes of Basil Gray. It would be a 
 pleasure for me to dwell upon the blissful entrance 
 of the little family into their beloved cottage, and to 
 discourse of the fountains of happiness which from 
 that time welled up to calm and cool their thirsty 
 hearts. I should also delight to describe how Judge 
 Bradwood, recovering from his injury, recognizing 
 Basil's honesty, and feeling conscious of having dealt 
 hardly by him, begged that he would forgive his 
 injustice, made him a present of Felix, and, volun- 
 tarily cancelling all further obligations to which the 
 young farmer was held by the mortgage, became his 
 firmest friend. How Mary, patching up the bank- 
 notes which had been recovered, and exercising her 
 industry and ingenuity with such success that nearly* 
 eighty dollars were saved, placed the sum at interest 
 for the benefit of little Mary. How all the old 
 friends of the Grays renewed their allegiance, while 
 new ones awarded Basil the meed of their esteem, 
 and everybody regarded him. as a sort of hero. How 
 the mischievous crow met with a tragical fate, by 
 getting into a trap ; and how, years after, the noble 
 Henry loved " little Mary," wooed, and won her for 
 his wife. But I think it much better, on the whole, 
 to just hint at these things, and leave them to the 
 imagination of the reader.
 
 
 MBS. DALTON'S TRIALS. 
 
 MRS. DALTON'S greatest fault was a want of de- 
 cision. It was very rare that she had the courage 
 to express an opinion boldly in opposition to a per- 
 son with whom she was conversing ; so that Mr. 
 Dalton, by way of reproach, used to call her his 
 "little coward." 
 
 Mr. Dalton himself was a man of great firmness 
 of character, and this weakness of his wife some- 
 times exhausted all his patience. But he was very 
 fond of her, and, instead of reprimanding her se- 
 verely, he usually followed up her faults on that 
 score with a little harmless ridicule, which had, 
 probably, as much effect as less playful treatment 
 might have had, but which failed altogether of 
 curing her of her indecision. 
 
 Mrs. Dalton could not say " No " when a trades- 
 man urged her to purchase an article, whether she 
 liked it or not. The baker used to impose upon her
 
 MRS. DALTON'S TRIALS. 181 
 
 shamefully, and the butcher had the audacity to 
 send her inferior pieces of meat, and charge her the 
 highest prices. If she timidly suggested that the 
 steak was not as good as she wished to purchase, the 
 fat fellow in the white apron would politely beg 
 leave to convince her of her mistake, assuring her 
 that no better meat could anywhere be found j so 
 Mrs. Dalton would take his word, and the meat, and 
 make herself miserable all the morning at the 
 thought that Mr. D. would be sure to find fault with 
 his dinner. If she went out shopping, she made 
 the worst bargains you could imagine. If she 
 thought an article abominably dear at the price, and 
 timidly hinted the fact, the smooth-tongued sales- 
 man, looking right into her cowardly little heart, 
 would smile at her errors of opinion, and indul- 
 gently give her leave to alter her judgment, with 
 assurance that the goods were actually selling at a 
 sacrifice. So Mrs. D. would, with much fluttering 
 and hesitation, consent to have the article sent 
 home, although fully convinced that she would not 
 like it, and half suspecting, all the time, that the 
 salesman knew she was a little fool. Then, poor 
 Mrs. Dalton hated to go shopping! She was al- 
 ways sick after it the agitation was too much for 
 her ; and those gratifying exclamations of friends, 
 who examined her purchases, " How dear ! " "I 
 never heard of such imposition ! " " Where did you 
 16
 
 182 MRS. DALTON'S TRIALS. 
 
 buy this stuff?" were sure to keep her in a state 
 of nervous excitement a week afterwards. 
 
 But the lesson had no lasting effect ; although 
 she had courage one morning to tell the milk- 
 man she did not want any more of his liquid at five 
 cents, and would not have it, which resulted in ob- 
 taining better milk in future at four cents; and 
 although she summoned resolution to send away, 
 empty-handed, three begging impostors, who had 
 been robbing her from time immemorial ; still she 
 found her old habit of indecision returning upon 
 her, and she was soon % as easily persuaded as ever. 
 
 At length came her greatest trial. Mr. Dalton 
 was absent from town, on business, and she always 
 felt less confidence in herself when he was away 
 than on ordinary occasions. The butcher took 
 greater liberties than ever ; the baker sent her un- 
 satisfactory loaves, curtailed of their just propor- 
 tions ; and old Solomon, a speculator in " cast-offs," 
 took that occasion to come down upon her for cer- 
 tain old boots and coats which she knew Mr. D. ex- 
 pected to wear a great deal more before throwing 
 them aside, but which Solomon would prevail upon 
 her to dispose of for a few coppers. These money- 
 loving rascals had some fear of Mr. Dalton's thun- 
 .der when he was at home, for they had heard it 
 more than once ; so they were sharp at taking 
 advantage of his absence.
 
 MRS. DALTON'S TRIALS. 183 
 
 But I spoke of Mrs. Dalton's greatest trial. 
 
 As ill luck would have it, Mrs. D.'s domestic 
 left her on the morning after her husband went out 
 of town. The girl did not .leave because she was 
 dissatisfied with anything ; for it was a well-known 
 fact, Mrs. D.'s domestics had, time out of mind, 
 been in the habit of doing exactly what they pleased, 
 except when they crossed Mr. D.'s arrangements. 
 But Sarah left for some unknown cause, without 
 giving warning, and Mrs. D. found herself without 
 any help. 
 
 Mrs. D.'s family being small, and Mr. D.'s in- 
 xrnie not large, they usually kept only one girl ; and 
 it was now quite important that Sarah's place should 
 be filled immediately. 
 
 " I know a girl has lived with Mrs. Burbank," 
 said Sarah, condescending to pity Mrs. D.'s distress. 
 " She wants a place now ', and, if you like, I can 
 speak to her about you." 
 
 " I wish you would, Sarah," said Mrs. D. ; " send 
 her to-day, if possible." 
 
 Sarah kept her promise, and before noon a large, 
 bony Irish girl, neatly dressed, and with the air of a 
 person who had seen a great deal of the world, and 
 felt her own importance in it, made her appearance. 
 
 " Yc 're wantin' a hilp, I undherstand," said the 
 girl, with a rich brogue.
 
 > ALTON'S TUIALS. 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Dalton. " Are you the girl 
 Sarah spoke to me about ? " 
 
 " I am that same ; she sed ye wanted a hilp, so I 
 coom'd in to see yez, though it 's my rule to let 
 people coom to me. What do yez ixpect yer hilp to 
 do?" 
 
 Mrs. D. named the different branches of domestic 
 usefulness in which she desired her " hilp " to be 
 proficient, and which Miss Flannigan as she called 
 herself declared to be within the range of her 
 capacity. Miss Flannigan's wages were then con- 
 sidered, that personage demanding at least one- 
 third more than Mrs. D. had ever paid. 
 
 " We can't afford as much as that," said she. 
 
 " An' it 's very poor ye must be, shure, if ye can't 
 afford to let a person live. If ye call that too much, 
 I don't know what ye call too little. It 's too hard 
 ye are, inthirely, if ye can't allow a hilp as much as 
 she earns." 
 
 Mrs. D. tried to summon sufficient courage to say 
 that if Miss Flannigan could not engage her services 
 on reasonable terms she was at liberty to depart, 
 but Miss Flannigan's forbidding aspect overawed 
 her. " I can take her on trial," thought she, 
 excusing herself for suffering the imposition on 
 the score of immediate necessity. " Then, when 
 Mr. Dalton returns, we can dismiss her, if we like."
 
 MRS. DALTON 's TRIALS. 185 
 
 So Miss Flannigan" was taken on trial, and that 
 day her services began. 
 
 It took Mrs. D. a good part of the day to show 
 Miss Flannigan what to do, and how her work was 
 to be done. But she was remarkably perverse ; she 
 had a way of doing things herself, and Mrs. Dalton 
 was not just the sort of person to convince her that 
 her own opinions were not always the best. Miss 
 Flannigan appeared strongly desirous of having her 
 own way and she had it. 
 
 Considering Flannigan a very long and awkward 
 word to speak, too coarse without the Miss, and 
 too formal with it, Mrs. D. wished to know the 
 new domestic's given name. 
 
 " Shure, that 's uv no consiquince," said the girl. 
 " Ye can call me Flannigan ! " 
 
 " Well, Flannigan," said Mrs. D., in a timid voice, 
 " I told you to set the table for four, and you have 
 set it for five" 
 
 To this mild suggestion Flannigan gave no manner 
 of heed. Mrs. Dalton, already beginning to fear her 
 displeasure, chose to remove the extra plate herself, 
 rather than speak again. Imagine, then, her aston- 
 ishment, when Flannigan coolly took the plate and 
 put it back in its place on the table. It was some 
 time before she could speak ; but at length she 
 found courage to say : 
 
 " You must have misunderstood me. I said set 
 16*
 
 186 MRS. DALTOX'S TRIALS. 
 
 the table for four. There are. only four of us to sit 
 down when Mr. Dalton is away." 
 
 " Shure I undherstand ye," replied Flannigan; 
 but the plate remained. 
 
 Mrs. Dalton came very near finding courage to 
 bo angry, at this instance of cool perverseness ; but 
 Flannigan looked so very stern and authoritative, 
 that the poor woman thought best to hold her peace. 
 
 " I said you need not put the cakes on the grid- 
 dle until tea is ready ! " cried Mrs. D., with more 
 than usual energy, as she heard the unmistakable 
 hissing of the batter. " Did you hear ? " 
 
 " Shure, I 'm not thick uv hearin'," muttered 
 Flannigan, coolly pouring another ladleful over the 
 griddle. 
 
 Mrs. Dalton looked through the kitchen door, 
 and saw her. No impudence had ever so completely 
 overwhelmed her as that of the perverse Flannigan. 
 She could not say a word. 
 
 " The wretch ! " thought Mrs. Dalton ; "I will 
 send her away in the morning ! " 
 
 But as yet Mrs. D. had only a very faint concep- 
 tion of Flannigan's coolness. When the whole 
 truth rushed upon her conviction, she could scarcely 
 credit her senses. It was when the design of the 
 fifth plate on the table became evident. Flannigan 
 placed a fifth chair before it. Mrs. D. trembled ; 
 she had taken her accustomed place the. children
 
 MRS. DALTON'S TRIALS. 187 
 
 were in theirs and Flannigan occupied the fifth 
 chair ! 
 
 Mrs. D. turned very pale. 
 
 " I did not intend " she murmured, in an agi- 
 tated voice. " We want a domestic to wait upon 
 us at table not to eat with us." 
 
 " What 's the objickshun, if I kin wait on ye 
 jist as well ? " said Flannigan. 
 
 " But you can't ; we want you to cook the cakes 
 while we are at table, so that we can have them 
 hot'' 
 
 " An' have n't I cooked 'em already ? " demanded 
 Flannigan. " If ye expect me to take 'em right off 
 the griddle an' put 'em into yer mouths for ye, it 's 
 expectin' too much intirely. An' then, if ye think 
 ye are too good to sit at de same table wid me, ye 'ro 
 too good fur me to work for, that 's all." 
 
 What an excellent time it was for Mrs. Dalton to 
 say, " if she did not like her service, she could de- 
 part as soon as she liked " ! But Mrs. D. had not 
 the courage. She only wished Mr. D. was there ; 
 and concluded that, as nobody but her own family 
 was present, she would allow the encroachment for 
 once. 
 
 On the following day Flannigan sat at table with 
 the family at breakfast, dinner and tea, and had her 
 own way in everything. Mrs. D. was miserable.
 
 188 MRS. D ALTON'S TRIALS. 
 
 " Thank Heaven," she said to herself, " Mr. D. ia 
 coming home to-morrow." 
 
 But then she dreaded to have him come. How 
 could she confess her weakness to him ? In what a 
 rage he would be, to find her governed by an Irish 
 domestic, who, because Sarah had told her she could 
 do as she liked with Mrs. D., and because some 
 families she had lived in had allowed her to sit at 
 table with them, claimed this as a right ! Mrs. D. 
 .tried to summon enough courage to send Flannigan 
 away before her husband came home, but she could 
 not ; and Mr. D. arrived while Flannigan held un- 
 disputed sway. 
 
 It is probable that Mrs. Dalton would have re- 
 quested him to send Flannigan away, without telling 
 him all, had not one of the children preceded her, 
 and drawn Flannigan's character to the life. 
 
 " She sits down with us at the table, and won't 
 mind a word mamma says," exclaimed the child. 
 
 Mr. Dalton was very angry; he had never been 
 so severe with his wife before. She shed an abun- 
 dance of tears, and promised not to be so weak any 
 more. 
 
 " You are sure you will not ? " said Mr. D. 
 
 Mrs. Dalton was certain she would be more 
 firm. 
 
 " Very well," said her husband. " I am glad
 
 MRS. DALTON'S TRIALS. 189 
 
 of it. I shall expect, then, you will send Flannigan 
 away, without any interference on my part." 
 
 "I?" 
 
 " To be sure sinee you are going to be more 
 firm ! " 
 
 " 0, I never could do that, she 's such an awful 
 creature ! " exclaimed Mrs. Dalton. 
 
 " 0, then your promise does not amount to any- 
 thing," replied her husband. " Very well ; I shall 
 not send her away, nor will I sit down at the table 
 so long as she remains in the house. Not that I 
 object to eating with an Irish girl ; but, if you hire 
 persons to serve you, it is their business to do it, 
 and keep in their places." 
 
 Mrs. Dalton was in great perturbation. She 
 knew that what Mr. D. said he meant ; and that 
 there was no way for her to do, but to send away 
 Flannigan. Much as she dreaded the latter, she 
 dreaded her husband's displeasure more; and this 
 nerved her to the task. 
 
 " Flannigan," said she, with her coward little 
 heart in her throat. 
 
 " What 's wantin' ? " 
 
 " I think," pursued Mrs. D., with a long breath, 
 " I can dispense with your services." 
 
 Flannigan stood aghast. 
 
 " You can go," added Mrs. Dalton. 
 
 " Go, Ma'am ! Which d' ye mane ? "
 
 190 MRS. DALTON'S TRIALS. 
 
 Mrs. D. plucked up all her courage. She was 
 determined that Mr. Dalton should know that she 
 could be severe sometimes. So she said, loud enough 
 for him to hear, in the next room : 
 
 " You can leave. Don't do any more ; you do 
 not suit me. That is what I mean." 
 
 Flannigan was brought down from her soaring 
 height in an instant. As long as Mrs. Dalton was 
 weak, she was lofty; now that the former ex- 
 hibited a little true firmness, she had not a word to 
 say. She laid down a dipper she was holding in 
 her hands, without a word, put on her bonnet, and 
 went up stairs to pack her trunk. In ten minutes 
 she was gone, never to return. 
 
 " You little tiger ! " exclaimed Mr. Dalton, rally- 
 ing his wife ; " I had no idea you could be so sav- 
 age ! You have conquered Flannigan, and driven 
 her from the field ! Now, it was not such a terrible 
 thing, after all, was it ? And why can't you always 
 do a just thing with as much courage ? " 
 
 A just thing there was the secret of it ! Mrs. 
 Dalton armed herself with that thought, and deter- 
 mined never to hesitate again to say or do anything 
 which justice to herself or others required. She 
 has met with many trials since, and she is sometimes 
 weak ; but she never suffers herself to give way to 
 her fault, as she did in her dealings with Flaunigan
 
 LILY BELL. 
 
 AN OLD HOUSE-KEEPER'S TALE. 
 
 I NEVER saw so sweet and lovely a child as Lilias 
 Boll, or Little Lily, as she was always called. She 
 was the idol of our village ; and well do I remem- 
 ber how often I then just entering my teens 
 used to arrive late at school, having wandered out 
 of my way to go down the street in which she lived, 
 and hold her only a minute in my arms. 
 
 How proud Mrs. Bell was of her darling ! How 
 happy it made the mother's heart, to know how 
 dearly her idol was beloved ! I was a great favorite 
 with Mrs. Bell, for no other reason, I suppose, than 
 because I worshipped her child. She loved every- 
 body thut loved Lily. 
 
 Picture to yourself, dear reader, a fresh and happy 
 face, a light, transparent complexion, cheeks like 
 blooming roses, blue eyes sparkling with gladness,
 
 192 
 
 lips like an opening rosebud, a white neck gaining 
 through a flood of flowing auburn curls, dimpled 
 arms, and the prettiest plump little hands in the 
 world ; also, imagine the clearest, most musical, 
 laughing silver voice, which ever rung with the joy 
 of a childish heart, and you may have something 
 like a just idea of little Lily Bell. 
 
 And such a sweet disposition as she had ! Her 
 soul was all sunshine. She seemed made to love, 
 and to be loved, to be happy, and to make happy 
 the hearts of others. Ah ! how often have I watched 
 her, smiling sweetly in her sleep, until my heart has 
 ached with loving her ! 
 
 But a cloud arises between me and this bright 
 vision of my youth. A shadow of sorrow dims the 
 picture of happy innocence which " hangs in Mem- 
 ory's hall ;" and it is with a sigh that I recall the 
 sunny smiles of little Lily Bell. 
 
 But this is not telling my story. 
 
 Lily was an only child. The family of the Bells 
 was small ; consisting only of the child's parents and 
 a maiden sister of Mr. Bell, who lived on the most 
 friendly terms with her relatives. Of these three 
 little Lily was the worshipped idol. 
 
 As I remember Miss Lucinda Bell, she was not a 
 very agreeable person. Yet she had a good heart, 
 and those who knew her best esteemed her most
 
 LILY BELL. 193 
 
 highly. She had a thin, unpleasant face, on which 
 time had recorded about forty winters, 
 
 Some people wondered how Mrs. Bell could " get 
 along" with the spinster living under the same 
 roof. I think the case was plain. Lucinda adored 
 little Lily. 
 
 Certain it is, the old maid had her way in every- 
 thing, and everybody appeared satisfied. There was 
 also a reason for this. Mr. Bell had, by a series of 
 misfortunes, lost nearly all his property, and his 
 sister was rich. She gave her brother's family a 
 home in her own house ; and it was generally under- 
 stood that little Lily was to be her heiress. 
 
 In this way the Bells lived very comfortably, and 
 very peaceably, it is to be presumed. There were 
 no disputes. The most perfect happiness and har- 
 mony prevailed, little Lily being the golden link 
 which united all hearts. 
 
 Such was the azure sky which smiled above our 
 darling, when a black cloud arose into it, with shad- 
 owy wings, which darkened all the flowers growing 
 in her path. 
 
 I have never been able to ascertain precisely how 
 that chilling cloud took its origin. It burst forth in 
 the shape of & family feud. The deadly displeasure 
 of the spinster had been awakened by her brother's 
 family. Her heart congealed into ice. Her woman's 
 will towered up like a mountain of adamant. Even 
 17
 
 194 
 
 little Lily felt the withering frowns of her Aunl 
 Lucinda's mortal anger. 
 
 People said the spinster had accidentally over- 
 heard a conversation between Lucius and his wife, 
 in which they had spoken of Lily's future, and 
 alluded to the prospect of her inheriting the prop- 
 erty of her aunt. 
 
 This was not all. Lucius, it was said, spoke of 
 the inheritance as a certainty, provided Lucinda 
 never married ; and his wife had thereupon laughed 
 at what she termed the ludicrousness of the idea, 
 that the spinster, with her old-maid face, would 
 ever find a husband. 
 
 No woman is so plain, or so utterly devoid of van- 
 ity, that ridicule of her personal appearance will not 
 find a tender spot in her heart. Nothing else could 
 her sister-in-law have said to give Lucinda such 
 mortal offence. 
 
 For a few minutes that peaceful home seemed 
 invaded by a tempest. Laura's apologies, her 
 pleading for pardon, her assurance that she had 
 meant no harm, were all of no avail. Lucius 
 attempted in vain to calm the storm. Even little 
 Lily's tears and terror had no power to soften the 
 sternness of Aunt Lucinda's wrath. 
 
 The result was, that in a little while Lucius left 
 the house, and, with a pale brow and compressed
 
 195 
 
 lips, walked hastily to the office of Mr. Lynde, one 
 of the wealthiest men in the village. 
 
 Mr. Bell was so fortunate as to find the land- 
 holder's confidential clerk in the counting-room, and, 
 without ceremony, proposed the business on which 
 he had called. 
 
 Mr. Bell desired to take a new house, which Mr. 
 Lynde had just completed, situated within a stone's 
 throw of that which the Bells then occupied, belong- 
 ing to the spinster. 
 
 The new house was a beautiful village cottage, 
 constructed in what is termed, in country places, 
 the Gothic style, and painted brown ; and although 
 the architect had taken wide liberties with the style 
 in question, it was nevertheless an attractive resi- 
 dence. Mr. Bell had frequently said, in jest, that 
 when he quarrelled with his sister who ever sup- 
 posed such a thing would happen in the course of 
 human events ? he should live in that cottage ; 
 and now his prediction, made in play, was destined 
 to be realized in earnest. 
 
 The lease was made out that very day; and, 
 although informed that the walls of the new house 
 must still be damp, Lucius immediately made pre- 
 parations for moving his family. 
 
 Lucinda, after the explosion of her indignation, 
 called a carriage, and, packing up a few things, 
 solemnly declared that she would never again sleep
 
 196 LILY BELL. 
 
 under the same roof with her ungrateful relatives. 
 She was now gone ; and Lily's parents, full of grief 
 and trouble, made ready to depart from the house 
 of her whom they had offended. 
 
 I remember well how everybody was astonished 
 when Mr. Bell's furniture was seen going into the 
 Gothic cottage. That very evening the whole village 
 rang with the incredible rumor. I was one of a num- 
 ber of little Lily's devotees who passed through the 
 street expressly to see whether the report had any 
 foundation. It was too true. The Bells were mov- 
 ing. The lily was to be transplanted to another bed. 
 On the following day Lucius' family became estab- 
 lished in their new house, and the inexorable aunt 
 returned, in stately loneliness, to her hollow, gloomy 
 habitation. 
 
 I have often pictured to myself the sensations of 
 Lucinda at that time. Methinks I see her now, 
 passing through the low gate, and along the flower- 
 bordered path which leads to the vine-shaded door. 
 The summer noontide sun shines brightly, but its 
 life-diffusing light is not for her ! The breezes from 
 the verdant hills and the forest's cooling shade play 
 with the ancient ribbons on her bonnet (who, in all 
 our village, would not have known that bonnet a 
 mile off, among a hundred ?), and with the scanty 
 curl which always hangs in just such a position on 
 the old maid's cheek ; but no breezes can cool tho
 
 197 
 
 fever of her breast. Alas ! she knows too well what 
 a hollow, dreary house she is entering. She had 
 thought she could return with the same heart of 
 steel which prompted her to leave her own roof; 
 and she could, perhaps, did she not at this moment 
 remember that always before, when she has been 
 away, the joyous laugh and sunny face of little Lily 
 has welcomed her back gladly at the door. There 
 is no Lily there now ; no little arms outstretched, no 
 ready kiss ; and to the heart of the old maid all the 
 earth is dark, and hollow, and cold. 
 
 She passes beneath the shady grape-vine screen, 
 and across the threshold. Only the face of the 
 domestic meets her eye. What a chilling, unlova- 
 ble face Lucinda, for the first time, discovers it to 
 be ! She hates the domestic, whom she never hated 
 before. 
 
 " They are gone," says the menial, thinking to 
 dispel that ominous frown by pleasant news. 
 
 What a mistake ! What a look of rage and 
 hatred answers the ill-timed words ! The discon- 
 certed girl glides timidly away. The old maid is 
 alone. 
 
 And now sorrow takes the place of anger. Lu- 
 cinda throws her bonnet on one chair, with a des- 
 perate gesture, and sinks with clasped hands on 
 another. Yesterday there was a bureau in this 
 vacant corner. It was Laura's bureau. A hcart- 
 17*
 
 198 
 
 rending sigh shakes the thin form of the spinster. 
 Glancing at the wall, she notes the light square 
 space that marks the spot from which her brother's 
 picture was lately removed. A tear glistens in 
 her eye. Here, here in the ceiling by the door, is 
 the low nail where little Lily's bonnet always hung, 
 when Lily was not at play out of doors. Lily could 
 just touch that nail by standing on her toes. Lu- 
 cinda remembers the darling's childish glee when 
 for the first time she reached it with her tiny fingers. 
 There is no bonnet there now ! The old maid's lips 
 quiver. She turns quickly, and looks for the beau- 
 tiful child-picture, that had its place on the wall 
 behind her. Instead of Lily's portrait, she sees a 
 square, white spot on the paper. The old maid ia 
 
 The domestic looks through the aperture' of a door 
 which she has opened softly, and sees her mistress 
 sitting there, her face covered with her hands, and 
 her hands covered with streaming tears. She is 
 afraid to speak ; and, closing the door softly as she 
 opened it, the girl retires. Half an hour after, the 
 door opens again. You could catch a glimpse of the 
 domestic's face behind its shadow. With a feeling 
 of awe, she sees that her mistress has not stirred. 
 There she sits, her hands clasped over her face, and 
 still wet with tears. The silence almost frightens 
 the poor girl ; but the silence is not half so terri-
 
 LILY BELL. 199 
 
 tying as the grief-burthened sigh which suddenly 
 swells up from the death-like stillness of the spin- 
 ster's bosom, and fills all the chamber like the pres- 
 ence of a ghost. 
 
 The face disappears, and the door closes again. 
 After the lapse of another half-hour, it reopens, and 
 you might see a steaming urn and a white cloth laid 
 on the table beyond. 
 
 " Tea is ready." 
 
 The girl speaks boldly, for Lucinda has lifted her 
 hands from her face, and her eyes are dry, and she 
 is gazing steadfastly at the carpet. She has con- 
 quered her weakness. She will be strong now, she 
 thinks ; and, as her resentment is just, so shall her 
 resolution be firm. 
 
 "Tea? of course." 
 
 Lucinda knows no reason why she should not have 
 a good appetite. She cheerfully follows Delia. Yes, 
 she will do justice to the toast. 
 
 Her resolution fails her. There are places vacant 
 which were never vacant before, when Lucinda sat 
 down at that table. Little Lily's high chair, 
 where is it ? Ah, Lucinda ! thy heart throbs hu- 
 manly yet ! Go back go kick into thy chamber, 
 and let thy bitter tears flow freely ! 
 
 That evening Lucinda sat in the deepening twi- 
 light, musing sadly. An hour passed ; night reigned 
 silently, the moon shone through the casement, and
 
 200 LILY BELL. 
 
 she sat there still. Then came a feeble rap at the 
 door. The spinster had sent Delia away, that she 
 might be alone ; so she herself arose to admit the 
 visitor. On the steps, spotted with the white moon- 
 light and with the quivering shadows of the leafy 
 grape-vine arch, stood a young woman, a stranger, 
 
 holding before her a broad, square object, which 
 ehe extended towards Lucinda. 
 
 " What is this ? " 
 
 " Please, ma'am, a picture Mrs. Bell says was 
 taken away by mistake, as it belongs to you, 
 ma'am." 
 
 " A picture ? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am ; little Lily's." 
 
 Lucinda seized it eagerly. 
 
 " Are you Mrs. Bell's domestic ? " she asked. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am ; and Mrs. Bell sends her compli- 
 ments, and would like to have you call, if so be it 's 
 convenient." 
 
 Lucinda coughed ; after a pause, she inquired, 
 
 " How is little Lily ? " 
 
 " Please, ma'am, she 's took a bad cold going into 
 the new house ; and it 's very bad for the poor thing, 
 
 them damp walls is, ma'am." 
 
 Lucinda carried the picture into her chamber. 
 She had not forgotten that it was her own money 
 that had paid for it, and that Lucius had acknowl- 
 edged it to be her property ; but how little could
 
 LILY BELL. 201 
 
 she have expected it would be yielded to her, now 
 that a separation had taken place ? She felt grate- 
 ful, as she gazed upon the beloved face, and once 
 more her heart yearned toward the family of her 
 idol ; but the fatal words Laura had spoken, and 
 her husband's laugh, were remembered, and their 
 sting was felt. No ! no ! she could not forgive them ! 
 They loved her not! It was only her property 
 they desired, and that 
 
 The spinster would, at that moment, have set fire 
 to her own house, had she thought her ungrateful 
 relatives would ever enjoy its shelter again. 
 
 On the following morning, Lucinda, haggard with 
 sleeplessness and grief, sat down at the breakfast- 
 table alone. Instead of eating, however, she only 
 sighed, and sipped a little tea (Lucinda abhorred 
 coffee), and looked dreamily at the cloth. 
 
 " Delia," she said, in a low voice. 
 
 " What, ma'am ? " 
 
 " Do you know Mrs. Bell's domestic ? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am ; Susan King." 
 
 " Well, Delia, if you see her to-day," said Lu- 
 cinda, " you may ask how little Lily is ; but you 
 need not say I wished to know." 
 
 Delia understood her mistress ; and, anxious to 
 please her, for nothing Delia dreaded like Lu- 
 cinda's frowns, she managed to see Susan King 
 that very morning.
 
 202 LILT BELL. 
 
 The spinster sat in her vacant room, where Lily'a 
 picture once more hung in its place ; and the sun 
 shone through the casement and through the arch 
 of vines above the door, and joyous birds sang mer- 
 rily without ; but to Lucirida all was gloomy and 
 lonely within. Her hand had fallen listlessly upon 
 her sewing, and she was gazing vacantly at the sun- 
 shine on the floor, when Delia entered. 
 
 " Little Lily is quite sick, this morning, ma'am ; 
 and Susan King says that Mrs. Bell says that the 
 doctor says " 
 
 " Have they called the doctor ? " interrupted Lu- 
 cinda, with a look of anguish. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, Dr. Sawyer ; and he thinks Lily 
 will get along, if they 're keerful of her ; and it 
 was a very bad thing, he says, going into that house 
 when the walls was damp." 
 
 The old maid uttered a sharp cry of pain. 
 
 " Shall I get you the camfer, ma'am ? " asked 
 Delia ; " you are looking pale this morning, ma'am." 
 
 " Go to your work ! " said Lucinda, sternly. 
 
 Lucinda wished to be alone ; but scarce was Delia 
 gone when a village gossip entered. Mrs. Smith 
 was overflowing with rumors, surmises, sympathy, 
 and scandal. She thought Miss Bell had been 
 shamefully insulted by Mrs. Bell ; she considered 
 both Lucius and his wife ungrateful wretches ; and 
 her opinion of them was nothing new, either ; for
 
 LILY BELL. 203 
 
 she could have told Lucinda long ago " how it 
 would turn out." This was not all. Mrs. Smith 
 could gratify her friend by relating remarks some- 
 body had heard somebody say Laura had made, 
 touching certain weak points in Lucinda's character. 
 even when she Laura was eating her Lu- 
 cinda's bread. 
 
 All the old maid's resentment was revived. Mrs. 
 Smith's apparent sympathy prepared her ear for the 
 scandal ; and the scandal stung her into fury. Ah ! 
 poor Laura Bell ! how was thy character torn into 
 shreds and tatters by her whom thou hadst offended, 
 albeit unintentionally, and by her who, even then, 
 was as much thy friend as the friend of her upon 
 whose weakness she was playing ! 
 
 Mrs. Smith accepted Lucinda's urgent invitation 
 to dine with her, and they parted sworn friends. 
 Lucinda had never liked Mrs. Smith so well ; but I 
 imagine she would have suffered a violent change of 
 sentiment, had she known that, after dining with 
 her, the gossip drank tea with Laura, and repeated 
 to the latter the worst things her sister-in-law had 
 said of her, exaggerating facts, and even fabricating 
 falsehoods, for her purpose. 
 
 But, although Mrs. Smith's sympathies were as 
 much with Laura as they had been with Lucinda, 
 she was not so successful in provoking the young 
 woman's ire. Laura thought it natural Lucinda
 
 204 
 
 should be bitter against her, and she forgave the 
 spinster in her heart. Besides, little Lily was ill, 
 and how could there be room in the mother's breast 
 for anything but anxiety and sorrow ? 
 
 A cry of distress seemed to run through the vil- 
 lage with the rumor of little Lily's -illness. The 
 Gothic cottage was thronged with anxious inquirers 
 after the darling's health. I was there twice a day, 
 at least; everybody went there, except Lucinda. 
 Sympathy with Laura's affliction turned public opin- 
 ion very much against her sister-in-law, who was 
 ridiculed, hated, and condemned. Even I, when the 
 darling's cough smote upon my ear, felt wickedly 
 inclined towards her " cruel aunt," and bitterly 
 exclaimed against her conduct. 
 
 And it was indeed piteous to see how the young 
 and happy creature was changed. Her joyous 
 laugh rang out no more ; there was no longer the 
 rosy glow of healthful life upon her cheek; her 
 sweet eyes sparkled no more with innocent mirth. 
 Yet she never complained. ! it was melancholy 
 to see how the young, warm-hearted child endeav- 
 ored to seem cheerful, smiling with her pale face 
 and sad blue eyes. 
 
 Well, I must pass over in silence the days and 
 weeks of anguish we suffered, as Lily faded, 
 faded, growing worse and worse, as the summer 
 sun sank in the southern sky. We had hoped she
 
 205 
 
 would be better soon ; we had firmly believed she 
 would recover; for we would not think that so much 
 beauty and innocence could wither like an opening 
 rosebud stung by cruel frosts wither and die ! 
 
 But, at the approach of the melancholy Autumn, 
 with its hazy skies, brown fields, and trees gor- 
 geously arrayed in gleaming crimson and gold, 
 then our hearts fluctuated daily between warm hopes 
 and chilling fears, like the alternate heat and cold 
 of the autumnal noons and nights. 
 
 One mild October day little Lily was better than 
 she had been for a week ; and, as she wished to look 
 out upon the fading earth, Laura buried her in pil- 
 lows, and drew her arm-chair near the window, 
 where she could feel the sunshine on her pale brow. 
 
 Then Laura, with her heart all torn and bleeding 
 with anguish, bent over her, while her tears dropped 
 warm and fast upon her darling's face. 
 
 " Don't cry, mamma ! " said little Lily, tenderly. 
 " Dear mamma, don't cry ! See see how pretty 
 the sunshine is on that tree ! What makes some 
 of the leaves so bright and red ? " 
 
 " The leaves are dying, darling," replied Laura, 
 in a choked voice. 
 
 Lily looked thoughtful. 
 
 " I wonder if I am going to die ! " she asked, 
 after a pause. 
 
 Laura kissed her frantically, with streaming teara 
 18
 
 206 
 
 " Mamma, now I know why you cry ! " said Lily. 
 ' You think I am going to die ! You used to tell 
 me sometimes about little children dying and going 
 to heaven. Will I go to heaven, if I die ? " 
 
 " Yes ! " exclaimed Laura, her tones quivering 
 with the fervor of sublime Christian faith. " You 
 will go to heaven, my darling." 
 
 " And see the angels there, the angels with 
 white wings ? " 
 
 Laura could not reply for sobbing. 
 
 " 0, I don't want to die, and go away from 
 you ! " murmured the child, clasping her mother's 
 neck, and sobbing there ; " but I will see you in 
 heaven some time, won't I, you, and dear papa ? 
 And will all the friends we love be there ? 0,1 
 think it will be happy ! But I hope there will be 
 flowers in heaven. Say, mamma, are there flowers 
 in heaven ? " 
 
 " My child ! my darling ! " sobbed Laura, " how 
 could I could I lose you ? Yes yes, there are 
 flowers in heaven ! " 
 
 " Yes, mamma ! I know it. The flowers are all 
 dead now, you told me yesterday, when I wanted 
 some. I did not know they would die. But, if 
 they die, they go to heaven, I am sure ! The flow- 
 ers are good ; and all good things go to heaven ; just 
 as we go there when we are good. Tell me, mam- 
 ma, do you think Aunt Lucinda will go to heaven ? '
 
 LILY BELL. 207 
 
 "I hope I pray I believe she will!" ex 
 claimed Laura. 
 
 She was startled by hearing a groan. She turned 
 quickly, and saw a tall figure standing on the 
 threshold. 
 
 " My sister ! " exclaimed Laura, eagerly. 
 
 Lucinda turned and fled. 
 
 But the spinster's heart was softened. She did 
 not flee in anger. She had come to see Lily for 
 the first time in the Gothic cottage; and, standing 
 on the threshold, her soul had been humbled, puri- 
 fied of the sin of anger, and melted to tears, by 
 what she had now heard. She wished to weep in 
 secret in her own chamber But, whilst Laura was 
 still gazing at her retreating figure, from the win- 
 dow of the cottage, she turned again ; for the yearn- 
 ing of her heart proved stronger than her pride. 
 With sobs, and gushing tears, she threw herself at 
 Laura's feet, and begged to be forgiven. 
 
 Poor Laura's heart was broken. She clasped 
 her in her arms, and wept upon her neck. 
 
 " It is for you to forgive me ! " she said, sobbing. 
 " It was I who gave offence with thoughtless words, 
 although God knows how I loved you even then ! " 
 
 "I have forgiven you, forgive me!" mur- 
 mured Lucinda. " Forgive my foolish anger, 
 my sinful vanity, my cruel revenge ! Love me, 
 love me, Laura, love me ! "
 
 208 LILY BELL. 
 
 It is impossible to depict the surprise of Lucius, 
 on entering the house, to find his sister there, sitting 
 by Laura's side, and holding close, close to her 
 heart the dear form of little Lily, whose pale face 
 and sad blue eyes smiled sweetly, as she lay on 
 Lucinda's bosom. 
 
 " Don't wonder at seeing me here ! " said the old 
 maid. " I kept away as long as I could ; but my 
 heart is not so strong as I thought it was. I knew 
 my little darling was sick, I was told she was 
 made so by sleeping in this new house ; my con- 
 science reproached me for driving you here, and 
 and forgive me ! " said Lucinda, weeping as 
 if her heart would break. 
 
 There was bitterness in the heart of Lucius ; and 
 for a moment he stood with a stern brow on the 
 threshold. 
 
 " Dear papa ! " said the soft voice of little Lily, 
 " love Aunt Lucinda ! She is a good aunt, and 
 mamma says she will go to heaven, and be with us 
 there. Do love her, papa ! " 
 
 " Sister," said Lucius, his lip quivering with 
 emotion, " I do forgive you ! This is no time to 
 cherish enmity, and I thank heaven that your heart 
 has been softened, even at this late hour. Ah! 
 Lucinda, Lucinda ! " he added, with suppressed pas- 
 sion, as if his soul burned with the memory of
 
 LILY BELL. 209 
 
 wrongs, " had you shown this charity before, this 
 bitter affliction might have been spared us ! " 
 
 Lucius hid his face, bending over his dying dar 
 ling, while his whole frame shook with grief. 
 
 There was a great wonderment in the village 
 when it was known that a perfect reconciliation had 
 taken place between Lucinda and her relatives, and 
 that the spinster had declared her resolution never 
 to leave little Lily's side. The news formed fresh 
 food for gossips; but never were hearts so far 
 removed above the power of scandal as those which 
 now beat with sorrow and sickened hope within the 
 Gothic cottage. 
 
 Notwithstanding the tenderest care of her parents 
 and aunt, little Lily faded, faded, faded still, as the 
 autumnal skies became more dull and dark. The 
 white October frosts, which painted nightly all the 
 ground, and the bleak winds of November, which 
 rudely tore away and blew along the earth the last 
 of the withered leaves that clung fluttering to dreary 
 boughs, served to chill her more and more. She 
 was like the last of the tender sisterhood of flowers. 
 Not all the grief and agony of mortal hearts could 
 save her, else she had been saved. 
 
 It was late in December, that, one gloomy morn- 
 ing, the deep tones of the mournfully-tolling bell 
 emote upon every heart in our village. Methinks
 
 210 ULY BELL. 
 
 I hear them now, solemn, monotonous, vibrating in 
 the December air, 
 
 " With a deep sound, to and fro, 
 Heavily to the heart they go ! " 
 
 Heavily yea, heavily! burdened with grief un- 
 utterable, sorrow and despair too weighty for the 
 human soul, for little Lily, the darling, the flower 
 of beauty, innocence, and love, SUE WAS DEAD ! 
 
 ! never shall I forget with what a feeling of 
 loneliness I looked out, that dull December day, 
 upon the church-yard, and saw the old sexton walk 
 slowly through the black gate, with his pick-axe and 
 spade. He shovelled away the crusted snow from a 
 narrow space, then struck his pick into the frozen 
 ground. What desolation in the thought that she 
 our darling Lily who now lies cold and white in 
 her shroud must be buried beneath those hard, 
 heavy, icy clods ! 
 
 The following day was Saturday. On Sunday 
 there was a funeral. Beneath the pulpit, in the 
 solemn church, there was a little coffin ; and near 
 by sat Lucius, with his wife and sister. Never can 
 I forget the anguish of these mourners ! Their 
 souls seemed to be henceforth the habitation of sor- 
 row only. But why describe why attempt to 
 describe such grief ? 
 
 After the funeral sermon, the little coffin was
 
 LILY BELL. 211 
 
 
 
 unclosed, and old and young gathered around it to 
 gaze on the white face of the Lily of our village for 
 the last time. There she lay, too beautiful for 
 earth, smiling sweetly even in that endless sleep of 
 death. 
 
 The sexton had removed from the opening of the 
 little grave the boards he had placed there to keep 
 out the snow ; and now the tight coffin was closed 
 again, the mourners had taken their last look of 
 the dead, and little Lily was lowered into the cold, 
 dark ground ! The clods fell with hollow echoes on 
 the coffin-lid; and, with hearts choked with afflic- 
 tion, which seemed too great to bear, the mourners 
 went home from the resting-place of their idol. 
 
 But, had not the good preacher assured them of 
 what their hearts already knew, that they would 
 meet her again in heaven ? 
 
 And in a little while the grasses of another spring 
 were growing above the mouldering inhabitants of 
 the church-yard ; and there were flowers planted on 
 one little grave, and watered with the tears of 
 Laura and Lucinda ; and the flowers bloomed and 
 the sun shone warmly upon that little grave, and 
 the birds sang sweetly around ; all nature proclaim- 
 ing that joy, and not grief, should frequent the lowly 
 bed of little Lily Bell. 
 
 From that time, Lucius and Laura lived with 
 their sister ; and their hearts were closely knit to-
 
 212 LILY BELL. 
 
 gether by fellowship in affliction. And even whea 
 the violence of grief was passed, and their souls had 
 become calm, they lived together the same. Two 
 other children a sweet girl, and a noble-hearted 
 boy came to make them forget the lost one ; but 
 still remembrance fondly turns to the past, and is 
 kept fresh by the sweet picture which hangs in its 
 old place in Lucinda's cottage, the beautiful por- 
 trait of little Lily Bell !
 
 THE CROSS HUSBAND. 
 
 MRS. CARSWELL had been married but little more 
 than a year, when a friend dropped in upon her one 
 morning, and found her convulsed with weeping. 
 
 " My dear Laura ! " exclaimed Mrs. Marston, in 
 astonishment; "how happens it that you, who were 
 the most cheerful, light-hearted of maidens, have 
 become an unhappy wife ? Has your brief experi- 
 ence in married life been so bitter ? " 
 
 " no ! " replied Laura, drying her tears, and 
 endeavoring to appear cheerful. " I have been 
 happy, I am happy, I assure you. My husband 
 is the best of men, he loves me, and our dear 
 child is a great source of joy and comfort. 0, no, 
 my experience has not been bitter! " 
 
 " I am glad to hear it ! " rejoined Mrs. Marston ; 
 " but it seems so strange to see you weep ! Why, 
 before you were married, your heart was as light 
 as a robin's in spring. You were all smiles ; and,
 
 214 THE CROSS HUSBAND. 
 
 I believe, you never knew what it was to shed tears 
 in sober earnest." 
 
 " True," said Laura, smiling faintly, " I was a 
 gay and thoughtless creature. I believe I was too 
 happy. I ought to have been made to know some- 
 thing about the cares of life before marriage. As 
 it was, I entered matrimony as a child flies joyously 
 into a garden full of flowers, only to find there are 
 sharp thorns among the roses, and bees with danger- 
 ous stings among the sweet thyme." 
 
 " In what have you found the sharp thorns and 
 spiteful bees of married life to consist ? " 
 
 " Nothing worth naming, nothing of import- 
 ance," replied Laura, blushing. " Indeed, I ought 
 not to think of my little troubles." 
 
 " But what are these little troubles ? " insisted 
 her companion. " Come, I shall give you no peace 
 until you tell me; and I am a great teaser, you 
 know, when I choose to be. Does Mr. Carswell 
 spend his evenings away from home ? " 
 
 " 0, no ! " 
 
 " Does he flirt with other ladies ? " 
 
 " No, indeed. He is very attentive to me. He 
 never visits or attends the theatre without me." 
 
 " Perhaps, then, he is too attentive ; husbands 
 sometimes are, I am told, though I am sure the 
 accounts we have of such mortals must be altogether 
 fabulous."
 
 THE CROSS HUSBAND. 215 
 
 " I think so." 
 
 " It must be, then, that Mr. Carswcll does not 
 provide well for his family. But I know he is not 
 penurious." 
 
 " Penurious ! " exclaimed Mrs. Carswell ; " he 
 is the most generous man alive ! I have everything 
 I could desire." 
 
 " Ah, it is the extreme which troubles you," 
 said Mrs. Marston. " I see, your husband is too 
 extravagant. In his eagerness to make you happy, 
 he neglects to pay the butcher and baker ; and fre- 
 quent visits from certain unwelcome acquaintances 
 annoy your sensitive nature. It is, indeed, very 
 provoking to have one's attention called a dozen 
 times a day to some small bill." 
 
 " I beg of you, don't suspect Mr. Carswell of any 
 such, neglect," interrupted Laura. " His bills are 
 all promptly settled." 
 
 " Then your domestics torment you. If they are 
 ill-natured, or stupid, or lazy, or dishonest, turn 
 them away." 
 
 " I have been very fortunate with my girls, I am 
 happy to say." 
 
 " Then do tell me what troubles you have ; I 
 can think of nothing else. I should say you were 
 the happiest woman in the world, if I had not 
 caught you crying." 
 
 " I tell you I am happy. I have no trouble,
 
 216 THE CROSS HUSBAND. 
 
 that is, no serious trouble, except when Mr. 
 Carswell appears I can't explain myself; but 
 you know, I suppose, men are not always in good 
 humor." 
 
 " Ha, ha ! I have got it at last ! " cried Mrs. 
 Marston. " I see it, so your husband is cross 
 sometimes, is he ? " 
 
 " 0, not exactly cross, no ! Indeed, he is very 
 kind-hearted ; but he has got into a way of finding 
 fault with everything, that is, everything except 
 me ; all this, too, without knowing, half the time, 
 what he says. He scolds about the cooking, with- 
 out suspecting how much he hurts my feelings; 
 for I oversee it myself, and try hard enough to 
 please him," added Laura, while tears gathered in 
 her eyes. 
 
 " In short," rejoined Mrs. Marston, " hcis a 
 downright cross husband." 
 
 " 0, no ! " 
 
 " Yes, he is ; don't attempt to defend the wretch. 
 But if, as you say, he loves you, and finds fault 
 more from habit than any settled ill-will, he is not 
 past all help. I have known men like him. They 
 are naturally petulant, but they generally have no 
 idea how cross they sometimes are. They can 
 govern themselves if they like, though; they arc 
 not incurable." 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Marston," said Laura, with an
 
 THE CROSS HUSBAND. 217 
 
 earnest face, " you really appear to understand my 
 case ; and, if you can suggest any method of curing 
 George of this fault-finding, you will remove the 
 only obstacle in the way of my perfect happiness." 
 
 " Ah, my dear Laura, you don't understand the 
 men quite as well as I do ! To root the rank weed 
 out of your husband's heart, you have only to con- 
 vince him that it is there, and demonstrate how 
 very hateful it is. Now, if you say to him, kindly, 
 1 George, don't, I pray you, find fault with every- 
 thing,' he will reply, kissing you, perhaps, 
 that he never finds fault without reason, and go 
 on, thoughtless as ever, venting his spleen at every- 
 thing." 
 
 " But you would not have me reprove him in an 
 unkind manner ? " 
 
 ^ No, indeed ; that would make him worse still. 
 I say you must demonstrate to him the hatefulness 
 of his habit of fault-finding." 
 
 " But how ? " 
 
 " Why, when he finds fault, you must help him. 
 If he scolds at his coffee, you must show a disposi- 
 tion to throw it out of the window. If he com- 
 plains of a cold room, you must shiver and shake, 
 and scold the girl for not keeping a better fire. 
 When he calls the bread heavy, you must suggest 
 the idea of using it as clock-weights, to save the 
 expense of lead. In short, you must altogether 
 19
 
 218 THE CROSS HUSBAND. 
 
 out-fret him ; find ten times as much fault ag he 
 does, and drown his voice in the petulant tones of 
 your own. Show him how perfectly miserable you 
 can make each other ; give him a foretaste of the 
 beautiful bedlam you can create for him if you try. 
 Thus you will set him thinking ; and he must agree 
 that the fault which appears so uncomfortable in 
 you is quite as far from seeming amiable in him- 
 self." 
 
 Laura was much amused by her friend's singular 
 counsel ; but she was not fully convinced of its 
 safety, until Mrs. Marston declared herself in se- 
 rious earnest, and instanced a cross husband who 
 had been cured in the manner she so warmly recom- 
 mended. 
 
 After a long discussion on the subject, Mrs. 
 Carswell expressed her willingness to follow her 
 friend's advice, but seemed to doubt her ability to 
 play the character it would be necessary for her to 
 assume. Mrs. Marston, however, succeeded in per- 
 suading her to make the attempt; and, having 
 favored her with full instructions how to act, bade 
 her good-morning, and gayly took her leave. 
 
 Mrs. Carswell awaited, with some anxiety, her 
 husband's return to dinner ; and, when he at length 
 arrived, it was not without many misgivings that 
 she remembered her resolution to meet him in the 
 game humor he himself was in.
 
 THE CROSS HUSBAND. 219 
 
 It was a cold, raw day in November, and it so 
 happened that Mr. Carswell was unusually cross. 
 
 " Such wretched weather ! " he exclaimed, rub- 
 bing his hands, and scowling ; " and this room is as 
 cold as a barn." 
 
 " Jane," said Laura, " # why don't you keep a 
 better fire here ? Pile on the coal. We are freez- 
 ing." 
 
 And she quietly rocked the baby, while her brow 
 seemed overshadowed by some great trouble. 
 
 " Is n't dinner ready ? " asked Mr. Carswell, in 
 a petulant tone. 
 
 " Nearly, it will be ready in a few minutes," 
 replied Laura. 
 
 " It is two o'clock," said her husband, referring 
 to his watch. " When a man comes home to din- 
 ner, he does not like to be kept waiting." 
 
 " Why is not the dinner ready, Jane ? " said 
 Mrs. Carswell. " You know that two o'clock is 
 the hour we dine at." 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," said Jane ; " but by the clock it 
 wants five minutes to two." 
 
 " The clock is too slow," growled Mr. Carswell. 
 
 " The clock is too slow," repealed Laura, in a 
 louder key. " Why don't you see to such matters, 
 Jane? Set the pointers along five minutes, and be 
 sure you never keep the dinner waiting again." 
 
 Mr. Carswell cast a furtive glance at his wife.
 
 220 THE CllOSS HUSBAND. 
 
 Having always been accustomed to hear her apolo- 
 gize whenever he found fault, and endeavor to ex- 
 cuse the domestics, he hardly knew what to make 
 of the change. However, he said nothing, but led 
 the way to the dining-room in silence. 
 
 Jane was left in charge of the baby, and Susan 
 the cook attended the table. 
 
 " Soup ! " said Mr. Carswell. " Why, it 's hot 
 as fire ! Soup should never be put upon the table 
 in such a state." 
 
 " No," added Laura, sharply. " Do you mean 
 to scald people, Susan ? Never put fire on the table 
 again." 
 
 " Tasteless stuff, too ! " muttered Mr. Carswell, 
 daintily touching the spoon to his lips. 
 
 " Insipid ! " cried Laura, impatiently. " What 
 sort of mess do you call this, Susan ? It tastes 
 like the broth of stewed leather." 
 
 Mr. Carswell could not help smiling at the con- 
 cfeH ; but, at sight of Laura's long face, his coun- 
 tenance changed immediately. 
 
 " Are you ill to-day ? " he asked. 
 
 "111? No!" replied Laura. 
 
 " What is the matter, then ? " 
 
 " Nothing, only things don't go exactly to suit 
 me." 
 
 These being the precise words George had hun- 
 dreds of times used in answer to similar inquiries
 
 THE CROSS HUSBAND. 221 
 
 from his wife, he paused with the spoon midway 
 between his mouth and the plate, and looked her 
 full in the face, in great surprise. 
 
 " What does not suit you ? " he asked. 
 
 " Why, the same things that do not suit you, I 
 suppose, the soup." 
 
 " The soup is not so very bad, after all, it only 
 required a little salt." 
 
 " So I perceive," observed Laura, unable to re- 
 press a smile. 
 
 Mr. Carswell's humor seemed to improve, until 
 he had occasion to apply the carving-knife to the 
 roast beef, when his countenance changed. 
 
 " Done to a crisp ! " he exclaimed ; " and Susan 
 knows I like my beef rare. My dinner is spoilt ! " 
 
 " Susan ! " cried Laura, " why did n't you burn 
 the meat to a cinder, and have done with it ? You 
 might as well put a coal on the table. I never " 
 
 " Ah ! " interrupted George, in a pleasant tone, 
 " it is not so bad as I expected. It is rare, come 
 to get into it." 
 
 'So it is! " said Mrs. Carswell, smiling. 
 
 George seemed, for a moment, diverted from 
 his annoying habit ; but presently he exclaimed, 
 peevishly, 
 
 " What wretched potatoes ! They are not fit 
 to eat. I never satr such water-soaked things 
 19*
 
 222 THE CROSS HUSBAND. 
 
 before. What is the reason we can't have our pota- 
 toes cooked better ? " 
 
 " Sure enough, why can't we ? " said Mrs. Cars- 
 well. " Why do you put such heavy balls on the 
 table, Susan ? They are as watery as melons. If 
 you do not know how to boil potatoes properly " 
 
 " My dear," interrupted George, " I am inclined 
 to think it is not in the cooking. The potatoes 
 were not good in the first place." 
 
 " Why were they bought, then ? " demanded 
 Laura. " We might as well invest money in poison 
 parsnips. Potatoes that are not fit to eat are 
 worse than none at all. Here, Susan, take them 
 away." 
 
 " But, my dear," cried George, in a tone remark- 
 ably pleasant, " I think some of them may be good. 
 Now, here is one quite mealy indeed." 
 
 " I can't see any difference in them," observed 
 Laura, in a significant tone. 
 
 George colored very red, and found no more fault 
 until the apple-pudding was brought in. 
 
 " It is spoilt ! " said he, throwing himself back 
 in his chair. " The crust is as heavy as lead." 
 
 " Heavy ! " echoed Laura ; " it is like so much 
 grafting-wax, tough and indigestible as a saddle. 
 Who do you think is going to eat such a mess of 
 boiled dough and chopped apples ? Throw it " 
 
 " My dear," said George, in a conciliatory tone,
 
 THE CROSS HUSBAND. 223 
 
 " I think a part of this side of it may be pala- 
 table. Why, it appears quite light. The apple is 
 very nice, and " 
 
 " I beg of you, don't eat it to save it," replied 
 Laura, pettishly. " But, if you think you can man- 
 age to do anything with it, help yourself." 
 
 George did help himself, and discovered that on 
 the whole the pudding was a very creditable affair, 
 and thrice did he have occasion to replenish his 
 plate from the condemned dish. 
 
 Mr. Carswell was heartily ashamed of having 
 found fault with so good a pudding, and felt such 
 anxiety to keep Laura in good humor the rest of the 
 day, that not another word of complaint escaped his 
 lips before leaving the house. 
 
 At evening, however, when he came home to tea, 
 his petulance had returned, and. he commenced find- 
 ing fault with a smell of burnt crusts which in- 
 vaded his nostrils. 
 
 " It is Susan's carelessness," exclaimed Laura. 
 " What is the girl about ? Jape, go and tell her 
 that, if she cannot toast the bread without filling 
 the house with smoke, the sooner " 
 
 " I hardly think that Susan is to blame," inter- 
 rupted George. 
 
 " Who then ? " 
 
 "I I don't know that anybody is."
 
 224 THE CKOSS HUSBAND. 
 
 " There must be somebody to blame when wo 
 are annoyed," observed Laura. " Is tea ready, 
 Jane ? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," replied Jane. 
 
 And the tender pair proceeded to the tea-table, 
 where the cloth was spread in a very inviting 
 manner. 
 
 So firmly fixed had George's habit of fault-find- 
 ing become, that he complained of his tea almost 
 before he tasted it. 
 
 " It 's a pity we can't have a good cup of tea 
 occasionally ! " murmured Laura, indignantly. " Su- 
 san, take away these slops ! Try again, and see if 
 you can't make something fit to drink." 
 
 And, without saying " by your leave," Laura 
 reached forth, took away her husband's cup, and 
 emptied its contents into the slop-bowl, at the same 
 time pushing the tea-pot towards Susan with a look 
 of impatience and disgust. 
 
 Laura was playing her part capitally. George 
 became alarmed. . 
 
 " Don't be too hasty, my dear," said he ; " taste 
 the tea, and see what you think of it." 
 
 " There is no need," returned Laura. " I can 
 take your word for it. You know what good tea 
 is ; and when you say the tea is bad, it is enough. 
 It must be bad." 
 "But "
 
 THE CROSS HUSBAND. 225 
 
 " 0, it 's useless to smooth things over. When 
 the tea is bad, we may as well speak plainly about 
 it. I don't mean to tolerate insipidity any longer. 
 Do you hear, Susan ? " 
 
 Susan was as much astonished as Mr. Carswell 
 himself. But she said nothing, neither did he, 
 although he was compelled to wait five minutes 
 for the return of the tea-pot. 
 
 This time, in consequence of Susan's haste and 
 confusion, the tea was really insipid, but somehow 
 George found it excellent. A conciliatory humor 
 has a remarkable tendency to quicken one's talents 
 for discovering imaginary perfections in things most 
 poor and unworthy. 
 
 Accordingly, George found no more fault at the 
 tea-table ; but, on entering the sitting-room, he un- 
 doubtedly forgot himself. 
 
 " What an atmosphere ! " he exclaimed. " It is 
 like going into an oven. What is the use of keep- 
 ing a room so hot ? " 
 
 " I suppose Jane meant to roast us," added 
 Laura, fanning herself violently. " Throw open 
 the doors, Jane. The baby, poor thing, is cooked 
 brown already. You could bake pies here. DC 
 give us a breath of fresh air ! " 
 
 And Laura raised the window and sat down by 
 it, as if on the verge of fainting. 
 
 George ran to her in alarm, drew her away, and
 
 226 THE CKOSS HUSBAND. 
 
 closed the window, staring at her as if he deemed 
 her insane. 
 
 " You would catch your death-cold," he ex- 
 claimed. " The chill night wind blows in " 
 
 " It is better than roasting," complained Mrs. 
 Carswell. 
 
 He bit his lips, but said nothing. The doors 
 were closed, and the amiable couple did not find 
 thenfselves uncomfortable, even with a little more 
 fire in the grate. 
 
 For two hours George and Laura sat together, 
 luxuriating in domestic peace and comfort, and con- 
 versing in the most happy manner. 
 
 At length Laura took up a magazine, to read 
 aloud to her husband. In a clear, musical voice, 
 she read the opening chapter of an interesting 
 story, which was so pleasantly and truthfully writ- 
 ten that George listened as to a charm, his features 
 glowing with pleasure, and his beaming eyes fixed 
 lovingly on Laura's face. 
 
 Just as she was commencing the second chapter, 
 the baby began to cry, filling the house with the 
 shrill pipings of its little voice. Of course Laura, 
 ever ready to leave everything to run to her darling 
 child, and drive its fears and troubles away with 
 endearing kisses, stopped reading, and started to her 
 feet. 
 
 " What a bother ! " muttered George. " It seems
 
 THE CROSS HUSBAND. 227 
 
 to me that child is crosser than ever, lately. It 
 never gives us a minute's peace." 
 
 Laura remembered the part she was playing at a 
 most fortunate moment. Dashing her magazine 
 upon the table, with an impatient gesture, she knit 
 her pretty brows, and exclaimed, 
 
 " I should think it might be quiet once ! Why 
 can't it sleep when we are enjoying ourselves ? 
 Where is Jane, I wonder, that she is not here to 
 take care of it ? But I suppose it will always be 
 so. Children are the curse of married life ! What 
 people marry for I don't know ! The prospect of a 
 generation of squalling brats is very delightful ! 
 I '11 send for a supply of paregoric before another 
 night, and give it as freely as milk. I won't be 
 tormented this way much longer." 
 
 George was prodigiously astonished at this unex- 
 pected burst of passion. Then he became fright- 
 ened, believing her insane. But her over-acting was 
 at last so apparent, that her ill-humor was no longer 
 a mystery. Something like the truth flashed upon 
 his mind. 
 
 " It strikes me that you find fault with every- 
 thing, to-day," said he. 
 
 " Have n't I a right to ? " retorted Laura. 
 " Can't I complain as well as you ? I 've left the 
 duty of fault-finding to yourself long enough. Now 
 I am going to help you. I shall do my share of it
 
 228 THE CROSS HUSBAND. 
 
 in future. If it is comfortable for one to complain, 
 it must be twice comfortable when we are joined 
 together. We '11 see just how pleasant a home we 
 can make of this ! " 
 
 Mr. Carswell burst into a roar of laughter. 
 Laura, wholly unable longer to sustain her part, in 
 which she had astonished herself as well as George, 
 relapsed from the furious into the mirthful, from 
 tragedy into comedy, and laughed until the tears 
 ran down her cheeks and fell upon the face of her 
 darling child, which, all the time she was uttering 
 her mad complaints, she had been holding tenderly 
 to her heart. 
 
 Gn the following morning at breakfast, George 
 praised the buckwheats, pronounced the beef-steak 
 delicious, and drank an extra cup of coffee, declar- 
 ing his inability to resist the temptation of its ex- 
 cellent quality. 
 
 At dinner, the shrimps were cooked exactly to his 
 taste, the chicken was the most tender and savory 
 in the world, and all day the rooms were found 
 to be of a most comfortable temperature. 
 
 Thus things continued three days, when Mrs. 
 Marston favored Laura with another call, and in- 
 quired about the success of her plans. 
 
 " Ah," said Laura, " I can never express my 
 obligations to you ! George has really learned to 
 control his temper, as I knew he would as soon as
 
 THE CROSS HUSBAND. 229 
 
 he was aware how hateful his habit of fault-finding 
 had become." 
 
 Mrs. Marston was rejoiced at her friend's happi- 
 ness ; for Laura was troubled no more with a cross 
 husband. 
 
 But I hope that no fault-finding men who read 
 this sketch will impose upon their wives the neces- 
 sity of following Laura's example. 
 20
 
 THE BLUE EYES. 
 
 STANDING before a magnificent mirror, in the light 
 of brilliant lamps, a young and radiant creature re- 
 garded her reflected image with a smile of pleasure. 
 In a ball-dress of singular taste and elegance, her 
 silken brown hair falling in luxuriant curls about 
 her snowy neck and glowing cheeks, her graceful 
 bosom heaving with every breath she drew, and her 
 white, delicate and slender hands glittering with 
 jewels, truthfully might the poet have said of her, 
 " beautiful exceedingly ! " 
 
 There was beauty in the symmetry of her form, 
 beauty in the sweeping arch of her brows, 
 beauty in the finely-chiselled mouth, Grecian nose, 
 and brilliant teeth; but, above all, was there a 
 strange, touching, captivating beauty in the pure 
 azure of her large, soft, lustrous eyes. 
 
 She smiled, I say, as the faithful mirror flung 
 back to those beaming eyes the light of their own
 
 THE BLUE EYES. 231 
 
 beauty ; and through those lovely lips were breathed 
 the half-articulate words 
 
 " If he will not love me, others shall, at least ! " 
 
 But at that moment the smile faded from her 
 lips, a sigh heaved her breast, and the shadow of an 
 intrusive thought darkened those eyes of blue. 
 
 " If he will not love me ! " 
 
 She repeated the words; and, sinking upon a 
 chair, pressed one of her hands upon her brow. 
 When she removed it, those large eyes flashed out 
 with a deeper blue, and a wilder lustre, through 
 the glittering crystal of a tear. This she dashed 
 away, and, arising majestically, rang for an attend- 
 ant. 
 
 " Has Mr. Sandford returned yet ? " 
 
 " He just went into the library, ma'am," replied 
 the woman who appeared. 
 
 A moment after, she of the blue eyes opened 
 small door which formed the entrance to the apart 
 ment whither her husband had retired. He was 
 sitting by a table, nervously fingering the folds of 
 a newspaper, which he appeared little inclined to 
 read. Mrs. Sandford paused on the threshold. The 
 stern and forbidding expression of her husband's 
 gathered brows scarcely left her courage to address 
 him. 
 
 At the sound of that low and gentle voice, Mr.
 
 232 THE BLUE EYES. 
 
 Sandford raised his head, and lifted his eyes from 
 the newspaper, to meet the shrinking gaze of his 
 wife. He started, and his lip curled bitterly, as her 
 radiant beauty flashed upon his vision. 
 
 " You are going, then ? " he said, in a suppressed 
 tone. 
 
 "Yes Philip," she replied, blushing deeply. 
 " Mr. Lawrence and Lucy are going to call for me." 
 
 " Very well," muttered Mr. Sandford, compress- 
 ing his lips, and dropping his eyes to the newspaper. 
 
 The blue eyes flashed. With a toss of her curls, 
 Mrs. Sandford turned, and was about leaving the 
 room, when a better impulse seemed to take the 
 place of her momentary resentment. 
 
 " I hope you are not displeased, Philip " 
 
 " Displeased ! Why should I be ? I believe it 
 
 's now-a-days considered very absurd for husbands 
 
 be displeased with anything their wives may 
 
 oose to do ! " 
 
 " Mr. Sandford ! " 
 
 " Why should you for an instant fancy that I am 
 displeased ? True, you care nothing for my society ; 
 you prefer the glitter and the glow of a ball-room 
 to the comforts of your household; you choose 
 to leave your child our child to the tender 
 mercies of a nurse ; but such are the ways of the 
 world, and, of course, I shall not fall into the vulgar 
 fault of making any complaint. Even though you
 
 THE BLUE EYES. 266 
 
 prepare for balls without so much as asking my 
 advice " 
 
 "Philip! Philip! I have not I have not de- 
 served this ! " cried Mrs. Sandford, with a passion- 
 ate gesture. 
 
 " 0, be calm be calm ! " 
 
 " Be calm ! ! you can well say ' be calm,' 
 when you drive me frantic with your coldness, your 
 irony, your hateful sneers " 
 
 " Sophia ! " 
 
 " Well, well ! I will be calm ! I have nothing 
 to blame myself for, and I will not be vexed ! " 
 
 " You have nothing to blame yourself for ! " re- 
 peated Mr. Sandford, slowly, in a deep, significant 
 tone. " Certainly not ! Now-a-days, a wife should 
 never think of consulting her husband before making 
 up her mind to go to a ball at all hazards." 
 
 "I cannot bear that, sir, with either patience 
 or calmness ! " cried Sophia, vehemently. " You 
 wrong me, sir, you know you do ! I should never 
 take any important step without consulting you, 
 were it not for your sarcasm, and your bitter 
 taunts. This afternoon I was on the point of con- 
 sulting you, of asking your permission, before 
 making up my mind to go to the ball, but your 
 manner, your forbidding aspect, disheartened me. 
 Then I felt that you loved me no longer, that you 
 did not care whether I went or remained at home
 
 234 THE BLUE EYES. 
 
 and so I held my peace. You paralyze my tongua 
 with your indifference, and then you blame and 
 reproach me for not speaking." 
 
 " I believe, Sophia, a wife would never hesitate 
 to mention a project to her husband of which she 
 thought he would approve. It is, then, plain that 
 you knew I would disapprove of the step you are 
 taking, and that you have no regard for my 
 feelings" 
 
 To this stern reproach Sophia made answer, im- 
 pulsively, 
 
 " Why should I regard your feelings more than 
 you mine? You disapprove of everything I do. 
 You would have me satisfied with your coldness, 
 nor ask for nor desire anything more. But I can- 
 not submit to such tyranny, and I will not" 
 
 And she burst into a passion of tears. 
 
 Mr. Sandford's features contracted with an al- 
 most fierce expression. His teeth closed angrily, 
 and glittered through his curling lips, while, uncon- 
 sciously, his fingers tore the newspaper into frag- 
 ments. For nearly a minute, he regarded Sophia 
 with his blazing eyes, in silence. Notwithstanding 
 her beauty and her tears, he was angry still. Yet 
 he was not cruel, he was not cold. Devotedly 
 passionately did he love that beautiful, warm- 
 hearted, capricious wife. It was what he deemed 
 her injustice, in accusing him of coldness, that had
 
 THE .BLUE EVES. 235 
 
 roused his resentment ; for he could not see the 
 cause she had to consider him cold. Proud, sensi- 
 tive, reserved in his feelings, he had always con- 
 cealed his anguish on witnessing his wife's love of 
 pleasure ; for he could never bring himself to betray 
 his jealousy of the admiration she everywhere re- 
 ceived, and seemed so much to love. His reserve she 
 construed into indifference ; and she imagined that 
 his displeasure, when she mingled with the society 
 of which he himself was not fond, was the result of 
 a selfish and domineering disposition, rather than 
 of love. This misunderstanding was the cause of 
 all their unhappiness ; for, while Sophia laid all the 
 blame upon her husband's selfishness and want of 
 affection, he felt that her love of pleasure, and her 
 disregard for the comforts of home, were the faults 
 which ruined his peace. Therefore, loving her as 
 he did, he was wrought almost to fury by her reiter- 
 ated charge of coldness ; and, after witnessing her 
 tears for some time in silence, he said, in a bitter 
 tone: 
 
 " It would be no wonder if I did not love you, 
 since you care so much more for the admiration of 
 the world than for my happiness. Your conduct 
 is enough to drive all the love out of my heart." 
 
 Sophia raised her blue eyes, which flashed 
 through her tears. She remembered the time when 
 but the first crystal drop swelling under those fringed
 
 236 THE BLUE EYES. 
 
 lids had the power to soften her husband in his 
 sternest moments ; and, contrasting the past with 
 the present she gave utterance, on the bitter im- 
 pulse of the moment, to the thought which had 
 entered her heart as she stood before the mirror : 
 
 " Although you do not love me, there are those 
 who do ; and, since I am nothing to you, I may as 
 well make the most of their society." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said Philip. " Then permit me to 
 advise you to dry your tears, else the light of those 
 eyes, which are to bring admiring lovers to your 
 feet, will become dim ! " 
 
 " By your tone," answered Sophia, with a sneer, 
 " one would judge that you would gladly have it 
 extinguished altogether." 
 
 " Heaven knows it would have been for my hap- 
 piness had it been so before, like an ignis fatuus, it 
 lured me to my ruin ! " 
 
 " Why don't you pray heaven, then, that I may 
 be struck blind ? " 
 
 " I can almost find it in my heart to do so ! " 
 muttered Philip. 
 
 With an angry and scornful gesture, Sophia swept 
 from the room. Her eyes were soon bright and lus- 
 trous as ever ; her maid placed another jewel on 
 her arm, according to her directions, and five min- 
 utes after, she was on her way to the ball, resolved 
 to win all the admiration in her power. Meanwhile,
 
 TI1E BLUE El'liS. 237 
 
 Philip sat with his chin resting on his palm, ab- 
 sorbed in thought. The last hasty words which 
 had escaped his lips awoke remorseful reflections, 
 and he felt, for the first time, with any degree of 
 force, that there was much fault on his side, as well 
 as on Sophia's. 
 
 " She did love me once," thought he : " sometimes 
 I feel that she loves me still. Perhaps, if I was 
 more frank and cordial with her, she would be so 
 with me, and we would live more happily together. 
 I must govern myself better ; I must never again 
 allow myself to speak with haste and passion, as I 
 did just now. I will try kindness to wean her 
 from the dissipations of society ; and this night I 
 will begin. I will sit up for her, and ask her for- 
 giveness for my harsh and hasty words." 
 
 Mr. Sandford certainly loved Sophia, with her 
 graceful person, her transparent complexion, and 
 her tender eyes of blue ; and good reason had he 
 " sometimes " to feel that she loved him still. 
 She was one of those creatures with whom love 
 is a necessity; and when her idol for such her 
 husband was threw off the cold mantle of reserve, 
 and appeared himself, she was all affection and 
 devotion. But she loved society better than he, 
 and she was as incapable of comprehending his 
 indifference to it, as he of appreciating her fond- 
 ness for balls and parties. And she loved her child
 
 238 TIIE 13LUE EYES. 
 
 too, the darling Sophy, although she could leave her, 
 to participate in the pleasures of the world. I will 
 not say that, during the three years of her married 
 life, Mrs. Sandford's disposition had not suffered 
 from the evil influence of unhappy domestic rela- 
 tions contrasted with the follies of gay society ; 
 but as yet all her better feelings were not smoth- 
 ered, nor had vanity usurped the place of the most 
 disinterested and pure affection, as we shall see. 
 
 Sophia had not been an hour in the ball-room, 
 before the radiance of her brow began to be over- 
 shadowed by frequent and fitful clouds of sadness. 
 The reflection that she had left her husband angry 
 and unhappy, and that she was not altogether 
 blameless in their last and most serious quarrel, 
 would intrude upon her gayest moments, causing 
 the bright smile to fade from her lips, and the light 
 of pleasure from her blue eyes. In the graceful 
 whirl of the waltz, she became abstracted, and often 
 she accompanied the merriest music with sighs. 
 Her friends, unaccustomed to behold her anything 
 but gay, supposed she was ill, and treated her with 
 the kindest attentions ; but these only added to her 
 sadness, in reminding her of its cause. 
 
 " You are really suffering, Mrs. Sandford," said 
 Mr. Amsden, a gentleman with whom she was on 
 terms of friendship. " If you wish to return home, 
 my carriage is at your service."
 
 TUB BLUE EYES. 239 
 
 Sophia thanked him, with a smile, but politely 
 declined the offer. No sooner had she done so, 
 however, than she regretted her decision, and her 
 melancholy returned with ten-fold force. Weary of 
 attempting to appear gay, she at length resolved to 
 presume upon Mr. Amsden's friendship, and ask the 
 favor which he had before so kindly offered. 
 
 Accordingly, she sought out Mrs. Lawrence, 
 whom she accompanied to the ball, to inform her 
 of her resolution ; after which, she cast her eye 
 about for Mr. Amsden. Not discovering him any- 
 where, but supposing he would soon make his ap- 
 pearance, she proceeded ^o the dressing-room ; and, 
 after putting on her things, she again endeavored 
 to find him, but with no better success. Im- 
 patient, and unwilling to trouble her friends, she 
 confided the cause of her embarrassment to no one, 
 but, after waiting a few minutes for Mr. Amsden, 
 and making some inquiries for him, she glided 
 from the hall, and tripped lightly down the broad 
 stairs. 
 
 Sophia was a creature of impulse. Unwilling to 
 return to the ball-room, and reflecting that her home 
 was only two streets distant, she unfortunately 
 formed the rash design of proceeding thither alone, 
 It was not until she was in the street that she dis- 
 covered that it had been raining. The water struck 
 through the thin soles of her shoes in an instant,
 
 240 THE BLUE EYES. 
 
 She turned back in haste, but, instantly reflecting 
 that she would be less liable to take cold, if she ran 
 immediately home, than if she returned to the dress- 
 ing-room, or stopped to call a carriage, she turned 
 again, and tripped rapidly along the street. The 
 unhappy woman had proceeded no more than half 
 way, however, when it recommenced raining in tor- 
 rents. She was soon completely drenched ; and, it 
 being a December night, she was likewise thoroughly 
 chilled. Alarmed by the storm, she ran faster than 
 ever, regardless of the eyes which followed her in 
 astonishment. A stranger offered her his umbrella, 
 but, fearful of insult, she refused it, and kept on 
 amidst the rain. At length, in considerable trepida- 
 tion, she reached her own door. It was well she 
 arrived as she did, for, at that moment, the street- 
 lamp before the house seemed suddenly to be extin- 
 guished. Surrounded by darkness, frightened, faint 
 and sick, Sophia felt for the bell-knob, and rang 
 violently. A strange feeling in her head oppressed 
 her, and she leaned against the door for support- 
 Impatient, terrified by the darkness and the 
 storm, she rang again almost immediately. A 
 moment after, the door was opened, and she fell into 
 the arms of a domestic. Startled by the wholly 
 unexpected appearance of Mrs. Sandford at that 
 hour, and in so strai.ge a manner, Margaret uttered 
 a cry of surprise.
 
 THE BLUE EYES. 241 
 
 " Hush ! " said Sophia, recovering herself. " Don't 
 disturb Mr. Sandford. I do not wish him to know 
 that I have been so imprudent. But why where 
 where is the hall-lamp ? How could you be so 
 careless as to let it go out ? Help me up stairs ; 
 and, Margaret, do you take care that such an acci- 
 dent never happens again. It is dark as a pit 
 here ! " 
 
 The domestic gazed at her mistress in amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 " Sure," said she, " the lamp is burning very well ; 
 and I am sorry if I does n't plaze ye." 
 
 " Margaret ! " answered Sophia, in a tone of irri- 
 tation and displeasure, " what do you mean ? You 
 are really too impudent to be tolerated. Why do 
 you tell me the lamp is burning, when the hall is 
 certainly so dark that I cannot distinguish a single 
 object ? " 
 
 " Indade, Mrs. Sandford, I spoke nothing but the 
 truth ; and ye must have lost yer rason to say the 
 lamp does n't burn, when sure " 
 
 " Margaret ! " 
 
 " What, ma'am ? " 
 
 " Cease this absurd talk ! I will not hear it 
 There is no light ! " 
 
 The domestic once more stared at her mistress in 
 the greatest astonishment ; but, perceiving how pale 
 she was, and imagining from the strange expression 
 21
 
 242 THE BLUE EYES. 
 
 of her large blue eyes, that she must have lost her 
 senses, she dared not utter another word. She con- 
 ducted Sophia directly to her own apartment, whore 
 a bright coal fire was burning in the grate, and a 
 lamp glowed on the table. 
 
 " Margaret ! Margaret ! " cried Sophia, wildly, 
 holding the domestic's arm, " tell me truly, is 
 there a light here ? " 
 
 Afraid to dispute with her mistress, whom she 
 now regarded as quite insane, and terrified by her 
 wild manner, Margaret, instead of replying with 
 words, led Sophia to the fire, and placed her hand 
 near the glowing coals. 
 
 "0, God ! have mercy on me ! " cried Mrs. 
 Sandford. "I I feel the heat, but I see no light ! 
 Margaret ! my eyes ! " 
 
 And with a low moan she sank in the arms of 
 the terrified domestic, who placed her on the couch, 
 and ran in frantic haste for Mr. Sandford. Philip 
 was writing in the library. Startled by the abrupt 
 entrance of Margaret, he looked up in surprise. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " demanded he, rising 
 abruptly. "Speak! What has happened ? What 
 noise is this I have heard ? Is the child ill ? " 
 
 " No ; Mrs. Sandford " 
 
 " She has not returned ? " 
 
 " She is in her chamber ! " 
 
 Under the conviction that something terrible had
 
 THE BLUE EYES. 243 
 
 happened, Philip rushed to his wife's apartment. 
 He found her lying upon the couch, with her hands 
 clasped over her ejes, and uttering low moans, which 
 went like death-knells to his heart. He flew to her 
 Bide, and throwing his arms around her, discovered 
 that she was drenched with the cold rain. 
 
 " Sophia ! Sophia ! " he murmured from his over- 
 charged, trembling heart, " where have you been ? 
 What has happened ? Speak to me ! " 
 
 Mrs. Sandford answered only with the same low, 
 piteous moan. 
 
 " If you love me, speak, my own Sophia ! Relieve 
 my suspense. Tell me, what has happened ? " 
 
 " 0, Philip ! Philip ! " moaned the unhappy wife, 
 " you have your wish ! " 
 
 " My wish ? What do you mean ? " 
 
 " My eyes ! 0, my eyes ! " 
 
 " Your eyes ! " echoed Philip, chilled with vague 
 terror. " There has nothing happened to them ! " 
 
 " Philip ! " murmured Sophia, in a voice which 
 seemed to fall faintly from a heart smitten with the 
 sickness of despair and death, " Philip I AM 
 BLIND ! " 
 
 Mr. Sandford seemed for a moment petrified with 
 consternation. 
 
 " Sophia, it cannot be ! " were the words which 
 burst from his lips, as soon as he could speak. " I
 
 244 THE BLUE EYES. 
 
 know it cannot be ! You arc not blind not 
 BLI.VD ! " 
 
 " 0, Philip ! I cannot see you ! All is dark- 
 ness before my eyes. O, it is awful, awful to be 
 blind ! " 
 
 Mr. Sandford rushed to the chamber-door. The 
 terrified Margaret was waiting without. 
 
 " Call Thomas ! " exclaimed Philip. " Be quick !, 
 Send him in all haste for Dr. Duncan." 
 
 He returned to his wife. He clasped her in his 
 arms. He touched with passionate tenderness those 
 large blue eyes, the light of which had been his light 
 of love, but which rolled in darkness now. Franti- 
 cally he bestowed on her the most endearing epithets, 
 and entreated her to say that she could see. That 
 man of deep feelings, who usually appeared so cold 
 and reserved, was now all passion, all impulse, like 
 a child. Sophia, who had never before known the 
 depth and strength of his love, felt a ray of joy steal 
 in upon the darkness of her soul. 
 
 " Philip, you do love me ! " 
 
 " 0, how much ! My best, my dearest wife ! 
 you have doubted my love, I know, for I have 
 been unkind to you ; but I have always loved you 
 devotedly, and you will forgive me ! Forgive my 
 harshness, my cruelty, and, my wife ! forgive my 
 last words, thoughtlessly spoken, as we parted this 
 evening ! "
 
 THE BLUE EYES. 245 
 
 " I forgive you, from my heart I do ; for I 
 know, I am sure, you could not wish me blind ! " 
 
 " Could I, 0, could I, when your eyes are 
 dearer to me than my life ? Yet I was cruel to 
 you, Sophia ! and did this calamity fall alone on me, 
 I should know it was a judgment from heaven. But 
 my sin could have no evil influence on one so pure, 
 so good, as you ! " 
 
 " I have been very wicked ! " murmured Sophia. 
 " I have been so vain, so unlike a true wife, a duti- 
 ful mother ! But bitterly have I repented this 
 night. I could not be happy, when I remembered 
 how unkind I had been to you. I could not wait 
 for our friends, but I came alone on foot to ask 
 your forgiveness ! " 
 
 Philip could only murmur, " My Sophia ! my own 
 wife ! " and clasp her to his heart. Meanwhile, he 
 had administered some wanning medicine, and re- 
 moved her wet clothes. He now waited anxiously 
 for the arrival of Dr. Duncan ; but during the delay 
 he did not neglect to console her with his affection, 
 and cheer her with the hope that her blindness was 
 only transitory. 
 
 It is probable that both Philip and Sophia in- 
 dulged this hope. Great, therefore, was their anx- 
 iety for the arrival of the family physician, who was 
 a man of unusual experience and skill, and who, 
 they felt, would be able at once to put an end to
 
 246 THE BLUE EYES. 
 
 their suspense. At length he came. Philip grasped 
 his hand, and, with a hurried explanation, led him 
 to the bedside of his wife. If Sophia's anxiety to 
 hear his decision was great, Philip's amounted to 
 dread, and was painful in the extreme. A fearful 
 silence prevailed, whilst Dr. Duncan considered the 
 symptoms, and examined those large blue eyes. He 
 turned to address Mr. Sandford, aside. 
 
 " I beg you not to conceal anything from me ! " 
 said Sophia. " I can bear to hear the truth now 
 better than at any other time. I am prepared for 
 the worst. Then I pray that you will keep me in 
 suspense no longer, but tell me at once whether I 
 am really blind, or whether I suffer merely from 
 some temporary disorder of my system." 
 
 " Mrs. Sandford," replied Dr. Duncan, I will 
 be candid with you, as I have always been, since I 
 can rely on your firmness and good sense. Your 
 eyes atone are affected" 
 
 Philip became frightfully pale, while Sophia only 
 sighed. 
 
 " But she is not permanently blind ? " questioned 
 Mr. Sandford, with prayerful eagerness. 
 
 " My friend, I will not deceive you. She has 
 suffered a paralysis of the optic nerve, apparently so 
 complete that I doubt whether her sight will ever 
 be perfectly restored." 
 
 Philip was silent with despair. His lips quivered
 
 THE BLUE EYES. 247 
 
 and he pressed the hand of his unhappy wife, while 
 his heart was so full of sorrow that he could not 
 articulate a word. 
 
 But it is painful to dwell upon this portion of our 
 story. The light of the Hue eyes was extinguished, 
 and we will draw a veil over the two hearts which 
 sympathize so deeply in their sorrow. For many 
 days Philip never left the chamber of his wife. He 
 seemed to have no longer a thought of earth, except 
 that which concerned the alleviation of her distress. 
 Never had his deep and entire affection for her been 
 BO apparent, and, if there be any consolation in a 
 husband's devotion, she must have been consoled. 
 On the other hand, never had her heart been so full 
 of love and gratitude for him. 
 
 It was not long before Sophia became reconciled 
 to her lot. She learned with a sweet and serene 
 joy that, with nothing but the love of her husband 
 and her child, she could be happy. The kind atten- 
 tions of her friends, who came to sympathize with 
 her in her affliction, were gratefully received, but 
 they were nothing in comparison with Philip's devo- 
 tion, which gave her so much strength to endure 
 the dispensation. And she seemed to conceive a 
 new tenderness for her child, in which, although she 
 could not behold its beauty now, she took more pure 
 delight, as she strained it to her heart, than she had 
 ever felt before.
 
 248 THE BLUE EYES. 
 
 It must not be supposed that no efforts were made 
 to restore Sophia's sight. The most skilful oculists 
 were consulted, none of whom could do anything for 
 her, or give her any hope. 
 
 And now Philip gazed upon those large blue eyes, 
 and, knowing that they could never behold him more, 
 or look upon the beautiful earth, or drink in the 
 light of the glorious sun again, loved them with a 
 strange yearning ; with a child-like tenderness and 
 idolatry ; with a deeper, purer, less selfish devotion, 
 than they could ever have inspired with all their 
 former soft and lustrous beauty. Languishing be- 
 neath their long, dark fringes, they were more than 
 ever now the light of his happiness. 
 
 It was touching to witness the solicitude with 
 which the devoted husband sought to compensate 
 the fair sufferer for her loss of sight. He was 
 never tired of reading to her, until she was tired 
 of listening ; and well did she love the tones of his 
 voice, which gave to poetry a finer beauty, and to 
 romance a greater charm. Then, in the spring- 
 time of the year, Philip conducted her into the 
 midst of sweet verdure and fragrant flowers, and 
 painted to her warm imagination the beauties she 
 was not permitted to behold. She inhaled the fresh 
 and delicate odors of the spring ; she felt the flowers 
 upon her cheek, and Philip's hand in hers ; she heard 
 the tones of her child's beloved voice, mingling their
 
 THE BLUE EYES. 249 
 
 music with the notes of the singing birds, and she was 
 happy, very happy. 
 
 "I am happy," she would say, "happier than 
 when the eyes of my body were opened, and the 
 eyes of my heart closed ; but now, Philip, could I 
 only gaze once more on you and on our child, my 
 earthly bliss would be perfect ! " 
 
 Two years glided away. Sophia lay motionless, 
 almost lifeless, on a couch amidst the deep shadows 
 of the curtain's sweeping folds. Another soul had 
 been ushered into the world. Little Sophy had a 
 brother now, and Mrs. Sandford had another object 
 to love. Ah ! how the mother's heart yearned towards 
 that object the child of her blindness which she 
 could not see ! 
 
 The mother's lips moved with a feeble murmur. 
 Philip bent over her to listen to her faintest words. 
 Immediately after, he gave some hurried directions 
 to the attendants, and the babe was placed on its 
 mother's breast. Her heart overflowed with inde- 
 scribable tenderness. 
 
 " 0, Philip ! " she murmured, " if I could only 
 BEE it ! " 
 
 She raised the fringes of her large blue eyes, 
 which opened with a strange expression. A cry of 
 joy escaped her lips. 
 
 " Philip," she said, " I see I see the light ! "
 
 250 THE BLUE EYES. 
 
 " You see ! " he cried ; " you see ! Sophia, do 
 you see ? " 
 
 Yes, thank God, I see the light! I see 
 you, I see my babe, dimly, but yet I see ! 0, God 
 be praised ! " 
 
 And forth from those blue eyes gushed tears of 
 rapturous joy, which Philip, thrilled with indescrib- 
 able ecstasies, fondly wiped away. 
 
 " 0, Sophia ! " he murmured ; " this happiness is 
 too much too much ! Can you indeed see ? " 
 
 She could, she could! she saw him, she saw 
 her babe again, and almost fainted with excess of 
 joy! 
 
 Strange as it may seem, Sophia's sight had thus 
 unexpectedly returned. Those blue eyes saw again ; 
 dimly at first, it is true, and never perhaps with all 
 their former clearness and strength, but still they 
 saw ; and the happiness of Sophia and Philip was 
 complete. 
 
 It were superfluous to add more to our story. 
 The reader can imagine the continued devotion of 
 Philip, and the fondness of Sophia for his second 
 child, with whose birth were associated the most 
 tender and joyful emotions. 
 
 Yes, the light of the blue eyes was restored ; but 
 her soul's vision, which had been born of her physi- 
 cal blindness, also remained. She had learned where 
 the real happiness of a true wife and mother is to be
 
 THE BLUE EYES. 251 
 
 found ; and henceforth, although she still enjoyed the 
 society of her tried and attached friends, she seemed 
 to live only to beautify and cheer her household 
 hearth.
 
 THE JOURNEY FOR A WIFE. 
 
 ONE fine morning in June, Albert Fairchild se 
 lected from his wardrobe his most beautiful suit, 
 and from his bureau a goodly supply of linen ; and, 
 with a countenance glowing with joyful anticipa- 
 tion, commenced packing a capacious valise, and 
 making other preparations for a journey. 
 
 Mr. Albert Fairchild was going to visit a young 
 lady, of whom it is necessary that we should say a 
 few words before proceeding with our story. 
 
 Josephine Marvin resided, with her parents, in a 
 village which we shall call Pekin, in order not to 
 offend the modesty of its inhabitants by using the 
 real name of the locality ; and out of this village 
 she had never journeyed far, except on three occa- 
 sions. She had made three visits to relatives in 
 town, with whom she had spent months at a time. 
 Here Mr. Albert Fairchild saw her, admired her, 
 and ended by loving her devotedly. Satisfied witU
 
 THE JOUIINKY FOB A WIFE. 253 
 
 her beauty and excellence, he offered her his hand ; 
 but she said, " You must come and see me at my 
 home, and become acquainted with my parents, 
 before exacting an engagement from me ; for it 
 may be you will not like them, and it is possible 
 they will not fancy you; in cither case I should 
 hesitate to accept your gracious offer." 
 
 Miss Marvin had returned to Pekin ; and now 
 as already stated, Albert was intending to visit her 
 family. Confident that Josephine was inclined to 
 favor his suit, and blessed with a tolerably good 
 opinion of himself, which told him the Marvins 
 would not object to either his station in life or his 
 personal appearance, he set out on his journey iu 
 excellent spirits. 
 
 The first forty miles he accomplished by railway- 
 steam, in the space of two hours. At a small town 
 in the country, he found himself compelled to wait 
 for a stage-coach to convey him to the village of 
 Pekin. 
 
 Impatient to proceed, Albert became ill-humored, 
 and grumbled at the necessary delay. To while 
 away the time, he drank a cup of coffee, ate a 
 penny's worth of pea-nuts, read a few paragraphs 
 in a newspaper, and walked the parlor-floor of the 
 wretched inn with impatient strides. 
 
 " Are you going to Pekin ? " asked a quiet 
 voice. 
 
 22
 
 254 THE JOURNEi* FOB A WIFE. 
 
 He glanced at the speaker, who was a ir.id die- 
 aged gentleman, in a loose drab coat, a well-devel- 
 oped waistcoat of worn and faded velvet, and a hat 
 that had evidently been useful for years ; and who 
 presented a rough and careless appearance alto- 
 gether. 
 
 Now, Albert had one fault, which is a common 
 one with travellers. He had no desire to make 
 himself sociable, or even civil, in the company of 
 strangers. If an unknown person asked him a 
 question in the politest manner, he was sure to 
 answer shortly, or give no answer at all. More- 
 over, his motto, when travelling, was " Every one 
 for himself; " and this he made his invariable rule 
 of action. A proposal to put himself out of his way 
 to accommodate a stranger he would have ridiculed 
 as the height of absurdity. 
 
 Knowing this disposition in our hero, the reader 
 will not be surprised when told that, instead of 
 giving a simple affirmative answer, or even a re- 
 sponsive nod, he regarded the rough-looking man a 
 moment in silent disdain, and passed on without a 
 word. 
 
 But the old gentleman with the drab coat and 
 faded velvet waistcoat, in spite of his rough appear- 
 ance, evidently possessed a patient and good-natured 
 disposition, which was not easily to be disturbed.
 
 THE JOURNEY FOR A WIFE. 255 
 
 Without appearing to notice Albert's incivility, he 
 quietly remarked, as he came in his way again, 
 
 " You are going to Pekin, I should judge ? " 
 
 " What if I am ? " growled Albert. 
 
 " 0, nothing," answered the old gentleman, with 
 a good-natured smile ; " only I 'd advise you to 
 book your name for a seat in the stage at once, if 
 you have not done so ; for I have no doubt but 
 there will be half-a-dozen more passengers than the 
 coach can accommodate." 
 
 Now, Albert had not booked his name, and he 
 ought to have thanked the old gentleman for his 
 suggestion. So far, however, from manifesting any 
 sense of obligation, he replied with an insulting 
 " Hem ! " and abruptly turned_upon his heel. 
 
 In effect, he found that there was but one seat 
 in the stage-coach left unengaged, and that an out- 
 side one ; and he had scarcely booked his same, 
 when two other gentlemen came up in haste, nym- 
 ifesting much disappointment on learning that there 
 was not room for them in the next stage. Albert 
 was, therefore, fully conscious that he owed his 
 chance to the old gentleman whom he had treated 
 so rudely. 
 
 He placed his valise on the floor in the public 
 room, and, lighting a cigar, sat down by his prop- 
 erty, to beguile his impatience with smoke. He 
 had been thus employed but a few moments, when
 
 256 THE JOUIiXEY FOR A WIFE. 
 
 the old gentleman in the velvet waistcoat came and 
 sat down at his right hand. Albert looked at him 
 through wreaths of smoke, as if the old gentleman 
 had been nothing but smoke himself, of a disagree- 
 able quality, and puffed away without noticing him 
 further. 
 
 " Will you be so good as to give me the time, 
 sir?" civilly asked the old gentleman, glancing at 
 Albert's showy fob-chain. 
 
 " Give you what ? " muttered Albert, as if he had 
 not understood ; at the same time puffing a volume 
 of smoke in the good-humored face of the old gen- 
 tleman. 
 
 "The time, if you please, sir. Is it eleven 
 o'clock ? " 
 
 " I don't know," replied Albert, without deign- 
 ing to look at his watch. 
 
 A moment after, the young man moved his chair 
 to another part of the room, and sat down, his back 
 turned towards the drab coat and velvet waistcoat. 
 
 The stage-coach drove up shortly after; and, 
 having discharged its passengers and changed horses, 
 made ready for the return route to Pekin. 
 
 Albert and another traveller occupied a seat 
 designed to accommodate three, directly behind the 
 driver. Both were slender men, yet they man- 
 aged to spread themselves so as to give the seat the 
 appearance of being full. The stage was nearly
 
 THE JOURN12Y FOR A WIFE. 257 
 
 ready to depart, when the old gentleman in the drab 
 coat came out of the tavern, with a heavy carpet- 
 bag in his hand, and looked inquiringly at the out- 
 side passengers. 
 
 " Iloorn for another up there ? " he asked, smiling 
 at Albert. 
 
 "We're crowded now," responded the young 
 Kan, sharply. 
 
 " You will have to get up there, sir," observed 
 the driver, addressing the drab coat. " That seat 
 ought to accommodate three." 
 
 " Then I suppose I must take my chance with 
 the rest of you ! " cried the old gentleman, with a 
 good-humored laugh, as he climbed upon the stage. 
 " Sorry, young gentlemen, to trouble you to make 
 room," he added, as neither Albert nor the other 
 traveller attempted to move ; " but I believe I am 
 entitled to a seat here. Ha ! tight fit, is n't it ? " 
 
 The old gentleman, who, as we have intimated, 
 was rather corpulent, appeared to take no notice of 
 the } 7 oung men's unaccommodating manners, but 
 settled slowly and deliberately upon the seat be- 
 tween them, compelling them, in order to avoid an 
 unpleasant pressure, to contract their dimensions, 
 and give him his share of the room. 
 
 " This is an imposition ! " cried Albert, to the 
 driver. 
 
 " What is an imposition ? " 
 22*
 
 258 TUE JOCHXET TOR A WIFE. 
 
 " Look for yourself. This seat is too short for 
 three men of ordinary size, and this corpulent fel- 
 low will crush us ! " 
 
 " Dear me ! I hope not ! " exclaimed the old 
 gentleman. "I shouldn't like to do that, I de- 
 clare ! But it is a close fit, is n't it ? Ha ! ha ! 
 too much flesh is inconvenient, to be sure." 
 
 " Men over twenty-sis inches broad should buy 
 two seats," muttered Albert. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! " laughed the good-humored trav- 
 eller. " I don't know but we fat fellows ought to 
 pay for the extra room we occupy." 
 
 " You ought to have some regard for othei trav- 
 ellers !" said Albert; advocating a principl \ by 
 the way, which he never considered himself. 
 
 " That is a fact," replied the proprietor of the 
 velvet waistcoat " We have no right to disregard 
 the feelings of others. I believe I must diet my 
 corpulency, for the benefit of society ; but we will 
 be obliged to get along the best way we can to-day, 
 for my substance is rather solid. Ah, I 'm sorry 
 to discommode you ! I only wish, for your sake, I 
 was smaller." 
 
 This last remark was followed by a good-natured 
 laugh from all the outside passengers, except Al- 
 bert, who had become decidedly sullen. 
 
 The stage-coach now rolled heavily off with its 
 load, the driver cracking his long whip, and urging
 
 THE JOURNEY FOR A WIFE. 259 
 
 his horses into a rapid pace. For some time neither 
 of the outsiders spoke, each appearing busy with 
 his own thoughts. At length the old gentleman 
 in the drab coat, whose patience, it seemed, nothing 
 could exhaust, and whose even temper nothing could 
 ruffle, remarked, addressing himself to Albert, 
 
 " This is really a fine day, sir. Were you ever 
 in this part of the country before ? " 
 
 " No," was the abrupt reply. 
 
 " Don't you think it a fine region ? Observe 
 those hills, which the spring has spread with green 
 carpets; and remark how beautiful yonder forest 
 looks in the sunshine ! This is an excellent soil for 
 a variety of agricultural purposes ; well watered, as 
 you perceive, by a river, which you may see glim- 
 mering through yonder clump of fine peach-trees." 
 
 The only reply that Albert gave to these observ- 
 ations was, we are sorry to say, a really piggish sort 
 of grunt ! 
 
 . " You may travel the country through," pursued 
 the velvet waistcoat, " and you will not find a more 
 beautiful and fertile district than this." 
 
 " m ! " grunted Albert. 
 
 " The character of the inhabitants, too, stands 
 high. They are a plain, common-sense class of 
 people, but they are distinguished for their hospital- 
 ity and genuine politeness." 
 
 " m ! " grunted Albert.
 
 260 THE JOU11NEY FOR A WIFE. 
 
 " We are now in Pekin," pursued the old gentle- 
 man, after a long pause. " There is a fine tavern 
 over the hill." 
 
 These remarks caused Albert to start ; but, too 
 proud to betray an interest in anything the old 
 gentleman said, he maintained a studied silence. 
 
 Thus he accomplished his journey. Like too 
 many travellers, he disdained to appear sociable 
 towards strangers, little knowing how much useful 
 information is sometimes gained, how much one's 
 insight into human nature is improved, how 
 much good feeling may be cultivated by the use of 
 common and familiar politeness among people met 
 in stage-coaches and hotels. 
 
 Arrived at the tavern, and little caring what 
 became of his excellent friend of the velvet waist- 
 coat and drab coat, Albert leaped off the coach, and 
 ordered his valise carried to his new apartments. 
 While dressing himself with great care, the young 
 man forgot his ill-humor in the glowing anticipation 
 he entertained of a speedy and happy meeting with 
 Josephine. Having partaken of a slight repast, he 
 engaged a buggy to transport him to Mr. Marvin's 
 residence. 
 
 The boy who went with the buggy drove up 
 before a spacious and elegant white house, which 
 had a remarkably neat and comfortable appearance. 
 
 "This is Marvin's," said the boy. "The big
 
 THE JOUHNKY FOR A WIFE. 261 
 
 gate is locked, or I would drive in : but you can 
 pass up this right-hand path, which will take you 
 right to the door." 
 
 Albert gave the boy a shilling; then, leaping 
 lightly to the earth, he entered the grounds by a 
 smaller gate, and, with a beating heart, hastened to 
 meet his Josephine. 
 
 As he was passing up the avenue, a circumstance 
 occurred which occasioned him considerable mortifi- 
 cation. A laboring man, in a slouched hat and tow 
 frock, who was at work around some young plum- 
 trees near the house, turned, as the young man ap- 
 proached, and discovered the familiar features of 
 his old friend the corpulent gentleman, of velvet 
 waistcoat memory. 
 
 "Such," thought Albert, passing on without 
 deigning to notice the good-natured man, " such 
 is the impudence of people in the country ! This 
 common serving-man, having, by some means, ob- 
 tained permission to leave his work for a few hours, 
 gets into respectable company away from home, 
 and endeavors to establish himself on a friendly and 
 sociable footing with gentlemen ! Now, suppose I 
 had been familiar with him ; what a fine thing it 
 would be to meet him, at last, in his true capacity ! 
 I wonder if I shall suffer from his impertinence in 
 Mr. Marvin's house ? " 
 
 With these thoughts running through his brain,
 
 262 TUB JOCRNEi* FOR A WIFE. 
 
 Albert struck the heavy knocker, and brought an 
 Irish girl to the door. He was shown into a neat 
 parlor immediately, where he had not long to wait 
 for Josephine. 
 
 To describe the meeting of the lovers would be to 
 write a great many things which it is well enough 
 for young people of tender sentiments to say, but 
 which do not sound quite so well repeated to less 
 passionate ears. Suffice it, that both Albert and 
 Josephine were very happy to meet again, and that 
 the former took great delight in praising Mr. Mar- 
 vin's residence, while the latter was quite as well 
 pleased at hearing it praised. 
 
 " You have, really, a lovely home, so quiet and 
 tasteful, Josephine," said Albert, " that my heart 
 sinks within me when I think of my audacity to 
 hope you may some day leave it for me ! But your 
 parents, I am anxious to see them." 
 
 " 0, you shall soon be gratified. I am proud of 
 my parents, Albert ! They are plain people, but so 
 good!" 
 
 " Just the sort of people to suit me ! " said the 
 enthusiastic lover. 
 
 Mrs. Marvin entered presently, and he was not 
 disappointed. He immediately set her down as the 
 paragon of elderly ladies, and was admiring her 
 genial countenance and unaffected manners, when 
 Josephine announced her father.
 
 THE JOURNEY FOR A WIFE. 263 
 
 Albert arose suddenly, and turned to greet him 
 with becoming reverence and civility. Reader, O 
 reader! can you imagine the young man's con- 
 sternation and despair, when he saw coming into 
 the door the drab coat, velvet waistcoat, and 
 familiar countenance, of his corpulent stage-coach 
 acquaintance? 
 
 " Mr. Fairchild, father," said Josephine. 
 
 Albert felt himself about sinking through the 
 floor. 
 
 "I I believe " he stammered, " we have 
 met before ! " 
 
 " Ha ! my young friend of the stage-coach ! " 
 exclaimed the old gentleman, giving his hand a hos- 
 pitable shake. " Certainly, we have met before ! " ' 
 
 This was like heaping coals of fire upon Albert's 
 head. His face burned with shame, and his tongue 
 stammered with confusion. Making a very awk- 
 ward and ineffectual attempt to say something civil, 
 he sank upon a chair with sick and ghastly looks, 
 which frightened Josephine. 
 
 " Indeed," pursued the old gentleman, as if he 
 remembered nothing of Albert's rudeness, " I am 
 happy at meeting you again so soon. How do 
 you like the appearance of Pekin ? " 
 
 " 0, we well ! " stammered Albert. 
 
 " Glad to hear it ! And the appearance of the 
 inhabitants ? "
 
 264 THE JOUKNEY FOR A WIFE. 
 
 " 0, very verj well ! " 
 
 " Indeed ! I was afraid you would have no fancy 
 for us plain people." 
 
 Thus the old gentleman went on, conversing in 
 the most easy and amiable manner, as if it was his 
 only study to entertain his guest. Albert listened 
 with a faint heart and an upbraiding conscience, 
 feeling keenly the contrast between the old gentle- 
 man's excellent nature and genuine politeness, and 
 his own ill temper and incivility. 
 
 In a short time Josephine's parents withdrew, and 
 she was left alone with her miserable lover. Albert 
 threw himself at her feet, and there, refusing to rise, 
 he confessed his ill treatment of her venerable parent, 
 and besought her both to forgive him and intercede 
 with her father for his pardon. Astonished and 
 shocked at first, Josephine knew not what to think 
 or say ; but, to relieve the agony of her repentant 
 lover, she took pity on his wretchedness, and prom- 
 ised all he asked. 
 
 Indescribable was his anxiety of mind, until Jose- 
 phine had seen her father, and the old gentleman 
 came walking into the room where the young man 
 was alone. Mr. Marvin's countenance wore the 
 same good-natured smile, which even the insolent 
 treatment he had received could not banish ; and, 
 frankly extending his hand, he advanced towards 
 his prospective 60ii-in-law.
 
 THE JOURNEY FOR, A WIFE. 265 
 
 " Well, well," he exclaimed, before Albert could 
 speak, " the past cannot be recalled ; and I suppose 
 the less said about it the better. For my own part, 
 I freely forgive the rather ungentlemanly manner 
 you used towards me. In fact, I care nothing for 
 it now ; yet, I must say that it gives me pain to 
 think that you are in the habit of giving way to ill- 
 natured feelings while travelling. Don't speak ! I 
 know what you would say. You are not always 
 uncivil. I readily believe it. But, like too many 
 young people, you think that, while travelling, you 
 owe no man politeness, and ought neither to grant 
 nor receive favors." 
 
 " ! but after this lesson, sir " 
 
 " You will act more like a sensible man. I believe 
 it. But now I must confess that I am a little to 
 blame in this matter. I knew you at the first, from 
 Josephine's description. You can, perhaps, imagine 
 my motive for persecuting you with my unwelcome 
 society." 
 
 "0, my dear sir ! " cried the tortured Albert. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! It is n't a very bad joke, after all ! " 
 cried the old gentleman, his velvet waistcoat undu- 
 lating with his peculiar happy laugh. " Come, come, 
 don't look gloomy now ! I tell you the past is for- 
 given ; but, mind, you must n't forget it. You 
 must learn not to turn the cold shoulder to corpu- 
 lent old gentlemen you meet in strange places, even 
 23
 
 266 THE JOURNEY FOR A WIFE. 
 
 though always as disagreeable as the one you met 
 to-day. Ha ! ha ! Let 's have a good, hearty laugh 
 at the affair, and say no more about it." 
 
 In his gratitude for the kindness with which the 
 old gentleman repaid his ill treatment, Albert kissed 
 his hand with tears glistening in his eyes. Jose- 
 phine entered presently, followed by her mother ; 
 and, in half an hour, Mr. Marvin was showing 
 Albert about his farm, and all were as happy as if 
 no unpleasant occurrence had ever troubled their 
 minds. 
 
 In a week Albert returned to town, a happier, 
 wiser, better man. He had gained the consent of 
 Josephine's parents to his marriage with the girl of 
 his choice, and the wedding-day was appointed. For 
 this and other good reasons, his heart was overflow- 
 ing with joy. 
 
 In conclusion we may remark that, on his journey 
 home, Albert attracted general attention, and won 
 the good will and esteem of everybody, by the 
 respect and civility of his deportment towards his 
 fellow-travellers.
 
 EDGAK EDSON. 
 
 IN a beautiful rural district, in one of the New 
 England States, Edgar Edson lived alone with his 
 mother. His father died when he was sixteen ; an 
 only sister had married, and followed the fortunes 
 of her husband in some wilderness of the west, and 
 Edgar and his surviving parent were left sole pos- 
 sessors of the old homestead. 
 
 Mrs. Edson and her son lived very happily 
 together ; motherly love on the one side, and filial 
 affection on the other, uniting them more effectually 
 than often happens under similar circumstances. 
 Without doubt, this happy condition of things would 
 have continued until Mrs. Edson followed the gen- 
 erations which have passed from the earth, had it 
 not been for the marriage of Edgar. 
 
 Living comfortably with his mother, who still 
 enjoyed excellent health and strength, the young 
 man had not thought of taking unto himself a wife
 
 268 EDGAR EDSON. 
 
 as long as she was spared to him, until, in the 
 course of human events, it happened that his affec- 
 tions became fixed upon an orphan vrho resided with 
 a relative in the neighborhood. 
 
 Edgar desired to make Althea Baldwin his wife, 
 without undergoing the delay and dangers of years ; 
 but it was the most difficult thing in the world for 
 him to break the subject to his mother. lie knew 
 too well that, much as she valued his happiness, it 
 would be a great sacrifice for her to give up her 
 place as mistress of the old homestead to another. 
 
 However, he opened his heart to her, and asked 
 her consent to his marriage. It was a great trial 
 for Mrs. Edson. She shed abundance of tears, and 
 prayed nightly for strength and wisdom to do her 
 duty. At length, she said one day to her son, 
 
 " I had hoped that as long as I was living you 
 would never think of bringing a young girl into the 
 house to take my place. Here your poor father and 
 I labored for years, coming into a wilderness, as 
 it were, and making a home for ourselves and chil- 
 dren ; and I am so much attached to this house, 
 which my own hands have assisted in building up, 
 that I would not exchange it for a palace. And I 
 know how it will be, if you marry, Edgar ! Your 
 wife will claim all the privileges of a wife; I shall 
 be mistress here no longer ; but she will take tho 
 ordering of things upon herself, and I must sit by
 
 EDGAR EDSOX. ZuU 
 
 and look on, as if I had no right to meddle or make 
 with your household affairs. Yet I am willing to 
 make tho sacrifice, if it will add to your happiness. 
 I know it is not right for old people to let selfish- 
 ness and prejudice stand in the way of the happi- 
 ness of the young. And as for Althea, though I 
 think you might have chosen some one who would 
 have brought you a little addition to our property, 
 I have not a word to say against her. When my 
 Matilda was married, I gave her a good setting out, 
 as you know ; but it cannot be expected that every 
 man -will find a wife with such good qualities, and 
 so comfortable a dower, as my Matilda. As I said, 
 I have nothing against Althea, who appears to be a 
 pretty good sort of girl ; so, consider all things, and 
 then, if you think you had better marry her, do so 
 as soon as you please." 
 
 Edgar Edson made some allowance for his mother's 
 prudence and simplicity; and it was without the 
 least inclination to smile that he heard her repeat, 
 twenty times a day, what she said about that 
 paragon of daughters Matilda. He was sorry, 
 however, to know that she was by no means favor- 
 ably impressed with the idea of his marrying 
 Althea ; and, looking into the future, he trembled to 
 think of the eternal comparison she would be sure 
 to draw between her daughter-in-law and her own 
 own daughter. 
 
 23*
 
 270 EDGAR EDSON. 
 
 But, having considered everything which could 
 be advanced as an objection to his marriage, and 
 having prepared Althea for the life she must neces- 
 sarily lead as his wife, he resolved to achieve the 
 object of his wishes. 
 
 Althea was a girl of considerable spirit ; she pos- 
 sessed an ardent temperament, quick perceptions, 
 and not a very extensive store of patience. Natu- 
 rally kind and affectionate, however, she would 
 undoubtedly have made Edgar abundantly happy, 
 had it been her fortune to live with him alone. As 
 it was, the honeymoon was scarcely over when the 
 smooth waters of happiness began to whirl in 
 troubled eddies. 
 
 I believe Mrs. Edson ardently desired to fulfil 
 the entire bond of duty towards her son's young 
 wife. She endeavored conscientiously to grant Al- 
 thea all her rights. But when the latter, with the 
 native energy of her character, assumed the direc- 
 tion of her husband's household, and did so many 
 things in a manner new and strange to her mother- 
 in-law, carelessly suffering those matters to lie 
 neglected with which Mrs. Edson had always been 
 most particular, and bestowing time and care on 
 affairs of little moment in the old lady's estimation, 
 the parent of the unparalleled Matilda could not 
 hold her peace. 
 
 Strong in her prejudices, quick in words, and
 
 EDGAR EDSON. 271 
 
 lacking moral fortitude, she lost all her patience 
 with " the girl ; " and often assumed the right to 
 reprove her severely. 
 
 Althea could have borne gentle teaching and 
 kind explanation with Christian charity. She was 
 ever anxious to please Mrs. Edson, and would wil- 
 lingly, in many instances, have submitted, without a 
 word, to her own more experienced judgment ; but, 
 when it came to reproofs and reproaches, the poor 
 girl manifested herself one of that numerous class 
 of women who possess a darling " will of their 
 own." 
 
 She loved her husband, however, and, in order to 
 spare his feelings, forebore to exercise that will as 
 she would otherwise have been sorely tempted to do. 
 Only at intervals it flashed out, like lightning from 
 a dark cloud. However, Edgar was not altogether 
 spared the pain of knowing how ill-adapted were 
 the dispositions of Althea and his mother to move 
 together through life. The latter, in the bitterness 
 of her heart, complained to him continually, exag- 
 gerating his wife's faults, and strongly condemning 
 the assumption of the girl, who, she declared, 
 thought to set herself above her, in her own house. 
 
 " This, too," Mrs. Edson would say, " after I have 
 spent a lifetime in making this place what it is ! 
 Only to think that she, coming here without sc 
 much as a set of spoons, should presume to take
 
 272 EDGAU EDSON. 
 
 away my authority and rights ! 0, if she had one 
 fiftieth part as good a disposition as Matilda, but 
 it is no use to talk ! You think she is perfection ! " 
 
 These complaints made Edgar very unhappy, 
 without alienating his affections from either Althea 
 or his mother. It was now his great study to make 
 peace between them ; and so judiciously did he man- 
 age, that he effectually prevented any open outbreak, 
 as long as he had daily intercourse with them. 
 
 But a time came when Edgar was obliged to 
 leave home on business, and be absent several weeks. 
 Bidding an affectionate adieu to his wife and mother, 
 and exhorting each to exercise charity, patience and 
 love, he took his departure. 
 
 Now, no sooner was he gone, than, in consequence 
 of a slight misunderstanding, they had a violent 
 dispute, in which the mother-in-law made use of 
 such terms of reproach as fired all Althea 's resent- 
 ment. The latter, with flashing eyes, and lips com- 
 pressed, suddenly left the room where the dispute 
 occurred, and, reappearing soon after in her bonnet 
 and shawl, started to leave the house, without a 
 word. 
 
 A little frightened by Althea's desperate air, 
 Mrs. Edson asked where she was going. 
 
 " I am going back to my old home," replied the 
 indignant woman. " I have endured enough of this 
 slavery ! I would rather be a domestic, and work
 
 EDGAR EDSON. 273 
 
 for my daily bread in peace, than live this horrid life. 
 I leave you to the free enjoyment of the 'house 
 your hands have made,' and which you are not wil- 
 ling I should enter, except as an humble drudge, a 
 mean and uncomplaining slave. If this is to be the 
 wife of your son, I will go back to my old home, 
 and spend my days there, peaceful, if not happy." 
 
 " Althea ! " exclaimed Mrs. Edson, amazed and 
 confounded, " come back ! Althea " 
 
 But the injured wife was gone. 
 
 Mrs. Edson followed her to the outer door, and 
 called again in a loud voice ; but she did not so much 
 as turn her head. Following at a quick and ner- 
 vous pace the hill-side road, she hurried away, and 
 soon disappeared from Mrs. Edson's sight in the 
 valley beyond. 
 
 The widow returned to the room, and, with a 
 troubled brow, sat down, endeavoring to ply her 
 knitting-needles with her accustomed swiftness. 
 But her fingers trembled, her hands fell upon her 
 lap, and she sat gazing thoughtfully at the floor. 
 
 She thought Althea would certainly come back 
 that morning. Towards evening she began to grow 
 anxious, and she spent the time in sighing, com- 
 plaining to herself, and shedding tears. Conscious 
 of having done wrong, and feeling that she had 
 vexed Althea beyond endurance, she could not com
 
 274 EDGAR EDSON. 
 
 pose her mind, nor silence the self-reproaches which 
 distressed her breast. 
 
 How would her son greet her on his return, 
 knowing that her uncharitable and impatient re- 
 proofs had driven his wife from his home ? 
 
 Mrs. Edson passed a troubled, sleepless night. 
 The house never appeared so hollow and lonely 
 before. Fears and forebodings haunted her ; and 
 she thought of her own Matilda, and remembered 
 how she had once dreaded to think that she might 
 enter the home of a mother-in-law, as Althea had 
 entered hers. Had she done unto Althea as she 
 would have had others do unto her own child ? 
 
 Meanwhile the young wife, too highly incensed 
 to give a thought to the scandal the step would inev- 
 itably excite, had returned to her old home, resolved 
 to remain there until her husband should provide 
 her another, in which she could live peaceably and 
 happily with him, without danger of reproofs and 
 insults from his mother. 
 
 Althea, when roused, was firm. The following 
 day found her cheerful, and strong in her deter- 
 mination. Nothing could move her; and when, 
 towards noon, she saw Mrs. Edson approach the 
 house on foot, with a slow and faltering step along 
 the path, her lip only curled with scorn. 
 
 The widow stood a moment on the step, hesitating ; 
 then with her thin fingers knocked feebly on the
 
 EDGAR EDSON. 275 
 
 door. Althea, with head proudly erect, and coun- 
 tenance serene, stood before her mother-in-law. 
 
 " Althea," said Mrs. Edson, with tears in her 
 eyes, " will you go home with me ? " 
 
 " I am at home," replied the young wife, coldly. 
 " I shall not disturb you in your home again ! " 
 
 " My child," rejoined the mother-in-law, in a 
 trembling voice, " I am sorry I have offended you, 
 and I ask your forgiveness ! You must go back ; 
 for, consider the scandal which will gather, to burst 
 like a storm on Edgar, when he returns. If not 
 for my sake or your own, for his sake, come back ! " 
 
 " Mrs. Edson," answered Althea, with cruel cold- 
 ness, " I love my husband, and for his sake I have 
 borne such injuries as humanity never suffered with 
 patience. It took me long to form the resolution I 
 did ; but, now that it is formed, it is unchangeable, 
 I shall not go back ! " 
 
 Mrs. Edson had prayed for humility, charity, 
 patience. Patient, charitable, humble, she had 
 gone to beg her own daughter-in-law to forgive her. 
 But could she should she suffer such pride to 
 triumph over her, such presumption to trample 
 her in the dust ? Ought the mother-in-law of fifty 
 to cringe and shrink at the feet of the giddy girl of 
 twenty ? 
 
 She threw off her mantle of humility, charity 
 and patience, and, with the sharp, wordy sword of
 
 276 EDGAR EDSON. 
 
 indignation, attacked Althea's pride. The latter 
 laughed, and, reentering the house, left the widow 
 standing alone on the threshold. 
 
 Mrs. Edson stood a moment, speechless with 
 anger and amazement, following Althea with her 
 burning eye ; then, gathering her shawl closely about 
 her, as if it had been some strength-giving resolu- 
 tion, she turned away, and, at a different pace from 
 the slow and feeble step with which she had ap- 
 proached the house, returned to her own desolate 
 home. 
 
 With the exception of Samuel Masters, a youth 
 in Edgar's employ, she was now quite alone ; and it 
 was only in the evening and at his meals that she 
 had his society. Young and ignorant as he was, 
 however, the widow made him her companion, and 
 endeavored to beguile her loneliness and wretched- 
 ness by drawing him into conversation. But Sam- 
 uel would drop asleep in his chair, and Mrs. Edson 
 would be left alone with her own thoughts, which 
 were like haunting spirits of evil. 
 
 Two weeks passed. Althea was still firm in her 
 resolution, and her mother-in-law was very anxiously 
 awaiting her son's return. Edgar had been heard 
 from but once ; he wrote the morning he embarked 
 on board the sloop Dolphin, at Charleston, on his 
 way home ; and he was now daily expected. 
 
 Such was the condition of affairs when, one beau-
 
 EDGAR EDSOX. 277 
 
 tiful afternoon, as the widow was plucking some 
 weeds from the borders of the door-yard path, she 
 heard the gate open, and, looking up, saw, with a 
 strange mingling of joyful surprise and foreboding 
 of ill, Althea approach the house. 
 
 She had despaired of seeing her daughter-in-law 
 again until Edgar's return ; and, so great was her 
 confusion at the sudden apparition, that she scarcely 
 knew whether to turn her back upon her, or wel- 
 come her with open arms. Althea left her no time 
 for reflection. With a frantic gesture, she thrust 
 a newspaper into the widow's hand, exclaiming, 
 hoarsely, 
 
 " Bead that, and tell me if I am in my right 
 senses ! " 
 
 Mrs. Edson started with alarm. She gazed ear- 
 nestly at Althea, who was deadly pale ; then eagerly 
 read the paragraph at which the young wife's trem- 
 bling finger pointed. 
 
 The widow swooned, and fell upon the path. 
 
 " It is too true ! too true ! " shrieked Althea, 
 clasping her hands upon her brow. " 0, Edgar ! 
 my Edgar ! dead ! dead ! " 
 
 The paragraph was a brief notice of the loss of 
 the sloop Dolphin, and the lives of three passengers. 
 The names of the unfortunates were given. The 
 first was that of EDGAR EDSON ! 
 
 Althea lifted her mother-in-law in her arms, and, 
 24
 
 278 EDGAR EDSON. 
 
 as the latter began to recover from her swoon, wept 
 upon her bosom. It was no time then for resent- 
 ment or pride ; but the tears that welled up from 
 their crushed and broken hearts were mingled in 
 sympathy. 
 
 It is meet that we should draw a yeil over the 
 scene of grief and lamentation which ensued. In 
 all the years through which that house had stood, it 
 had not been visited by such wild and uncontrollable 
 despair. The sounds of woe brought neighbors to 
 the cottage, who vainly endeavored to administer 
 consolation and hope to the afflicted women. It was 
 impossible to say which of the two suffered the 
 keenest anguish. 
 
 The whole neighborhood was thrown into conster- 
 nation by the intelligence of Edgar's death. The 
 cottage was thronged by the old and young of both 
 sexes, the friends of the widow, the mates of her 
 son, the companions of Althea, all who sympa- 
 thized with their distress. Everybody seemed anx- 
 ious to comfort and assist ; but what comfort, 
 what assistance, could be given ? Only one person 
 conceived of the true method of soothing the 
 wounded hearts of Althea and her mother. This 
 was the thoughtful and benevolent Deacon Sumpter. 
 Volunteering to set out at once for the scene of the 
 disaster, to bring, if possible, the body of Edgar to his
 
 EDGAR EDSON. 279 
 
 native village, he took leave of the mourners, and 
 departed on his mission the same night. 
 
 Three days have passed. It is evening, and Mrs. 
 Edson and Althea are alone in the lonely cottage. 
 Friends, who have been with them all the long, long 
 day, have just gone to their homes, under the escort 
 of the faithful and simple Samuel. 
 
 It is a chilly night, and the sorrowing women have 
 built a fire of fagots on the hearth. The candle, 
 burning low, has fallen in its socket, and expired. 
 Only the flames of the blazing twigs and sticks light 
 up the room, as they dance in the wide chimney, 
 and throw spectral shadows all along the walls. 
 
 The cricket comes forth from his hermit-cell, and 
 startles silence with his shrill, sharp chirp. There 
 is something ineffably dreary and desolate to the 
 sorrow-stricken heart in that mournful insect's song. 
 It makes the two widows shudder, the elder and 
 the younger, and clasp tighter the hand each 
 holds in hers. 
 
 The first paroxysm of grief had passed. Sad 
 resignation and deep-settled sorrow had taken the 
 place of the agony which seeks relief in lamenta- 
 tions. 
 
 Althea and her mother-in-law had conversed 
 calmly about their sorrow. The past, too, had been 
 reviewed ; and, when their hearts were softened by 
 the sympathy of sadness, they tasted the heavenly
 
 280 EDGAR EDSON. 
 
 sweets of mutual forgiveness and perfect reconcilia- 
 tion. 
 
 " Henceforth," said the elder of the two niourn 
 ers, as she pressed her companion's hand, " hence 
 forth, my child, my home is your home, what I 
 have is yours. I only ask you to love me, and over- 
 look my faults. Live with me, and I will endeavor 
 to atone for the past by perfect submission to your 
 wishes." 
 
 " Mother, do not talk so ! " murmured Althea. 
 " It is for me to atone for my faults by humility. 
 Shall I so much younger than you shall I, 
 with my immature judgment and ungoverned ca- 
 prices, attempt to set up my wishes before yours ? 
 0, mother ! let us live without selfishness, without 
 strife and discord, let us live in peace, and may 
 the memory of him bind our hearts together ! " 
 
 " Amen ! " breathed the widow, raising her eyes, 
 dim with unshed tears, towards heaven. " Amen ! " 
 
 At that moment the door was burst open, and 
 the lad Samuel rushed to the hearth. The mourn- 
 ers, alarmed by his abrupt and excited manner, 
 started from their seats, and gazed upon his face. 
 The blaze of the fagots revealed it pale as ashes. 
 He trembled from head to foot. 
 
 " What is the matter, Samuel ? " asked the old 
 lady.
 
 EDGAR EDSON. 281 
 
 With a countenance full of horror, the lad pointed 
 towards the door, which he had left open. 
 
 Althea closed it. 
 
 " Speak ! " said her mother, clasping Samuel's 
 arm. " What is the matter ? " 
 
 " His ghost ! " gasped Samuel, shuddering. 
 
 Althea 'smiled sadly. Since the news of Ed- 
 gar's death had arrived, Samuel, who possessed an 
 excitable imagination, had been haunted by vague 
 terrors, insomuch that he had been confessedly 
 afraid to be alone in the dark. On this occasion, 
 Althea charged his fears upon his excited fancy, and 
 would not have questioned him ; but Mrs. Edson 
 pursued her inquisition. 
 
 " What do you mean by his ghost, whose 
 
 " His Mr. Edgar's, I saw it by the grave- 
 yard ! " 
 
 At that moment the gate was heard to open and 
 close, and the superstitious lad moved into a corner, 
 pale, and trembling with fear. 
 
 " There it comes ! " he muttered. " It followed 
 me, I knew it would come here ! " 
 
 " Hush, simpleton ! " exclaimed Mrs. Edson. 
 " Ghosts go through gates without noise, if ghosts 
 there be. Go and open the door." 
 
 "I I would n't for a kingdom ! " said the lad. 
 24*
 
 282 EDGAR EDSON. 
 
 " I know it 's him. I saw him with the moon- 
 light in his face, there ! there ! " 
 
 The door opened. A pale figure glided into the 
 room. The flame of the candle, which Althea had 
 just lighted from a blazing fagot, fell upon the face 
 of the visitor. Those white features were not to be 
 mistaken. Althea let fall the candle, and sprang 
 forward. She was clasped in her husband's arms ; 
 she fainted on her husband's breast ! 
 
 " My son ! Edgar ! my living son ! " the widow 
 cried aloud, clasping his neck in the frenzy of sud- 
 den joy. 
 
 Half in fear, half in wonder, Samuel started 
 from his corner, and stared at the marvellous scene, 
 until, his weak comprehension receiving the vivid 
 truth, he shook off his terror, and shouted, at the top 
 of his voice, 
 
 " He 's come home alive ! Mr. Edgar Edson, that 
 was drowned-ed, has come home alive ! " 
 
 Almost as much I shrink from attempting to 
 delineate vast joy as from the description of over- 
 whelming grief. But what need is there of por- 
 traying the all-powerful and pervading happiness, 
 the bursting flood of sunshine, which filled the souls 
 of Althea and her mother ? 
 
 As soon as they were calm enough to hear him, 
 Edgar told his story, of which we only require to 
 know that, being picked up from a spar, to which
 
 EDGAR EDSON. 283 
 
 he had lashed himself, after the wreck of the Dol- 
 phin, he had been taken care of by a kind captain 
 and crew of a merchant ship, and carried to New 
 York. Thence, although enfeebled by the suffer- 
 ings he had undergone, he had proceeded at once to 
 greet his wife and mother, whom he hoped to see 
 before they heard of his disaster. 
 
 It was months before Edgar Edson learned the 
 particulars of the misunderstanding which had 
 divided Althea and her mother-in-law during his 
 absence ; and when he heard the truth, it afforded 
 him little uneasiness, in presence of the peace and 
 love and harmony which now prevailed, unsullied 
 and undisturbed, under the sheltering wings of the 
 guardian angels of his home.
 
 MRS. JASLITT'S SPANIEL. 
 
 MRS. JASLITT'S spaniel was sick. The darling dog 
 was stricken with some frightful malady. Mrs. Jas- 
 litt thought the lovely creature was going to die. 
 
 " What is the matter with it ? " she cried, in a 
 tone of anguish, to Mr. Jaslitt. " It won't eat any- 
 thing. I offer it the nicest cream toast, and it will 
 not taste it. It refuses pound-cake. I bought a bit 
 of venison yesterday expressly for it, and had it 
 carefully broiled. Yes, Mr. Jaslitt, I broiled it 
 with my own hands. But the poor thing only smelt 
 of it, and turned away his head." 
 
 Mrs. Jaslitt used her perfumed handkerchief. 
 After wiping her eyes with it, she wiped the dog's, 
 as he lay upon the sofa by her side. 
 
 " He will grow lean if he cannot eat," she mur- 
 mured, smoothing the animal's plump, shaggy skin. 
 "He will starve, Mr. Jaslitt. What a horrid 
 thought ! "
 
 MRS. JASLITT'S SPANIEL 285 
 
 " Have the doctor to him," cried Jaslitt, gruffly, 
 over his newspaper. 
 
 "Have the doctor?" repeated his lady, in a 
 mournful tone, and with tears in her large blue 
 eyes. " 0, Mr. Jaslitt ! do you think I would 
 neglect to do so, when my pet " dropping a teai 
 on the tip of Angelo's nose " was dying ? I 
 called Dr. Slique three days ago. But he could n't 
 do anything. To be sure, he was for giving a dose 
 of calomel ; but I could n't bear the thought of 
 that. dear ! if the poor thing should be sal- 
 ivated ! " 
 
 " Dreadful ! " growled Jaslitt, rustling the news- 
 paper. "Did the doctor give no sort of advice?" 
 
 " Yes. He charged me, as I value Angelo's life, 
 to keep him in doors, and take care that he does not 
 get cold. An influenza would prove fatal. I don't 
 know but he has it now, ah, poor thing ! " 
 
 Mrs. Jaslitt saw the glistening tear she had let 
 fall on Angelo's nose. She did not know it was a 
 tear. It might be a symptom of the influenza. She 
 wiped it away very tenderly with her dainty hand- 
 kerchief, and went on : 
 
 " Last night I soaked his feet. The doctor said 
 it would do no harm, at any rate. The water was 
 blood warm ; and I applied hot flannels afterwards. 
 But I believe he is worse than ever this morning.
 
 286 MRS. JASLITT'S SPANIEL. 
 
 All he has eaten since yesterday was a fresh egg, 
 beat up in milk, with sugar and butter." 
 
 " I '11 tell ye what ! " suddenly exclaimed Jaslitt, 
 " I 've an idea." 
 
 " ! " articulated his lady, clasping her hands, 
 11 if you love me, Jaslitt, save, 0, save my dog ! " 
 
 " I will. I know a man that can cure him. 
 Wonder I did n't think of the colonel before. He 
 is worth fifty Dr. Sliques, when we come to diseases 
 of animals." 
 
 The colonel was a famous veterinarian. At the 
 mention of his name, Mrs. Jaslitt's bosom thrilled 
 with hope. She gave her husband no peace until he 
 had sent for him to come and look at Angelo. 
 
 The colonel arrived, a shrewd, dashing, jolly 
 fellow, with a sense of the ludicrous. He enjoyed 
 the lady's distress exceedingly ; but promised to cure 
 her darling. She thanked him with an excess of 
 gratitude. 
 
 " Send him out to my place to-morrow, and come 
 for him in a week," said he to Jaslitt. 
 
 " Money is no object," replied Jaslitt. " Cure 
 him, if he can be cured, whatever the expense 
 may be." 
 
 " Leave him to me," said the colonel. 
 
 The next day Mrs. Jaslitt took affectionate leave 
 of her darling, and abandoned him with many tears, 
 and some forebodings, to the hands of the coachman.
 
 MRS. JASLITT'S SPANIEL. 287 
 
 On the arrival of Angelo, the colonel attached a 
 strong cord to his collar, and, shouldering a crow- 
 bar, led him to a bleak and unsheltered spot in the 
 fields. 
 
 There he drove the iron bar into the ground, fast- 
 ened the dog to it, pulled his ears, gave him a kick, 
 and left him. 
 
 Five days later, Jaslitt himself came for the dog. 
 
 " I*could n't wait a full week," said he ; " Mrs. 
 Jaslitt gave me no peace." 
 
 " Well," replied the colonel, " I think Angelo is 
 about well. Let 's go look at him. I have tied 
 him in the field where he can get a little fresh air 
 this morning." 
 
 They found Angelo fastened to the crowbar, ex- 
 actly as the colonel had left him, five days before, 
 except that he had wound himself up, by walking 
 innumerable times around the bar. 
 
 " Confound him ! he looks a hundred per cent, 
 better," cried Jaslitt. "His eye is bright again. 
 He is lively, too. He looks as though he would eat." 
 
 " Eat ? Try him ! " laughed the colonel. " But 
 be careful and not give him rich food. Tempt him 
 with a cold potato, or a crust of bread." 
 
 Jaslitt took Angelo home, having paid the colonel 
 twenty dollars for keeping him tied five days to a 
 crowbar, without eating. 
 
 Mrs. Jaslitt danced, laughed and wept, for joy.
 
 288 MRS. JASLITT'S SPANIEL. 
 
 The lovely creature although looking very lank 
 was so much better ! It seemed as though they 
 could not give him beef-steak enough to gratify his 
 enormous appetite. In short, Angelo was himself 
 again, and Mrs. Jaslitt's agony was over. 
 
 The colonel's fame went abroad, and, to this day, 
 he has plenty of sick dogs to cure of dyspepsy, at 
 twenty dollars a head. His manner of treatment 
 remains a mystery. 
 
 In conclusion, we would suggest that, as so many 
 of our friends, puppies and others, are troubled with 
 a similar complaint to poor Angelo's, they should 
 apply to the colonel for his remedy, instead of 
 patronizing Dr. Sliques, and forcing their cloyed 
 appetites with dainties.
 
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